tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27533412606566286722024-03-13T06:34:32.763-04:00You'll be fine. I promise.I'll look back on this and laugh... and other things you tell yourself to get through the day.Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-45165207025731956952013-07-16T08:47:00.002-04:002013-07-17T09:32:28.879-04:0010 Things I Do As A Parent That I Know I Shouldn't But Do AnywayI had it all figured out. I read all the baby books. I did the research on parenting methods. I was going to be the best mom ever and I had a perfect plan. And then I became a mom. I realized that baby books only tell you so much. I discovered through practical application that parenting methods are not one size fits all. My plan was riddled with holes. I am a mom that lives in the real world. To my surprise, the real world doesn't follow neat plans and schedules. The real world screws up good intentions. So, I improvise. My "parenting plan" has very few "I'll nevers" or "I'll always." My plan is fluid and evolves as my kids grow. I also do some things that I know I shouldn't, but I do anyway, just to make it through the day. <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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-utJhSsLhtuY/UeSrbayscZI/AAAAAAAAA5M/UPHD9yCoD88/s1600/MjAxMi04NDk2ZjAzYjAwZWQzNGQ5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="224" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-utJhSsLhtuY/UeSrbayscZI/AAAAAAAAA5M/UPHD9yCoD88/s320/MjAxMi04NDk2ZjAzYjAwZWQzNGQ5.png" title="http://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/MjAxMi04NDk2ZjAzYjAwZWQzNGQ5" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: </span><a href="http://www.someecards.com/"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">www.someecards.com</span></a> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
1. I bribe my kids. We have a deal, the kids and I. If they get up each morning during the week and get ready without tantrums, constant reminders to brush their teeth or brush their hair, I give them a candy bar each Friday. <em>I can hear the dentist cringe.</em> While grocery shopping, I sweeten the deal with those free cookies from the bakery. I owe each kid a brand new car on their sixteenth birthday for potty training before they entered high school. I let them stay up late if they let me sleep in. <br />
<br />
2. I talk about saving the earth and going green, yet I have been known to wash the same load of laundry four times in one week because I forgot to take it out of the washing machine before it soured. I've also re-dried the same load of laundry left in the dryer several times to get the wrinkles out. I used disposable diapers and I have failed to teach my kids not to use a whole roll of toilet paper in a single bathroom visit. I take long hot showers to hide from my kids when I have nowhere else to go. <br />
<br />
3. Fast food for dinner? Yeah, we have it more than I care to admit. Something about the summer makes me not want to use the oven. Or plan meals. Or wash dishes. I swear I'll start preparing healthy, home cooked meals. Tomorrow. Next week. Eventually.<br />
<br />
4. My youngest daughter learned to sing and read her ABC's by watching T.V. <br />
<br />
5. I have yet to throw away a single toy that was not put away before bedtime. I have not followed through on lifetime groundings. The kids laugh at me when I tell them I'm selling them to the gypsies. <em>We're still in the age where punishments include time out, early bedtimes, no TV... it's still pretty effective. I know. I'm lucky.</em><br />
<br />
6. "When was the last time you took a bath? Nah, you smell okay. Just go to bed."<br />
<br />
7. I forget to bring a camera with me to major kid events. I only filled out a few pages in my first born's baby book. My second born's baby book is still wrapped in cellophane. I have boxes upon boxes of mementos taking up an entire closet. <br />
<br />
8. I've had daydreams of confronting my daughter's summer camp bully and her mother. I'd put them both in their place using nothing but quick wit and sarcasm. In that daydream, there's a crowd behind me and someone slow claps when I have the last word. <em>I've watched a lot of 80's teen movies.</em><br />
<br />
9. I purposely brainwashed my kids to despise Barney, Justin Bieber, and Caillou.<br />
<br />
10. I forget sometimes what it was like to be a kid. I hush them too often. I tell them I'm too busy to play when I'm simply not in the mood to play with them. I worry about the mess rather than marvel at the masterpiece. I threaten to run away even though I miss them the minute they leave my sight. I forget to count my blessings that my kids are healthy. I focus on the naughty behavior at home, yet take their best behavior in school for granted. I don't recognize as often as I should, just how wonderful my little monkeys really are.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not proud of all of these things. But, parenting is not easy and can sometimes drive you to the brink of insanity. I've found the best thing to do is try to improve whenever you can and forgive yourself for not being the "best mom on the block." And I'll tell you... even the best mom on the block has her own list. She's just not sharing it.<br />
<br />
<br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-84856025387449883972013-07-09T18:26:00.000-04:002013-07-09T20:51:41.952-04:00The Most Okayest Summer Ever!Since becoming a mom, I've learned a thing or two about summertime and kids. In the beginning, I started each summer with the expectation of bliss and fun and happy memories. I made "Summer Bucket Lists" and promised myself that I was going to make those long, lazy days the best days of my children's lives. I scoured mom blogs and parenting articles for inspiration. I collected craft materials to keep them busy during a pop-up thunderstorm. I scrolled through countless Pinterest pages for mom tested and approved activities. Each summer, I started off with hope. By the end, I was tired, disappointed, and relieved when the school bus stopped by our house. Our summers were filled with tantrums, rain delays, and let downs. It was my fault. I expected too much out of the kids, the weather, and myself. I was too excited and in turn, I elevated the kids' expectations. I placed so much emphasis on having the best summer ever that when "life" happened, it suddenly became the worst summer ever. So now, I set the bar lower, learned from the fails, and settle for the most okayest summer ever. It goes something like this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QPV2_WepwoI/Udx70cGkdTI/AAAAAAAAA48/hpNMKclFpns/s1600/1344886845093_3235015.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="224" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QPV2_WepwoI/Udx70cGkdTI/AAAAAAAAA48/hpNMKclFpns/s320/1344886845093_3235015.png" title="http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/1344886845093_3235015.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: </span><a href="http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/1344886845093_3235015.png" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Someecards</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Catching Fireflies</strong><br />
<br />
The Best: Giggling little children running barefoot through the grass and gently swooping fireflies out of the warm night air.<br />
<br />
The Worst: Chasing after highly evolved fireflies that climb twenty feet over our heads resulting in tantrums and empty glass jars. Oh and mosquito bites. A lot of mosquito bites all over.<br />
<br />
The Okayest: Do not plan a firefly hunt. If you happen to be outside and they are within reach, great. If not, move along. Do not talk about all the fireflies you used to catch when you were a child. (Trust me, it will only bring out your 3 year old daughter's competitive nature.) Wear bug spray.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f13gUqNASFQ/UdxtYhgyKoI/AAAAAAAAA4M/8i29PCJdW7Y/s1600/Firefly_front_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f13gUqNASFQ/UdxtYhgyKoI/AAAAAAAAA4M/8i29PCJdW7Y/s1600/Firefly_front_cover.jpg" title="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Firefly_(TV_series)" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or you can catch this Firefly. This one is better. <br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Firefly_(TV_series">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Firefly_(TV_series</a>) </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Pool Days</strong><br />
<br />
The Best: Spending hours and hours at the neighborhood pool. Splashing and laughter and sitting in the sun.<br />
<br />
The Worst: Not spending hours and hours at the neighborhood pool due to constant thunderstorms.<br />
<br />
The Okayest: Keep the pool bag packed by the front door and bathing suits within reach at all times. Rush to the pool between thunderstorms so the kids can jump in a few times. Suntans are bad for you anyway, right?<br />
<br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Rainy Day Crafts</strong><br />
<br />
The Best: Content little kids sitting at the kitchen table creating little homemade masterpieces.<br />
<br />
The Worst: "Her craft looks better than mine!" Paper cuts. Projects that should take hours are completed within minutes. Craft kits that require more adult supervision than advertised. Glitter.<br />
<br />
The Okayest: Give the kids a ream of white paper and crayons. That's it. No scissors, no glue, no kits that come with a picture of those damn model kids holding perfectly crafted potholders or sun catchers. Absolutely no glitter.<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9-HllU61CU/Udx1mOJxZ1I/AAAAAAAAA4s/62O1N78qvbA/s1600/YBFIP+Easy+Bake+Fail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9-HllU61CU/Udx1mOJxZ1I/AAAAAAAAA4s/62O1N78qvbA/s400/YBFIP+Easy+Bake+Fail.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee/"You'll Be Fine. I Promise" photo. 2013 Do not use or reproduce without owner's permission." width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same goes for cooking crafts. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Vacations</strong> <br />
<br />
The Best: A week long trip to the beach or Disney World, or some other awesome place and every moment is Facebook status worthy.<br />
<br />
The Worst: Completely rained out beach trip, cranky kids and stressed parents. Or even worse, not able to take a vacation at all.<br />
<br />
The Okayest: Take daytrips to local attractions that don't require waiting in long lines, paying for overpriced admission/food/beverages, or packing suitcases. (After reading so many posts about rained out beach trips, I think it was a good thing we couldn't take a vacation this summer.)<br />
<br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Fishing Trips with Daddy</strong><br />
<br />
The Best: Two quiet and patient little girls sitting with their dad by the lake all day. Poles in the water and smiles on their faces. Bringing home a fresh catch for dinner.<br />
<br />
The Worst: Impatient, noisy, completely bored little girls crying about empty hooks, soggy worms, and killing "Nemo."<br />
<br />
The Okayest: Take the kids to a DNR "Catch & Release" stocked pond for a couple of hours max. Use hotdogs as bait. Bring snacks and bug spray. Lots of bug spray. Have a contest for the first fish, the biggest fish, the smallest fish, and the most colorful fish so even the littlest fisherman has a fish tale to share. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpxeSh6WWMg/UdxwQKO4PHI/AAAAAAAAA4c/bR5u60IGBBw/s1600/972132_574620965911943_1516197538_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpxeSh6WWMg/UdxwQKO4PHI/AAAAAAAAA4c/bR5u60IGBBw/s320/972132_574620965911943_1516197538_n.jpg" title="Copywrite: An original Terese Lavallee photo. Do not use or reproduce without the owner's permission. 07/09/2013" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't worry. Everyone survived.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Summer Blockbusters</strong><br />
<br />
The Best: Kids sitting perfectly still through an entire animated film. Parents enjoying an hour of sitting in a cool, dark room.<br />
<br />
The Worst: Multiple potty breaks, spilled popcorn, short attention spans. Other kids running around without parental guidance making your kids question your threats of movie theater cops who arrest disruptive kids. <br />
<br />
The Okayest: See a movie a few weeks after the movie release day. Better yet, wait for the DVD. <br />
<br />
<br />
Summer doesn't have to be a big production. In fact, the beauty of summer is to slow down and enjoy the little moments away from schedules. It took a few summer fails to realize that it's okay to not plan every minute of the day. It's okay to let things happen organically. Step away from Pinterest. It's okay to keep it simple. Give the kids an opportunity to enjoy a lazy day. Give yourself an opportunity to have a lazy day. If you must plan an event this summer, go easy on yourself if it all falls through. Some of the best memories happen when plans fall apart.<br />
<br />
And use bug spray.<br />
<br />
<br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-3284616043192715632013-06-15T21:40:00.001-04:002013-06-16T07:10:06.305-04:00Because of my FatherBecause of my father, I do not shy away from a DIY opportunity... especially when it comes to broken toilets.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I can spiral a football. I can also throw and hit a baseball.<em> Unfortunately, I never mastered catching a baseball. Unless you count the time I caught a baseball with my face and landed in the emergency room with a broken nose.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vEeO6YhUL4E/Ub0NaJs-EsI/AAAAAAAAA3A/daZVX75Jo_w/s1600/fC6UG3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vEeO6YhUL4E/Ub0NaJs-EsI/AAAAAAAAA3A/daZVX75Jo_w/s320/fC6UG3.jpeg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's lil slugger<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I know a well written letter (love, complaint, or recommendation) goes a long way.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I dedicate myself to hobbies and enjoy them even though I know I'll never become a professional... no matter how many lessons I take, years of practice I put into it, or money I throw at it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x8xkGkGCzRw/Ub0Oy-MRwqI/AAAAAAAAA3g/Xb3BfMaBc5o/s1600/Di5b6j.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="241" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x8xkGkGCzRw/Ub0Oy-MRwqI/AAAAAAAAA3g/Xb3BfMaBc5o/s320/Di5b6j.jpeg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We don't have many pictures of Pops. <br />
He was always on the other side of the camera.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I can turn an ordinary "Sloppy Joe" sandwich into a gourmet meal by calling it a "Sloppy Joseph" and draping a dish towel over my arm like a waiter at a fancy restaurant.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I don't try to ride my bike up a steep hill in the lowest gear. Yeah, it hurts more when I petal, but I get up the hill faster.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h3nI6voi3B4/Ub0N9KaB6pI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/yHfihl4fk_E/s1600/IJDVaK.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="242" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h3nI6voi3B4/Ub0N9KaB6pI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/yHfihl4fk_E/s320/IJDVaK.jpeg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I read consumer reports and reviews. I make sure I know the return policy. I comparison shop everything. I always read the instructions first.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, my college dorm room was wallpapered with "The Far Side" comic greeting cards.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I listen to and appreciate the musical talents of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Eric Clapton, The Police, and Leo Kottke. <em>My kids are receiving the same education.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><br /></em>
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wfvhPZhMz7M/Ub0Np5J7AlI/AAAAAAAAA3I/GbAmwMngXhs/s1600/0Pk0gL.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wfvhPZhMz7M/Ub0Np5J7AlI/AAAAAAAAA3I/GbAmwMngXhs/s320/0Pk0gL.jpeg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Because of my father, "floating like an empty beer can down a river" is an acceptable style of swimming.</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i>
Because of my father, I turned in the best school projects, I wore the prettiest dress at the senior prom, and I had the best Father of the Bride speech of all time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pJvX2K1bL6Y/Ub0JBSxiDQI/AAAAAAAAA2w/L29lMGHLa3o/s1600/7LnUXY.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pJvX2K1bL6Y/Ub0JBSxiDQI/AAAAAAAAA2w/L29lMGHLa3o/s320/7LnUXY.jpeg" title="Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a dry eye in the house.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I know the early bird gets to enjoy a cup of coffee in peace.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I know that I will never be able to learn how to drive a car with a manual transmission. <em>If he couldn't teach me, no one can. I've accepted this fact.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Because of my father, I have bluish-grey eyes, thick dark hair, broad shoulders, and long fingers. </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i>
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7uuiq7dfkmE/Ub0S6SHFGRI/AAAAAAAAA34/kPdYGxTN-9w/s1600/2YHAOx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="263" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7uuiq7dfkmE/Ub0S6SHFGRI/AAAAAAAAA34/kPdYGxTN-9w/s320/2YHAOx.jpeg" title="Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They say I look like my dad...<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i><br />
<br />
Because of my father, I have a low tolerance for annoying neighbors and will most likely move to a place where there aren't many around when I retire.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I want my daughters to go fishing, walk up and down the aisles in a hardware store, work on a car, hammer a nail, hang out in the reptile house at the zoo, and play catch with their dad, too. <em>Hopefully, they inherited The Hub's hand-eye coordination</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PVVXb-KLz3s/Ub0OYYs3ZeI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/anItd1WxivI/s1600/IAuulW.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PVVXb-KLz3s/Ub0OYYs3ZeI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/anItd1WxivI/s320/IAuulW.jpeg" title="Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I love a good story.<br />
<br />
Because of my father, I tell a good story.<br />
<br />
I am who I am, because of my father.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qj7dZFXFBHk/Ub0Sa1wNcoI/AAAAAAAAA3w/Ta7ZcEdsKDQ/s1600/txlgVd.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="171" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qj7dZFXFBHk/Ub0Sa1wNcoI/AAAAAAAAA3w/Ta7ZcEdsKDQ/s400/txlgVd.jpeg" title="Edward S. Pauksta photo 06/15/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Happy Father's Day! I love you Pops!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-13010501258740780522013-05-12T00:07:00.001-04:002013-06-15T21:30:56.343-04:00Because of my Mother<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TPkCfV4IPA0/UY8KIxcS2UI/AAAAAAAAA1A/rx0dYgQp8vc/s1600/2-Scans+from+slides+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TPkCfV4IPA0/UY8KIxcS2UI/AAAAAAAAA1A/rx0dYgQp8vc/s320/2-Scans+from+slides+002.jpg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 05/11/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because of my mother, recipes are merely suggestions in my kitchen. <em>Only a 1/4 teaspoon of cumin? Nah, I think it needs more</em>. I also blame the recipe for any culinary disasters. <em>It's not my fault! I followed the recipe!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Because of my mother, I build amazing forts out of old bed sheets.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I use moisturizer with sunscreen.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I read stories using different voices for each character.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--hM1XDINpcU/UY8L13-ZN4I/AAAAAAAAA1g/ADhOuAYl0KM/s1600/6-ScanNegs-1-17-12+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="270" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--hM1XDINpcU/UY8L13-ZN4I/AAAAAAAAA1g/ADhOuAYl0KM/s320/6-ScanNegs-1-17-12+017.jpg" title="An Original Edward S. Pauksta photo. 05/11/13 Do not use, copy, or reproduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because of my mother, I can watch a movie though my eyelids. <em>I'm not sleeping! I'm listening to the movie and resting my eyes!</em><br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I know the secret to an amazing sandwich is to toast the bread.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I take pride in little family traditions.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I obsess about feeding people. <em>Would you like something to eat? No? How about a snack? Are you sure? I can cut up some fruit for you. You're sure you're not a little bit hungry? Oh... alright... here's a sandwich.</em><br />
<em></em><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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2rqXhT3zuT4/UY8MgZGCwLI/AAAAAAAAA1o/KtlFP1g5vBc/s1600/2-Scans+from+slides+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2rqXhT3zuT4/UY8MgZGCwLI/AAAAAAAAA1o/KtlFP1g5vBc/s320/2-Scans+from+slides+003.jpg" title="An Original Edward S. Pauksta photo. 05/11/13 Do not use, copy, or reproduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This was the only way my mom could get me to eat when I was younger. </i><br />
<i>My daughters do the same thing.</i><br />
