tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-389045452024-03-17T22:03:37.493-05:00okayest mom everSara Lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07855170058334994892noreply@blogger.comBlogger1228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-11507973554115148572020-03-21T16:04:00.000-05:002020-03-21T16:04:21.164-05:00On the 2020 Pandemic . . .I went to bed last Thursday and was restless. Kyle was still in the kitchen working on plans for his students while I just tossed and turned. Schools were closing in states near us, and I had a feeling we would be next. Around midnight, just as I was dozing off, Kyle came into the bedroom, put his hand on my leg and whispered, "All Michigan schools are closing until after spring break."<br /><br />And I was up.<br />
<br />
I spent that night on the couch in the basement. I felt sick to my stomach. I was thinking about my kids, about people getting sick, about the kids for whom 3 weeks at home was not a pleasant thought. I thought about my dad, going house to house doing everyone's taxes. I thought about my sister having a baby in 2 months. I thought about my kids' baseball and soccer schedules. I thought about what this would do to my business. CAMP! I wondered if kids would be back in school on time for our outdoor education programs. Would school go further into the summer? Will the economy hold up? So many questions. So much uncertainty.<br />
<br />
I was interviewed by a writer from a national magazine yesterday about how this is affecting my business and felt like an idiot, because I responded with "I don't know" or "It's hard to tell" to more than half of the questions.<br />
<br />
Will your business recover? I don't know.<br />
How much of an impact will this have on your family's income. It's hard to tell.<br />
<br />
Ok, bye.<br />
<br />
"Uncertain" and "unknown" are two words that have been overused for the last week, but they apply. These are weird days. Or as every email I've received from businesses responding to the Novel Coronavirus have called it . . . "uncharted territory." Everyone is using the same words, because we haven't developed vocabulary to use yet.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, I cried one night to Kyle about how empty I was feeling. I had nothing left to give. I was creatively tapped, emotionally drained and physically exhausted. Our schedule was overwhelming and responsibilities felt heavy. Also, March is reading month, which is always a pretty big fail for me. I told him that I just wanted a break from the routine.<br />
<br />
Today? I would give anything right now to be filling out reading logs and shuttling kids to practices.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-44408941659632322552019-08-03T08:30:00.000-05:002019-08-03T08:30:00.407-05:00Parenting FOMOI'm trying to remember how long it took me to get over parenting FOMO.<br />
<br />
With Jack, I wanted to be at everything and keep everything, because I was afraid of missing something. Papers, school programs, class parties . . . I wanted to make sure I was there for it all.<br />
<br />
But over time it occurred to me that I was going to be doing all of these things FOUR TIMES. Parenting fear-of-missing-out became parenting dread-of-going-to-one-more-thing. You guys . . . Ben, CLaire and Hattie all doing the 4s and 4+ preschool years I'll sit through SEVEN PRESCHOOL GRADUATIONS. Claire's end of the year Kindergarten program was exactly like both of her brothers' programs.<br />
<br />
Before you say it, I'll say it . . . it's not about me. It's about them. I know. I'm not saying I shouldn't go, and I'm not even complaining about going. I'm just no longer afraid of missing out.<br />
<br />
When Jack was little, I had all kinds of parenting FOMO (fear of missing out, for those of us who are less with it than I obviously am). I worried about missing school programs, art projects, milestones . . . I wanted to soak it all up. But as each successive child came, I realized that I would sit through the same Kindergarten end-of-the-year program 4 times. And the FOMO waned. (Sorry, Hattie.)<br />
<br />
I guess it didn't wane as much as transition. Now I worry about missing out on important conversations. I don't want to miss out on rides home from school where they dump everything that happened that day. I don't want to miss bedtime conversations that end in sobs about betrayal by friends or uncontrollable laughter about a hilarious observation that one of them made.<br />
<br />
When Jack was born, everyone preached to me about how quickly it would all go, but the words were wasted. I don't think anyone with a newborn can really fathom what it's like to look at their 12 year old and try to remember the point when he got too big for you to carry his sleeping body from the couch to his bed. Or to KNOW that he used to climb into bed with you every morning, but not be able to remember it all that well.<br />
<br />
Every phase that my kids enter has remarkable potential, but it also leaves me mourning the previous ones a little bit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-34616340821245885202019-08-02T16:09:00.002-05:002019-08-02T16:09:15.106-05:00Half postsIt's been over a year . . . but has it? I was kind of shocked to look at see that it was MAY OF TWO THOUSAND EIGHTEEN the last time I wrote here. There are all kinds of reasons for that.<br />
<br />
So much of our life is recorded on Facebook and Instagram now. And so many of the parenting anecdots and my kids' issues are more complicated now. It's harder to write about the challenges my 9-year-old and 12-year-old are facing without stoping all over their privacy.<br />
<br />
But has it been that long? It doesn't feel like it because I have eight drafts between then and now. Here are three of those to sum up a few of the feelings from the last year. The other five might still become posts someday.<br />
<br />
DRAFT #1<br />
Hattie is running around my office furiously, in whatever pretend game she's made up. It involves fists full of markers, and saying, "Just a minute!" to whichever imaginary friend has joined her this morning. I know that I have about 7 minutes of playing left before she'll need me.<br />
<br />
Seven minutes. I want to update this blog to reflect where our family is right now, but so much happens every day. So much growth. So much change. Where should I even begin?<br />
<br />
Jackson is headed to middle school this year. I have not quite finished wrapping my head around that. He loves baseball, followed closely by soccer. He enjoys basketball, but as he told me yesterday, "Basketball is more just for fun than competitive for me." Because he gets paid for baseball and soccer? I don't even know what that means, other than just an acknowledgement that he's better at baseball and soccer than he is basketball.<br />
<br />
He would love for me to let him play football, but much to his dismay, I'm sticking by the "no football before age 12" recommendation made by a recent study by Boston University.<br /><br />(FOLLOW UP: He turned 12 and wanted to play football this year. We let him move to a different soccer league and he decided not to. Hattie still runs around with imaginary friends on a regular basis.)<br />
<br />
DRAFT 2:<br /><br />I'm on the brink of 40, and I'm struggling. Not with my mortality or with my wrinkles . . .<br />
<br />
(FOLLOW UP: That was all I wrote and it about sums it up. 41 is approaching, and I'm struggling just as hard.)<br />
<br />
DRAFT 3:<br />
Every single year, I get to this point and wonder if homeschooling is a good option. Like, I seriously consider it. I know it wouldn't work for our family, because of jobs and schedules and sanity. But you guys . . . sending them all out into a world where my influence is less than their friends for 8 hours? It's terrifying. Truly.<br />
<br />
And Jack is starting middle school this year, which I cannot wrap my head around without ugly crying. 7 years until launch for that boy. SEVEN YEARS. 7 years from now, we'll be sending him off to college, or whatever he feels led to do with his life after graduation.<br />
<br />
I break parenting up into three stages: Discipline, training, coaching and then LAUNCH. Each step of the way, I'm convinced that the stage we're in is the most challenging. I suspect that NOTHING will be as hard as the launch, though.<br />
<br />
(FOLLOW UP: Middle school wasn't awful, but I still would have rather had him home with me. Bennett is the one who had the rough year, though, and the one that I will still consider homeschooling.)sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-42361791613463056442018-05-13T21:45:00.002-05:002018-05-14T08:27:53.304-05:00Not-so-little piggiesMy kids were getting ready for bed a few weeks ago when Jack told me he had a cut on his foot that he wanted me to look at. I told him to go get in bed and I'd come up and look at it in a minute. As I finished what I was doing in the kitchen and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, I had no idea what I was about to encounter.<br />
<br />
I sat on the edge of his bed and asked to see his foot when suddenly, a giant man-foot plopped onto my lap. I stared at it for a what seemed like an hour, until Jack said, "Mom, what's wrong?" I looked at him, and then his foot, and then back at him, just to make sure that this lower extremity truly belonged to my little boy. This was not the foot of a little boy. It was the foot of a young adult.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpq3JoavOnbTP6_830GNN3LvYWt7fa5KEw_ciHJ-VbOQnRaqrvdSLHgcOGJCwlSui7Nau7CL36rCGCPcwqohb7e2HtDmxhQbLX4xqhDebx_kGyPnLhCqY7z5KFIMOCxxtiFhX/s1600/appaman+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpq3JoavOnbTP6_830GNN3LvYWt7fa5KEw_ciHJ-VbOQnRaqrvdSLHgcOGJCwlSui7Nau7CL36rCGCPcwqohb7e2HtDmxhQbLX4xqhDebx_kGyPnLhCqY7z5KFIMOCxxtiFhX/s320/appaman+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When did this happen? When did his sweet baby feet disappear? I missed it. The transition came and left without any notice at all.<br />
<br />
You know what? I can't remember the last time I played "this little piggie" with his toes. I mean, I know there was a final time, but I can't remember it. When I was sending that last little piggie home yelling "wee wee wee" I had no idea it would never happen again. I can't grab his big toe and send it to the market now, because that would be weird. <i>(Right? It would be weird. I can't do that, can I? I didn't think so. Thanks for keeping me on track.)</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_U3CgFrCNXYVMUm76rtMBEGjf2u04CO-CSdU8jHSUV1DDJ4i2oW642lZwzECEaEdbKQF_3zOGAHUctGHr8A_Xdq7lOakQMfba8HT4-wpgWWhByNmvp1n3u79c-Gp9cw3OMBx/s1600/32359575_10160337942940207_2803621390878507008_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1600" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_U3CgFrCNXYVMUm76rtMBEGjf2u04CO-CSdU8jHSUV1DDJ4i2oW642lZwzECEaEdbKQF_3zOGAHUctGHr8A_Xdq7lOakQMfba8HT4-wpgWWhByNmvp1n3u79c-Gp9cw3OMBx/s320/32359575_10160337942940207_2803621390878507008_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The days are long, but my kids are growing faster than I can keep up with. It's painful to think about all of the "lasts" that will come and go, many without notice. Please don't get me started on the upcoming 5th grade graduation (just speaking the words "middle school" gives me anxiety).<br />
<br />
Fortunately, the "lasts" still have plenty of "firsts" to make up for them.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-41925924795451752892018-03-31T22:43:00.004-05:002018-03-31T22:43:55.822-05:00Easter SaturdayDuring a conversation tonight about Easter, we were talking about the day before and how little we talk about it. Jack said, "The disciples had it bad, because they didn't know what was going to happen. They just thought it was over."<br />
<br />
Yep.<br />
<br />
