<?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-6459756352948904373</id><updated>2011-08-01T12:10:31.951-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mama's Blog</title><subtitle type='html'>I'm the mama to a wonderful boy. When he was born almost 2 years ago now, I had visions of creating the mama chronicles. My observations. My learnings. My honest mistakes. My aha moments. Where has the time gone? I guess I need to start sometime. Today seems like a good day.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>21</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-4660451608903105473</id><published>2009-07-19T13:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-19T20:42:58.183-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Charlie</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-5eC0ZmI/AAAAAAAAACk/uVbzlPVbRyc/s1600-h/IMG_0052.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-5eC0ZmI/AAAAAAAAACk/uVbzlPVbRyc/s320/IMG_0052.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360267507283551842" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-402jjiI/AAAAAAAAACc/XEPWz8cP4dg/s1600-h/IMG_0051.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-402jjiI/AAAAAAAAACc/XEPWz8cP4dg/s320/IMG_0051.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360267496226262562" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-4oef2PI/AAAAAAAAACU/e6Vk7peM1Vo/s1600-h/IMG_0050.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-4oef2PI/AAAAAAAAACU/e6Vk7peM1Vo/s320/IMG_0050.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360267492904130802" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Lately I have been really sad about how much Charlie's life has changed. No matter what the intention, poor Charlie seems to be the last in line-- another one of life's "I'll never..." He doesnt really have it too rough, after all he travels with us most places we go; he eats most all of Breck's meals; and we've gotten pretty liberal with his obedience. But, life certainly changed for him dramatically when Breck was born. So, today, I dedicate this post to my first boy.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Charlie, I love you because:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you came into my life when I needed you most&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you forced me to hit the "reset button" and focus on what mattered most&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you are always so happy to see me, even on days where I dont reciprocate&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you're a gentle giant&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you let Breck do whatever he wants to you&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you never complain&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;- you protect us&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Even when the house has more dog hair than it does food in the fridge, I love you. Even when the neighbor complained because we didnt pick up your poop for a week, it wasn't your fault. Even when you bark at the sight of people you've known for years, I love you because you're just being cautious. Even when you want to eat immediately and I'm starving too, I love you. Even when you once ate the corner of my wall, its only because it was the first time I left you. Even when you pretend not to hear me and run away, I love you. And even here, where poppa will be mad because you're chewing on his frisbees, I let you because I love you.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;This is you today having fun. Lets do more of it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Now, off this computer and back to playing.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span"  style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-4660451608903105473?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/4660451608903105473/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=4660451608903105473' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4660451608903105473'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4660451608903105473'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/charlie.html' title='Charlie'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SmN-5eC0ZmI/AAAAAAAAACk/uVbzlPVbRyc/s72-c/IMG_0052.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-8540985991904667299</id><published>2009-07-14T22:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-19T20:43:52.661-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The only time I've liked Dr. Phil</title><content type='html'>I can't stand Dr. Phil. For lots of reasons.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tonight, tho, I gave it a shot when I saw the topic "Parenting Tips You Wont Want To Miss" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I learned a few things:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;ol&gt;&lt;li&gt;Breastfeeding your kids when they're 6 is just wrong. And if you need to go on national television for someone else to tell you its ok to tell your daughter she's too old to suck on your boobs while you lay in your back yard hammock, then I guess this is why Dr Phil has a show.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You shouldn't hold your kids head and then let your wife try to shovel food down his throat. And, if you have to go on TV for someone to tell you thats not a good idea, then its another reason why he has a show. People apparently need him.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Its not nice to call your son "Chubby Monkey" and it doesn't take a genius to figure out then why he now doesn't like food.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;If your child fights you at nighttime, its normal! Ok, I admit, this I needed to hear. I found myself taking a deep breath when Dr Phil charted what a child goes thru in the process of fighting sleep. The take away: eventually they get too exhausted to fight it; do all you can to resist going back in; know it might take hours. Over time (2 weeks or so) the behavior apparently stops. This I can try.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ol&gt;&lt;div&gt;Oh, and while I'm posting. Good news- tonight I was "Mommy"&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/6459756352948904373-8540985991904667299?