<i>I guess acting like a monkey at dinner time comes from my side of the family.</i><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because of my mother, I take clues from my nightly dreams. I also believe I have a very strong sixth sense. I just know when something is wrong or someone is in trouble. I feel it in my bones and I dream about it at night. <br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I notice everyone's eyebrows. I also know that one should never change their natural eyebrow shape too much. It'll make you look weird.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I sing to my kids even though I can't sing.<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;"><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NA-PHK5ZSWQ/UY8K7tBAb-I/AAAAAAAAA1M/qeCFlbXExso/s1600/6-ScanNegs-1-17-12+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NA-PHK5ZSWQ/UY8K7tBAb-I/AAAAAAAAA1M/qeCFlbXExso/s320/6-ScanNegs-1-17-12+038.jpg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 05/11/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, my kids know the extreme joy of jumping into my bed and pretending the floor is shark infested waters or molten lava.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I know I fold my bath towels the "wrong way." The way she folds her bath towels so they hang nicely on the towel bar was ingrained into my psyche from an early age, but the way I fold my towels takes up less space in the linen closet. Either way, I think about my mother every time I fold a towel.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I have a flair for inventing bizarre combinations of bad words when I am really mad. <br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I nag my kids AND husband about bringing a jacket in case it gets cold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Nk1XmAiKZg/UY8LPgXLMeI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/a5k1mNMvkhE/s1600/5-ScanNegs-1-17-12+135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Nk1XmAiKZg/UY8LPgXLMeI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/a5k1mNMvkhE/s320/5-ScanNegs-1-17-12+135.jpg" title="An Orginial Edward S. Pauksta photo 05/11/2013 Do not copy,use, or repoduce without permission." width="279" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I trust my parental instincts.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I know that sometimes I will screw up as a parent and it's okay. Kids are resilient. <br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I leave little love notes on napkins in my daughter's lunch box.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I am willing to try new things.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DuxUGNGOfYE/UY8N00VP0FI/AAAAAAAAA10/8kaEFTCn3tE/s1600/11-ScanNegs-1-26-12+157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DuxUGNGOfYE/UY8N00VP0FI/AAAAAAAAA10/8kaEFTCn3tE/s320/11-ScanNegs-1-26-12+157.jpg" title="An Original Edward S. Pauksta photo. 05/11/13 Do not use, copy, or reproduce without permission." width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Edward S. Pauksta</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I have natural red highlights in my hair.<br />
<br />
Because of my mother, I can laugh at myself.<br />
<br />
I am who I am, because of my mother.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNXkqy9yldA/UY8SIm4904I/AAAAAAAAA2A/F0JfJq1I8aQ/s1600/18179_1235120755793_7055206_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="287" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNXkqy9yldA/UY8SIm4904I/AAAAAAAAA2A/F0JfJq1I8aQ/s320/18179_1235120755793_7055206_n.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee photo 05/11/2013" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><em>Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you.</em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<em></em><br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-66567811964871940332013-04-29T21:48:00.000-04:002013-04-29T23:46:04.414-04:00Kids and the Zombie ApocalypseOut of all the scary monsters, I like zombies the best. <em>Many of you already know that I am kind of a chicken shit (re: </em><a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-dark-secret.html" target="_blank"><em>My Dark Secret</em></a><em>), but I'm learning to face my fears.</em> From "Night of the Living Dead" to "Dawn of the Dead" to "Shaun of the Dead," The Hub and I have seen our fair share of cheesy and scary movies. We are die hard "The Walking Dead" fans. We've spent countless hours talking about how an outbreak could possibly happen. We also have a pretty decent zombie apocalypse survival plan. We've discussed what we'll need, where we'll go, how we'll get there, and who we want on our team. On the surface, we look pretty prepared. But, let's be honest here. If a zombie apocalypse ever happens, we won't survive. We have kids.<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<u><strong>Top 7 Ways Our Kids Will Get Us Killed in a Zombie Apocalypse</strong></u></div>
<br />
1. Food: If I have a hard time convincing my kids to eat regular food, there is no way I'm going to get them to eat grubs and wild mushrooms once our supplies run out. "Honey, eat your squirrel before it gets cold." I can hear the whining already... and so will the zombies. Mark my words, I will be bitten while searching for the last remaining box of Cheerios.<br />
<br />
2. Volume Control: Ever try to watch a movie with a 3 year old? How about sit through a family wedding with a fussy toddler on your lap? How often can you make a phone call in peace? Now consider what it will be like when you are hiding in an old abandoned house with a hoard of zombies near by and even the slightest squeak will call attention to your location. Do you really think a three year old will sit quietly for mommy? Not mine. Even if I bribe her with the last Twinkie on earth, my noisy kid will give us away. <br />
<br />
3. Speed: It takes an average of 20 minutes to get the kids out of the house and into their car seats on a regular day. If we need to leave our safe house during the zombie apocalypse, our kids will still lose a shoe, forget their blankie or favorite toy (which will cause tantrums galore... see #2), or fuss about sitting in their car seats. A zombie could easily bite one of us on the butt while we're struggling to buckle a seat bealt. <em>Some of you will say, "Forget the seat belts and get in the car!" With zombies crowding the streets, seat belts are of the utmost importance. Haven't you seen "Zombieland?"</em><br />
<br />
4. Hiding: Both my kids are scared of the dark. They cannot go to sleep unless we plug in four nightlights and turn on the hall light. If we do that during a zombie apocalypse and we might as well hang a "All You Can Eat" buffet sign over our front door. We're so screwed.<br />
<br />
5. Going Unnoticed: If my kids see a zombified neighbor stumbling down the road, they will yell out, "Hey Mommy! Look! It's our neighbor! Hey neighbor! Let's say 'hi' to our neighbor, Mommy!" They do that all the time to me in the grocery store, especially when I just want to get a gallon of milk and get the hell out of there without being seen in grungy sweatpants and with a make-up free face.<br />
<br />
6. Agility: Kids fall down. A lot. I'm not sure why kids have such horrible balance, but I've watched my kids fall down while standing still. If we have to make a mad dash and our kids are running with us, I guarantee one of us is going down. You see it all the time in the movies: A cute klutzy girl twists her ankle and some poor chump goes back to save her from the clutches of the undead only to become zombie chow. Well, our kids are the cute klutzy girls and we're the poor chumps. <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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ojp7MYoRBhY/UX8Tugw_JRI/AAAAAAAAA0k/ojRoQg9o20A/s1600/Warning__-If-Zombies-Chase-Us__-Im-Tripping-You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="307" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ojp7MYoRBhY/UX8Tugw_JRI/AAAAAAAAA0k/ojRoQg9o20A/s320/Warning__-If-Zombies-Chase-Us__-Im-Tripping-You.jpg" title="http://makemelaugh.com/pics/Warning..-If-Zombies-Chase-Us..-Im-Tripping-You.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: </span><a href="http://www.makemelaugh.com/"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">www.makemelaugh.com</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
7. Combat: We went to a birthday party at a bowling alley/arcade this past weekend. It had a large room for laser tag and both girls wanted to give it a try. The Hub took the girls into the dark room armed with oversized vests and laser guns. Our younger daughter clung to The Hub's leg and screamed. Our older daughter became disoriented and got lost behind a neon painted partition and cried for her daddy. He was so distracted with finding his kids, he was unable to ward off the crowd of seven year olds shooting laser beams at the target on his vest. If the laser tag debacle is any indication of how our kids will handle a battle with zombies, bite me... it's over.<br />
<br />
<br />
So while it's fun to daydream about surviving a zombie apocalypse and believing we are smart enough, strong enough, and brave enough to outlive the masses, I really hope it doesn't happen. But, if it does, I hope it doesn't happen for at least another ten years. The kids should be ready by then.Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-33031281477009799232013-04-16T23:38:00.001-04:002013-04-17T00:00:32.200-04:00Our Flag Was Still ThereI pushed the full grocery cart through the parking lot with my two kids in tow. It was close to 6:00 P.M. and I was mentally checking my "To Do" list which included cooking, cleaning, packing, organizing and other tedious whatnots. The day was getting away from me fast. <br />
<br />
"Mommy? Why is it so low?"<br />
<br />
My eldest daughter, S, was looking past the car at the large American Flag in the Kroger parking lot. It was at half-mast.<br />
<br />
"Oh, uh... they lowered it for the bombing in <a href="http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2013/04/15/explosions-rock-boston-marathon-finish-line-dozens-injured/yLhfDT1XC3HXSa8wPiVijL/story.html" target="_blank">Boston</a>."<br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
<em>Okay, mama....This is one of those learning moments... try to give her a good answer. </em>"Well, it's the country's way of saying that we're sad. Many people were hurt yesterday. Some people even died. We lower the flag to let them know that the country supports them."<br />
<br />
My youngest daughter, B, smiled her mischievous smile and said, "I want to touch it."<br />
<br />
Knowing she would attempt to climb the pole to touch the flag if I let her get a step closer, I said, "No, you can't touch the flag. But, you can put your hand over your heart and say the Pledge of Allegiance. You know the pledge, right?" <br />
<br />
So there we were, in the Kroger parking lot, hands over hearts, saying the Pledge of Allegiance. <br />
<br />
On the drive home, S stated that she knows the American song. <br />
<br />
'You mean the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Star-Spangled_Banner" target="_blank">National Anthem</a>?"<br />
<br />
She tilted her head back and sang, "Oooooooooh say can you seeeeeeeee by the dawn's early lightttttt! What so proudly we hail by the gleaming stars!!!"<br />
<br />
"Close, baby. I'll sing it for you." And I started singing. Badly. And I'm pretty sure I messed up a line or two. But, I was trying. I've sung The Star-Spangled Banner at ball games. I had to sing it a few times when I was in the elementary school chorus when the music teacher was forgiving and perhaps a little tone deaf. It's a hard song to sing. My girls giggled from the backseat when I hit a few sour notes. I didn't mind and kept going. Then I got to the line: <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.</em><br />
<em><br /></em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My eyes filled with tears. My voice cracked and I couldn't keep singing. I always get a little choked up when I hear that line and I could never figure out why. I guess I always thought it was the swell of the music and not the words that touched a nerve. But, today I finally figured it out.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yesterday, The Hub called me when he heard the news about the Boston marathon bombing. It was still early and we knew less details than the little we know now. There were two bombs at the finish line. At the time, there were two deaths reported and many critical injuries which included severed limbs. This hit home for The Hub because he was born in Massachusetts. His entire family lives or has lived there at one time or another. When we came home from work, we ate dinner in front of the T.V. and watched the news reports. It was awful. It was scary. It was unreal. Once again, I had to explain to my little girls that the world is filled with evil people and sometimes bad things happen to good people and I don't know why. I fell asleep with fear in my heart again.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But, it was business as usual this morning. Get up, get ready, get the kids ready, get to work, do my job, drive home, get the kids, run errands and get ready for another day. Even though I listened to the radio shows talk about Boston and their feelings on the matter, I felt numb to it all. I suppose it was my way of moving on and "not letting the bad guy win." Maybe I didn't dwell on it because I was afraid I might jinx my good fortune for not being one of the victims. Maybe I just didn't want to believe that someone could wake up one morning and decide that today was a good day to hurt other people. It wasn't until I sang that line that it dawned on me why I wasn't scared to leave my house this morning and how I was able to keep on keeping on even though there was no way I could be certain that my world wouldn't end today. <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Our flag was still there.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Francis Scott Key did not see the rocket's red glare and the bombs bursting in air as "the end." The light from the explosions lit up the night sky so he could see the flag. Every flash gave him a glimpse of hope. As long as that flag was there, we were still there. What a beautiful thought. Even in the most devastating moments, there is hope. The flag is a grand symbol of our county. The flag is also the grand symbol of us. The flag is the first responders who ran into the blast. The flag is the stranger holding another stranger on Boylston Street. The flag is a nation in mourning for the pain and suffering that was placed upon group of regular everyday people cheering on marathon runners and celebrating Patriot's Day. Whether it is a bomb burst, an airplane crash, a gun shot, or a freak accident, these tragedies light up the darkness and give proof that We, the People are still good. The flag is still there. As long as we stand together and help each other, we are still there. <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I know our country is not perfect. There is a lot of feuding about what's fair and what's right. We are not in the best way financially and there are times when it doesn't seem like we're going to get out of the hole. Everyone has an opinion and there isn't a lot of compromise. We have a lot to work on. But, we're a family. I love my family even though there are things I don't like about my family. But, heaven help anyone who tries to mess with my family. We might not be perfect, but we stand together when things get tough. The same brothers who throw punches at each other will band together and love each other. We are a big dysfunctional family and I am so very proud to be part of it. We will mourn the ones we lost yesterday. We will try to make sense of what happened and why. We will celebrate the heroes. We will try to find the bad guys and bring them to justice. We will carry on and remember what we learned from this horrific event. And with time, we will be fine.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To my brothers and sisters in Boston: We love and support you. We are still here.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6m_F23Y5RS4/UW4YtSdvuPI/AAAAAAAAA0U/blSWbqHb94c/s1600/IMG_2305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6m_F23Y5RS4/UW4YtSdvuPI/AAAAAAAAA0U/blSWbqHb94c/s400/IMG_2305.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee photo 04/16/2013" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-53507602537454085202013-04-01T23:28:00.003-04:002013-04-02T06:24:39.539-04:00Letter to a Pound PupDear New Pup,<br />
<br />
Welcome to our home! I hope you like it here. I know this is a very exciting time for you. New smells, new people, new places to explore... I'm sure it can be a bit overwhelming. I'm going to be honest with you, I was a little nervous, too. With only a picture from the county shelter website and a brief introduction in the meeting area, we were really relying on first impressions and gut instinct. We don't know how you landed in doggie prison, other than you were wandering around in the wrong place at the wrong time. We posted your bail, paid for your spay, and promised we will take care of you for the rest of your life. By the way, we think you are about one or two years old so we're expecting to spend many years with you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4uKGypFpPfI/UVpMHlXxv8I/AAAAAAAAAzU/l3f-gyIR9u8/s1600/IMG_2256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4uKGypFpPfI/UVpMHlXxv8I/AAAAAAAAAzU/l3f-gyIR9u8/s320/IMG_2256.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 04/01/13" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing hard time in the Big House</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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MlG-FmWM8js/UVpMlN62VPI/AAAAAAAAAzc/x1d8eMmelMo/s1600/IMG_2259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MlG-FmWM8js/UVpMlN62VPI/AAAAAAAAAzc/x1d8eMmelMo/s320/IMG_2259.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 04/01/13" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bustin' out of the slammer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
To make this transition easier for both you and the rest of the group, I thought I'd give you a heads up on the house rules.<br />
<br />
1. Play with your human sisters. I know they are loud and run around like monkeys on crack, but they are good kids. They like to throw the tennis ball down the hall. Please play along and grab it. You'll get bonus points if you bring it back to them. Every once in a while, be sure to give them a lick. They love that stuff. I see that you've already claimed my youngest daughter as your favorite. My heart melted when you laid beside her when she had a little stomach virus this weekend and refused to leave her side. Good girl. You're a good girl.<br />
<br />
2. I know you have a bad hind leg. We see the scars and the x-ray confirms you have pretty severe arthritis in your knee. They think you might have suffered blunt force trauma there at one point in your young age. Please be patent with us as we try to manage your pain and make the best decision as to how to make it better. The vet said we have a few options, but it's pretty much guaranteed that we'll have to amputate your hind leg when you get older. I know it sounds horrible, but you're already learning to not use that leg as much and I think you would really rock the tripod look. Whatever we have to do, we'll always place your comfort and quality of life as top priority. For now, we'll try the other options and see how that works for you. <br />
<br />
3. With that being said, it looks like the couch and the end of our bed are off limits to you. I don't think it's a good idea for you to try to climb up on or off of those high places. Please don't think that because your older fur sister, Bailey Grace, sprawls out like a pampered princess on our furniture that she is the golden child. We love you both equally. Feel free to sleep in any room you wish. I'll move your bed around for you.<br />
<br />
4. As soon as the staples from your spay are removed and we can take off "The Cone of Shame," be prepared for a really thorough bath. You still smell like prison. I want to wash the past out of your fur. Bailey loves baths and loves being toweled off even more. I hope you feel the same. If not, I'll be quick and avoid getting water in your eyes.<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQocxO0eVjM/UVpM8w2BdWI/AAAAAAAAAzk/MwHy8fxden4/s1600/IMG_2280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="304" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQocxO0eVjM/UVpM8w2BdWI/AAAAAAAAAzk/MwHy8fxden4/s320/IMG_2280.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 04/01/13" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I pulled at my stitches. Now I wear the "Cone of Shame."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
5. Be patient with Bailey. Even though she's almost two years old, she's still a stupid puppy. She lost her older fur brother, <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/11/saying-goodbye.html" target="_blank">Malcolm Reynolds</a>, five months ago and she really missed his company. She might get a little too rambunctious when she wants to play because he was twice her size and he could handle it. You are twenty pounds lighter than her so let her know when she gets to be too much. She might pout for a while, but she'll always look out for you, just like she does for her human family. Last night, you cried out in your sleep. Bailey jumped off the bed and laid with you until you settled down. Once she knew you were okay, she jumped back on the bed and fell asleep. She doesn't know what you went through to earn those horrible scars around your chest and across your back, but she'll be there to help you move on. P.S. She'll always give up her bone or tennis ball to you. She's kind of a wimp. Please don't take advantage of that. P.P.S. I don't get why she needs to sniff your butt as much as she does... if that bothers you, feel free to tell her to knock it off.<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9bf8I_BSao/UVpNaLGC1uI/AAAAAAAAAzs/V11ppiswPME/s1600/IMG_2261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="161" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9bf8I_BSao/UVpNaLGC1uI/AAAAAAAAAzs/V11ppiswPME/s400/IMG_2261.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 04/01/13" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This happened for at least 3 hours the first day. Bailey, you're such a perv.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
6. Don't eat anything that is not food. Just don't. I'll keep the house clean to eliminate the temptation, but do me a solid and stick to dog food. <br />
<br />
7. At least pretend to feel guilty about farting. We all know it was you. <br />
<br />
8. Remember to suck up to the extended family, our friends, the vet, and neighbors. Show them that you are a good dog with a gentle disposition. (I've seen it first hand and I know that even with the abuse from your past, you still love people. I don't know if I could be that forgiving.) They will be the first ones to speak up against the media driven stereotype of pit bulls and the fear of rescuing animals from a shelter. You're our second pit bull and our third rescue from our county shelter. If more people witness what amazing companions you truly are, maybe more of your kind will find good homes. I will do my part to be a good owner and together we'll change opinions one good interaction at a time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvjTjN9F3jY/UVpN8nYM2pI/AAAAAAAAAz0/w6yN6ltapjM/s1600/IMG_2269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="194" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvjTjN9F3jY/UVpN8nYM2pI/AAAAAAAAAz0/w6yN6ltapjM/s320/IMG_2269.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 04/01/13" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squirrel! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I know it sounds like a lot, but we'll work with you while you get adjusted to your new life here. I'm sorry I don't know your real name. The family decided on the name "Sidney Ray." We chose "Ray" for your middle name, because since you entered our home, you have been a ray of sunshine. Thank you for you sweet kisses and little grunts when I walk through the door each day. Thank you for loving my daughters and checking on them when they cry. Thank you for keeping Bailey company while we are at work and school. Thank you for making the decision to adopt another dog an easy one. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Your New Mommy<br />
<br />