The disciples had just seen their leader murdered. They had been defeated. The uprising that had been gaining so much momentum had come to an aburpt halt. They were hiding, fearful that they might be next.<br />
<br />
During this conversation, Jack said, "If that were me, I'd probably be wondering if I'd just been following some crazy guy this whole time."<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
I wonder if the disciples spent that sabbath questioning whether or not anything they thought they knew for sure was true.<br /><br />I wonder if they contemplated whether or not they should continue to pursue this movement they'd felt so passionate about just last week. Jesus told them his death was coming, and said it wouldn't be the end. But he was laying in a tomb, so . . . what now?<br />
<br />
I wonder if there was any bitterness about the fact that things didn't turn out the way they thought they were going to. They knew this leader was different, but they had no frame of reference for THIS being a part of the plan.<br />
<br />
I love Holy Saturday, because it feels familiar. Real. Raw. The questioning and bitterness. The defeat.<br />
<br />
I have an advantage, though. I know what happened the next day and I can cling to that, because nothing will change the fact that Jesus has risen. There was meaning made from catastrophe, the world forever changed.Sara Lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07855170058334994892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-53744820758589470912017-10-03T18:54:00.002-05:002017-10-03T18:54:20.411-05:00The Creepy UnderwearWhen the boys were little, I used to tell you all about books they loved, and gave a lot of them away. But times have changed. I'll admit that I don't read to my girls as much as I did my boys, and I'm sure they'll hold that against me for years to come. I've made my peace with it.<br />
<br />
Bennett and Hattie were home sick today, and we pulled out a book that we got from the school book fair called <a href="http://amzn.to/2xX0Gyy" target="_blank">Creepy Pair of Underwear</a>. Weird, right? Not a book title I'd normally choose and purchase. But we own <a href="http://amzn.to/2xZvfnF" target="_blank">Creepy Carrots</a> and love it, so we had a good feeling about it.<br />
<br />
The book follows Jasper Rabbit on his quest to rid himself of his creepy underwear, and is a good combination of little-kid-spooky and silly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbx63AayhR479HxexueR0vWsvzQzj1SIgK50y196eNTxqpz3jLGsbY-5IXd6s6pdtTHSezVaYEgIgYt2ADwr2DxgPkl6_T_3mS5YWRvxFRcfQD1sGGq4TmWne8GjVDCsmneU9/s1600/trio_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbx63AayhR479HxexueR0vWsvzQzj1SIgK50y196eNTxqpz3jLGsbY-5IXd6s6pdtTHSezVaYEgIgYt2ADwr2DxgPkl6_T_3mS5YWRvxFRcfQD1sGGq4TmWne8GjVDCsmneU9/s320/trio_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Anyway, reading it reminded me of the photos I took of <a href="http://www.okayestmomever.com/2010/10/favorite-books-giveaway-hallo-wiener.html" target="_blank">Jack</a> and <a href="http://www.okayestmomever.com/2012/10/thoughts-to-make-your-heart-sing_10.html" target="_blank">Ben</a> with books when they were around Hattie's age, so I decided to recreate it. Looking at those posts makes me long for a porch with enough room for pumpkins!sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-56112034966292922142017-05-11T10:10:00.000-05:002017-05-11T10:47:05.446-05:00Claire's Last Day of PreschoolIt's an overcast morning here, but when I dropped Claire off at preschool for the last time this morning, I had my sunglasses ready to go. I've had all the feels this week as we approach Claire's preschool graduation. It's hitting me hard.<br />
<br />
I don't know why . . . I've been through this twice before. Someone suggested that it might be because it's my first girl graduating from preschool, and I wanted to punch that person in the face. <i>Sorry - but only kind of sorry - if it was you.</i> I'm just about done with being polite when people imply that my girls will be my best friends forever while my boys will someday leave me and never give me a second thought. <i>But that's an entirely different post.</i><br />
<br />
<b>I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I won't be sending her to Kindergarten while I still have a toddler and a newborn at home.</b> Even when I was emotional about sending the boys to school, I welcomed one less person needing my attention all day. <i>I think my emotions this week are actually the result of three preschool graduations. </i>I don't think I ever really had the time or emotional space when the boys graduated to feel it all. The last 6 years are catching up with me, I suppose.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqId8RC8JdX6gqTt3bwUCLjBu2yi0SgXOh_7o2vZDJw7tJyv0VctzsNGPgbP8598f7dMrWad_LTttv2_-R8nXaOvmjD_jFwjzeje5obn2aNvZVzNoLmt9cZAf9aQ0LkLIEkXpkA/s1600/2017-05-11+08.47.34-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqId8RC8JdX6gqTt3bwUCLjBu2yi0SgXOh_7o2vZDJw7tJyv0VctzsNGPgbP8598f7dMrWad_LTttv2_-R8nXaOvmjD_jFwjzeje5obn2aNvZVzNoLmt9cZAf9aQ0LkLIEkXpkA/s320/2017-05-11+08.47.34-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claire's Last Day of Preschool - May 2017</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I also know what comes next. I know that she'll be gone 7 hours a day. I know that we'll have tired, grumpy afternoons 4 out of 5 school days. I know that she'll pick up mysterious phrases and attitudes that she never would have picked up from 2.5 hours of preschool, or here at home. I know that the attachment we have will be a little less. <b>I know that soon she'll stop holding my hand.</b> I know that she will make friends whose parents I don't know. I know that our crazy summer schedule will end about two days before she goes back to school, leaving little time for family vacations. I know that it's harder to miss a day of school once you reach the elementary age. I didn't know all of this when Jack graduated from preschool, and I only knew a little bit of it when Bennett did.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_XAA3N4JQAZP_EnWUqeODYvDZWCA6ld12JuNoDq3sfSQYNAzKzxLAie2fuVlo94vUBA5h0UDm2jbCTGujmnG3Din8ex3JAtUkwan2lzTW-GEBBsENxH9KUitQ_UiVYyIIYktBg/s1600/2015-05-12+09.02.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_XAA3N4JQAZP_EnWUqeODYvDZWCA6ld12JuNoDq3sfSQYNAzKzxLAie2fuVlo94vUBA5h0UDm2jbCTGujmnG3Din8ex3JAtUkwan2lzTW-GEBBsENxH9KUitQ_UiVYyIIYktBg/s320/2015-05-12+09.02.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bennett's Last Day of Preschool - May 2015</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQNPq26VnSEP49u4VkgmkCkQ6ldjppS8qbKQ3HqPin2epwsbWjD3C9cGDG1Ako1VMIWvgA8J7l1o3fm9z44ilD2b9NUkTjbHteuLOUAhBxJaCiSDzVPMZC6Tg0Kfv6HR0Q-XHGw/s1600/IMG_8165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQNPq26VnSEP49u4VkgmkCkQ6ldjppS8qbKQ3HqPin2epwsbWjD3C9cGDG1Ako1VMIWvgA8J7l1o3fm9z44ilD2b9NUkTjbHteuLOUAhBxJaCiSDzVPMZC6Tg0Kfv6HR0Q-XHGw/s320/IMG_8165.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jack's Last Day of Preschool - May 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For the next 3 years it'll just be me and Hattie. She'll go to preschool two mornings a week next year, and will probably have a babysitter a couple of days. I'll have to stay up fewer late nights getting my jobs done, because I'll have more available time during the day. So those are all good things.<br />
<br />
Hattie will get way more attention during these years than any of her siblings, because there will be no one else fighting for it. That's a good thing, but it leaves me feeling incredibly guilty for not being able to give that to the others. They've all been more than ready for Kindergarten when they graduated from preschool, but I'm still left wondering if I've done enough while I've had them at home.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHN149YvuU1fd38YySunAYqdaex_wcrn0r94FbGiDkIZQol7-Vltjqmb9dYbS_PMVybFU0E6A9CJdu93ldQVQFvb70trDB56jNyKBY-9Tw1_h0zr7UzdmCXE9yu1lPm6L3hOGEyA/s1600/2017-05-09+11.05.33-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHN149YvuU1fd38YySunAYqdaex_wcrn0r94FbGiDkIZQol7-Vltjqmb9dYbS_PMVybFU0E6A9CJdu93ldQVQFvb70trDB56jNyKBY-9Tw1_h0zr7UzdmCXE9yu1lPm6L3hOGEyA/s320/2017-05-09+11.05.33-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No more babies at our house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All week I've been thinking about how I'll never have regular afternoons with Claire again. When I was home, it was just her and I while Hattie napped. I'm feeling all the guilt about the times I sat her in front of the tv so I could be productive. I'm feeling so sad that we won't get to take advantage of empty open skating afternoons anymore or just lay in bed and giggle about the crazy stories she makes up. <i>And let me tell you: She makes up some doozies.</i> At parent-teacher conferences, we were presented with a list of stories she told to her teachers. . . were you aware that I knit her clothes for her before she goes to school each morning? And that her dad found our dog that we thought had died up in the attic of our house? I could go on . . . but I won't.<br />
<br />
I remember when Jack was born, having this overwhelming feeling of "How on earth will I be able to give him everything that he deserves?" I don't think that feeling will ever really go away. Sometimes I joke about it, but I really don't want my kids to stop growing or to slow down. So today, I'm going to try and push some of my own sadness aside <b>and be thankful for healthy, thriving kids, doing what they're meant to do: Grow.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
My phone just buzzed, reminding me that it's almost time to go sit in that pick up line and wait to see my sweet Claire skip hand-in-hand with her teacher one last time. She's growing up. They all are. Thank you, Jesus.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-40773849356511887942017-04-21T10:30:00.001-05:002017-05-11T10:13:02.854-05:00Lukes are Best Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm almost sure that at my funeral someday, this is the memory that my kids will laugh about: "Remember how after we fought, Mom used to make us say, 'I love you' and 'Lukes are best friends'?" </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm okay with that.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtz8EZuPiocTPRqtvU9VU0hzEAQ9XjgP9fxl6YYbBjhmI6KFky45YCu5ADUUf4h-uj2b8d7f-PjLvsuOHil7cwWPcOpvwufOB-RK0ayMu-Q0plkh_9K4Ecq8mBr2uSwpnI6Zudw/s1600/IMG_5159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtz8EZuPiocTPRqtvU9VU0hzEAQ9XjgP9fxl6YYbBjhmI6KFky45YCu5ADUUf4h-uj2b8d7f-PjLvsuOHil7cwWPcOpvwufOB-RK0ayMu-Q0plkh_9K4Ecq8mBr2uSwpnI6Zudw/s320/IMG_5159.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I make no secret of the fact that one of my main parenting goals is to keep them close . . . perhaps to a fault. I make sure they know that even when they're married and have kids of their own, they need to touch base with their siblings . . . all of them . . . at least once a week.<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJp2DlNriBrX_HDhMdoZpU6JM3gAsKNwPuyf3Lm6b1uG25tHRfLsCyyf0ipjXlSPdaRcU7c-WOn_FZib4Z2qNLXM53GIrKh7Syib2lX3tFc8tqNBLLFW_X4VX37Dhh9rjfYQkxw/s1600/appaman-easter+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJp2DlNriBrX_HDhMdoZpU6JM3gAsKNwPuyf3Lm6b1uG25tHRfLsCyyf0ipjXlSPdaRcU7c-WOn_FZib4Z2qNLXM53GIrKh7Syib2lX3tFc8tqNBLLFW_X4VX37Dhh9rjfYQkxw/s320/appaman-easter+%25286%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