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/8540985991904667299/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=8540985991904667299' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8540985991904667299'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8540985991904667299'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/only-time-ive-liked-dr-phil.html' title='The only time I&apos;ve liked Dr. Phil'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-8982912622419517903</id><published>2009-07-13T19:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-13T19:38:15.882-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A thankless job</title><content type='html'>Motherhood that is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been called Amy since Friday and slapped across the face 3 times tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In his sweetest of moments I admit I get it "thank you Meme" (who's Meme?) but now "thank you Amy"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wouldn't have it any other way. Unless I'm still Amy in a week.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-8982912622419517903?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/8982912622419517903/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=8982912622419517903' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8982912622419517903'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8982912622419517903'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/thankless-job.html' title='A thankless job'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-4229096771040082445</id><published>2009-07-06T23:08:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-06T23:21:06.284-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Size 24 months</title><content type='html'>I've just packed up size 18 month clothes. In fact, the shirt Breck is wearing in my last post is already too small. Thank goodness for Sam- I can justify my new purchases knowing they go in the next batch box for him to wear!  Breck is growing faster than I expected.  I cant believe he is already 21 months old next week. The first year felt like a year. The second has flown by. He's talking so much. Growing into his own individual already. I look back at the thousands of photos Dave has taken and its hard to believe how quickly he changes- his face, his expressions, his body and his hair, which suddenly has become curly.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When he's 21, I will still kiss his cheeks like I do, I will still tickle the bottom of his feet when he's not looking, I will still attempt to snuggle him and do the hug pat. Yes, I will be that mom.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-4229096771040082445?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/4229096771040082445/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=4229096771040082445' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4229096771040082445'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4229096771040082445'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/07/size-24-months.html' title='Size 24 months'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-2041715690058667052</id><published>2009-05-04T20:32:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-04T20:42:19.020-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I love it when....</title><content type='html'>&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;I say "where's your nose?" and you stick your finger inside it&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You say shoes "soos"&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;Your binky brings you sheer joy, and how you prefer the dark blue one&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You blow kisses to the grocery store clerk when we leave&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You spend more time yelling at Charlie to leave the kitchen when you eat, then you do eating&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;That painful screech comes out of your mouth when you see a bird&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You hug everyone, and all your stuffed animals too&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You clap after I sing, the only applause I'll ever get!&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You bite the tips off of your crayons and then come to me to scrape your tongue&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You celebrate at the sight of your toothbrush&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You run to the mirror when we call you handsome&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;I rub your back at bedtime and you tuck both arms tightly under your belly&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You race at full speed down the hall when daddy and I pick you up from school&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;I realize you've been recording what I say and do, and now playing it back for me&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You spit on flowers when I say to smell them&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You growl at dogs&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;I can hear you and daddy laughing in the other room&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You lay in your crib and talk to yourself before anyone comes in&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You grab my hand to walk&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You dance and somehow get us dancing, to "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" on the fridge DJ&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;You group hug me and daddy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-2041715690058667052?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/2041715690058667052/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=2041715690058667052' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2041715690058667052'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2041715690058667052'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-love-it-when.html' title='I love it when....'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-5839264641087940264</id><published>2009-05-04T20:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-04T20:32:10.471-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Live in the moment (s)</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-yt-rCRKI/AAAAAAAAACM/BNQn1ggrP2A/s1600-h/DSC_0119.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-yt-rCRKI/AAAAAAAAACM/BNQn1ggrP2A/s320/DSC_0119.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332176986817316002" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok I knew it had been a while since my last post, but February?! I have moments throughout the week where I tell myself "ok I have to post this" but then another week goes by and another. Now proven its been months. Some are the key milestones, most of which I've now forgotten. Others are the "I am THAT mom" moments I swore I'd never.... And others just great times captured on film yet to be posted.