**Please support your local animal shelter. I bet you it's full and many wonderful animals are running out of time. You can adopt, foster, or donate. Sidney Ray was adopted from <a href="http://www.gwinnettcounty.com/portal/gwinnett/Departments/Police/AnimalWelfareandEnforcementNew" target="_blank">Gwinnett County Animal Shelter</a> in Lawrenceville, GA. Thank you to the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/helpgcanimals" target="_blank">Helping Animals at Gwinnett County Shelter</a><br />
<span itemprop="name"> facebook page for posting that picture of Sidney. You did more than just save an animal that day.<br />
<span itemprop="name"></span><br />
<span itemprop="name"></span><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span itemprop="name"><span itemprop="name"><em>Help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered. - Bob Barker</em></span></span></div>
<span itemprop="name">
<br />
</span><br />
<span itemprop="name"></span><br />
<span itemprop="name"></span>Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-6533902448545158062013-03-15T09:27:00.002-04:002013-03-15T09:27:33.099-04:00Week without Mommy? I Got This. (The Hub's Guest Blog)<em>Last week, I was away on business in Philadelphia. This was the first time I was away from my family for more than a night. A couple of years ago, The Hub was out of town on a work assignment for a month, so I know how challenging it is to suddenly become a temporary "single parent." Before I left, I made sure the house was in order and I laid out the girls' clothes for school for the week... just to make it a little easier in the mornings for him. We talked every night and The Hub would tell me the highlights of each day...all were good and reassuring. I can honestly say, I did not doubt his ability to go it alone for the week... and I was right to be so confident. I came home to find the house still standing, the kids were not sold on the black market, S did her homework, and B left the house with her pants on everyday. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Later, I learned that there were a few moments of complete chaos and rule bending that The Hub left out of our phone conversations... He didn't want me to worry. I asked him to write about his week alone with our kids. Enjoy!!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div align="center">
<em>***</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><u>Getting Ready in the Morning</u></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Two bathrooms plus three people, T-minus twenty minutes until the bus arrives. The math did not work that morning.</div>
<br />
<strong>B</strong>: I wanna wear my Tinkerbell nightgown to school.<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Sure. Why not?<br />
<strong>B</strong>: YAY!<br />
<br />
<strong>B's Daycare Teacher</strong>: B's hair is full of static! It's standing straight up!<br />
(I walk over to the sink, wet my hands, and slick back her hair.)<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: TA-DA!<br />
<strong>B's Daycare Teacher: </strong>When does your wife come back?<br />
<br />
<strong>B</strong>: Daddy, you need to put a ponytail in my hair.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FDG3yjLlCp8/UUMgfxfqy7I/AAAAAAAAAzE/XBIoRRUuF4Y/s1600/Snellville-Grayson-20130315-00267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FDG3yjLlCp8/UUMgfxfqy7I/AAAAAAAAAzE/XBIoRRUuF4Y/s320/Snellville-Grayson-20130315-00267.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 03/15/13" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TA-DA!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Working from Home</u></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(I'm on an important business call with a client.) </div>
<strong>Me</strong>: Yes. I'll get that proposal to you in 10 minutes.<br />
<strong>B</strong>: (Walks into the room with pants around her ankles) Daddy!! Can you wipe my butt?!<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Make that 20.<br />
<br />
<strong>S</strong>: Daddy! I spilled my drink!<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: I'm sending out an email right now. Just put a paper towel on it and I'll clean it up in a minute.<br />
(She used my work notes.)<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Making Dinner</u></strong><br />
<strong><br />Me</strong>: What do you want me to cook for dinner tonight?<br />
<strong>S</strong>: Happy China.<br />
<strong>B</strong>: McDonalds.<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Okay.<br />
<strong>The Kids</strong>: YAY!<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: I'm ordering pizza tonight.<br />
<strong>Kids</strong>: YAY! You're the best cook ever!!<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><u>The Bedtime Routine</u></strong></div>
<strong></strong><div style="text-align: left;">
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>The Kids</strong>: Daddy, we need to take baths tonight.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> (Give each kid a sniff check.) Nah, you're good.<br />
<strong>The Kids:</strong> YAY!!<br />
<br />
(30 Minutes past bedtime and the kids are still goofing off in their room.)<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: You better go to sleep or I'll call your mother and tell her to stay in Philadelphia FOR-EV-ER!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>The Kids</strong>: Complete silence for the rest of the night. </div>
<br />
<br />
I got this.<br />
<br />
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-57863910523888716202013-03-03T14:47:00.000-05:002013-03-03T14:47:45.535-05:00Leaving on a Jet PlaneI was in the 3rd grade. It was the week before the start of winter break and I was already daydreaming about Christmas. The teachers were on auto pilot with our lessons. They were busy planning the student Holiday Showcase for the last PTA meeting of the year and anyone not in the showcase did busy work. I was not in the show. In fact, I had no idea there was a show until I saw my grade school best buddy, TC, walk into my classroom with five other girls. My teacher choreographed a “Candy Cane Dance” for a small group of 3rd grade girls and they used our classroom as a practice area. I know I should have kept my focus on long division rather than watch the girls twirl and curtsey while holding cardboard tube “candy canes,” but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them, not to mention, I was a little jealous that TC was doing something other than long division.<br /><br />This went on for another few days: Six girls tapping their toes and trying to remember their left foot from their right and I was faking through my math work. The song, which escapes me now, was burned into my brain. Then it happened. TC came down with a really bad cold and stayed home from school . I overheard my teacher tell the girls at the next practice that they would have to make due without the 6th person in the dance group. I don’t know what came over me, but I stood up and said, “I can do it. I know the steps. I can fill in for TC.” My teacher looked at me and said, “Are you sure? You know it’s in front of a lot of people.” I nodded, walked over, took a “candy cane” cardboard tube and preformed the dance perfectly the first try. That Friday, I danced for a full house... erm, cafeteria. I felt like a super star and completely confident. I didn’t mess up. I nailed it. I was made for the stage.<br /><br />Fast forward a couple…okay, okay… almost three decades later. I’m two months into my new job. Less than two weeks ago, my boss asked me very last minute to go to Philadelphia for our company’s big conference to fill in for another employee. It was déjà vu. Over the course of the last week, my responsibilities grew and next week, I will be speaking in front of approximately 300 people. It’s been one crash course after another and I know what I have to do. I’m really honored. My boss believes that I can handle this even though I am still very new to the company. They trust that I’ll do a good job. I know the steps and my right foot from my left. My red and white striped skirt is now a business suit. My cardboard tube candy cane is now two laptops and a microphone. But, the audience will be less forgiving than the PTA and I’m not the confident super star 3rd grader I once was. I’m nervous. Like, <i>I’m not sure my deodorant is working and I'm really gassy</i> nervous.<br /><br />What happened to my 3rd grade bravado? I do "brave" things all the time. I speak in front of people. I introduce myself to groups of strangers. I sing karaoke... badly. I say YES when a comfortable NO would suffice. But, I now find that I regret jumping into the scary and question why I put myself into these situations. I usually come out okay in the end with a good story to tell, but the anxiety that plagues me the minutes, hours, days, and weeks before the event is almost too much to bear. I've lost my natural ballsy attitude somewhere along the way. <br /><br />As a mother, I have to be brave for my kids, so in turn, I can encourage them to be brave and try new things. I have to show them how to take bold steps. I have to fly away from the nest to show them how it's done before I kick them out. Yes, the 300 pairs of eyes starting at you are scary, but you'll be amazed at how good it feels to survive a good scare. Try the spinach. Yes, it looks like snot, but you might actually like it. Introduce yourself. Show off a talent. Take a trip to a strange new town by yourself. Take on a huge responsibility. That is how you grow. That is how you live.<br /><br />I'm putting on a brave face for my family. I'm honest about being nervous, but I back that up with "but I'll be okay and you will, too." The Hub is more than capable to handle the monkeys while I'm gone. I'm almost ready to board my first flight in 6 years. I'm ready to experience a whole bunch of unfamiliar. I'm ready to do a fantastic job. I'm ready for a quiet night in a hotel room where I am sole master of the remote control. As long as I remember my deodorant and underpants, I'm sure I'll be fine.<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O2pV_w8wdkw/UTOnABxjfJI/AAAAAAAAAy0/UhscITjJ6Jc/s1600/funny-Airplane-movie-scene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O2pV_w8wdkw/UTOnABxjfJI/AAAAAAAAAy0/UhscITjJ6Jc/s400/funny-Airplane-movie-scene.jpg" title="http://themetapicture.com/" width="328" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture Credit: <a href="http://themetapicture.com/">http://themetapicture.com/</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-5003459436383108152013-02-21T21:15:00.001-05:002013-02-21T21:16:30.225-05:00Happy Birthday Little Blog!Dear Fine Readers,<br />
<br />
One year ago today at 7:18 P.M., <em>You'll Be Fine. I Promise</em>. was born. Look at how much we've grown! We learned how to <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/02/mom-whats-for-dinner.html" target="_blank">make dinner with children</a> and debated the <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/04/kids-cage-vs-free-range.html" target="_blank">pros and cons of taking kids to restaurants.</a> We shared our <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-dark-secret.html" target="_blank">fears</a>, our <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-dark-secret.html" target="_blank">dreams,</a> and our <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/03/yuck-dont-touch-that.html" target="_blank">little quirks</a>. I gave you some pointers on how to <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-to-defuse-bomb.html" target="_blank">shop</a> with your kids, how to keep your <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/05/mom-im-bored.html" target="_blank">kids entertained on the cheap</a>, and how to <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2013/02/crying-wolf.html" target="_blank">understand your child's emotions</a>. I told my silly stories about <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/06/i-cant-have-nice-things.html" target="_blank">naughty dogs</a> and <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/04/penny-for-your-thoughts.html" target="_blank">goofy kids</a>, but I also opened up about <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/05/love-letter-to-my-kids.html" target="_blank">love</a>, <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/11/saying-goodbye.html" target="_blank">loss</a>, and struggling with the <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/03/metaphorical-face-plants.html" target="_blank">trials</a> and <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/09/mommy-tantrums.html" target="_blank">tribulations</a> of parenthood. It's been a fun ride and I hope you'll join me in another year of<a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/09/be-happy-dammit.html" target="_blank"> laughing at ourselves</a> and learning to<a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/08/earn-those-poop-stickers-girl.html" target="_blank"> take it all in stride</a>. I mean, really, we're just raising the next generation... no biggie, right? <br />
<br />
When I started this blog, I was a stay at home mom. I was able to write once a week. I spent a lot of time with each story. I shared each post like a new mother shows off her newborn's pictures. I would obsess about traffic numbers. I would check to see where I was ranked in Google searches. I had visions of what <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-answer-is-no.html" target="_blank">my blog will look like when it grows up</a>. Now that I'm back to work and the blog is a toddler, I find that I'm lucky to steal a moment to check the comments and type out a post every other week. I still love my blog. I still talk about my blog and want everyone in the world to read it, but I've slowed down on the "new mommy" habits. I realize that my little blog is growing everyday and one day, I'll look back and say, "Look how big it is!" <br />
<br />
To celebrate the first birthday of <em>You'll Be Fine</em>, I decided to buy my very own domain name. I wanted to make this blog official and all professional-like. Well, it turns out, it's not easy to buy your very own domain name and transfer a blog. In fact, I think it's safe to say it's easier to change a toddler's poopy diaper in the backseat of a two door car than buy a domain name and transfer a blog. Like a tired yet determined mother baking a birthday cake for her child's 1st birthday party, I tried to set this all up last night. Around midnight, I shut down my computer satisfied with the fact that I now own a domain name AND I did not actually delete all of my posts when I accidently hit the "delete blog" button. With a toddler stride, I hope to get everything transferred over and start on a redesign soon. <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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AODfVWCHXKM/USbSHmGJA0I/AAAAAAAAAyU/Edi2Tz_OxQU/s1600/393612_2344687614271_525664605_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="297" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AODfVWCHXKM/USbSHmGJA0I/AAAAAAAAAyU/Edi2Tz_OxQU/s400/393612_2344687614271_525664605_n.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 02/21/13" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughter, S's 1st birthday cake. It was Curious George.<br />
<i>It was also my very first cake baking experience. <br />I stayed up well past midnight the night before her party trying to get the icing face just right.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am so thankful for all of you and that you read my blog. I love hearing from you. If you haven't already, become a Fine Friend on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/YoullBeFineIPromise" target="_blank">You'll Be Fine. I Promise. facebook page</a>. I post extra goodies and special announcements on there and I encourage everyone to join in conversations and share their stories. You can also follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/youllbefineblog" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://pinterest.com/tereselavallee/you-ll-be-fine-i-promise/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a>. As my daughters say: "Hey other kid! Let's be friends!"<br />
<br />
Happy birthday little blog. (Damn, I should have baked a cake so I could make a <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/07/birthday-wishes-of-30-something.html" target="_blank">wish</a>...)<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Terese<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. Which YBFIP post was your favorite? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. <br />
<br />
<br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-90359986278679059682013-02-07T23:26:00.000-05:002013-03-24T17:03:25.905-04:00Robbing Peter Alarm rings at 5:00 A.M.<br />
<br />
Hit snooze about 5 times. Make that 6. <br />
<br />
<em>Oh God. I'm exhausted. Where did the night go? Didn't I just go to bed? I dreamt about work. That should count as a full day's work. I think I'll ask the boss about getting time and a half for REM Sleep work. I really should get up. I've got a long day ahead of me. I need to let the dog out, feed the dog, take a shower... did I put the laundry in the dryer last night? Damn it. Okay. There goes my charcoal gray cardigan option. I think my black sweater is clean. I'll wear that. Did I set the coffee maker to auto brew last night? YES. Thank you me from last night. You're the best.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Roll out of bed. Start the morning routine. Walk around the house in the dark to avoid waking the kids. Step on the dog's chew toy that squeaks. Might as well been an air horn. Youngest daughter, B, wakes up and starts crying very loudly like she does every morning since the second day of work.<em><strong> I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL MAMA! </strong></em><br />
<br />
Rush, rush, dress, dress, brush, brush, search, search, pack, pack, nag, nag... <em>Where the hell are my keys?!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Drive to work. <br />
<br />
<em>Seriously, people! What happened to Atlanta radio over the last three years? There are five stations and they all play the same bubble gum Taylor Swift song at the same time. I'm only in the car for 15 minutes so I can't hear the results of the morning show DJs' riveting debate on the pros and cons of breaking up with someone via text message. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Type, type, answer call, answer call, double check the numbers, type, type, staple, copy, type, type, call, call, ask question, delete, type, report, repeat.<br />
<br />
Drive home from work.<br />
<br />
<em>Damn you, Taylor Swift!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Meet older daughter, S, at the bus stop. Get a big hug and "guess what happened today, Mama!!" Try to follow the latest First Grade drama. Attempt to steer the conversation to focus on what she learned that day. Climb back into the car to pick up B from daycare. Get the warmest welcome from B. "<strong>MAMA!!! I MISSED YOU!!!"</strong> Try to follow the latest daycare drama. Attempt to steer the conversation to focus on what she did that day. Arrive home and get mauled (lovingly) by lonely dog. Check the house for carnage the dog left behind after 8 hours of being home alone with only the sound of Animal Planet on the TV.<br />
<br />
Snack, homework, reading, play time for the kids, play time with dog. Bill pay, answer personal emails, light housework, and start dinner for me. Wait for The Hub to walk through the door. Sneak off with The Hub to chat about our day while the kids are playing. Have to cut conversation short because one kid did something to make the other kid mad. <br />
<br />
Eat, clean, baths, books, kisses, feed fish, good night.<br />
<br />
<em>Go to sleep girls! </em><br />
<em>I mean it! </em><br />
<em>If I hear one more peep come from that room, you're grounded forever.</em><br />
<em>GO TO SLEEP!</em><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em>"You better go to sleep or I'll send mommy in there!!" - The Hub</em></blockquote>
<br />
Make lunches, lay out clothes for tomorrow, pack school bags, set coffee machine. Crash on couch and flip through the channels and doze off in the middle of The Big Bang Theory. <em>Where did the day go?!</em><br />
<br />
<em>I really should be writing...</em><br />
<br />
That's pretty much my day during the week now. I know employed parents out there are nodding their heads in agreement. Maybe even shaking their heads and saying, "Girlfriend, you have no idea what I have to do everyday." Some of you crazy people can add sports practice, music lessons, Girl or Boy Scouts, gym workouts, baking homemade bread, reading Tolstoy, working a second job, belly dancing, tweezing your eyebrows, and breathing. (<em>How the hell do you manage it?</em>) I know what it's like to be a stay at home mom. This is also my second round of being an employed mom. Both lives are challenging. Both lives have perks. Both lives are good and hard in their own way. I just didn't expect the transition from one stage of life to another to be so... well... exhausting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Di0SACca0iU/URR9sU4eimI/AAAAAAAAAx0/uh9ijYK-F-Q/s1600/1336339342953_8267724.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="224" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Di0SACca0iU/URR9sU4eimI/AAAAAAAAAx0/uh9ijYK-F-Q/s320/1336339342953_8267724.png" title="http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/1336339342953_8267724.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm struggling to find my balance. I still want to do all the things I did when I was home all the time, but I also want to do well with my new job outside of the home. I'm not used to being "ON" all day. I have to be pleasant and professional even when all I want to do is lay on the floor with my daughter and watch Dora the Explorer. <em>I can't believe I just wrote that. I can't stand Dora the Explorer.</em> I have to be focused when I want to zone out. I want to do housework during the weekday, rather than on the weekends. <em>Okay, let's be honest... I don't want to housework anytime.</em> Oh, and the laundry piles up in record time now, not because I haven't done it, but because I am wearing different clothes everyday. I seriously considered wearing my PJ's to work. I miss wearing PJ's all day. <br />
<br />
The simple fact is, we need the second income. I am so ridiculously grateful for the job and I like it 95% of the time. I think I'm pretty good at what I do. I have my "kick ass" moments at work. I still have my "kick ass" moments at home... they just rarely happen on the same day. I feel that in order to get everything done, I have to rob Peter to pay Paul. To get more time with my family, I let the house go. When the house gets messy, I get antsy and we have to play "find the kids' shoes" when the bus is coming up the street. To get my house in order, The Hub and I do housework on the weekends. I even try to do a little bit of housework each night to lessen the weekend chores. By Friday, you can't even tell I cleaned on Monday. I feel like I have to schedule every minute of my week. I'm not good with schedules. I'm motivated by mood. I do things when I feel like it. I don't have a internal clock and it takes so much self discipline to do what I have to do. It also takes self discipline to slow down and do things I want to do without guilt. Like read extra bedtime stories. Snuggle with The Hub. Play with the dog. Lay on the couch and do absolutely nothing. Write.<br />