They might not have chosen each other, but they'll always be the friends who have known them the longest. I want them to confide in each other. I don't even care if they help each other keep secrets from us (kind of). When one of my kids tattles on another, I often say, "Remember . . . you're all on the same team."</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zbQZ1lN6M6Pgh-w01FnM-YYwHEs1AXapXYF-Esz-6LWwNehAI6PNlvDFB3jnblQvC3xYULNiASQJvMMU4-NX6AU0OP55d9zs77hUS5k7UDhwb-Mat0SK_HG2l5mwgmy5lRPxQw/s1600/IMG_5360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zbQZ1lN6M6Pgh-w01FnM-YYwHEs1AXapXYF-Esz-6LWwNehAI6PNlvDFB3jnblQvC3xYULNiASQJvMMU4-NX6AU0OP55d9zs77hUS5k7UDhwb-Mat0SK_HG2l5mwgmy5lRPxQw/s320/IMG_5360.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Maybe they'll all grow apart and lose touch when they get older. But it won't go down without a fight from their Mama.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TRRt0iEmFncjYfop-_IEirELvg8bQtc6w_wF9LXtBTqgfoWsOP6eCFE8KnC58niMHRAlBO8pHZg54kuYBp5ulps5_jCpxwXavNwGYA4qoKwNgoPW3taL2VapbiMp_CCnQ7Be6Q/s1600/appaman-easter+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TRRt0iEmFncjYfop-_IEirELvg8bQtc6w_wF9LXtBTqgfoWsOP6eCFE8KnC58niMHRAlBO8pHZg54kuYBp5ulps5_jCpxwXavNwGYA4qoKwNgoPW3taL2VapbiMp_CCnQ7Be6Q/s320/appaman-easter+%252810%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-31125248989898766562017-03-03T09:30:00.000-05:002017-04-01T07:20:47.406-05:00On Losing My MindI've been sitting in my office for 30 minutes now, just staring. Staring at the computer screen, staring out the window, staring at the blank walls. Every couple of minutes, I'll stop staring long enough to pick one of the split ends from my hair and then I go back to staring.<br />
<br />
I've completely lost my mind.<br />
<br />
I'm just getting over the worst flu I've ever had. I think it was the flu. At the very least, it was a flu-like virus. The aches were unreal. And you know how when you get sick, you feel yourself hit rock bottom and then start to feel a little better each day after that? Well, with this flu I hit rock bottom and stayed there for a while. And then after five days of pure misery, I got a tiny bit better each day. I had 11 total days of fever. I alternated tylenol and ibuprofen, but this flu just kind of laughed at my attempt to keep the symptoms at bay and kept doing its thing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqjcB3pgLQIajmrq-71qEU2YFDZtxC7SeQ6Py-shomLLL8q1Sn8saPSvtzcW0Y9mOD4wS0t7XZFVa7a_Gce-8utjbWeNJl2B0PzMIC48_eEDijPlZ_c87iNskVpLpt_O2nYu7/s1600/2017-02-26+18.00.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqjcB3pgLQIajmrq-71qEU2YFDZtxC7SeQ6Py-shomLLL8q1Sn8saPSvtzcW0Y9mOD4wS0t7XZFVa7a_Gce-8utjbWeNJl2B0PzMIC48_eEDijPlZ_c87iNskVpLpt_O2nYu7/s320/2017-02-26+18.00.55.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was with ibuprofen and tylenol. I learned very quickly not to let it run out.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The worst part of the whole thing is that Kyle had it, too. As did 3 of the 4 kids . . . Claire was the only one spared (but she ended up with strep toward the end of the whole ordeal). I'd like to think that I had it worse than Kyle because he was the one who managed to keep the house running, but the truth is that he's just a better parent than I am.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWMfP9HglCXeap5fnFoJt2rJvrmrCjI9MqN9NPTegM9PNb6B3ORVgTPSP5hvm4nYtjreJQde0xZZCI_F3-nfRdB2tELor7XfCIdnovEEzunBVYf7DxVsz3dUTN4mlBSHx4WtG/s1600/2017-02-28+19.04.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWMfP9HglCXeap5fnFoJt2rJvrmrCjI9MqN9NPTegM9PNb6B3ORVgTPSP5hvm4nYtjreJQde0xZZCI_F3-nfRdB2tELor7XfCIdnovEEzunBVYf7DxVsz3dUTN4mlBSHx4WtG/s320/2017-02-28+19.04.10.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She spent a lot of time at doctor's visits with us.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The remnants of the flu are almost out of my system. Today was the last day of antibiotics for the secondary sinus infection that developed (I couldn't eat because my teeth hurt so bad) and I still have a little bit of a cough left. But I cannot figure out how to get my motivation back.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2I0oqb1k45_Bn_o8I7z7hL4VMMCoEypf0rqpJ3tpkfLZpy90fFOgnyUHc9TUa0tpIaEj0Eap8SLu-Cu8e75JOfQoRdJh_Mrak2ZPXDm6j1zVOv6IxFjPrrsIz20APxpq3cH1/s1600/2017-03-01+21.42.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2I0oqb1k45_Bn_o8I7z7hL4VMMCoEypf0rqpJ3tpkfLZpy90fFOgnyUHc9TUa0tpIaEj0Eap8SLu-Cu8e75JOfQoRdJh_Mrak2ZPXDm6j1zVOv6IxFjPrrsIz20APxpq3cH1/s320/2017-03-01+21.42.33.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laugh all you want. It's the only attachment we had for the nebeulizer. It got the job done.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm a very motivated person and can juggle quite a bit at once, but I lost that somewhere in the last two weeks. I can't prioritize everything on my to do list. I just can't think. Is it just a fog left from the flu? Or is it a fog from being 38 years old? Kyle's theory is that it's a fog from pushing myself too hard for the last few years . . . and this was my breaking point.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C2lvNmQNEFibCczp4W0PZK3C0HZVBY_qr6i9H5QHQSjbOM_PqKKX54kLGlk-49ZJc44I2Ep7LDIvNLKwhvyNMhbhyphenhyphenxQNvPZdk5d3xhQrI6-ugSZLx4GQTT07DpTFNxs5njcg/s1600/2017-02-23+09.43.28-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C2lvNmQNEFibCczp4W0PZK3C0HZVBY_qr6i9H5QHQSjbOM_PqKKX54kLGlk-49ZJc44I2Ep7LDIvNLKwhvyNMhbhyphenhyphenxQNvPZdk5d3xhQrI6-ugSZLx4GQTT07DpTFNxs5njcg/s320/2017-02-23+09.43.28-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching up on homework.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Whatever it is, it needs to move on. I've got things to do.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-794268234728801972016-11-27T19:02:00.001-05:002016-11-27T19:02:53.225-05:00Dear Hattie, Month 24, er . . . 27 . . . or whateverDear Hattie,<br />
<br />
I've prayed with you almost every night of your life. When you were brand new, you'd sometimes already be asleep when I laid you down, but I'd still sing the doxology and pray with you. I wanted to make sure you never knew any different. I want to make sure that talking to Jesus is as natural for you as talking to me or Dad.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCycKCcB-hrL-ydIS_bOLTJdylErmONQMRiwtMc9RR3RPjpOb4cMd02PPnu2cbKozLy_T4OKYLhYhVWFu1btCDdT6TQ6NQ_JzXCj4JAomQNAvnNIvPfifUVyG9_lWotZ6YkJBF/s1600/IMG_0544_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCycKCcB-hrL-ydIS_bOLTJdylErmONQMRiwtMc9RR3RPjpOb4cMd02PPnu2cbKozLy_T4OKYLhYhVWFu1btCDdT6TQ6NQ_JzXCj4JAomQNAvnNIvPfifUVyG9_lWotZ6YkJBF/s320/IMG_0544_web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
You're hitting that age now where you're beginning to try and sing along with the hymns and choruses I've been singing you for the last 2 years. You have no idea what the words mean, but that doesn't really matter. I just want them lodged in your brain (alongside the complete soundtrack of Frozen and various Taylor Swift lyrics) so they'll be there when you are old enough to understand them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpE2fN_nqelKX14dl_z_Nbf0OtJ31bcI3CRtmiJyhvZJMdNXYORjZimUuI80y7Hiw2iwj9MWwBMtg66bViF-KrIEnRTkHHj8wQ3OBjLxzNj927A-0kcq_l-d4_TO3GUMWH4cq/s1600/IMG_0059_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpE2fN_nqelKX14dl_z_Nbf0OtJ31bcI3CRtmiJyhvZJMdNXYORjZimUuI80y7Hiw2iwj9MWwBMtg66bViF-KrIEnRTkHHj8wQ3OBjLxzNj927A-0kcq_l-d4_TO3GUMWH4cq/s320/IMG_0059_web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
At bedtime, we thank God for all of the good things He gives us. We pray that you'll come to know who Jesus is at an early age. We pray that He'll make you kind and compassionate and that He'll make you brave. I always pray that He'll make me equal to the task . . . that I'll be the kind of mother you need in order to become all of these things.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI4NsKx7ade0Gbm9mjEz0OywA2Xtev4tLF9XRD8K_A_MEmFKApbuccWXsWBXt1ZyftwZU8Fa50InXUwaqf6PZD65a35E7KPLsmMHaD9xFXSZ3e7Gw3h468mZC61rkW6XEHg5Q/s1600/IMG_0552_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFI4NsKx7ade0Gbm9mjEz0OywA2Xtev4tLF9XRD8K_A_MEmFKApbuccWXsWBXt1ZyftwZU8Fa50InXUwaqf6PZD65a35E7KPLsmMHaD9xFXSZ3e7Gw3h468mZC61rkW6XEHg5Q/s320/IMG_0552_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, I taught you the prayer that I taught your brothers and sister when they first started talking: "Jesus, Thank you. I love you. Amen."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiKDT6-3PKuo_xsNPfBvBRoz7uTi3LjoP3od3K5Hnfvk5ui9CBNABqRknxRDRej0oY3MxuQ7GumlB5zurwAn0QendvLKO_n4HO0JuBRfPRQWZ2_dt7o6G7FDURK41_3xEwkoE/s1600/IMG_0576_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiKDT6-3PKuo_xsNPfBvBRoz7uTi3LjoP3od3K5Hnfvk5ui9CBNABqRknxRDRej0oY3MxuQ7GumlB5zurwAn0QendvLKO_n4HO0JuBRfPRQWZ2_dt7o6G7FDURK41_3xEwkoE/s320/IMG_0576_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Shortly after that, I went upstairs to check on you guys. Claire was fast asleep, but I was standing outside your door and could hear you in your bed saying over and over, "Sesus, Ank ou. Lol ou."<br />
<br />
Jesus, Thank you. I love you.<br />
Thank you. I love you.<br />
Thank you. I love you.<br />
<br />
I thank Jesus for YOU every day, my sweet girl.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mamasara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-26799543285147073522016-11-11T19:13:00.000-05:002016-11-27T20:50:35.520-05:00I don't know {about the morning after}The morning after the election, Jack came downstairs and found me in the laundry room and just stared at me. He didn't even need to ask. "He won," I said. <br />
<br />
"Really? Even Michigan?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know yet."<br />
<br />
"Did he win both the electoral and popular votes?"<br />
<br />
"It's close. I don't know."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFillmyA9Xx9mgGj49a30lmGHbGurXMK1lLa-odTjTxWMU_772VZTx8AlWbTYIqsJ_JR5DbqgnC2B1B78MKrB6IYeTHXaYS055lyDsbftjoP10oXtk6rQ8CTDyN4M-LFAqXfBS/s1600/IMG_1515_headshot_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFillmyA9Xx9mgGj49a30lmGHbGurXMK1lLa-odTjTxWMU_772VZTx8AlWbTYIqsJ_JR5DbqgnC2B1B78MKrB6IYeTHXaYS055lyDsbftjoP10oXtk6rQ8CTDyN4M-LFAqXfBS/s320/IMG_1515_headshot_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"I don't know." That was my answer a lot over the last few days. This week was filled with fielding tough questions from my kids that I wasn't prepared to handle. Talking through privilege and responsibility with them. Being thankful they aren't old enough to be on Facebook, so that I can preserve the innocence with which they view some of the people we know . . . from both sides. We had countless conversations to try and help them empathize with voters who feel and believe differently than we do. It's just been heavy.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbo0JdgVTB2pcfhBsfvHYz00WpCuZO3wgVF74ZXReqqTyKbvanETmKwYaGwLFD-FQAldhMHBUfyZMy4Zk7c_6hTL6XZIwwY_etdGiZxp1PuLGNid8Nhbwt_2sw5lPp4eRx-UGi/s1600/IMG_9957.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbo0JdgVTB2pcfhBsfvHYz00WpCuZO3wgVF74ZXReqqTyKbvanETmKwYaGwLFD-FQAldhMHBUfyZMy4Zk7c_6hTL6XZIwwY_etdGiZxp1PuLGNid8Nhbwt_2sw5lPp4eRx-UGi/s320/IMG_9957.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We watched his acceptance speech, which was uncharacteristically humble. That afternoon, we watched her concession speech and she nailed it.<br />
<br />
The me from 2012 would be telling 2016 me to get a grip. The candidate I voted for in 2012 didn't win either. It's JUST an election and we'll have another one in 4 years. <b>But 2016 me is trying to shape older, more perceptive hearts than the 2012 me was. And this loss just felt different.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wU2JolX1_hd2Rgy04jp4sLHIUWPI4ZZTr1xIQhEAtDPqX_f1Dqd952LfHwgJYuTgo5jeXlwc8qhqoE18d5F7RTk7VcsXh2Kl2ixhayUZex6l9WMMDxj8HSvF6QyEuUrNCBUN/s1600/IMG_9930.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wU2JolX1_hd2Rgy04jp4sLHIUWPI4ZZTr1xIQhEAtDPqX_f1Dqd952LfHwgJYuTgo5jeXlwc8qhqoE18d5F7RTk7VcsXh2Kl2ixhayUZex6l9WMMDxj8HSvF6QyEuUrNCBUN/s320/IMG_9930.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Thank you, God, for the opportunity to advocate for those who need a voice and the chance to help my kids develop empathy and compassion.</div>
sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-40908803895711077362016-11-08T10:50:00.001-05:002016-11-08T12:56:55.426-05:00On the Importance of VotingWe just got back from our polling place, and I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly it went. It took less than 10 minutes to vote - start to finish. I might actually have a productive morning! (Edited to add: I did NOT have a productive morning.)<br />
<span id="goog_1461014162"></span><span id="goog_1461014163"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVQN24-H4Nz3jIYRlol_t4mUZNPb4PblmeN4OBGXbuk216i9Q5IAviGkWx8ALce1iPQifKda9fAmYIXU8fuDNq-AKA7RX7oEi_OTS_Ckm79_FE1hMHq_2nGmPk6gdxcQj4hy-/s1600/2016-11-08+10.34.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVQN24-H4Nz3jIYRlol_t4mUZNPb4PblmeN4OBGXbuk216i9Q5IAviGkWx8ALce1iPQifKda9fAmYIXU8fuDNq-AKA7RX7oEi_OTS_Ckm79_FE1hMHq_2nGmPk6gdxcQj4hy-/s320/2016-11-08+10.34.52.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_220241797"></span><span id="goog_220241798"></span><br />
<b>Choosing a candidate this year wasn't hard for me.</b> I know a lot of people who have been burdened by this decision, and even this morning were still trying to determine how they would cast their vote. <i>I wasn't one of those people. </i><br />
<br />
I've known how I would vote since the candidates for both major parties were officially nominated. There's been a general sentiment in my social circles of "choosing between the lesser of two evils" but that was never the case for me. I knew who I thought was best suited for the job and ran the best campaign (or as I like to refer to it: job interview) and <b>I was a tiny bit excited to fill out my ballot.</b> This candidate and I definitely don't see eye to eye on every issue, but I didn't lose a minute of sleep over my decision.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
On the way home, despite my enthusiasm about voting (and greater enthusiasm over the end of the rhetoric surrounding this election cycle), <b>I was filled with this sense that the act of voting really didn't make a difference.</b> I said to Kyle, "If we hadn't just done that, the outcome of today's election wouldn't be any different than it will be." And you guys . . . I am right. The election won't come down to a single vote. And he responded exactly as you would expect: "But what if millions of people felt that way?"<br />
<br />
Of course I know that, but I've been thinking a lot more about it since then. Why is it important to vote?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://lessordinarydesigns.blogspot.com/2016/10/vote-for-who-free-printable-for.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcZ3V02N6yxBteAaDAUi5RXIzCoMD-2dmcNDXOFsXiqzdW_cdS9LhBsB_-Nw_RcVQxop7CF5VsHoB-NMvVj5XPF9nPaKBW6RKreqtxK5SxlSMtfIW1rwW4fou934DeC4Dyq9Q/s320/IMG_0035_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Here's what I've decided: It's important for me to vote because we're all in this together, and if I'm not voting, I'm not holding up my end of the bargain. When I filled in the bubble on the ballot (with a wiggly two-year-old in my arms), I'm telling my fellow Americans that if you show up to have your say then I will, too. <b>Our individual votes are worthless. Our combined votes will steer a nation.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnb4eu_OHR5nwKDuGxo-X7lz9xtE7bO1o9OvtzaZlEvUBB8kmg-kermnN61BxXw1XGAdkJ3ODmEQQgbobWWnObYkni-b8a7brTtbS7naAFgXcKQY3EcqT0jCJ71OqlH3MFBUX/s1600/2016-11-08+10.34.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnb4eu_OHR5nwKDuGxo-X7lz9xtE7bO1o9OvtzaZlEvUBB8kmg-kermnN61BxXw1XGAdkJ3ODmEQQgbobWWnObYkni-b8a7brTtbS7naAFgXcKQY3EcqT0jCJ71OqlH3MFBUX/s320/2016-11-08+10.34.49.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
My vote this morning was because I feel that one particular person is best suited for the presidency, but it was also for you. I voted because you're going to vote too, and I don't want it to go to waste. <b>I think voting is the ultimate act of solidarity, even if we're voting for different candidates.</b> If we don't all do it, we're dropping the ball. We're letting each other down. <i>It's somewhat paradoxical, but the truth is that our individual voices can't be heard unless we're all speaking out.</i><br />
<br />
There are dozens of other reasons to vote, and I'm certainly not saying that this is the only reason. But for me, not letting you all down is the most important.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-39067198638905012512016-09-05T19:51:00.000-05:002016-09-05T19:51:01.747-05:00Algae Flour Does Not Equal Eggs<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here's a little life lesson for you: No eggs is always better than eggs made from algae flour.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My adventures in EoE cooking have been both time consuming and frustrating. I've been fortunate to have a friend who is well read and great at cooking food that is both delicious and allergen-free. She stocked my freezer full of meals that really made my summer 10 times easier. (Turkey and sweet potato chili? Yes, please.) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxYOcWsTW519I_lIX2kt_csDzGJcsUFRlYrFq34VwDyLQPCNt1ZStsvd96hsywVoQoSNiunNb6KPfWNjbPZiiIe21WyncuzX5bhpFg7YAUAaw5_yEzd3S6X74FCm_KePcmTKj/s1600/2016-07-04+20.36.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxYOcWsTW519I_lIX2kt_csDzGJcsUFRlYrFq34VwDyLQPCNt1ZStsvd96hsywVoQoSNiunNb6KPfWNjbPZiiIe21WyncuzX5bhpFg7YAUAaw5_yEzd3S6X74FCm_KePcmTKj/s320/2016-07-04+20.36.55.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marshmallows were safe to eat and easily available at camp . . . if only there were an ounce of nutrition, I would have been set.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were at camp for most meals this summer, and if I forgot to pack my lunch and dinner, I was out of luck. It probably doesn't come as a shock to many people that camp food is rarely free of eggs, soy, nuts and wheat. Our food service director did her best to come up with options, and I"m so grateful to her for that. It was tough.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxGLi_sJG_FYZYl0Yi9ly2YWWruTpsVBzYYM6WUW_et_LjvuuqPxiiS2Ob90WpOSzWuS09emrhSi7YvR5cDd-nq1lYzHjpPU0kkzd6JT2GKgRrxlGLXyp6nj2ZUHIu7fkldnM/s1600/2016-08-09+20.04.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxGLi_sJG_FYZYl0Yi9ly2YWWruTpsVBzYYM6WUW_et_LjvuuqPxiiS2Ob90WpOSzWuS09emrhSi7YvR5cDd-nq1lYzHjpPU0kkzd6JT2GKgRrxlGLXyp6nj2ZUHIu7fkldnM/s320/2016-08-09+20.04.09.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She also made me a birthday cake, and it did NOT disappoint.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So on the days that I was walking out the door and had zero time to pack anything, I could throw two of these frozen meals in a bag and heat them up. It was perfect. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQ16kcLHI5_LVHWjy4473mDf4u3hRPGG_RvcuIdISN_vmhzYJzL6VX4KF99IJP6aXO33NpUbDhqA7dfAaxfLzKih0XwoZlwCVFs6Pq-b1PbR26VRAkpI1uolaK6SCVrryZjQe/s1600/2016-07-18+15.09.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQ16kcLHI5_LVHWjy4473mDf4u3hRPGG_RvcuIdISN_vmhzYJzL6VX4KF99IJP6aXO33NpUbDhqA7dfAaxfLzKih0XwoZlwCVFs6Pq-b1PbR26VRAkpI1uolaK6SCVrryZjQe/s320/2016-07-18+15.09.39.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dessert. Kind of.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">One thing that I desperately missed was eggs. I ate eggs almost every day for breakfast. This was how I got my veggies . . . I could usually get two full servings scrambled with eggs, first thing in the morning. On top of that, nearly all gluten/dairy free food substitutes include eggs. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So the day that I found an egg substitute at the supermarket was this shining beacon of hope. It boasted the ability to replace scrambled eggs. It wasn't just an egg replacer to use in recipes; it actually replaced eggs. So without even reading the ingredients, I added it to my cart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, I hopped out of bed with plenty of time to cook before we had to leave, because: OMELET! I was pumped. As I was preparing the "eggs" according to the package's directions, I noticed this weird odor. I thought it was coming from our dishwasher, that sometimes starts to smell like rotten food when it hasn't been cleaned in a while. It took me less than a minute to figure out that it was the faux eggs. The more I mixed, the worse it got.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I dug the package out of the garbage to see what they were made of . . . algae flour. ALGAE FLOUR! Yep, that sounds about right, because they definitely smelled like seaweed. Once it was cooked, the flavor wasn't bad . . . but the texture was slimy and the smell wasn't great.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxlrRV6QDelsa0aIN3fn2kaCNMd6O9TGoWB_LhGtY_681OQRrbc6Gh6MrV2Pry8Tg3Dub1uWwKHNG45h5GYAuOKbTrOQMb9TtnxfFelzncUQ2wBaDkBjgFQHahv-rxLUg0YPf/s1600/2016-07-24+07.36.22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxlrRV6QDelsa0aIN3fn2kaCNMd6O9TGoWB_LhGtY_681OQRrbc6Gh6MrV2Pry8Tg3Dub1uWwKHNG45h5GYAuOKbTrOQMb9TtnxfFelzncUQ2wBaDkBjgFQHahv-rxLUg0YPf/s320/2016-07-24+07.36.22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was another time I tried to make an omelet out of chickpea flour. It did not end well.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnF44zUZsnz_yFfXvq392ta85cc0y_StC4EkAojmCdlc6c56GS8Uq4PxZHn8cu5rQ1rjhruxmcTmsPXs5205dy_AbUawqaBCUEpLE_52I9T57b4Ej85Ky1rN1lvktcbkpBOQu/s1600/2016-07-24+08.17.42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnF44zUZsnz_yFfXvq392ta85cc0y_StC4EkAojmCdlc6c56GS8Uq4PxZHn8cu5rQ1rjhruxmcTmsPXs5205dy_AbUawqaBCUEpLE_52I9T57b4Ej85Ky1rN1lvktcbkpBOQu/s320/2016-07-24+08.17.42.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Epilogue: I did have another </span><a href="http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/upper-endoscopy" style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">EGD</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> last week and after 10 weeks of eliminating wheat, dairy, soy and eggs, my esophagus was free of eosiniphils. There were still signs of </span><a href="http://www.aaaai.org/conditions-and-treatments/related-conditions/eosinophilic-esophagitis" style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">EoE </a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">scarring, but that was normal. It was the happiest day of my whole summer, for sure.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started to add eggs back in this week, and if it goes well, soy comes next. No matter what happens, I'm happy to be this much closer to figuring out the cause of my EoE.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF7UDI8qT4tRsr7mnkKaCWldiPoruj8bAU-C3w_9x7DbopBILGAzycj39EMjJEDvC-Pi3zARabKe_JKDlI-8MXE3VD9KTKnIPz0pfh3tKdVjU7nxLyq9okN-fQEZX9iwzBh1w/s1600/2016-07-22+14.29.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF7UDI8qT4tRsr7mnkKaCWldiPoruj8bAU-C3w_9x7DbopBILGAzycj39EMjJEDvC-Pi3zARabKe_JKDlI-8MXE3VD9KTKnIPz0pfh3tKdVjU7nxLyq9okN-fQEZX9iwzBh1w/s320/2016-07-22+14.29.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">It wasn't all bad. I ate A LOT of tostadas this summer.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-11115232444407974462016-06-10T21:06:00.001-05:002016-09-05T19:51:16.943-05:00Eleven syllablesI mentioned in February that I'd had an endoscopy for swallowing issues. It was a blast. Who doesn't love having a camera shoved down their throat, am I right?<br />
<br />
My doctor's theory was that I had a narrowing of the esophagus, but she was a little off. The GI doctor biopsied 6 areas, and the results that came back were cryptic and didn't give me much info. I was referred to a GI specialist, and honestly? I didn't think it was going to be a big deal.<br />
<br />
