tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42076738986781537512024-03-12T19:34:23.827-05:00Raising Dinah"But the goal of our instruction is love from a pure heart and a good conscience and a sincere faith." 1 Timothy 1:5Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-42318809035185936662014-06-25T15:48:00.001-05:002014-06-28T08:02:02.154-05:00Crafty Summer If I'm going to be totally honest, I have to say the last month of my stay-at-home mom journey has been particularly hard. It just has. Jack picked up a cold, probably from his habit of putting <i>everything</i> in his mouth. Then it spread throughout our household. So, in short, we've all been a sleepy, cranky mess.<br>
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Dinah has been taking swim lessons, which both adds to, and provides a brief reprieve from the chaos. Some days we've run errands or met Daddy for lunch after her lesson, and some days we've just gone back home. The last couple days, Dinah had been asking to go to Hobby Lobby to get beads to make her some new necklaces. So, we finally went. However, we quickly discovered that taking a nine-month-old baby to the bead aisle at Hobby Lobby was not very productive. We eventually scrapped that idea and just walked around for a few minutes. In our meandering, Dinah saw a tie dye kit that caught her attention. She didn't know what it was, but those colors seemed to be calling to her. She decided she'd rather make a shirt instead of necklaces, and I left thinking surely I can tie dye a shirt cheaper than that. </div>
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So, after buying Dollar Tree rubber bands, a shirt from Family Dollar, and a little research, we figured out <a href="http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ihOPqVoXj5s">how to make dye from the acrylic paint</a> we had on hand and went to work. </div>
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Hooray for crafty days, and that silly grin!</div>
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-54466519122399194132014-05-05T14:03:00.001-05:002014-05-05T14:06:30.963-05:00Siblings and FriendsHaving grown up with two brothers myself, I knew how special it was to have siblings. So, I always knew I wanted more than one child so they would have that too. Now that I have two, I'm incredibly grateful that they have each other. Nothing warms my heart like seeing the love and adoration they have for each other. And, it started the day Jack was born. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFbYdW_7r7_O2SK-rgpmJJr6K1Qh7-y1l29txt2lbf5jT6pt5CcaAcaHheMD9Qj__hDhyphenhyphengHhyphenhyphenKXtZAms86vv_d9v5dtqnTU3oLaOFcg3FjTGbEdMSEMlb675XptinX3pvephnS3vE98iw/s640/blogger-image--1107340891.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFbYdW_7r7_O2SK-rgpmJJr6K1Qh7-y1l29txt2lbf5jT6pt5CcaAcaHheMD9Qj__hDhyphenhyphengHhyphenhyphenKXtZAms86vv_d9v5dtqnTU3oLaOFcg3FjTGbEdMSEMlb675XptinX3pvephnS3vE98iw/s640/blogger-image--1107340891.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Dinah immediately went looking for her baby brother and asked to hold him as soon as she woke up everyday for the first couple months of his life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFHbRYQAebkuJyGwOv8U_UDslD-ta7_nUba4jOwEBMZ1BxWDh2rr3WXvYIYUZF6cVyvEkbE5Bo6DOiLtpsFoXpIiN6zw6JncycURSiEUTIXGHV-b2FYyzMN6nlx-UwIRUDaURPXqHMv-R/s640/blogger-image-684554975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFHbRYQAebkuJyGwOv8U_UDslD-ta7_nUba4jOwEBMZ1BxWDh2rr3WXvYIYUZF6cVyvEkbE5Bo6DOiLtpsFoXpIiN6zw6JncycURSiEUTIXGHV-b2FYyzMN6nlx-UwIRUDaURPXqHMv-R/s640/blogger-image-684554975.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">They light up when they see each other, and they love doing things together. Nothing is as fun as making each other laugh. And nothing makes this Mama's heart happier. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2vReTj5nT22QyRV2IBYoKeLSz-WsUmZAS3cwQQgrL19NOwujH5C5_IONRfIY5tz0NOupfPYP5zp1jx0nz7JGrSEUSONjVQMsa9qskXYXiDmyLZKjudRaIMtg2_qZmrucnrmXdzMoMakW/s640/blogger-image--2002106776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2vReTj5nT22QyRV2IBYoKeLSz-WsUmZAS3cwQQgrL19NOwujH5C5_IONRfIY5tz0NOupfPYP5zp1jx0nz7JGrSEUSONjVQMsa9qskXYXiDmyLZKjudRaIMtg2_qZmrucnrmXdzMoMakW/s640/blogger-image--2002106776.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They thoroughly enjoy each other's company and I pray they always do. A siblings' bond is like no other. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgfwExqkzNVayXgflu3WGLd1dCBm1hfkPRC7GmIc9vtEBMe0tomX-kFBDVFQMIeUqvGTtjebuz4_gKT7NpRfkRFMLpu4ppA-aXS-Tqv8eO0W7cf3iqnOoOLVMVKjnAEgmfn5s5mxD4M-a/s640/blogger-image--1743442257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgfwExqkzNVayXgflu3WGLd1dCBm1hfkPRC7GmIc9vtEBMe0tomX-kFBDVFQMIeUqvGTtjebuz4_gKT7NpRfkRFMLpu4ppA-aXS-Tqv8eO0W7cf3iqnOoOLVMVKjnAEgmfn5s5mxD4M-a/s640/blogger-image--1743442257.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Maybe it's because they share in the joys of childhood. All I know is that siblings make the best friends. </div><br></div><br></div><br></div><br></div><br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-15422079025501699902014-04-14T21:33:00.001-05:002014-04-15T09:47:51.528-05:00Stop Growing Up.<div>To My Children:</div><div><br></div>Stop growing up. Seriously. This is getting ridiculous. I mean, I don't expect you to stay babies forever, but geez. Give me more than a <i>day</i>. <div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisinKeSH1GiPpol9xQAH_q06dBj-W6K3kCXiSaMXygcQJDkigWeeF3FlrFdklJATlhFsSFGNrO1pNQf2XE1PjbLezRvy3NsB2y6X-0b6rVeJ1cPWY1zgC_QP9lJFhY9aBc-ZUJs7PaewiU/s640/blogger-image-1029108839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisinKeSH1GiPpol9xQAH_q06dBj-W6K3kCXiSaMXygcQJDkigWeeF3FlrFdklJATlhFsSFGNrO1pNQf2XE1PjbLezRvy3NsB2y6X-0b6rVeJ1cPWY1zgC_QP9lJFhY9aBc-ZUJs7PaewiU/s640/blogger-image-1029108839.jpg"></a></div><br><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Yesterday, Dinah was just learning to walk and doing that side-step across the living room. Or squealing at the other shoppers in the grocery store to get their attention and then waving when they finally looked her way. Today, she's dressing up as princesses and belting out the words to "Let It Go."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZVkmkqU_hf60foSyN6_M16b1Ace1IeeAEfi2HqiIisXq_dQxRP3Wt9hFJbzyayCaug9oJcd0vZG9WkgjS3myhvn_jY6n2VsYMcnqdayFifBZNAZ3Ad-mWam9rDFxrqhlp_RDfYzv7Pc1/s640/blogger-image--1503480884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZVkmkqU_hf60foSyN6_M16b1Ace1IeeAEfi2HqiIisXq_dQxRP3Wt9hFJbzyayCaug9oJcd0vZG9WkgjS3myhvn_jY6n2VsYMcnqdayFifBZNAZ3Ad-mWam9rDFxrqhlp_RDfYzv7Pc1/s640/blogger-image--1503480884.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Yesterday, Jack was an 8lb 5oz newborn. Today he's sitting up, army crawling across the room to get into whatever has caught his eye, rocking on all fours, grinning and showing off his five teeth, and laughing at his sister. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqIjwZOSFOE3OmD5R6gip5DBwiu3VZ-OdKs6aYXPd5cKgMrBiM74bHRXDbU_7wj1BK97rWpBcP9IvBJRuuK6JltVEfOoQmVpzZuWnZfzZxgsdVV1RFdQhzKPQrfKxkoQc9NvkAyXm43E-/s640/blogger-image-577069401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqIjwZOSFOE3OmD5R6gip5DBwiu3VZ-OdKs6aYXPd5cKgMrBiM74bHRXDbU_7wj1BK97rWpBcP9IvBJRuuK6JltVEfOoQmVpzZuWnZfzZxgsdVV1RFdQhzKPQrfKxkoQc9NvkAyXm43E-/s640/blogger-image-577069401.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Love, </div><div>Trying to slow down time- Mom</div><div><br></div></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-78781907687840296392014-03-13T18:15:00.001-05:002014-03-14T21:02:58.095-05:00All The Pretty GirlsI had the following exchange with my three-year-old yesterday. <div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ64mHrd9Sv-dZa2HNZVzTdozTdfJwuWd6UmqMKWg68GHcjNmYgSWAmGZrAbYyGYnrhyphenhyphenuktNGz77DhO5P4yleURyy6i3kKWl6k7ILp1ReIJ3PqasAWB_9Tr3qK734gfGqSGYxyHO-mwapF/s640/blogger-image--265924867.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ64mHrd9Sv-dZa2HNZVzTdozTdfJwuWd6UmqMKWg68GHcjNmYgSWAmGZrAbYyGYnrhyphenhyphenuktNGz77DhO5P4yleURyy6i3kKWl6k7ILp1ReIJ3PqasAWB_9Tr3qK734gfGqSGYxyHO-mwapF/s640/blogger-image--265924867.jpg"></a></div><br><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Me: Why are you so pretty?</span></div><div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dinah: Because I'm a little girl.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Me: All little girls are pretty?</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dinah: Yes. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Me: But they're not all as pretty as you. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dinah: Yeah they are. </span></div></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Wouldn't it be great if we all had this mindset? Shouldn't that be the way we look at people? I mean, she's right. Just like every mother looks at her daughter and sees the beauty, God sees beauty in every single one of us. He made us, so of course he does. He also made the ocean, and the sky, and the mountains, and a whole host of gorgeous things. Okay, <i>every </i>gorgeous thing. So, I'd say he has some credibility. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNh6nPn5kAMAOvAXDGXCNkZxZqx3EefNb_4_4A_DPwiUlSGug1qRHrbO9v_vXCZeLmAmRhHl3FXVD6OjA4VPwjAv47DF_v3U2_EieFqkPp_gK3cmaiVW0WNZ-XRF1rRd9-UbmJgJulQCb/s640/blogger-image--963962100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNh6nPn5kAMAOvAXDGXCNkZxZqx3EefNb_4_4A_DPwiUlSGug1qRHrbO9v_vXCZeLmAmRhHl3FXVD6OjA4VPwjAv47DF_v3U2_EieFqkPp_gK3cmaiVW0WNZ-XRF1rRd9-UbmJgJulQCb/s640/blogger-image--963962100.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">So, here's to seeing people the way God sees them. </span></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-16213524042387168152014-03-10T11:20:00.001-05:002014-03-10T14:20:19.680-05:00My Friend, BarnabasEvery time I read the story of Barnabas in the Bible, I think about how much more I need to be like him. I mean, his name means "son of encouragement." (Acts 4:36) Every one of us could use some encouragement once in awhile.<i> </i>Or, you know, <i>all the time. </i>What if we all encouraged each other a little bit more? Wouldn't that be awesome? <div><br></div><div>Luckily, although not everybody is good at (or works at) being an encouragement, some people are. I have one such friend, and I am immensely grateful for her. Once upon a time, we were in Sunday School together, so I saw her often. Later, our class began to get too big, so we split it into two. Good problem to have, but we wound up in different classes. Now we joke when we see each other that "hey, we do go to church together!" because we usually just see each other from a distance or in passing. </div><div><br></div><div>But, let me tell you, she still encourages me. One time, after reading about how much I hate the cold, she brought me some of my favorite hot chocolate. She always remembers to tell me happy birthday sometime during the month. As a baby shower gift, she and her husband bought us a gift card to go out to eat, with the offer of babysitting to go with it. Genius. She always encourages me to write, which I love, but find it difficult to find the time (or brain capacity) to do. Just when I think I should shut my tiny little blog down, she tells me about reading it, and encourages me to keep at it. </div><div><br></div><div>Yesterday, our Sunday School classes combined, and it was so good to look up across the room and see her smiling face waving at me. After class, I intended to make my way over and get a hug, but I ended up stopping to talk to someone else. Then I turned around to find her waiting for me. </div><div><br></div><div>Thank you, friend, for your encouragement. Your smiling face and thoughtfulness bless my heart, sometimes when I least expect it. And may the rest of us be a little more like Barnabas. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-82999193875774615612014-02-19T17:46:00.001-06:002014-02-19T17:46:49.250-06:00Can I be Honest (and Mushy) for a Minute?I have cute kids. They make me smile, and laugh. They bring joy and entertainment. They make me want to scream and pull my hair out. I love 'em. I love the three-year-old imagination, and the five-month-old giggle. <div><br></div><div>But, you know what? I loved their daddy first. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwUI1c8z5zScbH5Z-vvPOdWcg8h8VaAc-4TiTdGDRXP_oK4eXiqR-u9GLeJeOT_3moKSEGCT0Wy1r2CJ-VkyF86aYH0xncgGDVzR9951aH80Mrtza58kclFUNrdlkZePblqg0Ok1iTkI-/s640/blogger-image-1107836400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwUI1c8z5zScbH5Z-vvPOdWcg8h8VaAc-4TiTdGDRXP_oK4eXiqR-u9GLeJeOT_3moKSEGCT0Wy1r2CJ-VkyF86aYH0xncgGDVzR9951aH80Mrtza58kclFUNrdlkZePblqg0Ok1iTkI-/s640/blogger-image-1107836400.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>That guy. Oh, that guy. He makes me so mad, I want to throw things. There are times when I think, "ugh! I hate you!" The funny thing is, during those times, the very next thought in my head is that love him. I do too (love him, that is). Nobody else makes me smile as quickly as he does. Nobody knows me, and encourages me, and supports me like he does. Nobody loves me like he does. I am so thankful for him. He's a great dad, but first he was a great husband. I struggle with insecurity in pretty much every aspect of my life...except when it comes to him. I never doubt that he loves me. In fact, if I could see myself a little more like he sees me, I'd be a lot better off. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-34854696179590122032014-02-18T07:14:00.001-06:002014-02-19T17:50:20.051-06:00Those EyesI have a three-year-old. That still seems strange to me, and the truth is she's almost halfway to four. Four?! Watching her grow has always been bittersweet. I enjoy each stage, but they pass so quickly. <div><br></div><div>It's almost sadder with the second child. I look at those sweet baby cheeks, and I know from experience how quickly he'll grow up. I see that little toothless grin, and think how it'll be no time before he's three. Instead of my baby, who looks at me with such joy and wonder, he'll be the one being stubborn and testing every limit. It makes me so sad to know how quickly he'll grow up. Then I look in his eyes. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJ4VBqAsknxaX9UbeFasQw-vHiZ0kTHAE-VGaMsg-7F5zn4lEHT8b2r1lZdreatAmh2ovUv5Z_fqz9UVDv5KrxWjNUNR_niWU1UmSz0aQzMqT1_dlV0DE58ej1ZhFtGaVtXW47oTcthsw/s640/blogger-image-1622073886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; "><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJ4VBqAsknxaX9UbeFasQw-vHiZ0kTHAE-VGaMsg-7F5zn4lEHT8b2r1lZdreatAmh2ovUv5Z_fqz9UVDv5KrxWjNUNR_niWU1UmSz0aQzMqT1_dlV0DE58ej1ZhFtGaVtXW47oTcthsw/s640/blogger-image-1622073886.jpg"></a></div><div>Oh, those eyes. I get sucked into that beautiful, calming blue, and I feel better. Yes, he'll grow up too, just like his sister. And fast. But, at least his eyes will still be the same. </div><div><br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-40222745425185078052014-01-29T16:02:00.001-06:002014-01-29T16:02:03.958-06:00So Many Posts So Little TimeSomeday I hope to get back into posting regularly. Then again, saying I want to get <i>back</i> into it implies I was consistent to begin with. I have a handful of posts partly written, or floating around in my head. I just haven't found the time to sit down and finish (or start) them. <div><br></div><div>When I found out I was pregnant with my second, I thought, "Okay, they will be three years apart. That's a good spacing." Here's what I didn't understand: I would be thrown into parenting two instead of one <i>at the same time </i>I had a three-year-old. I further didn't understand that the "terrible twos" were a walk in the park. <i>Threes </i>on the other hand. Holy cow! The attitude. The stubbornness. The testing of limits over and over again. Even my mother, who thinks my daughter is just about perfect, has said things like, "Do you ever think that maybe the terrible twos started at three?" or "You weren't that independent at that age." </div><div><br></div><div>What I'm saying is, I'm still getting the hang of this whole two-kids thing. I'm lucky to eat lunch, and luckier still if I get to eat it warm. If you follow this blog (and I'm probably just talking to the screen here), bear with me while I figure out how to accomplish more than just keeping my children alive everyday. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloMdwLIGJwsrmL3KaPMgsd17ZWRA-1P7d5efhNcoCF3xpwgASxJZAKbiDTmluQNe09zTAmBQk1aaXvF7AgseiKCxBOqalYsSJIAxQ2dbve2zWW5Pe79E7tLR63WH8Cp4Ja_ov5YXkvXWW/s640/blogger-image--1918128026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloMdwLIGJwsrmL3KaPMgsd17ZWRA-1P7d5efhNcoCF3xpwgASxJZAKbiDTmluQNe09zTAmBQk1aaXvF7AgseiKCxBOqalYsSJIAxQ2dbve2zWW5Pe79E7tLR63WH8Cp4Ja_ov5YXkvXWW/s640/blogger-image--1918128026.jpg"></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-59859926345445074622013-12-13T12:15:00.001-06:002013-12-13T12:15:42.631-06:00The Game That Changed It All<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I grew up in an OSU family. My Dad graduated from there. My cousin graduated from there. There was a lot of agriculture around us. I never got heckled over my orange t-shirts in that town. And, probably because I was a Daddy's girl, I decided early on that I was going to OSU for college. I didn't though. </span><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I started at a smaller college closer to home, saying maybe I'd transfer later. I did transfer colleges alright. After a series of events that could only have been God-led, I ended up at the rival school that I'd always thought I despised. They have a big football program, and they were really good that year. I grew to love that place from the start. I followed the football games along with everyone else, and got more excited with each win. And then, the time came. The Bedlam Game. </div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I went into the game torn. The team I'd always loved and supported? Or the team I'd watched for weeks, the roster made up of my peers? At first, I decided it was a win-win for me. As the cheers from the stadium drifted into my dorm room, and my eyes stayed glued to the TV set, the idea of my childhood team losing became much more acceptable in my mind than my school ending a season-long winning streak. We were undefeated, and I wanted it to stay that way. </div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Wait. Had I just said "we?" I had. It all changed in that moment. We won that day, and my loyalty completely shifted. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-85353871035134388192013-11-22T13:44:00.001-06:002013-11-22T14:14:07.335-06:00Here We Go, Again!...Maybe.In January, I decided I needed to write more. And, I figured, this blog was the best place to start. So, I made it a point to do just that. It worked, too, for a little bit. The problem was, I found out I was pregnant about that time. And, as is common in pregnancy, I got tired. Then, I started a new job. I was home with my toddler during the day, and worked in the evenings. I got more tired.<div><br></div><div>My husband got a new job that allowed me to stay home full-time, which we'd been praying for for about three years. Finally! Rest! And then, third trimester tiredness set in, and the terrible twos (which should be called the terrible threes) set in. </div><div><br></div><div>Finally, I had a baby. Hooray! Things would get back to normal now. Well, a new normal, anyway. And do you know what happened next? I turned into grumpy mama bear, who walked around in an exhausted stupor, longing for caffeine IVs, but terrified that it would only make my new baby's tummy aches worse. </div><div><br></div><div>So, here I am, two months after my last post, following a sporadic few months. Have things finally improved? Only slightly, maybe, but not really. I don't know if I can keep up with writing yet. I don't know if I can drag my head out of the sleep-deprived daze that I live in enough to write a coherent sentence. </div><div><br></div><div>Here's what I do know. I am willing to try. I think a creative outlet of some sort might provide me with some reprieve. And, in the midst of near-constant crying, and evolving attitude and stubbornness, I do find smiles of a young baby who thinks his Mama is the greatest person around and entertaining antics of a young girl who doesn't want chicken and noodles for lunch, because they "make her nervous." These are the things I don't want to forget. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-81722452655560749282013-09-19T15:39:00.001-05:002013-09-24T12:15:24.082-05:00Introducing...Wow, it's been a little bit since I posted anything. It turns out that caring for a toddler while growing a new baby is exhausting. I guess I should've known. Either of those on their own can be pretty draining too. <div><div><br></div><div>Well, I'm terminating radio silence to make this announcement. As of 2:05am on Sunday morning, I'm now the proud, still very tired, mother of two. Baby boy made his entrance quickly enough into the world that he did it naturally. That's right, no epidural. That was definitely not the way I saw things going. That story can be told at a later date, though. Right now, I'd like to present the newest addition to our family. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf6cYHOsT6YOOq8Ee_k0nNxJzeA75pxXn8U-3DTVnKPMDzAicPWpJW1kM_e9FY-M4QJ9z7qdjlIJyzV1qpNhxfxYHzbT-7GvxVv2yw5wf78M-vOSNaY7up9Y2RJJ37xF8rbFjcuXGo9AU/s640/blogger-image--1552172972.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf6cYHOsT6YOOq8Ee_k0nNxJzeA75pxXn8U-3DTVnKPMDzAicPWpJW1kM_e9FY-M4QJ9z7qdjlIJyzV1qpNhxfxYHzbT-7GvxVv2yw5wf78M-vOSNaY7up9Y2RJJ37xF8rbFjcuXGo9AU/s640/blogger-image--1552172972.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvUVFqBdaZOuPGAlE0LzLZsjs3tc8uiVS_wJ_oTgohc7kCmYw3WOmazGOwVUaE8U5iLoTgRUET3v28tNVLcTSz-TXzbblS8_vUFLD1g4Cgu-1chjOuFfPnVazOcH9FZlj_4ZhgOBiVIlQ/s640/blogger-image--891775370.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvUVFqBdaZOuPGAlE0LzLZsjs3tc8uiVS_wJ_oTgohc7kCmYw3WOmazGOwVUaE8U5iLoTgRUET3v28tNVLcTSz-TXzbblS8_vUFLD1g4Cgu-1chjOuFfPnVazOcH9FZlj_4ZhgOBiVIlQ/s640/blogger-image--891775370.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Jack Dean was 8lbs 5oz and 22" long. He looks a lot like his big sister, and is absolutely precious. We're all pretty taken with him. </div><div><br></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-18293213673386851232013-08-01T08:16:00.001-05:002013-08-06T07:58:34.313-05:00Depriving the Pregnant Woman of Ice Cream in the Summer<div>A few weeks ago, I went in for my glucose test. It's pretty common during pregnancy to have gestational diabetes, because the extra hormones block insulin. It's common enough that they test everyone. Still, when I failed the test, I was surprised. I thought I'd just had my glass of orange juice that morning too close to the test. When I went in for the 3 hour test, I thought it would be inconvenient, but I felt fine so I was convinced there would be nothing to it. Apparently I was wrong. </div><div><br></div><div>So, as the doctor instructed, I met with a dietician and started checking my blood sugar four times a day. The dietician went over how to read food labels to stay under my carbs for each meal and snack (apparently sugar is a category under the carbohydrate umbrella, who knew?) and what foods I could eat, etc. </div><div><br></div><div>Holding onto the fact that most of the time this condition goes away after the baby is born, I started eating like a diabetic, thinking I'd endure it for a few weeks and maybe pick up some good habits along the way. Now that I've been doing it for about a month, I haven't picked up healthy habits as much as start a running list of things I want to eat as soon as I'm able again. </div><div><br></div><div>If you want to come see the baby after he's born, feel free to bring any of the following items with you. </div><div><br></div>Soft cookies<div>Oreos</div><div>a loaf of homemade bread</div><div>Ice cream</div><div>Fruit in the morning</div><div>Cereal </div><div>Poptarts</div><div>Cake</div><div>Pie</div><div>a sweet potato with my steak</div><div>a baked potato with my steak</div><div>Sweet tea</div><div>A full glass of milk</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-26996561473718365722013-07-29T14:20:00.001-05:002013-07-29T14:20:48.304-05:00From Baby to Little GirlEarly this year, we sold our tiny house in the country and moved into a rent house in town while we looked for our next place. We did minimal decorating, since it would only be temporary. Over the next few months, we looked at houses. Meanwhile, the owner of our rental put it back on the market, and we eventually decided maybe this very house was the right next step for us. <div><br><div>A little over a week ago, we closed on the house and are officially homeowners again. It needs a little updating, but nothing major, and it's in decent shape for the amount we were willing to spend. Now we don't have to move again. Bonus! Besides, my husband can do anything we may need or want done, and do it well. He's pretty handy to have around. </div></div><div><br></div><div>So, we took a newly purchased house and put a woman who is 7 months pregnant in it. It's like nesting in overdrive. We started working on the nursery. It's slowly coming together, and I'm anxious to get it done. It's going to be cool. We also started on Dinah's room. </div><div><br></div><div>Until now, I'd been using the changing table as a bookshelf for her. I'm going to need that for a baby soon, though, so we bought her an actual bookshelf. It's amazing how much that alone changed the look of the room. So, after painting, rearranging and redecorating, Dinah officially has a mostly complete little girl's room. She even got to pick her own color and decorations and help paint. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqQg3bv2wEYycrKfPNBlqOPjOwHGKstYkQVqcviXUPiKab6AYZ3B_N6BU0nZxG-0X1PukEF2VJDW_vwPL7pHgUt4mDw0fHZjNemWMYEaTyYMSsQIDU5TsaUJXO9czteimrcSJCXKlJO4d/s640/blogger-image-1710489982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqQg3bv2wEYycrKfPNBlqOPjOwHGKstYkQVqcviXUPiKab6AYZ3B_N6BU0nZxG-0X1PukEF2VJDW_vwPL7pHgUt4mDw0fHZjNemWMYEaTyYMSsQIDU5TsaUJXO9czteimrcSJCXKlJO4d/s640/blogger-image-1710489982.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifadET0fsJm5NLvySwCn1N20gzSZrvRGukSrH-R2GxeFX0jHjZ90zfYrxZNJqIp4_-JVQAmhRqSaN9sIOAoJnh-YPeI-u0tFstObFt5j_u2nDx3sLiZ9U7phuFxFKtneJ05RMDPwI5Q1BG/s640/blogger-image-938265760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifadET0fsJm5NLvySwCn1N20gzSZrvRGukSrH-R2GxeFX0jHjZ90zfYrxZNJqIp4_-JVQAmhRqSaN9sIOAoJnh-YPeI-u0tFstObFt5j_u2nDx3sLiZ9U7phuFxFKtneJ05RMDPwI5Q1BG/s640/blogger-image-938265760.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMPNOEnQhGeGh0Dvw6JyQnxMXNXgbNd42mqRIDoh1OxI_ZRaBsdOgc8r0-Y4h2xrq4BMrqrhoRMF7uAiUxeNxcd8OGuSZJoHIkJiZxF86PocuLd6J2xqylcm7y9NycBzmQfOotOIv1imD/s640/blogger-image-1771311766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMPNOEnQhGeGh0Dvw6JyQnxMXNXgbNd42mqRIDoh1OxI_ZRaBsdOgc8r0-Y4h2xrq4BMrqrhoRMF7uAiUxeNxcd8OGuSZJoHIkJiZxF86PocuLd6J2xqylcm7y9NycBzmQfOotOIv1imD/s640/blogger-image-1771311766.