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Highlights of my last few months:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- the legalization of my nephew, Samuel&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- a couple's weekend, time alone with my hubby&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- countless days and nights spent with friends and family&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- watching Breck grow stronger and taller and more intelligent as his curiosity soars&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- bickering and laughing with Dave, sometimes bickering about something so irrelevant, we just end up laughing&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- keeping the balance between my 3 jobs- my career, mamahood, marriage&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mamahood is hard and exhausting yet I wouldn't trade it for the moon. The toughest moments sometimes crack me, then Breck will crack me up. It tests your spirit, your marriage, your independence, your patience. But if I've learned anything in the last 18 months its this: life is too short, with much more meaning now that I have a son. Too short to always be clean and tidy. Too short to stay mad. Too short to have everything planned out. Too short to worry that tonight we ate the worst frozen fish sticks for dinner.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;As I told Dave last night, being a parent is the hardest job on the planet. And for as much stress as it can put on a relationship, for as little alone time or as little sleep as you never get, I wouldn't change it for a second.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Live in the moment. Be spontaneous. Let your house get dirty. Let your kids leave the house with a crusty nose. And always know that in these moments, there is indeed another mom doing the exact same thing.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-5839264641087940264?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/5839264641087940264/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=5839264641087940264' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/5839264641087940264'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/5839264641087940264'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/05/live-in-moment-s.html' title='Live in the moment (s)'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-yt-rCRKI/AAAAAAAAACM/BNQn1ggrP2A/s72-c/DSC_0119.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-1381047679584102865</id><published>2009-02-06T16:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-06T16:11:33.831-08:00</updated><title type='text'>No, move, no</title><content type='html'>Cute, scary and concerning all in one moment- the day Breck told ME "no"&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I was giving Breck a bath and, as he always has been, he likes to stand and play in the tub. No sitting. But he's also into playing pretend. So the other night in the bath, Breck wanted to fill his plastic cup with water, set it on the ledge and then stir the water (a full cup of water) with his fingers. Knowing that one these times the water will spill over the tub and on the floor (something once done he'd find amusing), I decided to hold the cup while he stirred with his hand. This is what he did:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Grabbed the cup immediately with his hand, used the other to push mine away while repeating over and over "no, no, no, move, no, move!" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Of course I had to attempt to hold the cup a dozen times to see if he'd react the same way. Each time it was the same response, "no, no, no, move, no, move!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Cute and funny? Yes.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Scary? Indeed. 1) because he obviously learned this from me and 2) because we've entered the next phase.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Let the adventure of language and expression begin!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-1381047679584102865?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/1381047679584102865/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=1381047679584102865' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1381047679584102865'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1381047679584102865'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/02/no-move-no.html' title='No, move, no'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-1250100994789029591</id><published>2009-01-22T20:51:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-22T20:57:50.091-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Meeting Samuel</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXlNE48rCTI/AAAAAAAAABg/7miHzv4Q1nE/s1600-h/DSC_0517.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXlNE48rCTI/AAAAAAAAABg/7miHzv4Q1nE/s320/DSC_0517.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294347583352408370" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Today is one of the best days of my life- meeting Samuel. He is so precious. So tiny. So sweet. I miss him already.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Holding Sam brought back so many memories, reminding me just how fast time flies by. Just a year ago Breck was his size.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A month ago I boxed up all of Breck's things saddened that they'd just sit in storage because he'd grown so fast. Little did I know on that day, that Samuel would arrive, patiently awaiting all of those things. It felt so good to share them. I cant wait for Breck to meet Sam.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-1250100994789029591?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/1250100994789029591/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=1250100994789029591' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1250100994789029591'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1250100994789029591'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/01/meeting-samuel.html' title='Meeting Samuel'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXlNE48rCTI/AAAAAAAAABg/7miHzv4Q1nE/s72-c/DSC_0517.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-8794283611913535754</id><published>2009-01-20T21:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-20T21:45:31.362-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hope. Optimism. Change.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXazSLQVngI/AAAAAAAAABY/zsFAPsl9-Eo/s1600-h/Inbox.gif"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXazSLQVngI/AAAAAAAAABY/zsFAPsl9-Eo/s320/Inbox.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293615536860929538" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;January 20, 2009&lt;div&gt;Today marks a historic day with the election of our first Black President, Barak Obama.  I am proud to be a mom today. Proud to raise a son in a country with renewed hope for a better world. I can't wait to tell him the story about this day when he is older.  