5 of the 6 biopsies came back abnormal and I received a diagnosis of eosinophilic esophagitis (EoE). It's kind of a hard disease to explain, so you can google that if you want more info. I dedicated the four weeks following my appointment to learning how to pronounce it. It has eleven syllables, you guys.<br />
<br />
The bottom line is that I'll need 6 - 7 more endoscopies with biopsy, the first of which was today. Unfortunately, instead of seeing improvement, the symptoms have worsened. Oh, and I have several ulcers that may or may not be related to the EoE.<br />
<br />
My recovery from the first endoscopy wasn't all that bad. Today, however, I feel like I've just swallowed a lego brick and can't quite get it down. Will it get worse with each one? I hope not.<br />
<br />
Next week I meet with a dietitian about an elimination diet (dairy, wheat, soy, eggs, fish and nuts), and that becomes day zero. From that day on, I'll have an endoscopy every 6 - 8 weeks, followed by adding one of the allergens back in. It's going to be a long process.<br />
<br />
My doctor is an expert in the field, and has assured me that it's so good I didn't ignore the symptoms, because we've caught it earlier than most. So why do I find myself wishing I'd just put it off?sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-59119405044908278962016-04-16T22:21:00.003-05:002016-04-17T22:23:53.496-05:00Dear Claire, Month WhateverDear Claire,<br />
<br />
We have turned a corner, my dear.<br />
<br />
I guess I need to back up. I haven't written you a letter in over a year (something that you're sure to hold over my head when you're looking for proof that I love your brothers more) so much of the turmoil surrounding your three-ness has gone unblogged.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtlAzJW4vUtHttN6ujbShRyHxnpsj8geHjQuFCyA61rDW70oTTu_iNiTiYtAIzbKuPG_Rztn5_JKGKNQ3PZ9XxOA-qxFVdTp7KtWj6Ucf9Zf9LmY2ctFVyMlti3R-w_VLdaPz5/s1600/christmas+%25288%2529_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtlAzJW4vUtHttN6ujbShRyHxnpsj8geHjQuFCyA61rDW70oTTu_iNiTiYtAIzbKuPG_Rztn5_JKGKNQ3PZ9XxOA-qxFVdTp7KtWj6Ucf9Zf9LmY2ctFVyMlti3R-w_VLdaPz5/s320/christmas+%25288%2529_web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Your threes were a trying time in our lives. You're strong willed and independent (which is exactly what I prayed that you'd be, so that's on me). You are smart and opinionated. You can get unsuspecting adults and children to do whatever it is that you'd like them to do, using only your words. We're working on harnessing all of these powers for good.<br />
<br />
You and I? We've been connecting more. It's not that the preschool years will be smooth sailing; it's just that I've been getting glimpses of the friendship we'll have someday when you're grown. I love laughing with you. In fact, when you think something is funny, you can't stop laughing. You and I have that in common. I really hope you and I will have a similar sense of humor.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNmbNPpwqn7Bmx3QN8Jd5YHN1IbaYPKvl5XG6aUVcpkfbDTHDagR3e5_BffOBXszw8Y2fzh5nsqzPzzqqXbKlSy1GigD2G3z_NOH3D66KO2hhfbxn1yomADG-b7aVPc8q_9zT/s1600/IMG_0007_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNmbNPpwqn7Bmx3QN8Jd5YHN1IbaYPKvl5XG6aUVcpkfbDTHDagR3e5_BffOBXszw8Y2fzh5nsqzPzzqqXbKlSy1GigD2G3z_NOH3D66KO2hhfbxn1yomADG-b7aVPc8q_9zT/s320/IMG_0007_web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Your Dad commented yesterday that he feels like you're constantly doing research; we'll often catch you standing quietly and staring blankly, and we can tell you're taking everything in, processing it, and filing it away for later. You like to pull out the random bits of information that you've gathered at some inopportune times, but that's another story for another time.<br />
<br />
We see you acting out the things you observed in some of the most creative role playing I've ever witnessed. You have full conversations with imaginary characters, and can later recall things that you did with these figments in astonishing detail. You'll ask suddenly ask questions about something you noticed a week ago as if it had just happened a few minutes ago. You are one of a kind.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtOUT3mBiJ22CF410sLHAct6vZxnTy-64_C5jYyX432wXsoJW09S1a72eWt7Jf9kbkSHefKbofXMxyqGkeQ6lTRY4ih5zV1qZVtPKo4cbtL7Eq_63WJbxHjqrMkrKLyKP6tYf/s1600/IMG_0033_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtOUT3mBiJ22CF410sLHAct6vZxnTy-64_C5jYyX432wXsoJW09S1a72eWt7Jf9kbkSHefKbofXMxyqGkeQ6lTRY4ih5zV1qZVtPKo4cbtL7Eq_63WJbxHjqrMkrKLyKP6tYf/s320/IMG_0033_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Something I've noticed just recently is that when we're walking, it's like your hand is a magnet drawn to mine. If my hand is by my side, yours just floats to it as if it were out of your control. Whether we're walking down the stairs, in the grocery store, or at the park, your hand finds its way up to mine. I love that.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllmHjeW5qOeU2xQPs3i4G0yIg8JaLMsKosDy6Y1hPCVS_YxB-31OB7ULM-4qACNruyP_RoAvbpYG1Az98nE5lgyYc2xfmjPDlg9Ks9UmzW0tEfBJ6Gysn5p_GRZxL8PII2Eiz/s1600/spin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllmHjeW5qOeU2xQPs3i4G0yIg8JaLMsKosDy6Y1hPCVS_YxB-31OB7ULM-4qACNruyP_RoAvbpYG1Az98nE5lgyYc2xfmjPDlg9Ks9UmzW0tEfBJ6Gysn5p_GRZxL8PII2Eiz/s320/spin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We have bad days, too. You are very dramatic and feel things in big ways and I am very busy and often stretched too thin. Sometimes we clash, but after apologies are made, we're better for it.<br />
<br />
I'm better because of you.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Mama<br />
<br />
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-91153283630003848322016-02-29T20:56:00.002-05:002016-02-29T21:02:04.278-05:00What's an Endoscopy Like?I realize that the title of this post is a little "textbook" but it's the exact phrase that I googled last Thursday night, and I didn't find many helpful answers. So, if you've come here by way of that search term . . . you're welcome.<br />
<br />
I've been having difficulty swallowing for . . . oh, about a year now. It's become progressively worse, so last fall, my doctor scheduled an upper GI endoscopy. She assumed it was a narrowing of the esophagus, and that it just need dilation. She talked as if it was no big deal, but from that moment forward, I was dreading endoscopy day.<br />
<br />
It was originally scheduled for October, but everyone in my family was throwing up the day before my appointment, so I rescheduled for February. I was supposed to go in last Thursday, but we got all the snow, so they bumped me to Friday.<br />
<br />
Let me just preface the rest of this by saying that it was a really easy, painless procedure. I had these visions of gagging on a camera being shoved down my throat while two nurses and my husband struggled to hold me still. I probably imagined it that way because it's what happens every time I take one of my kids to get a shot. Really, though? It was so simple.<br />
<br />
After I checked in, they took me back and I had to disrobe and gown up. They put sticky heart monitors on me and started an IV (Kudos to that nurse. I didn't even realize he'd started it when I saw him taping it down. The last IV I'd had was when I was in labor with Hattie and it took them multiple attempts before they eventually contacted someone from the vascular department.). After checking my vitals and going over the typical risks and permission forms, they told me they'd be back to get me soon.<br />
<br />
About 10 minutes later, they wheeled me back into a room with lots of screens and machines. The tech and the nurse showed me the equipment (which I was already very familiar with, thanks to my googling the night before) and then began to prep me as we waited for the doctor. They took my vitals again, put an oxygen cannula in my hose and sprayed a NASTY tasting spray at the back of my throat to numb my gag reflex.<br />
<br />
They had me roll onto my left side and propped me up that way. They started a drug into my IV, and the rest was kind of a blur. I have a faint memory of kind of gagging and I remember the doctor saying "biopsy" and that's it. The next thing I knew, they were moving me to my back and the doctor said, "That's it!" As they were wheeling me to recovery, I remember thinking, "Wow, I thought I'd go to sleep, but I was awake for the whole thing." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't remember much at all. When I tried to remember what happened, it felt like trying to recall a dream.<br />
<br />
When they brought Kyle back to see me, all I could fixate on was that I'd heard the doctor say "biopsy." I wasn't 100% sure if that memory could be trusted. They eventually brought in a report and went over it with both of us. They found no narrowing of my esophagus, but took 6 biopsies of suspicious looking areas in my esophagus and stomach. It could be a week or two before we get results, but the phrase "eosinophilic esophagitis" was thrown out there . . . which is a very specific name for something rather broad and nonspecific.<br />
<br />
So, I'm waiting. March is so busy, that I don't have a lot of time to stress about it. I have two fears: 1) That they'll come back and tell me that I have something horrible and life altering or 2) THey'll say, "We don't really know what's wrong. You'll just have to deal forever with having difficulty swallowing."<br />
<br />
But that's not really the point. The point of this post is this: upper GI endoscipies? Not that bad.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-9109046189116548672016-02-28T22:13:00.001-05:002016-02-29T21:02:27.074-05:00Maybe it's just winterIt is well documented that January is my least favorite month of the year. February, however, is giving it a run for its money this year.<br />
<br />
We had two weeks of stomach flu. Fun!<br />
<br />
Kyle had surgery to break up 1" worth of kidney stones, which resulted in 5 days of excruciating pain trying to pass them, and one day trip to the Emergency Room. This whole ordeal deserves an entire post of its own.<br />
<br />
To cap it all off, I had an endoscopy on Friday, which revealed 6 areas of "suspicious tissue" that had to be biopsied. Double fun!<br />
<br />
This month (truthfully, the last year or so) has been lonely and difficult.<br />
<br />
Despite all of that (or maybe because of it), I've felt this stirring in my soul. I was driving home from camp on February 1, and felt it for the first time. There's something moving in me. Changing. Growing, perhaps? I read a quote from Christine Caine last week that said:<br />
<blockquote>
"Sometimes when you're in a dark place you think you've been buried, but actually you've been planted."</blockquote>
<br />
This quote gave me hope and new perspective. Maybe I haven't been forgotten and alone for the last year; maybe it's just winter.<br />
<br />