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFwJ7CMOdG9JKu6qCnt4BQqswGyvEH9rPKwjlG-1n4kn4w5fMqU9PFEidV0QV3CM3bPhSRLorlMQhlecRT53pJ5PTQfPjL69uEPm06QtO5261LzAggo2S07kWhWqcbmfO-lm25Zge563K/s640/blogger-image--1064561832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFwJ7CMOdG9JKu6qCnt4BQqswGyvEH9rPKwjlG-1n4kn4w5fMqU9PFEidV0QV3CM3bPhSRLorlMQhlecRT53pJ5PTQfPjL69uEPm06QtO5261LzAggo2S07kWhWqcbmfO-lm25Zge563K/s640/blogger-image--1064561832.jpg"></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-28686665052099283212013-06-16T16:13:00.001-05:002013-06-17T08:30:57.256-05:00Dinah's FrogWhen I married my husband, I was completely convinced that if we ever had kids, he'd be a crazy good Daddy. That was solidified in my mind the second Dinah came into the world. He stepped into that role so effortlessly. He is exactly the kind of Daddy every girl needs. He'll be exactly what our boy needs too. He was clearly made for this role. <div><br><div>There isn't a single part of parenting that gets left completely up to me. He prays for her, and with her. He plays dolls or blocks or baseball -even Dinah's version, which means if someone gets a hit, <i>everyone </i>runs the bases. He gives rides on his back, or attempts to draw whatever it is she asks. He feeds her, bathes her, reads to her, disciplines her, puts her to bed, cuddles with her, and attempts to fix her hair. </div></div><div><br></div><div>He gets up on Saturdays and lets me sleep. He doesn't mind at all if he has to watch her by himself. He does everything I do, and especially right now, sometimes more. She was three days old before I changed a single diaper. I thank God every day that I have the husband that I do, and that our daughter (and soon-to-be son) have the daddy they do. We couldn't ask for more. </div><div><br></div><div>I'll never tire of seeing the way she lights up when he walks in the door, or the look of absolute joy and contentment on her face when he dances with her. I'll always cherish hearing her sweet little voice praying "help Daddy get home" before we eat our lunch, while he's at work. </div><div> </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklFMAyxOJvQputekp_5B2673rY5JVWgo_MuDuuGc_vBd3znfwkBN9Ndv-tRE2dEZ29xkjLxjpQU1IQXk4D4iEQ5umQA78Xr3lAgY6Qdf0q4ZGxDKeYvX0GFdgfQwBk4gd5y4mzfKwxuY2/s640/blogger-image--453574577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklFMAyxOJvQputekp_5B2673rY5JVWgo_MuDuuGc_vBd3znfwkBN9Ndv-tRE2dEZ29xkjLxjpQU1IQXk4D4iEQ5umQA78Xr3lAgY6Qdf0q4ZGxDKeYvX0GFdgfQwBk4gd5y4mzfKwxuY2/s640/blogger-image--453574577.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0epYz2nJ3o05dzTjLxUBv4feOAVKhgWsr6P2Gi7hnrhvfVKZuEdXIDiUtOkl0GoSKGYyfGxFJdTqZM2-8pOzeAdT0M8ZB0I1xePEMdqDNAdRpYKmDlbYCQVF35m4A9uIHglVJrKwr4q3S/s640/blogger-image-393078786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0epYz2nJ3o05dzTjLxUBv4feOAVKhgWsr6P2Gi7hnrhvfVKZuEdXIDiUtOkl0GoSKGYyfGxFJdTqZM2-8pOzeAdT0M8ZB0I1xePEMdqDNAdRpYKmDlbYCQVF35m4A9uIHglVJrKwr4q3S/s640/blogger-image-393078786.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CIyJL2Kl-XtyDm1NUzGsVtjXDP2pPdohZimkQls4MMsfKWv0IfkDC0wLNO_ZZ_lM4wMIEDh-zzyolfYD8pHyWG4ajUXkdl2ouvsCEY2yA3lBRMnkdtPtGVe67J1NL8BJzKxxRrs_oRR2/s640/blogger-image-358350398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CIyJL2Kl-XtyDm1NUzGsVtjXDP2pPdohZimkQls4MMsfKWv0IfkDC0wLNO_ZZ_lM4wMIEDh-zzyolfYD8pHyWG4ajUXkdl2ouvsCEY2yA3lBRMnkdtPtGVe67J1NL8BJzKxxRrs_oRR2/s640/blogger-image-358350398.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Thank you, Dean, for being the man you are. Thank you for working so hard to protect us, and provide for us, and love us. And yes, even spoil us. You may never understand how special you are to us, but I pray that you'll feel our love and appreciation daily. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-7112881097054005302013-06-13T10:35:00.001-05:002013-06-25T12:34:12.699-05:00Fire-Breathing DragonHeartburn is a common symptom during pregnancy. If you've been pregnant, or spent much time around anybody who was, you probably know that. I had some heartburn with Dinah. I never had enough to bother with buying Tums or anything, though. But this time? The amount of heartburn I've had is ridiculous. They say the more heartburn you have, the more hair the baby will have. If that's true, I may be having a spider monkey. That could explain the amount of acrobatics this kid does, too. <div><br></div><div>The other night I had to warn my husband that if he got too close, he might get his eyebrows singed off. I had a doctor's appointment today, and she prescribed something for it. So, hopefully that takes care of it while I still have some of my esophagus left. Now, if I could just get some sleep. If I could cut down on the heartburn and the crankiness, maybe I wouldn't so closely resemble a fire-breathing dragon. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-74824290612256549792013-06-06T15:42:00.001-05:002013-06-06T15:42:07.002-05:00So Sad, but So Sweet<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I've said it before, and I'll say it again, motherhood may be the most bittersweet experience in life. </span><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">You find out you're pregnant. You're so excited for the next chapter, but you know life as you know it will never, ever be the same. There's no going back. Then you have the baby. You miss the days when you and your husband can go on dates whenever you like. You miss your sleep. There's no way you'd ever go back, though. This little person is more precious and wonderful than you ever could've imagined. </div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">You are so sad when they grow out of being a baby. Each milestone brings you a little farther away from that precious baby you brought home. Oh, but each milestone is also so exciting and it's so much fun to be a part of it. It's sad to know you'll never have that sweet baby again. But, you wouldn't trade the sweet little ball of energy dancing before you saying, "Mama, dance with me!" <div><br></div><div>There's that little pang of longing for what she once was, followed immediately by the joy of what she has always been. </div></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODEzPGM9jAas1g5G5mtYWK3fu3LIS6dAfkgNONIxkM_79Cq23Pp4rmamp_t9llFmhHgtPJ-cfJxK-EmqabTH0Lt44sh_HmsyPd49keTWiAVQrF3Vy_a7L-n-h2Uc5LUF3S2TTEjAt-O3c/s640/blogger-image-1026616629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODEzPGM9jAas1g5G5mtYWK3fu3LIS6dAfkgNONIxkM_79Cq23Pp4rmamp_t9llFmhHgtPJ-cfJxK-EmqabTH0Lt44sh_HmsyPd49keTWiAVQrF3Vy_a7L-n-h2Uc5LUF3S2TTEjAt-O3c/s640/blogger-image-1026616629.jpg"></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-14243688482853463642013-05-22T16:29:00.001-05:002013-05-22T18:48:27.518-05:00Oklahoma StrongAs I sat next to my daughter yesterday while she watched Tangled, I couldn't help but think of the people in Moore. I can't even imagine the devastation there. And many of these people are going through this for a second time. I've lived in Oklahoma my entire life, so I knew well the destruction