<br />
I know it's only been a month. I know I'll pull a Stella and get my groove back. It took a while for me to get used to being a stay at home mom. It'll take some time to get used to being employed. Tonight, I will set up the coffee maker, pack some lunches, lay out clothes, and set my alarm for 5:00 AM. I might wake up and attack the day with gusto. I might wake up and join B in a good cry and yell, "<strong><em> I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL MAMA! </em></strong>Either way, it'll be fine.<br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-14391801199529990672013-02-02T12:16:00.000-05:002013-02-02T12:16:03.147-05:00Crying Wolf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bnh3kMRm5ag/UQMBFN-awzI/AAAAAAAAAug/an8BjCbqT_Y/s1600/47287864807766349_sQiVVK7Y_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bnh3kMRm5ag/UQMBFN-awzI/AAAAAAAAAug/an8BjCbqT_Y/s320/47287864807766349_sQiVVK7Y_c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I've been a mother for over seven years, but I still don't really know my kids' cries. People say that when you become a parent, you'll learn that your child has different cries: A tired cry, a hungry cry, a sad cry, a fussy cry, a scared cry, a dirty diaper cry, a bored cry, a pain cry... the list goes on. When S was born, we jumped at every noise. If she sighed a little differently while sleeping at night, The Hub and I hovered over her and watched her chest rise and fall, just in case that particular sigh was her last breath. Morbid, I know. But, these are the scary thoughts that plague the minds of new parents. With time, you're supposed to figure out the different types of cries. Each baby is different and each baby produces unique sounds. I'm here to report that it's not always that easy. Somehow, I failed to acquire the ear for cries.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
S would cry everyday about something. She would cry if she woke up too early or too late. She would cry if she didn't like the meal we served her. She would cry if someone looked at her too long. She would cry at the end of her favorite cartoon. She would cry at bath time and bedtime. It was like living with a toddler with PMS. I'll admit, I'm an emotional person, but even in my lifetime, I've never cried as much as she did those first three years. During one especially emotional month, I asked her pediatrician if she needed Prozac. He assured me it was "just a phase and she'd grow out of it." He was right. Around the age of four, S stopped crying everyday. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The problem now is that her cries are inconsistent with the cause of the cry. If she has a serious crash on her bike, she might shed a few quiet tears. If we turn off her cartoons, S will reenact Sally Field's cemetery break down from <i>Steel Magnolias</i>. I just can't judge the severity of the problem based on her reaction. Recently, S was running down the hall with our dog, Bailey. Bailey is a 65 pound pitbull who truly believes she is a little lap dog. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me: Stop running down the hall, S.<br />S: Bailey and I are playing chase and having fun. I'll be careful.<br />Me: Seriously, stop running. You'll get hurt.<br />S: I won't get hurt, mom. We're just playing.<br />Me: Fine. Don't come crying to me when you do!</i></blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b>BAM! </b></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>S: (calmly) Mommy? I fell down and hit my face.<br /> Me: See?! Told you so. Go sit down.</i></blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
S was really quiet and I started to feel bad for not checking on her. So after a few minutes of gloating in my mommy wisdom, I checked on S. It turns out that Bailey suddenly turned in front of S mid run and tripped S. S fell forward and smacked her face against the door frame. The few minutes I left her alone on the couch, a goose egg bump formed on her cheek and within a few hours, she had a dark purple bruise that covered her eye and half her face. S barely cried.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
My younger daughter, B, (age 3 1/2) has one cry. On a scale from one to ten, it's an eleven. It doesn't matter if she's a little moody or seriously injured, her default cry is that of a wild animal being skinned alive. She will tilt her head back, close her eyes, open her mouth, and wail. I believe she is part banshee or we have a Death Metal frontman somewhere in our blood line. It's a blood-curdling noise and will turn your hair white. No joke. I really should buy stock in Nice and Easy 118 Natural Medium Brown. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Basically, B "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Boy_Who_Cried_Wolf" target="_blank">cries wolf</a>." Every "bad" situation is an emergency. Every moment of discomfort or pain is of epic proportions. It's go big or go home. I can only hope that B will turn off the daily waterworks around her fourth birthday. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
That is why I can't figure out my kids' cries. Or screams, for that matter. When they are playing in the other room, I'll hear some serious shrieks and a desperate call for MAMA! I'll jump up and run to the room, half expecting to see blood or an exposed bone. </div>
<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me: WHAT? WHAT IS WRONG?!<br />Kids: Oh Hi, mommy!<br />Me: What is going on? Why did you yell for me like that?<br />B: We're playing Monster Attack and S is the mommy* and I'm the baby and S is trying to save me from the monster.<br />S: Yeah, mom. Why are you so upset? We're playing nicely like you told us to.</i></blockquote>
<div>
<br /><div>
*Due to the high frequency of confusing a cry for the pretend mom with a call requesting me, I added Rule #264:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Whereas, We have taken into Our Royal Consideration the need for active imaginations and play to further our offspring's overall development, let it be known from this day forward, all imaginary maternal guardians will be addressed as "Mother." Her Majesty The Queen of the Household (your real mother), shall only acknowledge and respond to "Mommy, Mom, Mama, Ma." Any person in violation of said rule will be hung from their toes and given cold oatmeal for breakfast. </i></blockquote>
<br />In order to make sense of my kids' cries and screams, I have devised this chart which shows the appropriate cry/scream for any given situation. Before anyone decides to have an emotional reaction, they must first refer to this chart and adjust their intensity accordingly. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0obAooWVFVc/UQ012EwpE8I/AAAAAAAAAxU/A201ytN-hvY/s1600/4kzG6c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Terese Lavallee" border="0" height="308" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0obAooWVFVc/UQ012EwpE8I/AAAAAAAAAxU/A201ytN-hvY/s400/4kzG6c.jpeg" title=""You'll Be Fine. I Promise" Creation 0201013 Photo credits at bottom of post." width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>There better be a Honey Badger in that room or you're all in big trouble!</i><br />(Click on chart to enlarge)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know that once the kids become more proficient with the English language and learn to better articulate their feelings, I will be able to decipher their needs with ease and accuracy. I encourage the girls to "use their words" and calm down when trying to explain what happened to make them so upset. It takes time and patience... something that I still work on everyday. I have learned to not react to every cry and scream right away. Unless I hear glass breaking, smell smoke, or worse, complete silence, most times, my kids are okay. We have health insurance so when the inevitable trip to the ER happens, we're covered. Like their bodies, they are growing into their emotions. I try to remember what my pediatrician said whenever our household is in the midst of emotional chaos: It's just a phase and they'll grow out of it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
... Until they become teenagers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credits from Chart</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">1. <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=funny%20crying%20spiderman&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=09WqzVX02s73IM&tbnid=SEHc4C1iJxyf3M:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fcryface.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F2343067440&ei=LUgMUdH_NIjk8gSkgoE4&bvm=bv.41867550,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNE9Rzyv7_nFhyT7EbXoQoachGqSSA&ust=1359845801667819"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">cryface.tumblr.com</span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">2. <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/98/Oww_Papercut_14365.jpg/230px-Oww_Papercut_14365.jpg"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/98/Oww_Papercut_14365.jpg/230px-Oww_Papercut_14365.jpg</span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">3. <a href="http://freefunnyshit.com/viewcaption.php?caption_id=249&type=full"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">http://freefunnyshit.com/viewcaption.php?caption_id=249&type=full</span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">4. <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=lego+brick+on+black+background&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=tp5LoTig2mse9M&tbnid=XRivWsdOgNa02M:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Faboutus.lego.com%2Fen-us%2Fnews-room%2Fmedia-assets-library%2Fimages%2F&ei=qEIMUdH3MYG89gTd-YAQ&psig=AFQjCNFLCHFV-PgSKrCwW3g6Jr8jZ8dczg&ust=1359844329688460"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">aboutus.lego.com</span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">5. <a href="http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/R7C-feQm6GM/hqdefault.jpg"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/R7C-feQm6GM/hqdefault.jpg</span></a></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #000099; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">6. <span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://ivn.us/editors-blog/files/2012/05/honey-badger.jpeg">http://ivn.us/editors-blog/files/2012/05/honey-badger.jpeg</a></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-8596213119515027732013-01-19T20:24:00.000-05:002013-01-19T20:42:25.730-05:00I Am WolverineB was the first one to get sick.<br />
<br />
On Saturday, January 5th, just after her first two days at daycare, B woke up with a low-grade fever. She was laying down on the couch and not being her usual monkey self. The Hub and I decided to cancel our plans to work in the yard and make it a "lounge around the house" day. Suddenly, she started coughing really hard and then vomited all over herself, the couch, and the carpet. <i>Oh hell... Here we go with the daycare germ sharing. </i>For the next few hours, we battled her fever and she slept. By 5 P.M., B was jumping around and energetic as ever. We thought we had dodged a bullet. Little did we know that was just a preview of the horrors yet to come.<br />
<i><br /></i>
It started on Wednesday, the 9th. I was sitting at my desk at work and I felt a tickle in my throat. Then I started coughing. I thought it was from the dry and dusty office air. Thursday, I felt a little more tired than usual. I just couldn't get going. Getting up at 5 A.M. was taking its toll on me, but again, I shrugged my shoulders and had some more coffee. Driving home that afternoon, I got the chills. That evening, I didn't feel like eating dinner and all I wanted to do was go to bed.<br />
<br />
Eight days into my new job and I came down with the flu.<br />
<br />
Friday morning, I had a pretty high fever and felt awful. B woke up with another fever, too. I emailed my co-workers to tell them that I was staying home that day, wrapped myself up with several blankets, curled up on the couch, and watched cartoons with B. The Hub attended S's awards day ceremony and then worked from home that afternoon. Just like the Saturday before, B felt fine by 5 P.M. I was not so lucky. My fever spiked and I couldn't move. I was coughing and congested. The Hub practically carried me to bed that night and there I stayed for the next 48 hours.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">I'm not too clear on the sequence of events during that time. At one point, I woke up convinced some mad scientist filled my bones with </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adamantium" target="_blank">Adamantium</a>.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Me: My bones are filled with hot metal.<br />The Hub: Oh yeah?<br />Me: I am Wolverine.<br />The Hub: Do I need to take you to the hospital?</i></blockquote>
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-597-RxzQWME/UPsa2jrqT2I/AAAAAAAAAuA/tnGsTP7kA0A/s1600/art.wolverine.water.courtes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-597-RxzQWME/UPsa2jrqT2I/AAAAAAAAAuA/tnGsTP7kA0A/s1600/art.wolverine.water.courtes.jpg" title="http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Movies/05/01/the.scene.wolverine/index.html" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I swear to God, they turned me into Wolverine. <br />I'll prove it once I figure out how to get my claws to poke through my knuckles... </i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />Photo credit: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Movies/05/01/the.scene.wolverine/index.html">http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Movies/05/01/the.scene.wolverine/index.html</a> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div>
I woke up another time, walked into the hall and yelled, "It's 95 degrees in here! Who's fucking with the thermostat?!" I pushed a bunch of buttons on the thermostat and went back to bed. The Hub walked over to the thermostat after I left. It was 72 degrees and I didn't change a thing.<br />
<br />
It had been such a long time since I'd felt that sick. It was the kind of sick when you wish you were a little kid again and your mom could take care of you. My body ached and I cried a few times when it felt that I would never be well again. The Hub would bring little plastic cups of NyQuil and Tylenol. He would fill my water glass and rub my back and legs when I swore someone snuck into the house and laid heavy cement blocks on my body. He corralled the kids to the living room and not once did I hear, "Mommy? I need _______!" He even did housework. I didn't have to worry about anything other than my hot metal bones. I fell in love with him all over again that weekend. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My fever finally broke Sunday night. I was dripping with sweat and thirsty as hell. I couldn't get enough water. It was the first time that I was able to sit upright since Thursday night. It was also the first time I wanted to eat. I warmed up some chicken and noodle soup, took a few bites, and proceeded to vomit. I could not keep any solid food down. But, my fever was gone and I was grateful that I wasn't hallucinating anymore.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
From Monday until Wednesday, I would get up each morning, take a shower and get dressed for work. I never made it out the door. I tried. I really tried. But, I still was unable to keep anything down and I was incredibly weak. S woke up with a fever on Monday, but like her little sister, she was fine a few hours later. <i>I believe one of the hardest parts of parenting is trying to take care of a sick child when you, yourself are sick.</i> I guess The Hub felt left out, because he started to feel sick Tuesday afternoon. He stopped by a Minute Clinic and tested positive with the flu, but the doctor prescribed Tamiflu and he was fine the next day.<br />
<br />
I lost 10 lbs over the course of eight days. One would think I would be stoked that I finally lost my baby weight from my pregnancy with B... <em>ahem, three and a half years ago...</em> but I looked sickly and I was weak. My first meal was cucumber slices, soda crackers, and ginger ale. My second meal was three chicken nuggets and edamame. So far, I've put 2 lbs back on and I'm sure by next week, I'll be back to my normal weight. <em>Sigh</em>.<br />
<br />
By Thursday morning, I was determined to go to work. I was no longer contagious and I was finally able to keep food down. My co-workers were extremely compassionate and even helped me with the work I missed the four days I was out. I was able to go back to normal life slowly. No one expected me to be at 100%. It was lovely. I was able to catch up on everything and finish out the work week.<br />
<br />
I attacked the house with Lysol, bought everyone new tooth brushes, and washed all the bed sheets and pillow cases. I restocked the medicine cabinet with multi-vitamins and I am pushing frequent hand washing like a drill sergeant. I battled the mutant virus and came out alive. I am Wolverine. <br />
<br />
Still waiting on those damn metal claws...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-53533403703268578392013-01-01T21:10:00.000-05:002013-02-28T20:58:58.917-05:00Mommy is Going Back to Work<span class="Apple-style-span">It is day one of 2013. Happy New Year! I've already broken two resolutions. I'm not worried. I have a whole year to get back on track. To be honest, I'm not focused on my laundry list of resolutions. I'm not even focused on my laundry. After three and a half years of being a stay at home mom, I go back to work tomorrow. I feel like a teenager getting ready for a new year of high school. Each year, I'd spend the last day of summer, contemplating my game plan for the new year: Will I be funny? Will I be quiet and devote myself to homework? Will I reach out to make new friends or let others come to me? Each year I'd decide on my persona and by the first hour of class, I'd fall right back into my slightly funny, kind of shy, awkward girl persona who floated between different cliques</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> and did really well in honors Language Arts and failed miserably in Geometry. I was right in the middle. Now that I've lived another lifetime since high school, I've figured out who I am. I'm a slightly funny, kind of shy, awkward girl, with a dash of smartass that comes with age. I'm looking forward to my job which will not involve geometry proofs and hopefully, a lot of words.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcm3iHFC988/UON9TnKPToI/AAAAAAAAAtA/81SekcF6aBc/s1600/Angela_Chase_and_Jordan_Catalano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcm3iHFC988/UON9TnKPToI/AAAAAAAAAtA/81SekcF6aBc/s320/Angela_Chase_and_Jordan_Catalano.jpg" title="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Angela_Chase_and_Jordan_Catalano.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wanted to be like Angela Chase from <i>My So Called Life</i>.<br />
I wasn't good at leaning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On the eve of the first day of my new job, I've already laid out my <i>first day of work</i> outfit, packed my <i>first day of work</i> lunch, set aside my favorite mug for the <i>first day of work</i> coffee, and cleaned out my car for the <i>first day of work</i> commute. I am so ready for this.<br />
<br />
No, I'm not.<br />
<br />
Even though I spent the last year looking for outside employment, I've really enjoyed being at home. It's been my job for three and a half years. I started off as a working mom when S was born and I did fairly well with the balancing act, but I've fallen in love with the home mom job. The original plan was for me to stay with B from birth until she started Pre-K in August this year. Once both kids were in school full time, I could go back to work. The Hub and I put ourselves on a ridiculously tight budget and hunkered down. Over the past three and a half years, The Hub changed jobs twice, we had to replace a hot water tank and both toilets, we brought on two pets, and survived numerous other money pit situations. We went without family vacations and fancy electronic equipment. I became a coupon clipper and I've grown quite fond of generic brand coffee. The Hub and I rarely went out. But, after all this time, the struggle and hoping that nothing else would fall apart before my stay at home time was up, I truly enjoyed the experience. I found myself. I discovered some hidden talents. I tell some amazing bedtime stories. I have a flair for organizing. I learned how to cook. I found that I can go for the long haul on half a tank. I started writing again. I started this blog. I learned to be comfortable in my own skin without wearing make-up. I could actually go three days without a shower. I am good at making due with what I have. <br />
<br />
Over the last year, we realized that B needed to be around other kids and we were tired of living on the lean. Not to mention, the kids are both going through growth spurts. They're eating us out of house and home and out growing their clothes faster than our budget allows. Besides, I'd really like to take a real vacation and actually make my home look like my "Design Inspiration" board on Pinterest. That all takes money. I am grateful that this new job fell into my lap. I know I'm extremely lucky for this opportunity. But, still... I am nervous about the change. And a little sad.<br />
<br />
Since I've played both roles, I feel that I know both sides to the story... the pros and cons, so to speak. Obviously, a big pro is the extra paycheck. Since I'm not in high school anymore, I need a new thing to contemplate the night before the first day. Here is a list of pros and cons of going back to work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Pros:</strong><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>While at work, I will be called by my real name. I am not required to answer to mommy, mom, mama, or ma.</li>
<li>My co-workers are responsible for their own lunches, tying their own shoes, and putting on their own coats.</li>
<li>I will not have to wipe another person's butt or nose for eight hours a day, five days a week. </li>
<li>No one will bang on the door and cry while I'm in the bathroom.</li>
<li>I can listen to my music while in the car twice a day.</li>
<li>No cartoons.</li>
<li>I can say T.G.I.F. again and mean it.</li>
<li>I can carry on an adult conversation without having to stop to let the dog out or yell at a kid for writing on the walls. </li>
<li>B will be in daycare. (Insert evil laugh here)</li>
<li>I won't have to share my computer so someone else can play Nick Jr. games.</li>
<li>I'm not the boss.</li>
</ul>
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Cons:</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<ul>
<li>No farting, belching, or scratching while at work.</li>
<li>Yoga pants and pajamas are not appropriate work attire.</li>
<li>Hiding in the closet to eat a chocolate bar is frowned upon... maybe that should go into the pro column.</li>
<li>I'll have to put on a bra before 7:00 A.M. and keep it on until after 4 P.M.</li>
<li>No naps.</li>
<li>A swish of coffee is no longer an acceptable form of mouthwash.</li>
<li>No eating the leftovers off of co-workers' plates. </li>
<li>A scoop of peanut butter on a spoon, a handful of goldfish crackers, and a juice box is not a professional grown up lunch.</li>