Spring is coming.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-62964943223046086082015-12-14T19:49:00.000-05:002016-03-01T19:50:31.809-05:00Thirteen<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">I've been working with college students long enough to know that the practice of "making a list of qualities you want I'm a potential spouse" is alive and well. But today, on our 13th wedding anniversary, I'm here to tell you that I have the answer for all of you list makers: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><b>Find someone who knows how to serve others really, really well. </b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Find someone who is the best at putting others ahead of himself or herself. Maybe in another 13 years I'll be shaking my head at my naïveté, but in the last 13 years of being married and watching other marriages, everything else seems to fall into place when you're both about the business of putting the other's needs before your own. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">I didn't realize that this was THE thing when I married </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=547964174" href="https://www.facebook.com/kylewluke" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; text-decoration: none;">Kyle</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"> . . . I just got lucky. I've learned this from him. I feel incredibly fortunate to have him as a partner as we lead our family. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">We are writing the BEST story together.</span>sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-87054098348289271032015-10-28T15:51:00.002-05:002015-10-28T15:53:55.579-05:00Where did I leave off?This is the question that pops into my mind every time I stare at the blank screen, trying to figure out which part of my life to record right now. Where did I leave off? The boys are both in stages now where parenting becomes more private and less bloggy. Claire is the feistiest three-year-old I've ever met, and while I have lots of funny stories to tell about her, sometimes I feel like words just can't do her justice. And Hattie (HBE - Happiest Baby Ever) is one now, meaning happy and sweet is being gently nudged out by toddlerhood. Sigh.<br />
<br />
My blog has been neglected for many reasons. First and foremost: Four kids is a lot of kids. I know, I know . . . one child alone is hard, and anything past one child is just exponentially harder. Nothing was as hard for me as going from one child to two. But right now, with all of the sports and back to school stuff, I just feel like I need more hours in the day, just to hand out enough attention.<br /><br />Wait, what's that about back to school? We've been back to school for 2 months? All of the days just run together.<br />
<br />
The really hard thing, though? I think it's having a one-year-old and a three-year-old at the same time. No matter how many kids you have, that's a rough combination. Not as rough as last year when I had an infant and a 2-year-old. Ugh. That was brutal. Come to think of it, I've never thrown a 2nd birthday party for one of my children and not been pregnant with the next. I'm sad to be leaving the baby stage, but I'm definitely looking forward to not starting everything over again in a year.<br />
<br />
It's a lot of mouths to feed, too. Now that the boys are eating us out of house and home, and Hattie is eating table food, All of our recipes are being doubled . . . or worse? Just increased by one and a half. That's a lot of mathing, you guys. Sometimes I just stare at recipes, wondering if we should just order pizza to keep my head from exploding.<br />
<br />
So, life over here is good. Crazy, but good. I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's, that's for sure. I mean . . . just look at them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRpdWVy5tftEqifz89JTsHgb9cw0fkAR08j6Mx1VqHYBj9YnrheQKrwbdPhQWQWpBSf03zXDz0iM8g59KXZyNCxGK7uG6GwHgGVH2lU07Dq136NdOdi2m1vKyIma33Ki2coD-/s1600/IMG_0133_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRpdWVy5tftEqifz89JTsHgb9cw0fkAR08j6Mx1VqHYBj9YnrheQKrwbdPhQWQWpBSf03zXDz0iM8g59KXZyNCxGK7uG6GwHgGVH2lU07Dq136NdOdi2m1vKyIma33Ki2coD-/s320/IMG_0133_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-3926184033781570882015-08-01T22:03:00.005-05:002015-08-01T22:03:54.651-05:00Hattie at 11 months . . . At 11 months old, Hattie . . .<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpks1NX0yjtZmmXZuDhq-VbT7Yl_5goowsKo4J_eVY3-tU7YA554ZvMtQUa0NxwfvvSEV3yGtL2jmW6if7ya1dxFd03gokpkL2y7hiMRbVQwQeUsQ-ykOxAi0SD5xy4ZZWDJYt/s1600/IMG_0950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpks1NX0yjtZmmXZuDhq-VbT7Yl_5goowsKo4J_eVY3-tU7YA554ZvMtQUa0NxwfvvSEV3yGtL2jmW6if7ya1dxFd03gokpkL2y7hiMRbVQwQeUsQ-ykOxAi0SD5xy4ZZWDJYt/s320/IMG_0950.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
. . . still has the sweetest disposition ever. She's so happy. She never fails to light up a room. She wakes up happy, goes to sleep happy and unless she's hungry or teething, is happy during all the in between times. <br />
<br />
. . . is crawling, standing and climbing. The stairs in our house are becoming an issue. <br />
<br />
. . . spent most of her summer in the stroller or being held.<br />
<br />
. . . chuckles at us very easily.<br />
<br />
. . . will "tickle" people and say, "icka icka" (or something like that).<br />
<br />
. . . says "mama" and "dada" regularly. She's also said "Ja" and "Ben" occasionally but only once do I think she's tried to say "Claire."<br />
<br />
. . . stopped breastfeeding two weeks ago. She's taking it better than her mother.<br />
<br />
. . . loves Cheerios, strawberries, bananas, cucumbers, little bits of pizza* and anything off of anyone else's plate. She can sense when we've prepared food separately for her, and doesn't like it.<br />
<br />
. . . loves to give kisses.<br />
<br />
. . . is still our smallest baby. She still fits into some of her 9 - 12 month clothing!<br />
<br />
. . . prefers her Mama to anyone else.<br />
<br />
. . . claps anytime someone says "yay!" or "all done!" She also throws her hands up when anyone says, "So big!"<br />
<br />
. . . signs for "more" and sometimes "please" and "cup."<br />
<br />
. . . will stick her finger up way her nose whenever we ask her where it is. It's ended badly a few times so we don't ask that very much.<br />
<br />
. . . loves to eat her toes.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*This falls into the ever expanding category of "things that happen with the 4th child, that never would have happened with the 1st."</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-62099243767281325312015-05-26T21:15:00.002-05:002015-05-26T21:22:23.624-05:00Dear Hattie, Month 9Dear Hattie, <br />
<br />
Your first two teeth came in about a day apart between 6 and 7 months old. Your first top tooth is pushing through now, just as you're turning 9 months old.<br />
<br />
I want to make sure I get this all down because someday you're going to have a child of your own and when that child starts to teethe, you'll ask, "Mom? When did I get my first tooth?" And I'll fake a heart attack to draw attention away from the fact that my record keeping for you, my dear, has been stereotypically lacking.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEelb6HIdkl5ZT-a6G-69YUMc0RW7l9GkP3kt2m6TS6LnGE8pbkYfPteMRjolHQ7rbDQDmvuq4hXYUy7oS9hgRBlIe3wl-b_cfUCOU5q1N9QTwjNQs39rO7bJeXuzpkR0nvaOX/s1600/IMG_0061_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEelb6HIdkl5ZT-a6G-69YUMc0RW7l9GkP3kt2m6TS6LnGE8pbkYfPteMRjolHQ7rbDQDmvuq4hXYUy7oS9hgRBlIe3wl-b_cfUCOU5q1N9QTwjNQs39rO7bJeXuzpkR0nvaOX/s320/IMG_0061_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I can't imagine what you'll think if you happen to marry a firstborn or only child who can produce these facts in a meticulously kept baby book (I'm sorry if you're reading this and asking the person next to you what a "baby book" is). You will be able to search this blog and see that, even though I haven't written you as many letters, or tracked your every movement, I did manage to record when you got your first teeth. While I'm at it . . .you sat up on your own at 6 months old and you started solid foods between 6 and 7 months. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlp8ZA8a3z1wqfhXVmiYHDdekoQHXRFgDdYx53d0BDTIVKkpB31eCf2NbpQWjs8Mo7d1u_fM-PGb7EEb8ynJpMVmKkdDPo0hd_2_ACFzT4Xo7Y2EEDbdpJvqL7WWCsmXduqXpu/s1600/IMG_0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlp8ZA8a3z1wqfhXVmiYHDdekoQHXRFgDdYx53d0BDTIVKkpB31eCf2NbpQWjs8Mo7d1u_fM-PGb7EEb8ynJpMVmKkdDPo0hd_2_ACFzT4Xo7Y2EEDbdpJvqL7WWCsmXduqXpu/s320/IMG_0036.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Oh, and you started crawling between 8 and 9 months. Just barely. You sit and whine a little bit before you'll actually push yourself up and scoot. You have three siblings who cater to your every whim, so you've learned that whining is sometimes faster.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6rcRquL_cJEutIaUIH_4klZnw9C04GMv4Hh4B-oxK69ALeLb57TEZTFDgMocogatHF39kMqUjnfcUKDKR9nv17ZKG5iH31ZUWJcEHPLkfkD-jhnFzLpC7o3i95xypDrQQtBp/s1600/IMG_0069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6rcRquL_cJEutIaUIH_4klZnw9C04GMv4Hh4B-oxK69ALeLb57TEZTFDgMocogatHF39kMqUjnfcUKDKR9nv17ZKG5iH31ZUWJcEHPLkfkD-jhnFzLpC7o3i95xypDrQQtBp/s320/IMG_0069.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Last night we were in your room and I was putting away clean clothes. You pushed yourself up and crawled a few inches, then dropped to your belly, shot me a desperate look and whimpered. I took a step toward you, but then sat down and encouraged you to come to me.<br />
<br />
Oh, boy. This made you M-A-D. Your cries almost brought me to my feet, but I just continued to encourage you and put my hands out until you made your way across the room and finally grabbed my hand.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkwAiceAdRXCGEZoXvXYMf_WUAtqkwYdzKA-QN2Cw8CV0vybyiVKGObVRHFZGBW46TaHBvKjET6gWLW4KmkbXNhcrPA7qd3mHja2Hw3SXDq9o41UB9yE2bdOC3StnRFW5EpYW/s1600/IMG_0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkwAiceAdRXCGEZoXvXYMf_WUAtqkwYdzKA-QN2Cw8CV0vybyiVKGObVRHFZGBW46TaHBvKjET6gWLW4KmkbXNhcrPA7qd3mHja2Hw3SXDq9o41UB9yE2bdOC3StnRFW5EpYW/s320/IMG_0036.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And when our hands touched? There was great rejoicing. You still had tears in your eyes, but you were laughing, too. By that time, your Dad and siblings had joined me in cheering you on. We all said, "Yay, Hattie!" at least a dozen times. You looked so proud of yourself.<br />
<br />
It would have been so much easier and faster if I'd just picked you up, but oh man . . . we would have missed out on a great celebration when it was over, and the rest of the family wouldn't have had any reason to be a part of it. Think about what we all would have missed!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcy37gMAgIJNMpH8PfwL2NxoSiVlBfNOdAi4rZXzaMtaXi40FNKbJID4_IYR7ixpWLaaeKK55bzrQ3XDA28dMgjaRyu1s93zFyBhBENaFhr3zbjDfqMFN54GBo5NpxlZm92Cdk/s1600/2015-04-25+09.09.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFHJyoBzrTgJaWlowBCOyNtcjjjpza-XYt69Mhq8SrjIX0zA9INwTyWelpr_C02OZRcIqyJZBCpb3uThyphenhyphenlWeYOQJJvdehTHAmcGfRLb8nl1HRMkjhNh_UZf_WRClA4F7csEh6/s1600/IMG_0105-Recovered_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFHJyoBzrTgJaWlowBCOyNtcjjjpza-XYt69Mhq8SrjIX0zA9INwTyWelpr_C02OZRcIqyJZBCpb3uThyphenhyphenlWeYOQJJvdehTHAmcGfRLb8nl1HRMkjhNh_UZf_WRClA4F7csEh6/s320/IMG_0105-Recovered_web.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Your Dad and I have been talking a lot lately about what kind of story we're writing as a family. Good stories don't come from everything being easy. No offense to anyone who might get everything she wants on the first try, but it makes for a boring story. When your story involves frustration and struggle, the pain of heartbreak, the sting of rejection or loneliness . . . that's the stuff of good stories. Those are the stories that draw others in, when they would otherwise have no reason to be a part of it.<br />
<br />
When those things someday all come together to tell who you are and where you've come from . . . those are the stories that people want to read. Those are the stories that can preach. And sometimes they're the stories that end with a mix of teary eyes and laughter. <br />
<br />
Sure, it's easier to just have everything handed to you . . . but just think about what you might miss!<br />
<br />