Its important that Breck see the world as it should be, where color and race and religion and sex do not create barriers. In so many ways we are all so different but today we are all so much the same. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-8794283611913535754?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/8794283611913535754/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=8794283611913535754' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8794283611913535754'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/8794283611913535754'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/01/hope-optimism-change.html' title='Hope. Optimism. Change.'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SXazSLQVngI/AAAAAAAAABY/zsFAPsl9-Eo/s72-c/Inbox.gif' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-3273834887305068034</id><published>2009-01-05T14:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-05T14:14:53.483-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Can you hear him laughing?</title><content type='html'>Barb told me a quote the other day, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans"&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Each day I try to get up with a new perspective on life- to be realistic in what can be accomplished. The days of daily list making and crossing are over. Only to realize that today, maybe, one thing gets done. And, thats a good day when it does.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I just found the list I made last night for today. Confirmation I have not embraced my own new perspective!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Call 3 people at work to discuss this deadline (realization this is about a 2 hr task)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Change Breck's dr appt (done!)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Call Alaska Airlines about getting Breck a seat (I keep thinking about it)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Buy dog food (Ballard is so far, and with Breck how do I carry both to the car)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Pick up paint samples (ok, dreaming)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Buy diapers &amp;amp; coffee (I'll pay for this tomorrow at 6am, better yet, send Dave)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Write and send my new work contract (sadly, this will be done as an afterthought)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Download and then upload Quicken (maybe next month!)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Work on the new biz pitch (got in an hour, will do more between 6-10 tonight)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- Yoga (class as the wrong time)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Well, the day is half done and one thing checked. If I listen closely I can hear him laughing.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-3273834887305068034?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/3273834887305068034/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=3273834887305068034' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/3273834887305068034'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/3273834887305068034'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2009/01/can-you-hear-him-laughing.html' title='Can you hear him laughing?'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-6338843257119127191</id><published>2008-12-21T19:48:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-21T20:08:51.721-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Making Christmas</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PJTmIpxI/AAAAAAAAABQ/z3eK2QFpKB8/s1600-h/DSC_0172.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PJTmIpxI/AAAAAAAAABQ/z3eK2QFpKB8/s320/DSC_0172.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282457540482344722" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PJIaq2WI/AAAAAAAAABI/bT2Ev5JSH8o/s1600-h/DSC_0153.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PJIaq2WI/AAAAAAAAABI/bT2Ev5JSH8o/s320/DSC_0153.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282457537481464162" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PI3fX1jI/AAAAAAAAABA/_TkqTCCRwwY/s1600-h/DSC_0132.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PI3fX1jI/AAAAAAAAABA/_TkqTCCRwwY/s320/DSC_0132.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282457532937786930" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PIswbSMI/AAAAAAAAAA4/j8Wi9Qkcj4E/s1600-h/DSC_0086.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PIswbSMI/AAAAAAAAAA4/j8Wi9Qkcj4E/s320/DSC_0086.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282457530056526018" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PIHHekEI/AAAAAAAAAAw/YpvCfg37GqI/s1600-h/DSC_0034.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PIHHekEI/AAAAAAAAAAw/YpvCfg37GqI/s320/DSC_0034.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282457519952662594" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;I cant believe its almost Christmas.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"&gt;Reflecting back on last year with Breck still so tiny has made me realize what a difference a year makes. Last year, Breck was bundled tight so we could go for a cold morning walk on Christmas day. This year he's practically walking, and all those clothes now packed in a box. Christmas with a baby is so much different. I look back on my favorite moments and memories as a kid and want nothing more than to create a collection of those for Breck. Its been such an exciting and yet surprising December. We bought our tree and decorated it. I love decorating the tree with Dave. I love that he gets into it, even if it might be just for me. I love that we can laugh where most people might get frustrated. I love that he compliments how good the lights look when I'm done with my OCD stringing process. And I love that we talk about the ornaments as we hang them up. There are a lot of things I cant remember but the magic of an ornament is that each has a story, and I can recall all of them. We did our 2nd annual trip to Swansons to see the Reindeer and the trains. I love this photo of Breck and Dave peeking thru to see the train set. I know next year Breck will be that much more excited. We went to the Special Santa event that Erin does. She's my inspiration. Another 2nd annual tradition, going to see Santa with the cousins. Erin and Catherine and I met in downtown Seattle with Ryan, Nicole, Megan and Breck. Dave met us this year too. While Santa was a nice man, Breck and Nicki both screamed. Someday that will the photo Breck laughs at when he's 18. Then my own tradition- 2 years now- making my mom's peppermint bark recipe.  