<li>No surfing the web for funny pictures of cats.</li>
<li>I cannot end an inter-office disagreement with "because I said so, that's why!"</li>
<li>If a co-worker makes me mad, I cannot send him or her to timeout.</li>
<li>I won't do the "Yay! The kids go back to school tomorrow!" dance on Sunday nights. It will now be the "Awwww, I have to go back to work tomorrow" sulk.</li>
<li>I'll have to leave the house on rainy days, extra cold days, and bloated days.</li>
<li>I'll miss the little buggers.</li>
<li>I'm not the boss.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
It's going to be fine. I'll be fine. Who knows? Maybe I'll really love my new job. I really liked everyone I met while interviewing. I already know I'll be good at my job and I'll be able to do some really fun and interesting things. It's close to home and they let me pick my own hours so I don't have to send S to before/after school daycare. It's okay with my employeer that I'm a mom first. I've found that if a company recognizes that, it's a damn good company and you need to make sure you work hard and keep that job. Even with the cons, this opprotunity is better than I could have ever imagined. It's going to be a good year. I can't wait to tell you all about my first day and all the adventures to come.<br />
<br />
(Deep breath.)Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-13071902181948978022012-12-21T18:09:00.004-05:002012-12-21T22:21:14.418-05:00Don't Make Me Turn This Car Around!It's the holiday season and for many of us, it is the time to load up the car and go over the river and through the woods to visit family and friends. Traveling during the holidays is typically not a fun event. Traffic, bad drivers, and poor road conditions due to wintry weather makes even the most holly jolly driver turn into a bird-flipping, bah-humbuggin' Grinch.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MuCDc7tB0zQ/UNSzD_bol_I/AAAAAAAAArU/MSmR-6TJ65Y/s1600/MjAxMi1kNDdmMjc4NTMzNmRiYzk5_50d4b2d074754.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="224" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MuCDc7tB0zQ/UNSzD_bol_I/AAAAAAAAArU/MSmR-6TJ65Y/s320/MjAxMi1kNDdmMjc4NTMzNmRiYzk5_50d4b2d074754.png" title="http://some.ly/UVZJJm" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Each year, we suffer from either amnesia or a heightened sense of optimism and we forge ahead with our travel plans, even though for many of us, it will not be merry and bright. This is especially true for those of us who travel with kids. If you have never been stuck in a car with kids or have conveniently forgotten how you were as a child, just imagine sitting in a small confined space with monkeys on crack. Even the most well behaved child will act up in the car.<br />
<br />
Our daughter, S, suffered from motion sickness when she was younger. Without fail, every time we tried to travel more than a few miles, she would vomit all over herself. It happened so often, we always traveled with an extra change of clothes, old towels, baby wipes, a trash bag, and air freshener. One Christmas Eve, we took a trip to the North Georgia Mountains to visit my parents. We stopped twice to mop up toddler puke, change clothes, and Febreeze the inside of the car. Once we reached my parents' cabin on the top of a mountain, we gave S a bath and washed her clothes. Later that evening, dressed in our Sunday best, we jumped back into the car and headed down the winding and weaving roads to my parent's church for Christmas mass. S couldn't take the switch-backs and tossed her cookies again. This time we did not have a change of clothes. The Hub pulled the present he was going to give to me from the trunk and told me to put on S. It was an alpaca sweater. Our daughter walked into church looking like a little shepherd boy.<br />
<br />
A few Christmas Eves later, we added a second little passenger and made our way up the mountain once again. Our other daughter, B, started to scream as soon as we placed her in the car seat. It takes about an hour and a half to drive to my parents' cabin. After an hour and a half of enduring blood-curdling screams and violent retching coming from the backseat of our car, while fighting holiday traffic, The Hub and I walked into my parents' cabin with our teeth clenched and demanded hard liquor. No one was surprised when we said we would not make the trip again until both kids were older.<br />
<br />
But, the joy of driving with kids is the gift that keeps on giving throughout the year. Kids are like wild animals. They long to be free to roam in the open fields, not tightly bound in a rear-facing car seat. Kids are naturally wired to move. They have to kick the back of your seat to release their pent-up energy. Kids, especially my kids, are music critics. They are not shy about their distaste for our "old people" music. (Heaven forbid I change the channel during a One Direction song.) Kids have no concept of time and demand ad nauseam to know if we are "almost there yet." Someone always has to pee when there is not a rest stop for miles. Someone always wants the other passenger to stop looking at them. Kids ruin road trips.<br />
<br />
And it's not just on long car rides. It takes us exactly 13 seconds to drive from our house to my in-laws' house. It takes 5 minutes to load the kids into the car to make that 13 second drive. Every single time we get to the car, the kids fight about who gets into the car first. When we bring our dog Bailey with us, we have to lift her 65 lbs. butt into the car because she does not like car rides. This cracks my mother-in-law up to no end. It looks like this:<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8wW8XKSB_cc/UNTq0-RpesI/AAAAAAAAAsU/ipmoJgaPla0/s1600/IMG_2031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="210" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8wW8XKSB_cc/UNTq0-RpesI/AAAAAAAAAsU/ipmoJgaPla0/s320/IMG_2031.JPG" title="An original Terese Lavallee photo 12/21/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I don't WANT to ride in the car, mama!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We could walk to their house, but where's the adventure in that? Besides, we live on top of a very steep hill. Getting there is easy. Walking back is not.<br />
<br />
I know I deserve all this traveling-with-kids drama. My two sisters and I put my parents through vehicular hell. When I was a little girl, my mom was rushing to get us into the car to get somewhere (I can't recall where, but it was important that we made it there on time.) Like always, my two sisters and I battled over who got to ride "shotgun." I wrestled my way into the front seat and my middle sister and I continued to fight. Completely distracted by our chaos, my mom backed out of the garage, failing to realize that the passenger side door was still ajar. She ripped the car door right off the hinges. We did not make it to our destination that day.<br />
<br />
Until I had kids of my own, I never understood why my dad strictly enforced the "no talking while he was driving in traffic" or "while the radio is on" rule. Those rules eventually turned into the "no talking in the car ever" rule. I didn't understand why my parents would grumble, "just wait until you have kids" when we finally made it to our destination and all they wanted was hard liquor to calm their frayed nerves.<br />
<br />
Well, once again, payback is theirs and rightly so. Every time I yell, "knock it off, you two," or "just get in the damn car, already," or the ever popular (yet never enforced), "don't make me turn this car around," I find comfort knowing that one day my kids will have to drive their kids around. To my dear parents, I am sorry I drove you nuts while you drove me around. I accept my just desserts. To The Hub's parents, I am sorry for all the mischief he caused on your cross country travels... Like the time he shoved that drinking straw up his little brother's nose, causing him to bleed all over the backseat of the car. Rest assured, we're paying for that, as well.<br />
<br />
Karma is a car full of cranky kids and no rest stops for miles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Il_ycCuJu5o/UNTbUH4RLfI/AAAAAAAAAr0/BW6af-8jlgw/s1600/7864495e-e68a-48e1-917e-a1088e8a6eab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Il_ycCuJu5o/UNTbUH4RLfI/AAAAAAAAAr0/BW6af-8jlgw/s320/7864495e-e68a-48e1-917e-a1088e8a6eab.jpg" title="http://i.chzbgr.com/completestore/2010/7/29/7864495e-e68a-48e1-917e-a1088e8a6eab.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honestly, has anyone ever turned this car around?<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: <a href="http://cheezburger.com/3807832064">http://cheezburger.com/3807832064</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I wish you all safe and peaceful travels. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!</div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-20838180053040137852012-12-17T20:38:00.000-05:002012-12-17T23:52:54.612-05:00Fear, Guilt, and Carrying On (One Mom's Personal Reaction to the Sandy Hook Massacre)Sometimes a "<a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-answer-is-no.html" target="_blank">No</a>" can become a "yes." It turns out, I have a full time job now. So much can happen in a span of a week. Long story extremely short: The fourth job I interviewed for and turned down, called me back a couple of days later with a new position and a better offer. (I guess they really liked me! Which is good, because I really like them.) I will start January 2, 2013 and work during my daughter S's school hours. B, my youngest daughter, will go to daycare. The best part is that I will still have plenty of hours during the day to help with homework, run errands, and work on my blog and book. It's the perfect situation for me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, with the excitement of additional income and a new adventure comes nervous feelings. I've been a stay at home mom for over three and a half years. In a little over two weeks, I will have to completely adjust my schedule. Gone are the days of wearing my yoga pants three days in a row. I'll have to get completely dressed before 6:00 AM, get both kids up and dressed, and send them off to their respective schools before I can start my day. I remember what it was like to work full time with just one child. Getting it all done with two is a daunting task. I'm nervous about how B will respond to daycare. She has extreme separation anxiety right now. B has to be by my side at all times. She panics when I close the bathroom door. If I walk out of the room, she follows me. I wake up at 3:00 AM with her laying on top of me every night. I almost pity her daycare teacher. The poor lady will have her hands full. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those were the fears whispering in my ear all week. They were little doubts that I could reason through and assure myself that it was all going to be okay. I knew it was little jitters due to change and when I would feel overwhelmed, I would imagine the training montage from Rocky IV and know that I could do it. Then Friday afternoon, I learned of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandy_Hook_Elementary_School_shooting" target="_blank">Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Newtown, Connecticut.</a> Twenty-six people lost their lives in a shooting rampage. Twenty of them were very young children. Four of them were the same age as my daughter, S. Suddenly, the nerves I had about the new routine were replaced with a new fear, a completely unexpected terrible fear. That could have been my daughter.<br />
<br />
I could feel the blood drain from my face. And then, I cried. I sobbed. I yelled. I sat still and quiet. I could feel a sharp pain in my chest as I read the names of the adults and children lost. I crumbled at the sight of children running for their lives. I cursed the monster who did all this damage. (I refuse to write his name. Evil does not deserve a name.) I asked questions. Why? How could you? I couldn't imagine how terrified those little babies felt. I couldn't imagine how terrified the parents and teachers felt. I praised the adults that did everything they could to protect their children. I cheered on the first responders and all the men and women who jumped into action. I questioned God and my personal faith. (I'm sure I wasn't alone.) I did not know a single person who died on Friday, but as a mother, the instinct to protect our young went into over drive and I felt a sharp pang of sorrow for the parents who had their children ripped from their lives on a random Friday.<br />
<br />
I became fearful of other people... The shadows that could very easily take my children from me without warning. I feared for their safety in school. I questioned if sending my youngest to daycare was a good move. Through all of my emotions, I took great strides to hide them from my children and kept them blissfully unaware of the events. Neither one of them had a clue. To them, life was normal, except mommy was hugging and kissing them a lot more than usual. I debated over and over if I should tell S about the shootings. The Hub and I initially agreed that we would not tell her, but after further thought, we decided it was better that she hear it from us, than from a school bus mate. School bus mates never get the story right.<br />
<br />
But, above all the sorrow, anger, and fear, I was glad it didn't happen to us. That sparked the guilt.<br />
<br />
Here I was, about to post a funny blog that afternoon before I heard the news, complaining about my kids (in jest of course) and there are parents who would do anything to hold their children again. Then, I thought of all the parents who have lost their children in freak accidents or illness. I am so lucky to have my daughters. They are healthy. They are free from injury. The challenges in their daily lives never go beyond the normal challenges kids face. Our biggest issue right now is who started the fight first and finishing the vegetables on their plates. I spent the whole week worrying about how I was going to get my butt out of bed early enough to get the morning routine done. I worried about the inevitable tantrums the first week of work... B's and my own. The parents who lost their children would give anything to face those challenges again because that would mean that their life was how it used to be. We are the lucky ones.<br />
<br />
This afternoon, I heard a weird banging noise coming from the hall bathroom. I walked in to find B hanging from the towel bar like a little monkey. One side of the bar is barely attached to the wall. I yelled, "Don't hang from the bar! You'll pull it down!" That was the first time I raised my voice in three days. It was the first time I was fully aware that I was in a haze from all of this. I realized that I let fear and guilt overcome me this weekend and I wasn't fully doing my job. I was dwelling in the negative and half-present in my life. I shouldn't feel guilty because I'm not experiencing ultimate suffering. I should be grateful. I should honor the parents in mourning by doing my job as well as I possibly can. I need to raise loving human beings and send them out into the world, hopefully making it a better world. That is my job. My kids are going to misbehave. I'm going to discipline them. My kids are going to do funny things. I'm going to laugh at them. My kids are going to drive me crazy and I will want a break from them, but I will continue to love them with every fiber of my being. I need to show them how to be brave... which means I must be brave. I need to teach them that even in the face of darkness, the light within us will give us courage and strength. Life will go on even when it feels like it won't. I am going to continue to share my stories about crayon marked walls, scraped knees, grocery store tantrums, parenting fails and all, because that is what I do. I will honor every parent by continuing to tell them that it will be fine, even when it feels like it won't be. They are not alone. It is good to laugh. It is good to live. It is good to keep going. But, maybe we'll try harder. Maybe we'll love more. Maybe we'll help each other out and work as a team. Maybe we'll argue less and try to come up with a real solution. Maybe we'll take more moments to recognize just how good it all is. Maybe we'll appreciate just how fragile it all can be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cj8A-A0ICBY/UM-7B_brMiI/AAAAAAAAAqs/mogG0KBJ_YE/s1600/525863_4832179039493_382257347_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="230" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cj8A-A0ICBY/UM-7B_brMiI/AAAAAAAAAqs/mogG0KBJ_YE/s320/525863_4832179039493_382257347_n.jpg" title="Photo credit: http://www.onlinegriefsupport.com/profiles/blogs/in-loving-memory-of-sandy-hook-elementary-victims" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: <a href="http://www.onlinegriefsupport.com/">http://www.onlinegriefsupport.com/</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<i>**Here is an ABC News article listing all the ways you can help the Sandy Hook community. Click this link: <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/ABC_Univision/News/newtown-connecticut-community-affected-shooting/story?id=17998133#.UM-rJD6MoWE.blogger">How You Can Help Newtown Connecticut Community Affected by Shooting - ABC News</a></i></div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-36427224721364746732012-12-06T23:34:00.001-05:002012-12-07T00:32:38.129-05:00The Answer is No.When I became a parent seven years ago, I had a pretty good idea of what was expected of me. I had to fulfill certain requirements like clean up messes, cook, and kiss boo-boos. You know... mommy work. What I didn't realize was that I would also face a lot of disappointment. It's not so much my disappointment, but the disappointment of my children. I say the word "no" a lot. It turns out, I am a dream crusher at least ten times a day. It goes something like this:<br />
<br />
Kid: <i>Can I have candy for breakfast?</i><br />
Me: <i>No.</i><br />
Kid: <i>Awww! </i><br />
<br />
Kid: <i>Can I run through the lawn sprinklers? </i><br />
Me: <i>It's the middle of winter. No.</i><br />
Kid: <i>Awww!</i><br />
<br />
Kid: <i>Can I have an iPhone?</i><br />
Me: <i>I don't even have an iPhone. Besides you're 6. No.</i><br />
Kid: <i>Awww!</i><br />
<br />
Kid: <i>Can I cut my own hair?</i><br />
Me:<i> Hell, no</i>.<br />
Kid: <i>Awww! (Sneaks off with scissors and does it anyway.)</i><br />
<br />
I also say "no" to jumping off the couch, to getting dessert without finishing dinner first, to driving the car, (my 3 year old thinks if she keeps asking, I'll eventually give in and let her take the family sedan for a spin), to wearing bright red lipstick to school, and to staying up late to watch Family Guy. (<i>But, mom! It's a cartoon!</i>)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ERUv7D2XTZU/UMFO5Y0g6xI/AAAAAAAAApk/xPPHqB0S6hU/s1600/funny-graphs-mom-can-i.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="" border="0" height="301" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ERUv7D2XTZU/UMFO5Y0g6xI/AAAAAAAAApk/xPPHqB0S6hU/s320/funny-graphs-mom-can-i.jpg" title="http://fungagz.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/funny-graphs-mom-can-i.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Over the last year, I have tried to get a job. I had four great opportunities and none of them worked out. Three of those times, I got a "no." I didn't fit their requirements in one way or another. <i>The fourth time happened today. Unfortunately, they didn't fit my requirements and I said no.</i> It's difficult to hear the word "no" when you really want something. When it comes to employment, it can really be dream crushing. While waiting (sometimes several weeks) for the results of your interview, it is easy to daydream about how things will be once you get that "yes, you're hired" phone call. I had the next two years planned out. My nights were spent dreaming sexy dreams of a time when we could quickly pay off our debt. We could fix up the house. We could go on a real vacation. We could actually save a little for rainy days... or what I like to call, "Dammit! The water heater is leaking!" days. But, then the answer is no and little dream bubbles are popped. You wake up and decide if you're going to let that "no" stop you. When my daughter wanted to cut her own hair, she didn't let my "no" stop her. Of course, she regretted that tenacious move once she found herself in the nearest Great Clips watching what was left of her long blonde hair fall to the floor. Regardless, she didn't let a "no" stop her.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And neither will I.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm going to say yes and hire myself. I think I am a good fit. I know I am driven and I have fantastic ideas. I think I can produce some amazing work. I have the potential to do something big. I can make one hell of a pot of coffee. I'm the perfect employee for me. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I have big plans for 2013. First, I want to really turn "You'll Be Fine. I Promise." into something wonderful. I'm talking new design, new features, and forums. I want to sell YBFIP merchandise. I want to start a charity or a program where we... you, my very fine readers, and I can help out and <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/05/love-letter-to-my-kids.html" target="_blank">be love</a>. I want to see just how far I can go with this little blog. That means more posts, more Facebook posts and Twitter tweets... or twits... tweeps? I'm going to network like hell, people. It scares me, but I'm going to put myself out there.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Second, I have set a real goal to finish my children's book. I started it earlier this year, but like my P90X DVDs, the manuscript remains untouched, ignored, and provides a great deal of self-imposed guilt. This year, I will finish it. You read it here, folks. Now, I have to do it. <i>Shit. Now I <b>HAVE</b> to do it.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I've already shared my goals with a few of my pals. I get the same response, "Yes. Do it. It's about damn time, Terese." They also ask me how they can help. I give them the same answer:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><i>Read my blog and share it with everyone you know.</i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
That's it. If you enjoy my stories, please share them with others. It sounds so simple, but it is a huge deal for me. I am grateful for every page view, every comment, every share. I'm even grateful for the dirty birdie who googled "30 year old tits" and clicked on my post, "<a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/07/birthday-wishes-of-30-something.html" target="_blank">Birthday Wishes of a 30-Something Year Old</a>," not once, but twice in the same day. I'm a little creeped out, but grateful for the traffic.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So, stay tuned. I hope you are as jazzed about this as I am. Also, if you have any suggestions or ideas of things you would like to see here, let me know. I want this blog to be a kind of community. Granted, I'll be the one doing most of the talking, but I want you to join in, too. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jXIbCB1FiQo/UMFnto-71kI/AAAAAAAAAqE/HN7G0b95vkU/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="177" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jXIbCB1FiQo/UMFnto-71kI/AAAAAAAAAqE/HN7G0b95vkU/s400/DownloadedFile.jpeg" title="Photo Credit - Sony Pictures Jerry Maguire" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a dream and a goldfish in a Ziploc baggie...<br />