and devastation that area experienced in 1999. But, I didn't really understand the gravity of it. It hits much closer to home this time. It <i>is </i>much closer to home. <div>I was in high school in May of '99. I drove through Moore shortly after it happened and saw some of the destruction first-hand. I would later meet people who had incredible stories to tell, and one who had spent the weeks following in a coma. It's always been something that happened in my home state, something I'd never forget. </div><div>This time, it's different. I'm older. I'm a parent. And, instead of living a couple hours away, I live a few miles away. This is a place I've been to so many times. I pass these people on the street. I've darkened the doors of these businesses. I have friends whose homes are destroyed. These are my neighbors. </div><div><br></div><div>Instead of hearing about it on the news the next morning, I turned on the TV when I heard the tornado sirens. Once we knew it was going to miss us, my husband and I watched as it grew and grew, until we lost power and cell service. My husband isn't usually home at that time of day, but he came home early knowing it was likely going to be stormy that afternoon. He had been working that day in the area where it hit hardest. He had driven right by both of the schools that were so severely damaged. </div><div><br></div><div>I know that "the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18) I'm praying for these weary brokenhearted people. And, I pray that I will show them His love any chance I get. </div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">It's also important to remember that Moore wasn't the only town in Oklahoma that was hit hard by tornadoes this week.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div>I couldn't be any more proud of my state right now. The way they band together in times like this is amazing. People aren't just willing to help. They sincerely, and desperately want to do all they can. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-BTXxdDpgVU61OyIIe6rocQBPo02xBrKdz4yprt_mWk6wtzYng8tLvZnHz7Wn1whmZKbteXRijkNIzawiFPBvkH607sTuGCSJuoEWxrjCCyAgdl1p3jdGn4dJIOA5AOOxC15lpca1uwZ/s640/blogger-image--825709983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-BTXxdDpgVU61OyIIe6rocQBPo02xBrKdz4yprt_mWk6wtzYng8tLvZnHz7Wn1whmZKbteXRijkNIzawiFPBvkH607sTuGCSJuoEWxrjCCyAgdl1p3jdGn4dJIOA5AOOxC15lpca1uwZ/s640/blogger-image--825709983.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-68117530168059519462013-05-20T13:19:00.001-05:002013-05-28T09:36:53.917-05:00Oh, Baby<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’ve been busier, and more tired this pregnancy so I haven’t been nearly as good about documenting as I was the first time around. I don’t love this baby any less, but it’s a different scenario when my thoughts have to be split between the two. And, the child who is already here is much more demanding. I actually have to feed her, and care for her, and give her attention. I don’t have to do anything different, and the new baby is cared for completely. But, just so I make sure and document so I have something to look back on to help me remember when time and lack of sleep take their toll on my brain, here are some notable moments and some comparisons. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This baby has been kinder to me in some ways. The biggest way is that I don’t have cankles, at least not yet. I’d be perfectly happy to skip that altogether this time around. I do not miss all the swelling I had with Dinah. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In other ways, the little kick boxer has been less kind. For instance, with all the heartburn I’ve had this time, this kid had better have twice the amount of hair that big sister had. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don’t remember how early I felt Dinah kick. I do know that I started feeling it a while before I was convinced that I was truly feeling baby movement. The first time I felt this one kick was early April, and it was obviously a baby movement. I didn’t really notice it anymore for a couple more weeks, though. Dean was able to feel movement this time much earlier than he did with Dinah. We were lying in bed the morning of our 20 week ultrasound, and I told him baby was moving. He put his hand on my belly, not really expecting anything, but he felt it right away. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Speaking of the ultrasound, it revealed that we’re having a baby boy! Our lives are going to change from dresses and dirt to…well, more dirt. It’s going to be different, I’m sure, but I’m betting it’s just as much fun!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </o:p></p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-75262724465759112722013-05-20T13:17:00.001-05:002013-05-21T21:55:37.375-05:00Winds of Change Keep Moving<div class="WordSection1" style="page: WordSection1; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Oh, where to begin? I’ve kind of fallen off the map, it seems, haven’t I? I’ve written a lot about change this year. I just had this feeling at the beginning of the year that a lot of change was in store for us. I wasn’t wrong. And, so far, it keeps coming. It started out kind of bittersweet, but it’s starting to get sweeter. For the last month and a half, I’ve been working a schedule that is completely opposite of what I’m used to, and completely opposite of how my body is made to work. Instead of working 3 days a week during the day, I’ve been working 6 days a week mostly at night. It’s been brutal. My pregnant body needs more sleep than that. I’m exhausted. My husband (who gets up early, and then stays up way later than his norm to see me when I get home) is exhausted. We miss our time together. Our daughter, who has always thrived on having both parents at once, misses our time together. It just isn’t the best fit for us. But, it’s kept her out of daycare and home with her parents and it’s kept food on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We’ve been praying for a while now that God would provide us with something different. In fact, we were praying for that long before we started this current schedule. Since we found out we were expecting our daughter three years ago, we’ve been praying that He would provide a way for me to stay home. That was a surprise to me. Never in my life had I pictured myself being a stay-at-home mom. It’s funny how God changes your priorities and perspective over time. We weren’t able to achieve full-time stay-at-home status, but we were able to keep me home more, and it worked for a while. Lately, though, out of pure exhaustion and a feeling of defeat, I’ve been praying even more diligently that God would allow me to stay home. I didn’t just want that, though. I didn’t want my husband to have to work in a job that he hated. I’ve done