I love you, Hattie. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mamasara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-89679113410999845242015-05-21T21:46:00.004-05:002016-05-15T15:29:11.318-05:00I'm obsessed . . . . . . with baby birds. Our new house is home to so many. I can't really put my finger on why I have this obsession. Let's face it . . . baby birds are kind of ugly. I mean, in a cute way, I guess. But Kyle and I have made all kinds of unsavory comparisons to their appearance. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGngoTibZe23S5Tc7gMjJ52mYu38_dxwmJv-gxB8OLOAgg0HsQ1MpAkUGbWXrDQi5jKffyuPp6zC0kXB4QmOMg9UR_t8DXE-7keIs5m_x7TMf6MRpNPG6IELCVa-ltr6mEr52r/s1600/2015-05-10+16.49.33-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGngoTibZe23S5Tc7gMjJ52mYu38_dxwmJv-gxB8OLOAgg0HsQ1MpAkUGbWXrDQi5jKffyuPp6zC0kXB4QmOMg9UR_t8DXE-7keIs5m_x7TMf6MRpNPG6IELCVa-ltr6mEr52r/s320/2015-05-10+16.49.33-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robin's nest, May 10</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHw7ZDRuB7qQ51PR7jh-UtvPIG5SrMynfP_STTn_Gt0eO_x8eBfW6ysvEnoHIB7Xo5HeuPdSv0h0q5BGz3dtvUekPLyM34vOq850AuLHuNMAbbgjOBZ65SXqhmC7F9KBWs5Pey/s1600/IMG_0003_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHw7ZDRuB7qQ51PR7jh-UtvPIG5SrMynfP_STTn_Gt0eO_x8eBfW6ysvEnoHIB7Xo5HeuPdSv0h0q5BGz3dtvUekPLyM34vOq850AuLHuNMAbbgjOBZ65SXqhmC7F9KBWs5Pey/s320/IMG_0003_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardinal's nest, May 9</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's brand new life. The fact that there are these
vulnerable creatures sitting so precariously off of our front porch and
under our back deck . . . it's just overwhelming. Anything could just
come along and take them out. A predator, a storm, a stray
baseball . . . anything. But Mama bird just keeps doing the next right
thing for her babies. She doesn't seem to be worried about what might
happen tomorrow. She's just doing what she needs to do today. Sure,
something bad could happen (and boy does she squawk whenever she sees me
nearing her nest), but it doesn't keep her from moving right along. She doesn't panic.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiEm0MQ2XB5IazzAChL6tkAsaWqYaltOo37fG8olG8EYlXkSqsPDg3JXCMFZgKExqexTvuqe8fNWtJbAOf-Y_c7eTEyY20SuAeXfzxv3uw_O0jEyft_aRVPdeuK9s8POjYfGk/s1600/2015-05-16+09.39.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiEm0MQ2XB5IazzAChL6tkAsaWqYaltOo37fG8olG8EYlXkSqsPDg3JXCMFZgKExqexTvuqe8fNWtJbAOf-Y_c7eTEyY20SuAeXfzxv3uw_O0jEyft_aRVPdeuK9s8POjYfGk/s320/2015-05-16+09.39.41.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robin's Nest, May 16</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uLbLqJKkU5u5n20s5PmadifUaJLL1DvDmxTA1t2QKJ8iFSwVGDzKQUlnS3ehiDUVDrYTo5AdOpKX5YWam_P_5b5qoJu25BxMpK5UohoJAa7hci-iKcLOSTT9OudRcalsjUSL/s1600/2015-05-19+16.45.25-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uLbLqJKkU5u5n20s5PmadifUaJLL1DvDmxTA1t2QKJ8iFSwVGDzKQUlnS3ehiDUVDrYTo5AdOpKX5YWam_P_5b5qoJu25BxMpK5UohoJAa7hci-iKcLOSTT9OudRcalsjUSL/s320/2015-05-19+16.45.25-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robin's nest, May 19</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's
amazing to me that these Mama birds know exactly what to do, without any
help from the library or the Internet. They didn't have to read any
books on the best way to build a nest, or search forums for advice on
feeding a baby bird. They didn't take classes on laying their eggs. They don't
need a schedule for when to keep their babies warm or when to go out and
search for food. They just do what needs to be done. These birds are
amazing little creatures. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMi3x56WwVpBz30xJN7pm-BBiFyyY6trwepmlcJrJQlzm3jRz08t9vhp79lx_qUpoF7P7a4GZ0-JhJZ2sbsVAaJcjo4QL1hm780Gkkxy3RGJdyC6gHaNvR-FIL76Vpzlo-jeJ/s1600/2015-05-19+16.45.31-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMi3x56WwVpBz30xJN7pm-BBiFyyY6trwepmlcJrJQlzm3jRz08t9vhp79lx_qUpoF7P7a4GZ0-JhJZ2sbsVAaJcjo4QL1hm780Gkkxy3RGJdyC6gHaNvR-FIL76Vpzlo-jeJ/s320/2015-05-19+16.45.31-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robin's nest, May 19</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy29mygNtJ7mTC1jl6bj6lLBO1VS2eWgyHZbxcZa4o7o0YUGgCDovTxGYxf0yemgiEzlVdl77eFauAJGRK7MREIKtVmva54TT8swMEvk0i5HWfhGuEw26q2cQaRPvRu90we9oq/s1600/IMG_0026_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy29mygNtJ7mTC1jl6bj6lLBO1VS2eWgyHZbxcZa4o7o0YUGgCDovTxGYxf0yemgiEzlVdl77eFauAJGRK7MREIKtVmva54TT8swMEvk0i5HWfhGuEw26q2cQaRPvRu90we9oq/s320/IMG_0026_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardinal's nest, May 21</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I know that my life is more
complex than these. None of them have a mortgage or kids in
school or a lifespan beyond 2 - 3 years.<br />
<br />
Still . . . I have so much to
learn from watching these birds. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBF3vhRozIFjCk5MWyCGuDyDi_8NwJ4TIPcNvN4fpKNefsK7Y_QrlDu91EFwnH-rkmMmfFMwlmrH3ytzv6AmyQeMPVS-p6aV0hPrWsQLGh91LfSY3t51IVTQfhlkB-UKR1QSMX/s1600/IMG_0038_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBF3vhRozIFjCk5MWyCGuDyDi_8NwJ4TIPcNvN4fpKNefsK7Y_QrlDu91EFwnH-rkmMmfFMwlmrH3ytzv6AmyQeMPVS-p6aV0hPrWsQLGh91LfSY3t51IVTQfhlkB-UKR1QSMX/s320/IMG_0038_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardinal's nest, May 21</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-9955520387555789612015-04-09T20:04:00.004-05:002015-04-09T20:04:43.398-05:00Home.I drove up to the local grocery store tonight to pick up a gallon of milk. I just hopped in the car and was there about 3 minutes later. The grocery store is about a mile away.<br />
<br />
Last year at this time, we lived about 15 miles from the closest grocery store.<br />
<br />
I pondered this as I drove and realized that it was around this time last year that we seriously started considering putting our house on the market. Our concern at that time was whether or not it would sell. Isn't that cute? Have I ever shared that story?<br />
<br />
The whole thing <i>started </i>because there was a particular house we had our eye on. We'll call it house #1. We passed the driveway every day taking the kids to school, and it was around this time last year that we actually drove back to get a good look at it. It was an abandoned foreclosure and it needed work. We thought it looked like something we could renovate, if we could get it at a good price.<br />
<br />
The whole thing was <i>accelerated </i>when the temperatures got warmer and our neighbors re-emerged from their home. That's a different story that doesn't belong on the blog. Just ask me when you see me next, okay?<br />
<br />
So, we contacted realtor #1 and he said something to the effect of, "You can't even think about looking for a house until you sell yours. You need to get your house listed first." This made me so, so nervous because we had no idea when house #1 would go up for sale. Realtor #1 was pretty insistent that we should put our house up immediately to ensure that we would be in the position to buy when house #1 became available, which he assured us was going to be very soon. There were a few things that went down with realtor #1 . . . things that we later found out he was a little dishonest about. Also, he would show up hours late to meetings.<br />
<br />
So we moved on to realtor #2. Her name was Linda and she was the realtor when we purchased our first house. She's amazing. She didn't know anything about house #1 or when it would sell but was looking into it for us. We had it in our minds (thanks to realtor #1) that we needed to sell our house pronto so we decided to list with her. She suggested an asking price that was much higher than realtor #1, so we were happy about that. We also thought that maybe the higher asking prices would slow the process down a little and give us time. Isn't that cute?<br />
<br />
We listed it. There was a showing on the next business day. An offer was made. After a week, we had a signed purchase agreement for our house. Our house was sold but house #1 was still not up for sale.<br />
<br />
Let's recap . . . I was 32 weeks pregnant, we had about a month to be out of our house, and the house we wanted to buy wasn't even on the market yet. We had a preapproval for the mortgage, but that was it. Oh, and we were in the middle of staff training. Let's not forget that May/June/July/August are naturally our most stressful months, given that we work at a youth camp.<br />
<br />
Our realtor was AWESOME and got working for us. We went to see SO. MANY. HOUSES. The houses that were perfect for us weren't in the area that we wanted to be in. The houses in the area that we wanted to be in were less than perfect for us. There was a house (house #2) that we really loved, but there wasn't much of a yard and we weren't allowed to put up a playscape. We almost put an offer on that one, but decided not to when we saw a listing for house #3.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, house #1 was finally listed! BUT WAIT. The bank listed it for (literally) double what it should have been listed for. It was a joke. Even the realtor selling for the bank said it was ridiculous. <i>Side note: The house finally sold just last month for less than half of the original asking price. </i>We were so bummed at first . . . until our realtor told us about some issues with the house. The house was a disaster and needed way more work than we'd originally thought. But the real issue was that the driveway to the house was an easement through someone else's property! The whole thing just seemed really messy. Perhaps we dodged a bullet with that one.<br />
<br />
<br />
We started packing up our old house, with no idea where we were moving to. That was really hard. I didn't know how to organize things. I wondered if we would be moving to an apartment while we house hunted for a while. July 2014 was, without a doubt, the most stressful month of my life. I said, "What on earth have we done?!" more times than I can count.<br />
<br />
Back to house #3. We loved the location and the yard. It was in our price range, but it seemed more expensive than other houses we'd seen with the same specs. We decided to go see it, and immediately understood why it was priced the way it was. The previous owners had made many upgrades and it was really well cared for. Honestly, it was missing about half of what I had on my wish list, but we still loved it. The biggest drawback for me was the kitchen . . . it was smaller than our original kitchen. Same number of cupboards (a couple less drawers, though) and the same amount of counter space as the old one, just not as open and no island. During our second showing I stood there wondering if I could make it work and be happy in that kitchen. I spend a lot of time there. Ultimately, I decided it was worth it for what we were gaining, and we ended up with a really good deal on the house. <br /><br />In our first 8 months in this house, the kitchen has been my biggest point frustration, but at least I was prepared for it. Not having an island has felt like a huge loss for me, because that's where the kids did most of their "helping" me in the kitchen. Being able to stand across the island from them instead of having them right next to me was really nice in our old kitchen. Just typing that, I realize how petty and spoiled I sound . . . but I mourn the loss of that kitchen almost daily. I have dreams of someday renovating the main floor of the house, but that will be a while down the road. Maybe I'll be able to have my grandkids stand across from me at an island someday.<br />
<br />
Speaking of grand kids . . . one night when we were between houses, Kyle and I were laying in bed and he was saying how nice it will be that when our kids come back to visit, we'll have enough bedrooms and bathrooms for each family to have their own. I just laughed at him for thinking that far down the road, but secretly began praying that our kids (and their spouses) will desire to all come home to spend time together at the same time someday. <br />
<br />
Anyway, we ended up closing on house #3 two weeks after we had to be out of our old house. We lived in a trailer at camp for a couple of weeks, praying the entire time that Hattie would stay put (and she did). We had two storage units and two trailers full of our stuff. We bought a washer and dryer while we were still living at camp, so that sat on a third trailer under a tarp until we gained occupancy of our new house. <br />