Dave designed me a cool label and I packaged them up all fun. Felt good to make a gift, package it pretty and send to our distant relatives. And then finally, the snow fall. We've had record snowfall for about 18 years. Its triggered every emotion. First the anticipation and excitement. Then stress. Then joy. Then boredom. Then innocence. Now acceptance. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"&gt;Its still snowing out. 4 days of snow. 12 straight hours of constant snowfall. 2 failed attempts at shoveling our front entry. 1 Christmas packed full of lifelong memories.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"&gt;I am thankful for the snow to give us the best gifts of all- time and a changed perspective.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-6338843257119127191?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/6338843257119127191/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=6338843257119127191' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/6338843257119127191'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/6338843257119127191'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/making-christmas.html' title='Making Christmas'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SU8PJTmIpxI/AAAAAAAAABQ/z3eK2QFpKB8/s72-c/DSC_0172.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-6212515011428931244</id><published>2008-11-24T21:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-24T21:30:32.145-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mama Kisses</title><content type='html'>&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 51, 153); font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; "&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;"Don't wait to make your son a great man, make him a great boy"&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Hearing Breck call me "Mama" for the first time had me speechless. Watching him unknowingly take his first steps out of excitement to hug me had me spinning him around in joy. Finally getting a response to "can Mama have a kiss" left me teary. Your eyes lit up, you giggled and you opened your mouth as wide as it could to lean into my face. You are a sweet boy. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-6212515011428931244?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/6212515011428931244/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=6212515011428931244' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/6212515011428931244'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/6212515011428931244'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/mama-kisses.html' title='Mama Kisses'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-1162300633019650489</id><published>2008-11-08T19:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-08T20:22:28.755-08:00</updated><title type='text'>My new form of exercise- being a mom!</title><content type='html'>Breck is the busiest little boy I know. If only I had just one ounce of his energy! He literally never stops moving and can barely tolerate anything that confines him- the high chair, car seat, stroller, the shopping cart. He even wants to crawl and stand in the tub. Never a dull moment of downtime!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He has always been this way. Confirming to me that you're born who you are. When I was pregnant with Breck, he was SO active. Dave and I used to refer to him as the wild child. When I would go in for my check ups, the OBGYN would laugh when trying to hear his heart because mostly what you could hear was him moving around like crazy. When I was 9 months pregnant he'd roll and push inside my belly so hard it hurt!  I knew then he'd be busy, and that he is!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;If there is one thing I've learned about motherhood its that we as moms were made to be resilient, tireless and one step ahead- always. Until its bedtime, then we crash hard. No matter how tired I am, I seem to find the tiniest bit of energy inside to mask it and keep up. And if I've learned anything, its never admit to yourself that you're tired or getting inpatient that they wont sit still long enough so you sit. The second you do this, the longer it takes to get back and center.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've always wondered where he got this energy, Dave and I are both so mellow. But then it hit me. I can't sit still myself! I can't do anything without doing something else at the same time. So, I've been focusing extra lately on being in the moment, in HIS moment. Each time I get down on the floor to experience his world and turn mine off I realize why he is so active, so busy-- his world is so alive. Every day a new discovery, a new mission or a new challenge.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;What I love most about his world today:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;observing him from afar. he is so confident, yet independent. he works on his skills when he thinks no one is looking. like standing, and walking and talking. when he realizes you caught him, he smiles.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;he plays with cars or anything with wheels and pushes them across the floor while making motor sounds.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;his sense of humor. he is always laughing, joking, or pushing your limits for a laugh. he is witty and wise already!&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;that one look he gets on his face every so often. he squints his eyes and gives me a look like "what are you doing crazy woman"&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;his routines: put him in our bedroom and he goes straight for charlie's water dish or the toilet flusher. put him in the office and he goes straight for dave's keyboard. the dining room- straight for my cookbooks. the hallway- straight for the bathroom. little does he know i am one step ahead!&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;he drinks from a thermos, closes the lid and opens it. repeat.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;crawling with his head down so he can go faster.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;the speed of which he can empty a drawer or clear a shelf. stand up-open-dive in-toss-leave the room-repeat&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;div&gt;And all of this in the first 10 minutes of the day. Exhausting? Yes. Would I have it any other way? No! Besides, its good exercise :)&lt;/div&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/6459756352948904373-1162300633019650489?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/1162300633019650489/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=1162300633019650489' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1162300633019650489'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1162300633019650489'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/my-new-form-of-exercise-being-mom.html' title='My new form of exercise- being a mom!'