that, and there isn’t much that is more miserable. In Sunday school last week, we asked again for prayer for jobs. It wasn’t a new request, just a renewed one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Then, this week, God provided in a way that only He can. We've both put in our notice, and in a couple weeks we’ll be moving on to a new chapter. I’m excited to be able to stay home, and raise my own kids full-time, because ultimately I feel like that will be my greatest ministry. I’m excited for my husband to be in a new role, similar to something he’s done in the past and really enjoyed. He’ll do great. I won’t go through all the details of the week, and how it all came about. I’ll just say that it has felt like he answered every part of my prayer. It won’t always be easy. Sometimes money will be tight, but we’re kind of used to that. And, I’m confident this is where God wants us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </o:p></p><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><o:p><br></o:p></div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-86385841546973834302013-04-03T08:30:00.001-05:002013-04-03T08:30:11.688-05:00The Winds of Change<br />
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At the beginning of the year, I wrote<a href="http://raisingdinah.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-year-ahead.html?m=1"> this post</a> about the year ahead. We were in the process of selling our house, and I just had this gut feeling that there were more changes in store, though I didn't know what. A couple weeks later, we found out we are expecting baby number 2. The change hasn't stopped there, though. </div>
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Now, here we are starting April, and with it I've started a new job. There's that theme of change again. I don't know how much more will change this year, but I have a feeling it isn't over yet. So far, a lot of the change has been bittersweet. I'm praying that by the time the year is over, it's just sweet. </div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-90408020790769505602013-03-20T16:29:00.001-05:002013-03-21T16:18:13.523-05:00Goodbye, TwentiesI’m going to confess something today that a woman generally doesn’t reveal about herself. <br />
<br />
This week, I will turn 30. It seems strange to be leaving my twenties. I’ve spent so much good time there that it feels like home. Can an age range feel like home? It’s just that so many of the high points have occurred in my twenties. There was college, and the fun and friendships and growth that comes with it. Those were some of the best years of my life. I met, began dating, and married my husband. He has enriched my life like I never could have imagined. And, he also added some family members to my life I didn’t know I was missing out on, but now wouldn’t know how to do without. I had my first child. She has brought such joy to my heart. I’ve had nieces who awakened yet another compartment in my heart I didn’t know existed. And so, now I’m about to move on to my thirties. <br />
<br />
I know some people get a little anxious about that number. I figure I can’t change it, so I might as well enjoy it. Besides, I’ve heard people say that the thirties are the best. I’m already looking forward to welcoming a second child to our lives. I’m anxious to see what else these years will bring. I know these years won’t always be easy, just as the rest of my years haven’t always been easy. But, I’m excited to see what God will bring out of them. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5zruw8ZJ0VrfqD7AYEoMh87icgYgRkwF6oFKpjNbC8YRZjg5lmzRkO5kXVkNt7aCvn29-wXKzsCU6IiaNRzVl37fI9RyZiEYrUyPJaz-1JgyuZ4GiugWrDxlGvG3Oy5_zS3a5iYR70JT/s640/blogger-image-843508250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5zruw8ZJ0VrfqD7AYEoMh87icgYgRkwF6oFKpjNbC8YRZjg5lmzRkO5kXVkNt7aCvn29-wXKzsCU6IiaNRzVl37fI9RyZiEYrUyPJaz-1JgyuZ4GiugWrDxlGvG3Oy5_zS3a5iYR70JT/s640/blogger-image-843508250.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBjWfSCSVbKRmJbHnVIOhElDtyJWOdmX_ZYJyUpFbZnRccbQd7ofLyN9DBrUw9UiKJXuX-vsMTY6PmRgdBg2UnCJ-eJ0ehcqgFhnGdi9uTFCcNXntWUy72AOLuN-haSN-L8bjWE4eGmmv/s640/blogger-image--1729249503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBjWfSCSVbKRmJbHnVIOhElDtyJWOdmX_ZYJyUpFbZnRccbQd7ofLyN9DBrUw9UiKJXuX-vsMTY6PmRgdBg2UnCJ-eJ0ehcqgFhnGdi9uTFCcNXntWUy72AOLuN-haSN-L8bjWE4eGmmv/s640/blogger-image--1729249503.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggETay9YmFYTQo7JiKNJI3hSGiIEZxureFQojgqhQ3vl5ictauvEiiwL87z9xkVjl4Zh3FjSCMIoeG8jQk32KUvKDTDu0BY_ApcVsHgg_zozIAFTT9hZJEBVW_p2S9Uyjn_Ub7ibN-6Edm/s640/blogger-image--584795504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggETay9YmFYTQo7JiKNJI3hSGiIEZxureFQojgqhQ3vl5ictauvEiiwL87z9xkVjl4Zh3FjSCMIoeG8jQk32KUvKDTDu0BY_ApcVsHgg_zozIAFTT9hZJEBVW_p2S9Uyjn_Ub7ibN-6Edm/s640/blogger-image--584795504.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-15269447368958580972013-03-15T12:47:00.001-05:002013-03-15T18:01:01.133-05:00A Birthday ListSince my birthday is coming up, it seems only logical to make a list of things I want, or rather need. My husband will be happy to see this, because he’s been asking me for over a month. Then, he’ll realize most of the things on my list are a little out of his price range, and decide I’m not being that helpful, after all. That’s kind of the story of his life, though. I make life easy. <br />
·Warm weather<br />
·New shoes<br />
·New house, outside of town (not as far out as we were, just not smack-dab in the middle like we are at the moment)<br />
·iPhone case. Preferably blue with white polka dots. Or just a really pretty blue.<br />
· Vacation. I’m not even that picky. I’d go just about anywhere. <br />
·Facial and/or new makeup. I’m a little self-conscious about my skin lately.<br />
· Job. Not for me, though. A really good job for Dean, so I can stay home. <br />
· To hug all of my nieces. <br />
· Joint birthday celebration with my good friend, like the old days (ok so maybe it only happened once, but it was one to remember)<br />
<br />
There. That’s not too much to ask, is it? And, Hubby, if my wish list is too far-fetched, maybe we should just make it a week-long celebration. <br />
<br />
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-28862257277574167662013-03-07T16:14:00.000-06:002013-03-10T18:23:18.625-05:00All Those Baby Things<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’m currently in the 12<sup>th</sup> week of my pregnancy. Almost into the second trimester! Woohoo! That means I’m almost one-third of the way through. It doesn’t feel like I’m very far along until you put it that way. I’m thankful this time around that I have a little bit of experience. I mean, when you walk down the baby aisles of a store, it can be kind of overwhelming. There’s so much stuff! How are you supposed to know what you need (or what would make life a little easier), and what is just a waste of money? Two important things I learned the first time around are <b>1)</b> it depends, to some extent, on the individual baby (your first baby might love being in the swing, and the next one might hate it), and <b>2)</b>some of the things I thought were dumb before I had kids turned out to be some of the most helpful, and some of the things that sounded brilliant turned out to be useless. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><u>The dumb-turned-helpful</u>: <u><br />