<br />
We got the keys to our new house on my 36th birthday. It was such a good day. We hadn't taken the kids to see the house yet (actually, Claire had gone with us to the first showing, but of course she didn't really remember it) so it was so fun to take them there. During our first week here, our neighbors (many of whom we already knew) brought us food, showed up to help us move boxes, and just loved on us.<br />
<br />
Hattie was born 17 days after we moved in, and the fall was a whirlwind. It was rough. Postpartum hormones, living in chaos and clutter, trying to make the stuff we purchased to fit in our old house work in our new house . . . I just felt like I was in limbo for months and months. Many times I've wondered if we made a rush decision because I was pregnant and if we should have just held out and rented an apartment for a while. But that brings me to tonight. <br />
<br />
When I pulled into the driveway tonight, I sat and looked at the jonquils<b> </b>and tulips that have pushed up in our landscaping (LANDSCAPING! We have professional landscaping! It makes me feel so grown up.), and I had this overwhelming feeling of knowing that we're right where we're supposed to be. This has only happened once or twice in my life, so the feeling is a significant one for me. I watched the boys run around in the yard in the rain tonight, and it felt right. I painted the living room (for the second time since we moved in) today, and it felt like home. My heart is so full when I see the kids playing with their friends from the neighborhood . . . friends whose parents I know!<br />
<br />
<br />I'm still not completely settled in our new house. I still move things around on a weekly basis, and my kids are sick of new systems for organization. Our formal dining room is still void of furniture and serves as more of a playroom as we figure out what to do with it (it's kind of small and awkward for a formal dining room, anyway).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />But we're home. And I'm happy to finally be here.<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-57009802226955173762015-04-01T20:37:00.000-05:002015-04-04T20:38:11.020-05:00Hattie at 7 months . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjc1WDhhWLqSDib5OvBYoF_38jA9NxXZfEYUy8qea88uEBTxeNJeNV6KIGiA2PxEBb8pNqjHCC4-Mwjmy3ICWkJGC6_jaDFYUXxRwr5Ewt70AVIZiDTyv4ATomwPbqRdFCBEs0-w/s1600/IMG_0021+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72f4nH3XA0jd6frw7_6s66hXIA49W3ViMb6GSfIdSBFZarAfuwVj3UXK4b6n3O_daH3-X7-tfKdl6k3E3ClmMQhyphenhyphenzeY6JDcKzNX9LappCxPgaQ9A5_04EKiXjFKAyHLU2ELm0zQ/s1600/IMG_0052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72f4nH3XA0jd6frw7_6s66hXIA49W3ViMb6GSfIdSBFZarAfuwVj3UXK4b6n3O_daH3-X7-tfKdl6k3E3ClmMQhyphenhyphenzeY6JDcKzNX9LappCxPgaQ9A5_04EKiXjFKAyHLU2ELm0zQ/s1600/IMG_0052.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
. . . really enjoys solid foods. She's a better eater than her sister or brothers ever were at this age. She won't sit in her high chair to play anymore. When she's there, she expects to EAT.<br />
<br />
. . . sits up with no problem. Her favorite way to pass the time is to watch her siblings.<br />
<br />
. . . is just starting to scoot on all fours. She really likes to move backward.<br />
<br />
. . . has a belly laugh that will bring a smile to anyone's face.<br />
<br />
. . . sleeps 6:30 PM to 7:30 AM most nights and naps 2 - 3 times a day.<br />
<br />
. . . has her first two teeth (came in just before she turned 7 months old).<br />
<br />
. . . is 18ish pounds.<br />
<br />
. . . is still very happy and laid back.<br />
<br />
. . . says "da da da da" on repeat. And growls. And squeals. She's very chatty.<br />
<br />
. . . is learning to be gentle. She doesn't pull my hair as much anymore. I just say, "gentle, gentle" and she opens her fingers and just bats it around.<br />
<br />
. . . sleeps in a spare bedroom at night and in her crib during the day. Her sister wakes her up at bedtime if she sleeps in their room.<br />
<br />
. . . does great in the car seat and out shopping. I can't tell you how wonderful this is. We can go shopping for a few hours and she never even fusses.<br />
<br />
. . . is growing so, so fast.<br />
<br />
. . . is incredible loved by all of us. We don't know what we'd do without her.sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38904545.post-7056731632096637662015-02-02T23:16:00.004-05:002015-02-02T23:16:43.677-05:00Snow DayInstead of bemoaning this snow day, I decided to lean into it and do my best to enjoy it. I grabbed my camera more today than I have in a few years. Do you remember when I used to take real photographs daily? Yeah, I can't remember it either.<br /><br />Here's what a snow day looks like at our house.<br /><br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj554P4TCOaSAiuG9byXyGAywO5GO_jF0vPUdq1FU31q4MJR9wEZPdWAyIA5MH2pivrCTrOqZGbgkb3xFP79wCVeaKx7m6Cb_l5aSlyPbD2sdVWcVWzsi8yuo858Y9-IW40Dypu/s1600/IMG_0090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj554P4TCOaSAiuG9byXyGAywO5GO_jF0vPUdq1FU31q4MJR9wEZPdWAyIA5MH2pivrCTrOqZGbgkb3xFP79wCVeaKx7m6Cb_l5aSlyPbD2sdVWcVWzsi8yuo858Y9-IW40Dypu/s1600/IMG_0090.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">14.5 inches.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-sMsRCROO4Zgl6XUexo2y643oNvPUTkOcIRD088j7c41-aumDEVaOoj-DGkCRdM5g5_4cPO8JK8x5xXLy2IQdB-vaLrgH6ul6ZOKM4Zm5qw4HiyqJYa9aHrhUcKc4hpMhioD/s1600/IMG_0229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-sMsRCROO4Zgl6XUexo2y643oNvPUTkOcIRD088j7c41-aumDEVaOoj-DGkCRdM5g5_4cPO8JK8x5xXLy2IQdB-vaLrgH6ul6ZOKM4Zm5qw4HiyqJYa9aHrhUcKc4hpMhioD/s1600/IMG_0229.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing with toes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5Cy7YLeE27_tvlRk-VyVHKfQDoIdtCfe73zT7GBxBmQWPxPxFp-9bjRLtJTaO9Of2mDn95Hq770FxRZnrIwNJq6fWbdevItH-yVxTJnqIs8C8LyX063Zc2isMayi3ARam5Bf/s1600/IMG_0206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5Cy7YLeE27_tvlRk-VyVHKfQDoIdtCfe73zT7GBxBmQWPxPxFp-9bjRLtJTaO9Of2mDn95Hq770FxRZnrIwNJq6fWbdevItH-yVxTJnqIs8C8LyX063Zc2isMayi3ARam5Bf/s1600/IMG_0206.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chess and checkers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKfyLWD9VGarzCDmjWiLiE8YLWd0UC-uIBhnL_I3VPrO1SRcq7Hderl_dixkVaBczpOIrWKeKo2qjicWo38nDdJ4GdtZscKR_9xFo_nHiUXdYEqY0WfNzUr2Kx30TnLQM_Ll2/s1600/IMG_0151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKfyLWD9VGarzCDmjWiLiE8YLWd0UC-uIBhnL_I3VPrO1SRcq7Hderl_dixkVaBczpOIrWKeKo2qjicWo38nDdJ4GdtZscKR_9xFo_nHiUXdYEqY0WfNzUr2Kx30TnLQM_Ll2/s1600/IMG_0151.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow blower repair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnipYDOxNcExlTC5F5fK3fkTpJhSgyTUH9t0LOyoxh6adEZbh5waFymvZtbaqIAqLiqtnRQPcK3_VdyyJ9ko-Jtsjuf4NU1ffw0AyjnsYGFjLBb2yPcI4iziF19mLAWJTaQ0e/s1600/IMG_0156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnipYDOxNcExlTC5F5fK3fkTpJhSgyTUH9t0LOyoxh6adEZbh5waFymvZtbaqIAqLiqtnRQPcK3_VdyyJ9ko-Jtsjuf4NU1ffw0AyjnsYGFjLBb2yPcI4iziF19mLAWJTaQ0e/s1600/IMG_0156.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot cocoa . . . </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AYKdtXoeCAYpxHPJMtoDzJAsMGokkRgZlDUvEyFTX88YG_s2KUfhkgixNzW37FyuLodGGevvQZorFw6lunb2pUqWCRNRw5auohVynTho7NF-akqUW431odJRlAi89mRG60mt/s1600/IMG_0157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AYKdtXoeCAYpxHPJMtoDzJAsMGokkRgZlDUvEyFTX88YG_s2KUfhkgixNzW37FyuLodGGevvQZorFw6lunb2pUqWCRNRw5auohVynTho7NF-akqUW431odJRlAi89mRG60mt/s1600/IMG_0157.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">. . . in mom and dad's favorite mug.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxBeb4J8saUWa107U78Dqo4asVfxpJluigBCsLFlIuV4J0MuAjuQcR9J20OSUFV9lqvGSDW3CV2K15bURrAS1HGpVn_GEwTeVUdp369592JwamT5zYmRrmwBZMp35lXZT3u3E/s1600/IMG_0093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxBeb4J8saUWa107U78Dqo4asVfxpJluigBCsLFlIuV4J0MuAjuQcR9J20OSUFV9lqvGSDW3CV2K15bURrAS1HGpVn_GEwTeVUdp369592JwamT5zYmRrmwBZMp35lXZT3u3E/s1600/IMG_0093.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Video games.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64dtOHOw0WBxdDgPwx_GjBBpfh8sgR3VLLfjIjGJ_31BdLRwtmLOt7tgpctqlqUMbZ-2duBy_3zbG75MHoG-YPTd8KyTUrdRXgY_PCrBKTCrRU9bh8Ajww-Lo_cmXrY2CoV9Y/s1600/IMG_0120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj64dtOHOw0WBxdDgPwx_GjBBpfh8sgR3VLLfjIjGJ_31BdLRwtmLOt7tgpctqlqUMbZ-2duBy_3zbG75MHoG-YPTd8KyTUrdRXgY_PCrBKTCrRU9bh8Ajww-Lo_cmXrY2CoV9Y/s1600/IMG_0120.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Non-video games.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZMAZhiB5aZkvRxk89lQPEpm4ujgxAO9p2f1r9nHSazXEM8TiJrjtyFQw-Dmc4VTbJ4RSP4vK_TiaiAhZNe9yNIXplIoXFrokNnZV28UcKDqyFAs50XRwu1baqoGaWbVtNu7G/s1600/IMG_0133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZMAZhiB5aZkvRxk89lQPEpm4ujgxAO9p2f1r9nHSazXEM8TiJrjtyFQw-Dmc4VTbJ4RSP4vK_TiaiAhZNe9yNIXplIoXFrokNnZV28UcKDqyFAs50XRwu1baqoGaWbVtNu7G/s1600/IMG_0133.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3-hour nap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF6CqMYpuEdPAQVMHjLq7YHQuaOL7-sM148Q9QomQEPE0nZmn_I57SPAfU0w_c4gjRp-UiBZpnPV3XdTn8CHnbm8fRPt88xgLkhaxFrvDGZA9_LS0YaxYjDNrT1qPihojpbcp/s1600/IMG_0165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFF6CqMYpuEdPAQVMHjLq7YHQuaOL7-sM148Q9QomQEPE0nZmn_I57SPAfU0w_c4gjRp-UiBZpnPV3XdTn8CHnbm8fRPt88xgLkhaxFrvDGZA9_LS0YaxYjDNrT1qPihojpbcp/s1600/IMG_0165.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Movie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBaNlvtnjcrbQDUJBtzFzVQCi2Gom0-djOu2ILWuHxxiv_spMibDHQCTVoKrNYiomvhjglMOZmsA2cKBn_WpDpdMnF_pcLSiKLTDrczjyHQXDIGRail35-S4MKERJZHYYBd_i/s1600/IMG_0170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBaNlvtnjcrbQDUJBtzFzVQCi2Gom0-djOu2ILWuHxxiv_spMibDHQCTVoKrNYiomvhjglMOZmsA2cKBn_WpDpdMnF_pcLSiKLTDrczjyHQXDIGRail35-S4MKERJZHYYBd_i/s1600/IMG_0170.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kindle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsG2fHYUt99whd3TBB31GL0I_QRPZ1DT0JvyexNbKzhnVcQcQHcDVO1Qztfvy4OLxQyOD3uPZsq71VpmzbCSRJFQFCFymOiagezh3JE4-qvLZBsFoL7ZYYologLR-GRKYgGNF/s1600/IMG_0181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsG2fHYUt99whd3TBB31GL0I_QRPZ1DT0JvyexNbKzhnVcQcQHcDVO1Qztfvy4OLxQyOD3uPZsq71VpmzbCSRJFQFCFymOiagezh3JE4-qvLZBsFoL7ZYYologLR-GRKYgGNF/s1600/IMG_0181.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing in the snow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWXFmZ_G34318H7pwbXHA_0zHI9se3-3iJPPxjCS4GqT7HKyuZjTZOO9A8Hh3SmOcUCx6jClMWEFkdS1LMZEUSrcGlrWT4tJXdWzfwjxjIXkBzTXmDmO2HzQjm7svhhWK0y3n/s1600/IMG_0139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWXFmZ_G34318H7pwbXHA_0zHI9se3-3iJPPxjCS4GqT7HKyuZjTZOO9A8Hh3SmOcUCx6jClMWEFkdS1LMZEUSrcGlrWT4tJXdWzfwjxjIXkBzTXmDmO2HzQjm7svhhWK0y3n/s1600/IMG_0139.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babysitting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb62nyEXnNI_7g3ulfEx0rAaf2ndmvYVWVAMOTs0VnDs-rNyawyN6CA_-H5PA6S7XlKaqwa0WAnd0SvOTBYfmX0SQVfwlZ6S7IJU0J7b38HHfD_4JKEpRoO7kLa4txk-iRdQY/s1600/IMG_0148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb62nyEXnNI_7g3ulfEx0rAaf2ndmvYVWVAMOTs0VnDs-rNyawyN6CA_-H5PA6S7XlKaqwa0WAnd0SvOTBYfmX0SQVfwlZ6S7IJU0J7b38HHfD_4JKEpRoO7kLa4txk-iRdQY/s1600/IMG_0148.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giggles from the 3 oldest when dad hit the window with snow from the snow blower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXaZ-LOI_cwDSAZygKRkDI3amzDn7tEUK3t8mwu3e_OU81cC0dz_6ZewX2k7JBBRqcvAj_tVWO3kM5LlIKHaJZGWAqV6lfXUsHc2VirOJ0YiYUPdgA0jdlQC-H6Q8Ydi1oNep/s1600/IMG_0202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXaZ-LOI_cwDSAZygKRkDI3amzDn7tEUK3t8mwu3e_OU81cC0dz_6ZewX2k7JBBRqcvAj_tVWO3kM5LlIKHaJZGWAqV6lfXUsHc2VirOJ0YiYUPdgA0jdlQC-H6Q8Ydi1oNep/s1600/IMG_0202.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happiness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />sara lukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05694085920579983942noreply@blogger.com4