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-2296422664285097435</id><published>2008-10-20T18:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-20T19:06:12.002-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Prescription: Be self "ish"</title><content type='html'>I had a profound discovery today. I met with my Naturopath, turned whole health healer. She's a wonderful woman. Its been 3 years or so since I have seen her. We talk often because she can cure me across the miles. Some people think I'm crazy but I believe in her energy work. Afterall, she's cured me of every medical issue and helped me thru some of my most difficult times.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today was more than I expected, which having been working with her for years, I should always expect the unexpected. We had a long discussion around the need for me to better take care of myself. I've never done a great job at that, I'd much rather take care of everyone else. Now, as a mom, I find it even harder to do. I'm either too exhausted, feel pressed for time or just plain feeling guilty. For the latter she replied in laughter, "oh honey, take it from a mom, get over that guilt thing now!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Her cure for the healthy mom body:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;surround yourself with friends who have little kids to prove to yourself what you are going thru is normal&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;take your vitamins and your herbs&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;keep going to acupuncture&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;meet with the energy chiropractor (not the snap, crackle &amp;amp; pop one)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;make time to have fun with your husband, in fact, schedule an overnighter SOON&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;do yoga&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I must have had a look of disbelief. Nothing she said (except the chiropractor) is anything my mom hasn't already told me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"Why" she said, "Why don't you take better care of yourself?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The answer was actually hard to come by. She already ruled out my first set of excuses. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Then the aha moment. "I don't want people to think I'm selfish"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;What I learned has changed my view completely. She said it simply. "Separate the word and what do you have "self" and "ish" By definition, it means a little bit about yourself." I immediately went to all things "ish" and not one of them have I ever looked at bad. Why society made this word so evil is beyond me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So I left convinced that Barbara has unlocked the key to happy moms around the world and perhaps this is indeed the mom cure to a healthier self :) Because, like my mom said, "if the mom ain't happy, ain't nobody  happy!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Prescription: Be Self &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ish&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I can do that!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-2296422664285097435?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/2296422664285097435/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=2296422664285097435' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2296422664285097435'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2296422664285097435'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/prescription-be-self-ish.html' title='Prescription: Be self &quot;ish&quot;'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-17787638855595581</id><published>2008-10-15T21:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-15T21:55:47.805-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Time Flies</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPbF3Ea6rcI/AAAAAAAAAAo/KHfn2deT1HQ/s1600-h/DSC_0089.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPbF3Ea6rcI/AAAAAAAAAAo/KHfn2deT1HQ/s320/DSC_0089.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257607164871749058" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;One year ago today, we welcomed our sweet boy into this world. So tiny, so handsome, so precious. A year later, I look at this photo and can't help to wonder where the time has gone. This is a moment frozen in time. Yet when I study it, I am still there. Still present in the room- the sights, the sounds, the smells, the joy.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Everyone tells you how fast the time goes by. But like most things you don't really comprehend what that means until you are there yourself. Today, I am there. Today I cannot believe its already been a year. That tiny baby boy now a growing little boy. That still body wrapped tightly now fighting getting dressed. That serious face now always smiling. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;In so many ways, everything about him has changed. And in so many others, nothing has. His world is still full of wonder and discovery; a blank slate full of possibilities. Our promise to him when he was born is the wish we make again today on his birthday- to surround him with love, positive energy and laughter.  My promise to myself: live in the moment, cherish the seconds, and never forget time flies. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&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/6459756352948904373-17787638855595581?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/17787638855595581/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=17787638855595581' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/17787638855595581'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/17787638855595581'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/time-flies.html' title='Time Flies'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPbF3Ea6rcI/AAAAAAAAAAo/KHfn2deT1HQ/s72-c/DSC_0089.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-686327715440455899</id><published>2008-10-11T20:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-15T21:56:05.908-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Saturday Mornings</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPFzsjcGXAI/AAAAAAAAAAg/NzoguiBWACI/s1600-h/Breck%27s+New+Hat.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPFzsjcGXAI/AAAAAAAAAAg/NzoguiBWACI/s320/Breck%27s+New+Hat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256109449382616066" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Traditions....