Who's coming with me?!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Sony Pictures</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-26360269694870447582012-11-30T13:37:00.000-05:002012-11-30T13:37:02.887-05:00Yuck! Don't Touch That! Part IIIt's that time of year again! The air is cold. Frost covers the ground. Time to dig out the winter jackets, hats, and mittens from the back of the closet. People huddle close to keep warm while walking in a winter wonderland. That's right, folks! It's cold and flu season! I've shared before that I am not a "sanitizer mom." Rather, I am a hand-washing enthusiast. (Re: <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/03/yuck-dont-touch-that.html" target="_blank">Yuck! Don't Touch That!</a>) However, during the winter months, I kick up my hand-washing reminders for the kids. I refill the soap dispensers near every sink with moisture rich soaps to keep our hands from drying out. I'll even break out the Lysol to wipe down door handles and light switches. I read somewhere that the cold does not bring illness. Instead, the cold forces people into close quarters where the warm air is re-circulated and germs have a captive audience.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So far, my family has not suffered from the flu or a bad cold. <i>Knock on wood.</i> Unfortunately, the "ick" is all around us... The Hub's co-workers come to work with the stomach flu, other parents send their boogery kids to school, or we simply stand in the check out line at the grocery store with someone who is dangerously close to coughing up a lung. People don't stop when they are ill anymore. It's not like the good ol' days of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Brady_Bunch" target="_blank">The Brady Bunch</a>, when Jan sneezed twice and Carol Brady called the doctor. No, life is too busy for a cold. We push on and infect anyone who gets in our way. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u7OnzsxJZ60/ULi0rcewsuI/AAAAAAAAAn0/5J4cKqYtUDs/s1600/CBS_BRADYBUNCH_039_CLIP1_640x480_2004430918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u7OnzsxJZ60/ULi0rcewsuI/AAAAAAAAAn0/5J4cKqYtUDs/s320/CBS_BRADYBUNCH_039_CLIP1_640x480_2004430918.jpg" title="http://thumbnails.cbsig.net/CBS_Production_Entertainment/888/576/CBS_BRADYBUNCH_039_CLIP1_640x480_2004430918.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Mike, Cindy has the sniffles. <br />I think it's time to quarantine the children and burn down the house. <br />It's a cesspool of disease in here."</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />The Disney channel runs a PSA to remind kids to wash their hands and to avoid touching their eyes, nose, and mouth during cold/flu season. I believe that it is a pretty simple and effective way to avoid the common cold. My kids, however, struggle to grasp the concept. For the last few weeks, my daughter, S, was on a mission to pull a loose baby tooth. It was her 5th one and she wanted to get her dollar from the Tooth Fairy. I would constantly catch her with her fingers in her mouth, wiggling that little tooth. She would get off the school bus, wiggling her tooth. She would walk through the grocery store and help me place items in the cart, wiggling her tooth. She would play outside or with other kids and wiggle her tooth. No matter how many times I told her to stop, question the cleanliness of her fingers, or remind her of the millions of germs dancing on her hands, she wiggled that tooth. I am so glad it finally came out last night. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My daughter, B, always has something in her mouth. When she was a baby, just learning to crawl, B would roll over on her tummy and pick at the living room carpet, looking for loose carpet fibers. As soon as she found one, she would put it in her mouth. Earlier this year, I spent a whole day in a panic, trying to figure out if she swallowed a penny. She recently gave up her binkie. The Hub and I were tired of searching for misplaced pacifiers and when she lost her last one, we told her she was out of luck. After a week, she stopped asking about it. But, now she likes to chew on pencils and pencil erasers. Hands touch pencils... um, yuck. If I got a nickel for every time I told her to stop putting stuff in her mouth, I could pay someone else to tell her for me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lately, we've had the heat on in the house. I've noticed my contacts have been dry and irritating my eyes. <i>I have a pair of eyeglasses. I don't like to wear them. They're wire frames circa 1994. The lenses are too thick for the frames which makes it look like I'm wearing coke bottle glasses. They also don't fit my face correctly. The nose piece highlights the bump on my nose from when I broke it during a softball game over 20 years ago. I don't get dolled up to go to the store, but I refuse to wear my glasses out in public. I should get new glasses. I wish I still had my pink plastic frames from the 80's... I hear they're back in style.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ip9vgJmcijQ/ULje4tQP1SI/AAAAAAAAAoc/FSmv_NVaMKc/s1600/corefelmanglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="222" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ip9vgJmcijQ/ULje4tQP1SI/AAAAAAAAAoc/FSmv_NVaMKc/s320/corefelmanglasses.jpg" title="http://www.lookmatic.com/blog/2012/01/friday-flashback-stand-by-me/" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had glasses like these, except they were pink.<br />Back then, I looked like a dork. Now, they would call me a hipster. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br /><div>
Getting back to the contacts...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
While at the grocery store yesterday, my eyes were really itchy and dry. So what do I do? I reached up and rubbed my eyes. I stopped mid-rub. <i>Holy hell, my hands are dirty from touching the shopping cart handle!</i> Visions of Staphylococcus aureus, Haemophilus influenzae, Streptococcus pneumoniae and Pseudomonas aeruginosa danced in my head. I swore I could feel my eye getting pinker by the minute. As soon as I got home, I took out my contacts, flushed my eye with saline solution, and wore my ugly glasses the rest of the night. Right before I went to bed, my eye was sore and kind of goopy. I think I might be okay now, since I woke up without a crusty seal of mucus around my eye and the white of my eye is still... well... white. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Why am I so worried about pink eye, you ask? I used to work with a real jackass. One day, he overheard an emergency phone conversation I was having with S's daycare teacher. S woke up from her nap and her eye was very pink and I needed to remove her from the daycare immediately. My co-worker said in a very loud voice so the rest of the office could hear, "Pink eye comes from touching your own poop and then rubbing your eyes! Your kid messes with her own poop like a monkey! That's disgusting." See? Told you he was a real jackass. Now, I know that was not the case and my daughter is not a poop-throwing monkey. But, I was mortified that someone would say that (even in jest) about my kid. Now, every time I hear that someone has pink eye, I think of poop-throwing monkeys. Which makes me wonder how many other people think the same thing? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C5mLFIx0bPg/ULjueu_FxBI/AAAAAAAAApE/pdIjlOgt2hg/s1600/monkeys_fling_poo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C5mLFIx0bPg/ULjueu_FxBI/AAAAAAAAApE/pdIjlOgt2hg/s320/monkeys_fling_poo.jpg" title="http://www.monkeyland.co.za/index.php?comp=article&op=view&id=1892" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>I call my kids "monkeys" ONLY because they like to climb on things...<br /> </i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div>
Moral of the story? Don't be a poop-throwing monkey! Wash your hands and don't touch your eyes, nose, or mouth. I wish you and yours a very happy and healthy winter season! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /><div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-8740042958631480842012-11-22T10:19:00.000-05:002012-11-22T10:40:48.191-05:00Giving Thanks I was the first one to wake up on this cold Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day. <i>I am thankful for a quiet morning.</i> I set up the coffee maker and fed Bailey.<i> I am thankful that this dog is healthy and does not like to eat <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/11/saying-goodbye.html" target="_blank">socks</a>.</i> I let Bailey outside and noticed all the cars parked in my neighbors' driveways. <i>I am thankful that I don't have to cook today and that I love my in-laws who invited us to their Thanksgiving dinner.</i> I stepped on a toy in the living room. <i>I am thankful that no one is visiting our house so it doesn't matter what it looks like today. I am also thankful that I stepped on a soft toy and not a Leggo.</i><br />
<br />
My daughters wake up. Within minutes, they are arguing over cartoons and who gets the warm blanket this time.<i> I am thankful that my kids don't know many struggles beyond sibling disagreements. I am thankful that they are allowed to be children. There are too many children who have to deal with scary, painful, heavy, lonely situations that force them to grow up fast and become hard. </i><br />
<br />
<b>My kids</b>: What do we do on Thanksgiving?<br />
<div>
<b>Me:</b> Well, we make a big feast and spend time together as a family and be thankful for everythi...<br />
<b>My Kids:</b> So we <i><b>just</b></i> eat <b><i>all day</i></b>?!</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<i>I am thankful that we will just eat all day. </i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Me:</b> Why don't you make a list of all the things for which you are thankful...<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<b>S</b> (age: almost 7) <b>is thankful for:</b><br />
<br />
Mom<br />
Dad<br />
Food<br />
B, my sister<br />
Puppies<br />
Santa Claus<br />
The ocean<br />
America<br />
Sunshine<br />
The Earth<br />
Technology<br />
Love<br />
Water<br />
Friends<br />
Heros<br />
Ukuleles<br />
Rainbows<br />
Books<br />
My grandparents<br />
My aunts and uncles<br />
My cousins<br />
Bees <br />
Mrs. Stuffy (her stuffed bear)<br />
<br />
<b>B</b> (age: 3 1/2) <b>is thankful for:</b><br />
<br />
Green lollipops<br />
Popcorn<br />
Playing Mario Bros. on the old Nintendo with S<br />
Bailey<br />
My sister<br />
My blue blankie that S can't have<br />
Water to drink<br />
Playing pre-school games on the computer<br />
That I get to go to school soon<br />
Balloons... Can I have a balloon, mama? I really want a balloon!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am thankful for my funny kids. I have no idea why S is thankful for a ukulele... </i><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>The Hub is thankful for:</b><br />
<br />
Healthy family</div>
<div>
A wonderful (<i>super hot</i>) wife(<i>!</i>)</div>
<div>
My freakin' job<br />
Local breweries<br />
My garden<br />
Thai food</div>
<div>
That UGA is ranked #3 at the moment and has a chance to play in the BCS championship game for the first time since 1980. GO DAWGS!<br />
<br />
<b>I am also thankful for:</b><br />
<br />
The Hub (<i>my super hot best friend</i>)<br />
The kids<br />
My parents<br />
My extended family and friends<br />
My ability to laugh and make others laugh<br />
Strong coffee<br />
Under eye concealer<br />
Beer<br />
Yoga pants<br />
For always having a story to tell<br />
New adventures</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy Thanksgiving to you all! <i>I am thankful that you read my blog!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-REVS8K3vzM8/UK4zKj0vNZI/AAAAAAAAAl8/c9O3lHVI3Xg/s1600/IMG_1998.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Do not copy or use without written permission. " border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-REVS8K3vzM8/UK4zKj0vNZI/AAAAAAAAAl8/c9O3lHVI3Xg/s320/IMG_1998.jpg" title="Photo credit: Edward Pauksta 11/1984" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I am thankful for my little sisters!<br />... and my keen fashion sense.<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Edward Pauksta 11/1984</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-17482892285554974682012-11-15T12:13:00.001-05:002013-02-15T18:54:33.325-05:00Lies I Tell My KidsThis past Sunday, The Hub was off working a side job with his dad. The girls and I were bumming around the house. I usually don't do any housework on the weekends, but since The Hub wasn't home, it really didn't feel like much of a weekend. In fact, it felt more like a Monday, but with an extra kid to entertain. I decided to get a jump on the next week's chores and vacuum the carpet. My kids like to pretend that the vacuum cleaner is a scary monster out to get them. Most days, I play along and chase after them yelling, "Get on the couch before you get sucked up!" This time, I wasn't in the mood to run around. My eldest daughter, S, wasn't either. She was reading a book and was pretty annoyed by the noise. However, my youngest daughter, B, is always ready to run around and scream, so when I plugged in the vacuum, she was already standing on the couch and preparing to battle the vacuum monster.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I made my way around the room, B was running back and forth between the living room couch and the foyer. It's too complicated to set up exactly how "what happened next" happened without pictures and video replay, so I'll just give you the Reader's Digest version. Basically, B tripped and landed face first into the foyer tile floor. The impact was so great that her head actually bounced back and slammed into the floor a second time. I've heard that people will swear that time slows down when they witness something horrific. I tell you now, it actually happens. It was the longest half second of my life and I couldn't do anything except stand there and watch. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
B jumped up, cupped her mouth with her little hand and screamed. I ran over, picked her up, and pulled her hand away from her face. Blood. Blood everywhere. </div>
<div>
<br /></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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLoEHKlGSS0/UKPvt2tobaI/AAAAAAAAAi4/CBlI4-kclx4/s1600/carrie-45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLoEHKlGSS0/UKPvt2tobaI/AAAAAAAAAi4/CBlI4-kclx4/s1600/carrie-45.jpg" title="photo courtesy of http://mentalpizza.wordpress.com/" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this, only with a little more blood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am a firm believer that things that reside on the inside of the body should stay inside the body. Blood needs to stay inside the body. When I saw it gushing from my daughter's face, I felt a little faint. Okay. A lot faint. I fell back onto the couch with B still in my arms. S, was already buzzing around asking a ton of questions about what just happened. Fighting the urge to completely black out, I quietly asked S to grab a wash cloth and run it under some cold water. B is wailing now because she sees her own blood pooling in her hand. S returned with a wet wash cloth in record time. She was so fast that I actually took a second to praise her for following directions and moving with such speed. Right before I started wiping the blood off my little girl's face, I took a deep breath and said with a smile, "It's okay, baby. I promise. Everything is okay." I just lied to my daughter. I had no idea how bad her injuries were and I doubted my ability to maintain my composure if her injuries were really gruesome.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once I determined the blood was not coming from her nose, I moved to her lips. They were extremely swollen but they were not cut. <i>Oh shit. It's her mouth. </i>Keep in mind, B is still screaming at the top of her lungs. I gently pull back her top lip. I don't see her top two teeth. I see a lot of blood, but no teeth. <i>Oh. My. God! Wait! Wait! Nope, they're still there.</i> They were just covered with blood. Turns out that B bit the inside of her upper lip with her two top teeth. It was a pretty gnarly gash, but not bad enough for stitches. Her teeth were a little wiggly, but not enough to warrant a trip to the dentist. Her top lip swelled to Angelina Jolie proportions. It took about an hour and two icy pops to stop the bleeding and the crying, but B was fine. I didn't have to make an emergency room visit, no stitches needed, and no teeth in a cup of milk. It really was okay, just as I promised. My lie ceased to be a lie and I was relieved.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After I came down from my adrenaline rush, I thought about how I told my bloody kid that everything was okay. I didn't know that it was. For all I knew, it wasn't okay and I was terrified that she did some major damage to her grill. I lied to keep her calm. I needed her to stay still and let me poke around a very sensitive wound. Freaking her out with the truth would have made the situation that much worse. They say, "A lie is a lie." Fine. I lied to my kid. Even when I tell them not to tell lies, I told a lie. In fact, I tell them lies all the time. Truthfully? I don't feel bad about it one bit. I can justify each lie...<br />
<br />
<b>Lies I tell my kids to keep them safe and healthy:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<ul>
<li>"Broccoli makes your hair grow super long and super fast!" <i>Actually, any food they don't want to eat at the time can work here. You would be amazed how many foods have super hair growth properties. I even go as far as to "measure" their hair before and after dinner, just to prove my point.</i></li>
<li>"The Tooth Fairy does not pay full price for rotten teeth!" <i>If the Tooth Fairy has to shell out money to get those baby teeth filled, she does not shell out quarters for those teeth when they fall out. I'm not above scaring my kids into brushing their teeth.</i></li>
<li>"The ice cream truck driver is actually a monster in disguise trying to catch kids and eat them." <i>I save money and the kids don't beg for ice cream treats when that creepy old van covered in faded Good Humor stickers drives down our street. </i></li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vQxuR14iQ_s/UKQMVBRoLXI/AAAAAAAAAjU/1-DAur81nQA/s1600/GoodHumorIceCreamTruck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vQxuR14iQ_s/UKQMVBRoLXI/AAAAAAAAAjU/1-DAur81nQA/s320/GoodHumorIceCreamTruck.JPG" title="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:GoodHumorIceCreamTruck.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <i>RUN KIDS! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<b>Lies I tell my kids to keep the peace:</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>"Yes, I'd love to read <u>Elmo Saves Christmas</u> to you again!"<i> ... for the twentieth time... in July.</i></li>
<li><i>"</i>Marathon of Dora the Explorer? Count me in!" <i>I didn't want to watch The View anyway.</i></li>
<li><i>"</i>No, monsters don't live in your closet. Go to sleep!" <i>Of course, this is a big ol' fat lie. Monsters do live in closets and under the bed and in the basement and the attic and the toilet... See: <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-dark-secret.html" target="_blank">My Dark Secret</a></i></li>
<li>"No. Sorry! I don't have any gum." <i>Yes, I do. But, it's my last piece and your sister will want one, too. I also don't want to cut gum out of your hair later.</i></li>
<li>"I just got a text from Santa Claus. It says, 'I am watching you fight with your sister. I am not pleased.'" <i>This lie takes a bit of planning, but as long as both kids still believe in Santa, I'm using it. I replace The Hub's caller ID picture on my phone with a picture of Santa. All I have to do is let The Hub know that the kids are misbehaving and he sends a text to my phone. 100% satisfaction guaranteed! </i></li>
</ul>
</div>
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-60KcoWGiKnU/UKTyiKX_nQI/AAAAAAAAAjw/N0NyaI84HDw/s1600/A-christmas-story_288x288.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-60KcoWGiKnU/UKTyiKX_nQI/AAAAAAAAAjw/N0NyaI84HDw/s1600/A-christmas-story_288x288.jpg" title="http://www.ugo.com/movies/tapping-the-4th-wall" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Santa just sent me ANOTHER text... <br />He says he saw you pick your nose and he wants you to stop. <br />It's gross.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Lies I tell my kids to encourage them:</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>"You did a beautiful job on my nails!"</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i52zOfsABkw/UKUZFCP4A0I/AAAAAAAAAk4/9Ew_b-kuwv4/s1600/IMG_1992.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i52zOfsABkw/UKUZFCP4A0I/AAAAAAAAAk4/9Ew_b-kuwv4/s320/IMG_1992.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have my own personal manicurist. Jealous?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>"I can't believe you beat me in Candyland again!" <i>I only let them win until they start the first grade. After that, it's official rules only. I don't want them to believe (1) They will win every game and (2) that I really suck that much at Candyland.</i> </li>
<li>"Oh honey, this picture looks just like me! It's beautiful!"</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--_pcDuUlTns/UKT_CaCQizI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/A-78EKX31QQ/s1600/IMG_1986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="323" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--_pcDuUlTns/UKT_CaCQizI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/A-78EKX31QQ/s400/IMG_1986.JPG" title="An original Terese Lavallee Photo 11/15/2012" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">S drew this portrait of me for "Muffins With Mom" day in Pre-K. (Spring/2011)<br />