&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I grew up with traditions, some of the most special and memorable moments of my childhood were the traditions my parents started when we were kids. Many of them memories now as life has taken so many new turns. Its a constant reminder, though, of the responsibility I have as parent, to create new traditions with my husband. Traditions for Breck that he will cherish later, just like I do now. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've been obsessed lately about when I will start a tradition. Are they holidays? Do they start when he turns 1? Is it the summer vacation we took to Tofino or one we haven't even planned yet? When I saw this photo today, I realized traditions are indeed the little things, the simple and unexpected routines we overlook. Maybe traditions are not something you plan to happen again and again, they just do. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And then it hit me. We have, in fact, our own tradition.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Every Saturday morning, Dave and I pack up Breck and Charlie and head to Alki for coffee at Pioneer and then off to the park down the street. We drink our coffee lounging in the chairs with Breck climbing all over us and both he and Charlie begging for a bite of our breakfast treat. We look at the water and remind ourselves how lucky we are to live here, in these moments, in this place, it feels like vacation.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today was a new twist on a normal tradition- Fall. Gone are the shorts and t-shirts, replaced by signs of cooler days coming with hats, coats and sweaters. This is Breck at the park, in his swing he loves so much. He's loved swinging since he was born. It was the perfect Seattle Fall morning- blue sky, sunshine and cold. Even more special, Breck debuted his new hat made just for him his Nana-- my mom. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I cant wait to see how this photo evolves overtime, documenting the dramatic change in Breck as he grows up, captured during an unchanging tradition, called Saturday morning.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-686327715440455899?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/686327715440455899/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=686327715440455899' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/686327715440455899'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/686327715440455899'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/saturday-morning.html' title='Saturday Mornings'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SPFzsjcGXAI/AAAAAAAAAAg/NzoguiBWACI/s72-c/Breck%27s+New+Hat.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-3076586616610439299</id><published>2008-10-09T20:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-09T21:11:06.305-07:00</updated><title type='text'>For the love of Pumpkin Pie</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;Having a baby makes life's most basic tasks so very complicated. Everything takes 40 minutes longer than it used to. Daily accomplishments mean checking off one "to do" and not the whole list. It means loving your dirty hair and day old make-up because today left no other option. Everyday I discover one more thing thats not so easy to do anymore, one more wish for drive thru everything. But today was a new one: Pumpkin Pie&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've never liked pumpkin pie. I've always wanted to. You know, because its fall and thats what people eat for dessert. But 2 days ago I sampled heaven in the form of pumpkin pie at the Metropolitan Market. Like any good mom would, I gave the best bite to Breck who was balanced on one hip while I attempted to eat the measly left over with my free hand. What left Breck whining for more, did me the same. 2 days and counting. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Who dares to sample pumpkin heaven when the bakery is sold out anyway?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So 2 nights later, I still crave the pie. Tonight, I looked into Breck's tired eyes and seriously contemplated for that moment packing him up against all signs that was a good idea and dodging rain drops in the dark, in hopes that perhaps tonight, there would be a slice left for me in the bakery. Nope, I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear the thought of dragging Breck out the door, from which we just came in. To delay my child's bedtime for my new found love pumpkin pie.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;For the love of my child, I will forego pumpkin pie.... tonight. Tomorrow's another story.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-3076586616610439299?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/3076586616610439299/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=3076586616610439299' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/3076586616610439299'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/3076586616610439299'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/for-love-of-pumpkin-pie.html' title='For the love of Pumpkin Pie'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-1027131052158154340</id><published>2008-10-05T20:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-05T21:09:00.501-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hands Full</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;A wonderful stranger. A new perspective. A sweet reminder.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;My husband and I were at our friend's wedding this weekend. Must admit I was a little apprehensive bringing Breck to a wedding. Suddenly, we would be "those people". With Breck in his PJ's slowly drifting off to sleep, I force his tired little body to whip around the dance floor with me dancing (yes, in my purple dress!)  to classic wedding reception tunes. Then a gentle tap on my shoulder by this lovely woman, "if you'd be ok with it, I'd love nothing more than to hold your son so you can dance with your husband" My immediate reaction was to hand him off faster than she finished. But not too fast, who is this woman? I watch her from across the room. She is a sweet woman. Sitting with her elderly parents, she just looks like someone you want you know. A few minutes later I walk in her direction, Breck sound asleep on my shoulder and before I could approach her, her arms reach out to cradle him. "You'd make my night if I could cuddle him" Afterall, she is a friend of the bride, our friend. I trust my gut, she's more than ok. I watch Breck sleep, he's out cold with his face cozy in her big chest. Suddenly he has the best seat in the house, Dave and I laugh. This sleeping boy is making her evening. And I am free, for just a couple moments. I sat for a few minutes, alone, watching her love my son. She rocks him gently and rubs his cheek. What a wonderful woman she is. I realize, I dont know her name. She doesn't even know his. But this is confirmation that there are perfect strangers in this world, good human beings. The kind our parents raised us to be. This, I will pay forward.