There are so many bits of awesome in this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know there are people out there who will argue that I am teaching my kids that it's okay to lie. Sure. Okay. I can accept that. I believe that white lies are part of living in polite society. For example: Let's say your favorite aunt gave you an ugly sweater for your birthday. Like most folks, you will say thank you and that it's a lovely sweater. But, you're either going to return the sweater, re-gift it, or only wear it when your dear ol' aunt comes around. You just lied. If you were honest and told your aunt that you have no intention of ever wearing that hideous piece of wool crap and that you worry about her fashion sense, you would most likely hurt her feelings. You would also look like a real jackass. I don't think every scribble put on paper is a masterpiece, but when my 3 year old daughter, B, shows me her latest attempt to draw a flower, (<i>or is that a horse... oh, wait. I see it now... it's an airplane</i>) I tell her I love her work and I'm proud of her for trying so hard. Then I tell her to keep practicing. I know that if I told B that she lacks artistic abilities (like her mother), she would stop trying. I would rather have a fridge full of flower-horse-airplanes then no art at all. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know that little lies may cause some serious damage. I know because my mother told me a terrible lie when I was a child that caused irrevocable trauma to my psyche. One night, I was pushing my food around on the plate and sulking because, yet again, my mom was forcing me to choke down a giant mountain of peas. I really hated peas. When she realized that all her threats of going to bed hungry or not getting a dessert did not shake my will, she resorted to guilt (like any good Irish Catholic mother would do). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Terese, just take one little bite. Just one and then you can leave the table." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Fine. Just one bite. That's it.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Good girl. But, wait! You just ate the little kid pea. What about her mom and dad? They're still on the plate! You just made the little kid pea an orphan! You can't separate the family, Terese! Can you hear the mommy and daddy pea? They're saying, 'Oh no! Our daughter is gone! We're so sad!'"</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Oh no! Okay, I'll eat the mommy and daddy pea, too.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"But, what about the grandparents?"</blockquote>
<br />
To this day, I have to eat every pea on my plate or I will feel extreme guilt for breaking up the family.<br />
<br />
Well played, mom. Well played.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /></blockquote>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-25248004170565856672012-11-06T19:27:00.002-05:002012-11-07T20:06:24.439-05:00Saying Goodbye<i>I wish I didn't have to share this story with you. As much as it hurts to talk about it, I need to tell you what happened a week ago. We lost a member of our family last week. It was very sudden and it took a while to get over the shock. Although, it took me a week to write this post and I feel that it has helped me get through this very sad moment. Here is the story of Malcolm Reynolds, our beloved doberman pinscher.</i><br />
<br />
It was a sunny morning on January 12, 2012. The Hub called me and said, "I just got a call from my buddy at Gwinnett Animal Control. A black and tan male doberman pinscher just came in. He was an 'owner drop off.' They think he's about 2 years old. You need to get over there and look at him. I want him." At the time, our rescue pit bull, Bailey Grace, was 7 months old. She was full of puppy energy and in a major chewing phase. Couple that with the energy of our (then) 2 year old daughter, B, and you've got a lot of running around and broken things in the house. It took a second for me to comprehend what he was telling me to do. Did he just tell me to pick up another dog?! The Hub never calls me with urgent requests. The Hub likes to mull things over. I'm the urgent one. But, The Hub has always wanted a doberman for as long as I could remember. When we started dating, 14 years ago, he was a vet tech at our local animal clinic. He loved working with the dobermans. He took pictures of each one when they would come in for a check-up. He knew each one by name. We have doberman mugs, stuffed animal toys, knickknacks all over the house. The Hub wanted a doberman and there was one waiting for him at the pound. I told him I would check the pup out and let him know what I thought. <i>How's that for role reversal? </i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Three hours later, I drove Malcolm Reynolds home. He calmly sat in the front seat of our little Saturn Coupe and would casually glance out the passenger side window. His head brushed the roof of the car and he looked like a giant next to me. I was a little nervous. He appeared to be very gentle and calm, but in the back of my mind, I half expected him to lean down and tear off my face. I didn't know this dog. I was used to silly little dogs that try to knock you down and assault you with their tongues. Malcolm did not do that. He didn't even pant or wag his little stub for a tail. He didn't sniff or question what was happening or where he was going. He just sat there in the seat while B shouted from her car seat, "He's so big, mama! His ears are pointy, mama!" I just remember looking into his little brown eyes and saying, "You're coming home with us, buddy. I hope that's okay." He squinted and his long pointy ears went back a little. Perhaps that meant, "Okay."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<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;"><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0bZKYrIPLY/UJATEOehDtI/AAAAAAAAAfc/8dTqzGgwA4Q/s1600/DSC00105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Do not use/copy/reproduce without my written consent. - TL 10/30/12" border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0bZKYrIPLY/UJATEOehDtI/AAAAAAAAAfc/8dTqzGgwA4Q/s320/DSC00105.JPG" title="Original Terese Lavallee Photo - 01/12/12" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Malcolm Reynolds on Adoption Day 01/12/2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br />
Bailey Grace and Malcolm Reynolds were instant friends. They sniffed each other and ran around the back yard. Bailey would walk under Malcolm, making him look even taller than before. <i>How is this big dog going to fit in this small house? He's huge! How much will this guy eat? Oh man, that's going to be a lot of dog bombs in the yard. I don't know how this is going to work. My God, he is handsome. I've never seen such a shiny coat. And Bailey seems to like him. He really is a nice dog. He must have had a lot of training in his last home. Okay. We can make this work. </i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wDBXxHVszNo/UJmfU3b_LAI/AAAAAAAAAiA/7BlQvx3Orko/s1600/DSC00138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wDBXxHVszNo/UJmfU3b_LAI/AAAAAAAAAiA/7BlQvx3Orko/s320/DSC00138.JPG" title="An original Terese Lavallee Photo 11/06/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They're plotting to take over the world. <br />
Or how to get into the dog food bag.<br />
Either way, they're up to something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The first few weeks, Malcolm was the golden child. He could do no wrong. We believed his previous owner sent him to obedience school because he followed basic commands. We also believed the original owner spent a lot of money on him. Malcolm's ears were perfectly cropped. He got along with Bailey and they seemed to really balance each other out. Bailey got Malcolm to play and Malcolm mellowed Bailey out. He was so sweet to his "little fur sister." He was sweet to his human family, too. He was the sweetest massive beast to walk this earth, if you ask me. It seemed like the perfect situation. Then strange little habits began to show up. Malcolm was obsessed with The Hub. As soon as he walked through the door, Malcolm would turn circles and pace the house. When The Hub left for work, Malcolm would sulk and lay on the couch for a while.</div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69z4GVTMMIA/UJmV4dhWpCI/AAAAAAAAAhk/B9PYClS-Ahg/s1600/IMG_1575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69z4GVTMMIA/UJmV4dhWpCI/AAAAAAAAAhk/B9PYClS-Ahg/s320/IMG_1575.JPG" title="A Terese Lavallee photo 11/06/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Daddy is at work. I has a sad.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
Whenever The Hub worked on his laptop on the couch, Malcolm would lay down near by. As soon as The Hub would pick up his laptop and put it aside so he could get up, Malcolm would jump up in a panic and run to the back door for a potty break. He would do this every single time. We decided that his first owner worked a lot and Malcolm would only get potty breaks when his first owner took a break from work.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Malcolm would also inhale his food. I've never seen anything like it. I've heard that dogs will continue to eat even after they are physically full. Malcolm was a bottomless pit and he would eat so fast that he would gag every now and then. He was able to eat a super nyla bone in less than three minutes. Those things are supposed to last weeks, even months. Because he would eat so fast, he had the worst gas. Malcolm would rip farts every time he stood up. He would fart in his sleep. He would fart while walking down the hall. There was a constant malodorous cloud hovering around him. A true super fan of potty humor, The Hub would push Malcolm's belly, laugh at the sounds trumpeting from the dog's butt and say, "My dog rules!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Khvaj6x1uck/UJl7pfRZXII/AAAAAAAAAgc/uzifyGE45DI/s1600/366300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Khvaj6x1uck/UJl7pfRZXII/AAAAAAAAAgc/uzifyGE45DI/s1600/366300.jpg" title="http://www.kotzwinkle.com/walter_the_farting_dog_115467.htm" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walter the Farting Dog had nothing on Malcolm.<br />
<a href="http://www.kotzwinkle.com/walter_the_farting_dog_115467.htm" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Read this book! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.kotzwinkle.com/walter_the_farting_dog_115467.htm</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
Malcolm would eat things he wasn't supposed to as well. I could write a book just about the things this pup consumed.<i> </i>You can read about Malcolm's sophisticated palate here: <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/06/i-cant-have-nice-things.html" target="_blank">I Can't Have Nice Things</a> and <a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/09/i-cant-have-nice-things-part-ii.html" target="_blank">I Can't Have Nice Things, Part II</a>. We always feared one day something would get stuck in his digestive tract. Surgery to remove items from a dog's belly is not only expensive, it's pretty intensive. The Hub told me horror stories about all the items retrieved from pooches and the procedure to repair the damaged intestines. I'll spare you the details... just know it's pretty awful. To combat his bad eating habits, I was a cleaning freak. Ne'er a day pass that I didn't collect a sock or a toy left on the floor. Before we would leave the house, I would inspect all the rooms to make sure nothing was within Malcolm's reach. For a large dog with long legs, that included items left on kitchen counter tops and tables. But, Malcolm was a clever dog and much to my chagrin, he would find something extra to eat almost every week. It was his mission. He was an addict and he was playing Russian Roulette with every pair of dirty underwear or stuffed animal he swallowed. I couldn't keep up.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A funny thing happened. Even though Malcolm was driving me insane with his weird and dangerous habits, I fell in love. I came to adore looking into his chocolate brown eyes. I beamed with pride whenever someone would gush over our handsome boy. At night, Malcolm would curl up on the couch next to me. I would prop my feet on him while I watched TV and I could feel his body relax under my legs. I loved his low grunts when he slept. I loved it when he smiled. He would smile when we caught him doing something wrong, but he would show a bigger smile when we praised him for good behavior. Malcolm followed me everywhere. He was my shadow. He was the little lamb to my Mary. He was supposed to be The Hub's dog, but he knew I was his mommy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMf7ppieW28/UJmUoPhUi5I/AAAAAAAAAhc/UtJd--AXOfo/s1600/IMG_1255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMf7ppieW28/UJmUoPhUi5I/AAAAAAAAAhc/UtJd--AXOfo/s320/IMG_1255.JPG" title="An original Terese Lavallee photo 11/06/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is it dinner time yet??</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
On Sunday afternoon, October 28, 2012, Malcolm became sick. He started vomiting all over the house. He would whine a little and look at me and then run to the back door. Malcolm tried so hard to make it outside each time and I could tell he was upset when he got sick on the carpet. He was still drinking water although it didn't stay down as long as we wanted. Monday morning, he stopped eating all together. That is when we knew we were in trouble. The Hub felt around his belly and found a large bulge toward the end of his large intestine. We gave Malcolm a few tablespoons of mineral oil with the hope that maybe whatever was stuck just needed a little lubrication to get moving again. The oil came back up within minutes. My heart sank.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before Malcolm left for the vet, I looked him in the eyes and said, "We are going to do everything we can do to make you feel better. Okay?" He squinted and his long pointy ears went back a little. Perhaps that meant, "Okay." The Hub took him to the same vet clinic he worked at years before and met with the head veterinarian. Malcolm was becoming septic and he was in a lot of pain. The surgery needed to save him involved removing most of his large intestine. The Hub and I loved Malcolm very much but we knew that he did not deserve the pain he was in nor the pain he would be in if we elected for surgery. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our beautiful Malcolm Reynolds passed away Monday, October 29, 2012 at 1:30 pm. We buried him under an oak tree in our yard.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<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="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XvT3Q3lkw2A/UJmQdqflf9I/AAAAAAAAAg4/Tk5q6yl8JM0/s1600/IMG_1834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="291" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XvT3Q3lkw2A/UJmQdqflf9I/AAAAAAAAAg4/Tk5q6yl8JM0/s320/IMG_1834.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 10/29/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girls saying good-bye to Malcolm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sad that the story ends here. I thought I would have years and years of Malcolm antics to share with you. He was supposed to be in the picture for our Christmas cards this December. Malcolm would have worn a Santa hat. He was always so patient when I wanted a funny picture with props. I was going to make him a Christmas stocking. I wanted to make him a cake for the anniversary of his adoption.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<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;"><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t-bHcBIjhsc/UJmRerI4gdI/AAAAAAAAAhA/n0K8wIY2yZw/s1600/IMG_1136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t-bHcBIjhsc/UJmRerI4gdI/AAAAAAAAAhA/n0K8wIY2yZw/s400/IMG_1136.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee photo 11/06/2012" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I take stupid picture mama if I can has food?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
For the first time in 9 months, my feet are cold. He isn't curled up on his spot on the couch. I don't have this gentle giant snuggling with my feet and making deep grunts. He doesn't poke me with his nose in the morning to wake me up for breakfast. He doesn't get in my way when I walk down the hall. He isn't behind me when I walk through the house. When I open the bathroom door, he's not waiting for me. He's not laying on the floor in the office while I write this. As big as he was, his absence is bigger. This little house feels too big now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I mourn the loss of a pet, I come to find that I am also mourning an end of an era. S is in school and B is getting close to starting school. Bailey is out of her puppy phase and is pretty well behaved for the most part. I am nearing the end of my adventure of being a stay at home mom. The one doubt that whispered in my ear whenever I thought about going back to work was always about Malcolm. Would Malcolm be able to be home without me all day? Would he freak out and tear up the house? Will he think I've left him like his last owner left him? How would this affect his separation anxiety? Malcolm was my "last baby." He needed me. My children are becoming more and more self-sufficient. They can do the little things now. But, Malcolm, he really needed me. He needed my love and comfort all the time. He needed my constant attention. But, now that a week has come and gone since he passed, I realize that maybe I needed him more. Maybe he thought he was protecting me. Maybe he knew that I needed someone to watch over us while The Hub was away at work. He made me feel safe. He kept me busy during the quiet and lonely moments that a stay at home mom faces on a regular basis. Malcolm became one of my children and I just lost a very precious member of my family.<br />
<br />
Everyday is a little lighter and I'm getting used to just the kids and Bailey running around. Life goes on. The laughter is coming back and the pain is slowly being replaced with funny memories of our dobie. We joke that Malcolm was our scapegoat for the family's farts. Poor guy... I'm sure he was only to blame for 50% of the toots emitted since January. We know that we'll get another doberman one day. I look forward to the day when The Hub calls me with an urgent request to run to the pound. Until then, we'll be fine. I promise.<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-416pW5T0uUI/UJmosMltlvI/AAAAAAAAAic/qLBrGQW0r1Q/s1600/DSC00104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-416pW5T0uUI/UJmosMltlvI/AAAAAAAAAic/qLBrGQW0r1Q/s320/DSC00104.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 11/06/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You were a good boy, Malcolm. We love you.<br />
(Rescued) 01/12/2012 - 10/29/2012<br />
"I aim to misbehave." -Malcolm Reynolds, <i>Serenity</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>At this very moment, B is singing a bluesy song called, "Malcolm Please Come Back." </i><br />
<i>"There are more squirrels here. I'll give you my pizza, if you come back. I miss your faarrrrttttsssss!" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That pretty much sums up the mourning process for the Lavallee family. </i><i><br /></i>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-38297508489087901282012-11-01T13:01:00.001-04:002012-11-01T14:32:21.453-04:00Mustaches Are MagicalTom Selleck. Burt Reynolds. Alex Trebek. Atlanta's top meteorologist, Ken Cook. Ron Burgundy. What do these men all have in common? That's right. Mustaches! I've always believed that a mustache is more than just facial hair grown on a male's upper lip. Whether it's a Handlebar, Chevron, Dali, Imperial, Pencil, or Fu-manchu, these lip sweaters have magical powers that transform a mere dude into a magnificent sexy beast of a man. They also raise awareness and funds for men’s health. I told you they have magical powers.<br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
On November 1, men all over the world ditch their razors and grow mustaches for <a href="http://us.movember.com/about/" target="_blank">Movember</a>. I am happy to announce that I have joined the <a href="https://www.movember.com/us/team/463029" target="_blank">ScapeGoat Ink's Bullet-Proof 'Staches</a> team! We're raising some coin for men's health issues, specifically prostate and testicular cancer. In a cruel twist of fate, I am not able to join the Mo Bros and grow upper lip plumage... because, I'm a girl. Instead, I am a Mo Sista and support the awesome dudes on my team by raising money and spreading awareness!<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r1M9FfbQ-9o/UJJ9-DYbYCI/AAAAAAAAAf4/vYRr1Bhyq9E/s1600/Photo+19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Do not copy or reproduce without my written consent." border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r1M9FfbQ-9o/UJJ9-DYbYCI/AAAAAAAAAf4/vYRr1Bhyq9E/s320/Photo+19.jpg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 11/1/12" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot damn! I look debonair! Sigh. If only...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My Movember team captain, Mike Myers, of <a href="http://www.scapegoatink.com/" target="_blank">ScapeGoat Ink</a> is also my cousin. I saw his frank and beans once. <i>Relax - I was visiting my relatives in Chicago and we were both under the age of 10. He didn't wait for me to clear the bathroom before he undressed to take a shower. Gah, you guys are perverts.</i> Since his were the very first male underneathy bits to ever flash before my eyes, I thought it was only fitting to join his Movember team. Here is some wicked important, yet super hilarious information from his blog <a href="http://blog1.scapegoatink.com/2012/10/29/join-our-movember-team-scapegoat-inks-bullet-proof-staches.aspx" target="_blank">Dipso Facto ScapeGoat Ink</a> on either joining <a href="https://www.movember.com/us/team/463029" target="_blank">ScapeGoat Ink's Bullet-Proof 'Staches </a> or ways to donate to our team:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://blog1.scapegoatink.com/2012/10/29/join-our-movember-team-scapegoat-inks-bullet-proof-staches.aspx" target="_blank">Join our Movember Team: ScapeGoat Ink's Bullet-Proof 'Staches</a></div>
<div class="sf_blog_entry" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; height: auto !important; margin-left: 11px; min-height: 1%; text-align: center;">
</div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"><img height="200" src="http://images.quickblogcast.com/4/1/7/7/1/126010-117714/MoGrowerBadge.jpg?a=30" style="border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px;" width="200" /></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> This year, we honor the great men who have grown before us and, as <a class="" href="http://us.movember.com/?home" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Movember and Sons</a>, pay respect to the simple truth that knowledge is power and moustache is king. That, my friends, is why ScapeGoat Ink has registered and started a Movember team for the fourth year in a row. Wow, four years of looking manly and sexy as hell! Our team, <a class="" href="https://www.movember.com/us/register/details/team_id/463029" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">ScapeGoat Ink's Bullet-Proof 'Staches</a>, pledges to cultivate genuine, 100 percent, face-grown lip rags for the next 30 days, starting November 1, 2012, to raise awareness and funds for men’s health.<br /><br />This year we're opening the doors up to our fans and supporters to join our team so that together we can raise awareness AND look dead sexy while doing it. You can participate by either growing a wicked cookie duster as a ScapeGoat Ink Mo Bro, or join as a ScapeGoat Ink Mo Sista to help recruit others, share knowledge, and support Mo growers. To join our team, click <span class=""><a class="" href="https://www.movember.com/us/team/463029" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">here</a> or cut and paste this link into your web browser:<a href="https://www.movember.com/us/register/details/team_id/463029" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">https://www.movember.com/us/register/details/team_id/463029</a></span>!<br /><br />Once registered, Movember will send you all the information you need to start raising awareness and funds for men’s health as part of our Movember team. And, feel free to spread the word to anyone else who might want to join or who would look stunning with a lip tickler. Plus, if you join our team and you raise $75 or more in donations then you will receive a FREE <a class="" href="http://shop.scapegoatink.com/product.sc?categoryId=1&productId=37" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">ScapeGoat Ink logo t-shirt</a> as a thank you from us for all your hard work and efforts.</span></b></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b><br />