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"&gt;Now its my turn, I tap her on the shoulder. I say thank you,  "you have no idea how nice it feels to have my hands free." Her response, amazing "and you have no idea how nice it feels to have my hands full"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-1027131052158154340?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/1027131052158154340/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=1027131052158154340' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1027131052158154340'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/1027131052158154340'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/hands-full.html' title='Hands Full'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-4129319182868239120</id><published>2008-10-03T22:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-03T23:04:16.419-07:00</updated><title type='text'>That Moment</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SOcFSl9B04I/AAAAAAAAAAM/7ZVlqtp3fHc/s1600-h/big+hug+bw.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SOcFSl9B04I/AAAAAAAAAAM/7ZVlqtp3fHc/s320/big+hug+bw.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253173307334841218" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;One of my favorite moments.  Carrying my sleepy son on the beach. His little tired body molded into my shape. His sweet baby smell mixed with salty air. His quiet little mumbles whisper in my ear while the ocean mesmerizes him. This is what perfection feels like.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-4129319182868239120?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/4129319182868239120/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=4129319182868239120' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4129319182868239120'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/4129319182868239120'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/that-moment.html' title='That Moment'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/SOcFSl9B04I/AAAAAAAAAAM/7ZVlqtp3fHc/s72-c/big+hug+bw.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-7775030224911705954</id><published>2008-10-03T22:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-11T20:52:10.833-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Somersault</title><content type='html'>I took my son to the gym today, a gymnastics class. He's the busiest boy I know, must find something that tires him out. We've tried these gyms before. He hated the others. He takes after his mom. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This one was different. He learned something! Somersaults. And I did too, how to spell this word, which never had much use before. Anyway, he's far from perfecting his over the head flip. But his world came alive when he landed. And I realized, we are in trouble. How long before the somersault gets practiced off the end of my bed or the couch. Stay tuned for that story. Overall, gym class a success. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But what was with the tall, tan dad with the raspberry painted toe nails?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-7775030224911705954?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/7775030224911705954/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=7775030224911705954' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/7775030224911705954'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/7775030224911705954'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/somersault.html' title='Somersault'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6459756352948904373.post-2957949865627698603</id><published>2008-10-03T22:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-11T20:50:54.922-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Every mom needs a purple dress</title><content type='html'>Today, like most days, I am last minute to accomplishing anything that has to do with myself. My friends and family can attest, this is story number 12,050-- always the same, never the learning. A glimpse into my character. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Lesson # 12,050: don't put off shopping for a wedding until the night before the wedding. How many times have I done this before? God Bless people who are well prepared. I like to blame my career which has been built on deadlines and stress and detail for why in my personal life things seems to be last minute. (I guess I shouldn't be shocked my first blog entry is nearly 12 months after I intended) Afterall, we were invited to the wedding 5 months ago. I always knew I needed something to wear. But, I hate shopping. I love getting new things. I hate the process of shopping. I like all the things I cannot afford. So 24 hours and counting, I am dress-less. My one and only dress has a broken zipper. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The remedy: I scoop up my son into his stroller. And I think for some reason this time he'll love shopping. One mall and 4 boutiques later, I have a dress. Not THE dress but it made me feel girly so I bought it. I'll probably never wear it again. In fact I know I wont. But its purple, its trendy and its sassy. And for that moment in the mirror I was not the tired mom on the outside I so was oozing on the inside. I am now the proud owner of that sassy purple trendy dress. But we have one major problem. I have no shoes for the dress. This is why I hate shopping. 4 wasted hours. 1 screaming son. 1 lonely purple dress. 0 dresses to wear to the wedding. If anyone needs to feel pretty in the mirror, I have your perfect cure.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6459756352948904373-2957949865627698603?l=themamasblog.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/feeds/2957949865627698603/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6459756352948904373&amp;postID=2957949865627698603' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2957949865627698603'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6459756352948904373/posts/default/2957949865627698603'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://themamasblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/every-mom-needs-purple-dress.html' title='Every mom needs a purple dress'/><author><name>The Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16341586251748000867</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='21' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4ZPwphIFezQ/Sf-uDG-LF6I/AAAAAAAAABs/OMN8CzFIDdY/S220/DSC_0476.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