<div align="center">
<div align="center">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><a class="" href="http://shop.scapegoatink.com/product.sc?productId=36&categoryId=1" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img src="http://images.quickblogcast.com/4/1/7/7/1/126010-117714/LiverStrong1.jpeg?a=66" style="border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a><br />ScapeGoat Ink's Original LiverStrong t-shirt</b></span></div>
<div align="left">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>If that's not enough, anyone who purchases a ScapeGoat Ink <a class="" href="http://shop.scapegoatink.com/product.sc?categoryId=1&productId=37" style="color: #20699e; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">LiverStrong t-shirt</a> (shown above) during the month of November, we will donate a portion of the proceeds to the Movember charity, in honor of the fight against cancer. Now remember, we only have a month to grow Mo's and raise awareness and funds, so please come along for the mustache ride—Heyo! </b></span></blockquote>
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>I encourage you to read ScapeGoat Ink's blog and check out the <a href="http://shop.scapegoatink.com/main.sc" target="_blank">t-shirts</a>. It will change your life. I promise.</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
So there you have it guys and gals. Throughout the month of November, be sure to stop by the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/YoullBeFineIPromise" target="_blank">"You'll Be Fine. I Promise." facebook page</a> for updates on ScapeGoat Ink's Bullet-Proof 'Staches team's flavor saver growing and fundraising progress, plus valuable information about men's health. I will also have a link to our team page on the bottom of my blogs in November so you can behold all the mustache growing glory and <a href="http://us.movember.com/mospace/393158" target="_blank">donate, donate, donate</a>!! I love the dudes in my life and I'm sure you love your dudes, too... let's do everything we can to keep them healthy and aware.<br />
<br />
Alright boys - start growing those sexy 'Staches! </div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-80637606807407403932012-10-26T18:15:00.003-04:002012-10-26T18:15:48.976-04:00The Great Halloween Party of 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We love Halloween. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
LOVE. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Every year, someone from our circle of friends hosts a Halloween party. In 2010, it was our year. On October 1, I decided I was going to go all out on the party. "Epic" was the term I believe I used when The Hub asked me how big I was going to go. "Epic on a budget," was the revised term when he gave me his "are you insane?!" look. I came up with a plan to transform each room of the house using a different Halloween theme. I researched haunted houses, horror movies, and the occult for inspiration. On October 2, I realized that I was going to need some assistance to pull this off. I called on a few of my fellow Halloween enthusiasts to help.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My brother-in-law, "Lunchbox," practically cleared out Party City to add to my homemade props. My gal-pal, MP, dropped off a huge box of Halloween decorations from her party the year before. My buddy, WK, borrowed his company's projector so we could show movies in our backyard. The entire month of October, I made decorations and worked on putting it all together. On the day of the party, several friends stopped by early to set up the movie screen, hang outdoor speakers, and do some last minute prep.*</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Here is how it all turned out. (Note: These pictures were taken during the daytime. It was way spookier once the sun set.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The living room was set up like an old haunted house. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the furniture. We placed drop cloths on the couches and the entertainment center. I turned the TV to a static channel for the <i>Poltergeist</i> effect. I pulled out all my creepy porcelain dolls and placed them throughout the room. Add some spooky candelabras and eerie old portraits and you've got a place not too many guests wanted to stay in by themselves.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hr78XQk-LzY/UIq5CzbQtrI/AAAAAAAAAcU/A96BDo6yPNs/s1600/0CCJpv.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hr78XQk-LzY/UIq5CzbQtrI/AAAAAAAAAcU/A96BDo6yPNs/s640/0CCJpv.jpeg" title="Photo Credit - Linda Lavallee 2010" width="484" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The Witch's Kitchen was one of my favorite rooms to decorate. I spent hours and hours researching items one would find in a witch's kitchen. I printed off labels for potion bottles. I saved bottles and jars for weeks to fill the counters with witchy ingredients. I found old nature books and stacked them all over the place. I even consulted a Wiccan friend for tips and pointers. (She loved the room!) I liked the look so much, the Witch Kitchen was the last room to tear down after the party.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMLQ6Nue30w/UIrXCqIjMcI/AAAAAAAAAdM/14YYpeWcsR8/s1600/QSHpvv.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TMLQ6Nue30w/UIrXCqIjMcI/AAAAAAAAAdM/14YYpeWcsR8/s640/QSHpvv.jpeg" title="Photo credit - Linda Lavallee 2010" width="494" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The bathroom was a no brainer. I hear that it doubled as a photo booth.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pcBt7GX9zT8/UIreK0sVfRI/AAAAAAAAAdo/ThVvp4CB0So/s1600/lzT9ZY.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pcBt7GX9zT8/UIreK0sVfRI/AAAAAAAAAdo/ThVvp4CB0So/s640/lzT9ZY.jpeg" title="Photo credit - Linda Lavallee 2010" width="488" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am a <i>Pirates of the Caribbean</i> fanatic. I transformed our covered porch into a pirate's hangout. It was also where we kept all the booze. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxjJUnmPQ-Y/UIrhxcoAp0I/AAAAAAAAAeI/pv_HLp46iJY/s1600/JsR0qB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxjJUnmPQ-Y/UIrhxcoAp0I/AAAAAAAAAeI/pv_HLp46iJY/s640/JsR0qB.jpeg" title="Photo Credit - Linda Lavallee 2010" width="500" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I wanted to have something going on outside since our house is pretty small and does not hold many guests. Line up hay bails, throw down some blankets, set up a bonfire, hang a giant screen on the shed and BOOM! instant backyard movie theater! (The scariest part of the day was watching my friends walk along our shed roof to hang the screen.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mjjb84FNsss/UIroR1zV6zI/AAAAAAAAAek/x7LFKzg6wxM/s1600/KbLZGR.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mjjb84FNsss/UIroR1zV6zI/AAAAAAAAAek/x7LFKzg6wxM/s640/KbLZGR.jpeg" title="Photo Credit - Linda Lavallee 2010" width="492" /></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There were so many fantastic costumes that year. There was Cinderella, Where's Waldo, characters from Alice in Wonderland, pirates, a red shirt Star Trek zombie, Snookie and The Situation, Buddy Christ from <i>Dogma</i>, a couple of goddesses, a biker dude, Batman, a hockey player, a Quick Trip race car driver, a blind referee, and a few sexy (<i>add non-sexy professions here</i>), just to name a few. I went as Calypso from <i>Pirates of the Caribbean</i>. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pmvsrlu_tnk/UIruElQxaCI/AAAAAAAAAfA/r_2w0b_bH1M/s1600/uh6EfV.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pmvsrlu_tnk/UIruElQxaCI/AAAAAAAAAfA/r_2w0b_bH1M/s640/uh6EfV.jpeg" title="Photo Credit - Oracle 2010 and Erin Parker 2010" width="490" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
An estimated 75+ people walked through our door that night. We even had a few party crashers... that was a first for me. The next morning, I woke up to an incredible mess. Not until we rescued our dogs did the carpet looked so thrashed. Beer bottles were scattered everywhere. Pieces of costumes were hidden in the couch cushions and kitchen cabinets. It took a month to set up and a month to clean up. But, for weeks, I received many compliments on our Halloween party. So much fun was had by all. I believe our party achieved "epic" status. And that, my fine friends, is awesome.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>*My memory is not what it used to be... I know I left some names off, but it was not intentional and please forgive me! To everyone who helped with this party, attended this party, and enjoyed the night with me, I thank you again. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Photo Credits: Linda Lavallee, Oracle, Erin Parker - 2010 </i></div>
<br />Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-23533308233820089602012-10-18T15:35:00.001-04:002012-10-18T16:44:33.663-04:00Elderly Men Think I'm a Bad Parent.Three years ago, when my second daughter, B, was a little over six weeks old, The Hub and I agreed we needed to get out of the house and walk amongst the living for a bit. It was a beautiful early autumn weekend. We decided to go to The Yellow Daisy Festival at Stone Mountain Park and wander around the craft booths and get some fresh air. I double checked the weather and made sure B was appropriately dressed. I packed her diaper bag with all the items we could possibly need for the next three to four hours. We brought her Snugli instead of a baby stroller so we could navigate the crowds with ease. <i>For those of you not familiar with baby paraphernalia, a Snugli is a baby carrier that you wear on your chest. It's kinda like a kangaroo pouch for little humans. </i>Since B was my second baby, I didn't have the "taking the new baby out" jitters like I did with S.<br />
<div>
<br />
It was a lovely morning. The crowd was light and we were able to walk around without bumping into other people. B was sleeping soundly in the Snugli. I draped a thin blanket over her head to shield her face from the sun. Her little feet in ducky socks peeked out from the blanket. She was warm and secure. While tasting samples of homemade salsa and pickles from a popular booth, an older gentleman approached me with a warm smile on his face. He pointed to B's socks and asked, "Is it a boy or a girl?" I replied with pride, "Girl." "Ah," he said, "How old is she?" "A little over six weeks." Then he shook his head and said, "You have some nerve." He turned and walked away, leaving me completely baffled as to what just happened. The dude just shamed me for bringing my six week old daughter to a festival. My daughter was soundly sleeping, covered and safe in my arms. There was not one inch of bare skin showing. I would understand someone questioning my parental decisions if she was chain smoking or sucking down bottles of bourbon, but I felt that this was completely unwarranted and just plain rude. I stood there, on the verge of a postpartum hormonal break-down, replaying the exchange over in my head. The Hub walked up and asked me what happened. I quietly retold the story and asked if we could leave the festival. My outing was ruined and I just wanted to go home. The Hub wanted to tell the guy where to stick his opinion, but he was no where to be found. He just disappeared.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, I went to the grocery store with both kids in tow. I only had a few items to pick up: toilet paper, cold medicine and a couple of ingredients for dinner that night. I broke several of my errand rules that day. (For complete list of rules, please read<a href="http://tml-youllbefine.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-to-defuse-bomb.html" target="_blank"> How to Defuse a Bomb</a>.) I did not have a neat and organized grocery list. B was not feeling well and did not have a nap that day. She was cranky and only along for the ride because she's too young to stay home alone. S was fresh off the school bus and was a little miffed that the shopping trip was cutting into her after-school playtime. I was fighting seasonal allergies and looked as worn out as I felt. But, I needed to pick up these items and I assured everyone that it would only take a few minutes.<br />
<br />
As soon as we walked through the door, B started to whine. "I don't want to sit in the shopping cart. I want to push the cart. I am a big girl now and only babies sit in the cart." Fine. I let her push the cart with me. First aisle was the bread and peanut butter aisle. I pointed to a loaf of bread and asked S to put it in the cart. Bad move. The next item was peanut butter. I was looking at the sale prices (another no-no) and B grabbed a jar of peanut butter and chunked it into the cart, crushing the loaf of bread. I removed the jar and told B that it was the wrong brand of peanut butter. Before I had a chance to hand her another brand of peanut butter, B stomped her foot at me and said, "No! I want to put the peanut butter in the cart like S!!" I calmly said, "Please, do not talk to me like that. You can put the peanut butter in the cart once you apologize and calm down." S looked around to see if anyone else was watching her little sister's bad behavior. B raised her voice a little and said, "I want the peanut butter now!" S pleaded with me to just give her the peanut butter so we could move on. I explained to S that B was not going to get her way. She had to calm down first. If I let her talk to me like that, then I am setting myself up for more of the same behavior down the road. That's when B stomped her other foot and said, "Please mommy, now!" Just then, an old man pushing an empty cart pulled up next to me, walked over to B, put his face inches from her face and yelled, "SHE SAID NO!"<br />
<br />
I stood there in shock. S turned ten shades of red and started to cry. B, absolutely terrified, ran and hid behind my legs and exploded into tears. What was a fairly quiet debate between a tired mommy and a cranky child turned into a major scene. Everyone stopped shopping and stared at us. The old man shrugged his shoulders and grunted as he turned the corner, "Just trying to help."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PkjPuya8Xu4/UIA1mIpRo-I/AAAAAAAAAZc/vMCYvp4Mhvs/s1600/tumblr_m67rprbzoC1qhwk6g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="189" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PkjPuya8Xu4/UIA1mIpRo-I/AAAAAAAAAZc/vMCYvp4Mhvs/s320/tumblr_m67rprbzoC1qhwk6g.jpg" title="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m67rprbzoC1qhwk6g.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">It happened again. Some random old man put his nose in my business. This jerk had no right to barge in while I was trying to control my kid. I was not going to let my 3 year old tell me what to do. I was not letting her get her way. I was letting her know that she was not allowed to talk to grown ups like that. I didn't let my exhaustion or desire to get home as quickly as possible stop me from upholding my parental responsibilities. I was doing exactly what people say you should do... be a good parent and discipline your child. You hear all the time about horrible little brats walking all over their parents. Whenever someone commits a crime, without fail, someone will say it's the parents' fault the person grew up to be a criminal because they allowed their kid to behave however they pleased. Not this mama! But, I don't raise my voice at my kids in public. I stay calm and firmly resolve the issue. I had the situation under control and this nosy old bastard decided that I wasn't doing my job to his satisfaction. Once again, I was a victim of d</span>rive-by old man criticisms. Why does this happen to me?! Do I have bummer sticker on my butt that reads: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Q7TTFwZ9oY/UIBHonNiVDI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/nGv1DrFnjz0/s1600/dpHnug.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="" border="0" height="108" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Q7TTFwZ9oY/UIBHonNiVDI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/nGv1DrFnjz0/s400/dpHnug.jpeg" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 10/18/12" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This was my chance to finally say all the things I wanted to say to the guy at the festival, but didn't. I never tell rude people off. Too many times, I am rendered speechless at their behavior or bravado. I also constantly stop myself from saying anything in return because I want to be "the better person." Not this time. To hell with my quick shopping trip! This was way more important. I am fully aware that my daughter is not perfect and can have an attitude. She's 3! But, this guy passed judgement on my daughter and me without any knowledge of the situation. He does not know that I don't back down when my kid whines. He did not know my kid was not feeling well. He has not seen all the other times she is out and on her best behavior. I was not going to let this man think he can go around and yell in a child's face (especially while the mother is in the middle of dealing with her child) and get away with it. He crossed a major boundary and I was going to give him a piece of my mind. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I put B in the cart, grabbed S's hand, and went after the guy. I stormed down each aisle, checking out every man's face and preparing my speech. Oh, and it was good. I was going to wave my finger and shake my head to really illustrate just how serious I was. After twenty minutes of searching the entire store, I lost him. I knew he had just arrived when the incident occurred because his cart was empty and he had a fairly long shopping list in his hand. There was no way he could have finished his shopping within minutes of yelling at B. It's like he just vanished. And that's when it hit me... it was divine intervention.</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br />
It was a freakin' miracle. I am sure that some sort of heavenly being swooped in and pulled that old man out of the store before I could get to him. His guardian angel must have heard the alarm that his human being was moments away from getting his face chewed off by a pissed off mama bear and rushed in to save him. I mean, think about it. How can an old man just disappear like that? Twice! It happened once at the festival and then again at the store. One minute they are there and then <i>Poof! -</i> they're gone.<br />
<br />
Or maybe he's in some secret league of opinionated geezers and their only mission is to rile up frazzled mothers and then slip back into the shadows... like a geriatric Batman with nothing better to do.<br />
<br />
I shared this story with my mom. She thinks he may have realized he made a mistake and decided it was better to shop somewhere else. It's possible, but then, that's giving the guy too much credit.<br />
<br />
I may never figure out the who or the why to this mystery, but mark my words, the next time an old man criticizes my parenting or tries to interject, I'll be ready.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753341260656628672.post-53372851523593238422012-10-08T16:09:00.001-04:002013-02-20T16:15:03.234-05:00Consumer Letters from a Regular MomI am happy to introduce a new segment to my blog: <b><i>Consumer Letters from a Regular Mom</i></b>. Periodically, I will write letters to companies to offer suggestions on ways to improve their product. Moms make up the biggest consumer group so I believe companies should hear what we have to say about their products. Hope you enjoy!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<i>Dear Tampon Manufacturers,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I have been a faithful customer for over two decades now. For the most part, I am happy with your product line and will continue my patronage for as long as my girly underneathy bits require your business. I have witnessed several product upgrades through the years. With 250+ purchases under my belt, I consider myself a bit of a tampon connoisseur. Long gone are the days of bulky packaging and pale pink wrappers stuffed in my purse. I appreciate your new sleek, aerodynamic designs. I can continue to carry my cute handbag instead of pulling out a rucksack to cart around my menstrual survival kit. Unfortunately, I have found a serious flaw in your latest packaging design. I am a mother of two young girls who have a bit of a sweet tooth. If I foolishly open my purse within their line of sight, I am bombarded with requests to share what they believe is candy. I think you've missed the mark on helping a gal keep her visit from Aunt Flo on the down-low. There is nothing discreet about my menses whilst out in public when my kid grabs a fun-sized tampon from my bag and waves it around begging if she could please, please, please have a candy bar! I am already one step away from a hormonal murderous outburst and now I have to try to explain to my 3 year old that she doesn't want "mommy's candy." You are not helping me "Have a Happy Period." Might I suggest a new design? Perhaps you can consult the Navy Seals and work together on a wrapper design that is a little more covert or camouflaged, if you will. Take a survey of 2 to 4 year olds and research what they don't like. Work with moms, not against them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> I took it upon myself to come up with a few prototypes:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8EHyzoXXjc/UHMgiaFHpmI/AAAAAAAAAY0/yXJ_ngJlbUA/s1600/IMG_1743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8EHyzoXXjc/UHMgiaFHpmI/AAAAAAAAAY0/yXJ_ngJlbUA/s320/IMG_1743.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 10/8/2012" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-17S-YsJP_yY/UHMgj9qPKxI/AAAAAAAAAY8/8rnlGBkHTrk/s1600/IMG_1744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-17S-YsJP_yY/UHMgj9qPKxI/AAAAAAAAAY8/8rnlGBkHTrk/s320/IMG_1744.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 10/8/2012" width="320" /></a></div>
<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="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zu2MuXOPNuQ/UHMglPr4BYI/AAAAAAAAAZE/pjTZo5oNnLk/s1600/IMG_1745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="228" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zu2MuXOPNuQ/UHMglPr4BYI/AAAAAAAAAZE/pjTZo5oNnLk/s320/IMG_1745.JPG" title="An Original Terese Lavallee Photo 10/8/2012" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can call them Mompons. Genius, no?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<i>Thank you for your time and consideration with this matter. I look forward to collaborating with you on your next line of feminine care products.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Sincerely,</i></div>
<div>
<i>A Menstrual Mom</i></div>
<div>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
Terese Lavalleehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04530071516643700513noreply@blogger.com8