</u><b>Pacifier wipes</b>. Before I had Dinah, I thought, “Dude. Just walk over to the sink and rinse it off.” After I had Dinah, I realized that sometimes you’re in the middle of the zoo and there isn’t a water faucet anywhere in sight. I also realized that it’s handy when you want to wipe off the table and the high-chair where your baby is sitting in the restaurant, because she puts her mouth on absolutely everything she comes in contact with. At least mine did. Her crib and our window sill had the teeth marks to prove it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><u>The brilliant-turned-useless</u>:<br />
<b>Pacifier thermometer</b>. What a simple way to take the baby’s temperature, I thought. No worries of keeping the squirmy little doll still long enough to get a good reading. What I learned (and I’m thankful my sister-in-law pointed it out to me before I wasted the money) is that when a baby gets used to one pacifier, they don’t generally care to switch to a different kind. So, unless the thermometer is shaped like the pacifiers they are used to, they aren’t going to keep it in their mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><u>Things you don’t need to register for</u>:<br />
<b>Blankets and bibs.</b> Sure, these are both things you’ll need. They are also things people enjoy buying, and everyone knows you’ll need. Now I tell people to register for other things you need, because you’ll still get plenty of these two items. Dinah had about fifty blankets, and a thousand bibs. That could be a <i>slight </i>exaggeration. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><u>Something I didn’t find necessary:</u><b>Diaper Genie. </b>We take our trash out often enough that it didn’t have time to stink up the place. And, if we did happen to have an extra-potent smelling diaper, it wasn’t that far to the outside trash. We found it easier than having an extra trash can to buy bags for and empty. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><u>Something I wish I’d had:</u><b>Diaper bag dispenser.</b> This little gem is a little dispenser that holds diaper-sized trash bags and clips onto the diaper bag. There are times when you are out and about or on the road and have to change a dirty diaper, but don’t have anywhere to dispose of it. How nice would it have been to have a trash bag right there to tie it up in and contain the smell until we could get to a garbage can? Occasionally, I would actually take an old Wal-Mart bag or something for that, but you know how often I actually remembered? Not often. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you have kids, what did you find helpful or not-so-helpful? If you don’t, what do you imagine you’d want?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div><br />
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<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQ6xzZqZUgkhBZcd0Z82eIiNdy-NI92eDpZnToAK99W_dOom8Z6qnWlXJW0sonilR9bNAu8M7ydCs4p_w8TP6DmkHVyMzin1c2vrc2s3GP4WhxSjRLAAeVStVW8OQLz9TimB-zJpKgDeT/s640/blogger-image-1009228717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQ6xzZqZUgkhBZcd0Z82eIiNdy-NI92eDpZnToAK99W_dOom8Z6qnWlXJW0sonilR9bNAu8M7ydCs4p_w8TP6DmkHVyMzin1c2vrc2s3GP4WhxSjRLAAeVStVW8OQLz9TimB-zJpKgDeT/s640/blogger-image-1009228717.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-89812618243730081912013-03-06T15:45:00.001-06:002013-03-06T15:45:10.872-06:00Blast From The PastA couple weeks ago, a friend of mine tagged me in a picture she’d found from about 6 ½ years ago. I really enjoyed remembering what life was like back then, and the memories it conjured up. <br />
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Then last week, I got an email from another old friend. She forwarded me a message I had sent her from the same time. It was fun to go back and read my thoughts on what was going on in my life: college classes, my internship and mostly, of course, the guy I liked. It was one of the best summers of my life, and I love to go back and remember it. From the carefree mornings at the apartment pool with my friends, to the unique experiences of interning at a TV station, to my first date with the man I would later marry. <br />
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I’ve always enjoyed reminiscing about the good times, whether it be talking to my brothers about our childhood or talking to old friends about some activity we’d participated in, but I particularly love remembering the summer I started dating my husband. It was fun. It was carefree. I was pursued, and appreciated. I was right where I belonged. And, that is a good feeling. <br />
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Here’s to some of the good ol’ days!<br />
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<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7zsFMmI2pZ3BI03zWqwXVER48tj77lexURcSPwSxbbs-OGHNjfdsAhV-FjWf55sijE3dAYCUtTCzDIGP6sMkwEREYu3HlGvEdB61JiTglYxu3x4qRuo3FRy5Frkv6hdl4xQpqefh3lkI/s640/blogger-image-1613065941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7zsFMmI2pZ3BI03zWqwXVER48tj77lexURcSPwSxbbs-OGHNjfdsAhV-FjWf55sijE3dAYCUtTCzDIGP6sMkwEREYu3HlGvEdB61JiTglYxu3x4qRuo3FRy5Frkv6hdl4xQpqefh3lkI/s640/blogger-image-1613065941.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31GGuxDKO807H0q-I2YnroQ88oe5ODLdh-wxuxUmCqSHM-zrECO4VxJiJfWpdNgEcWcriEsIl9TB0GX9dyLWmMh5S5vx4AloPZIPyrL7QbPKtsNuJr-xHAJ-UvdTeGd81R28D-jszEpH_/s640/blogger-image--526984031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31GGuxDKO807H0q-I2YnroQ88oe5ODLdh-wxuxUmCqSHM-zrECO4VxJiJfWpdNgEcWcriEsIl9TB0GX9dyLWmMh5S5vx4AloPZIPyrL7QbPKtsNuJr-xHAJ-UvdTeGd81R28D-jszEpH_/s640/blogger-image--526984031.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207673898678153751.post-58136212336680201532013-02-28T08:44:00.001-06:002013-02-28T08:44:34.253-06:00Dinah-ismsThe older Dinah gets, the more her little personality just blossoms. She makes us laugh daily with her antics and the things she says. So, I figure it's time to start keeping up with some of the things that come out of her mouth, or what I like to call Dinah-isms. Here are a few examples.<br />
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Me: Are you a baby? <br />
Dinah: No, I’m a BIG ol’ Dinah!<br />
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Me: You little monkey. <br />
Dinah: No, I Dinah (insert full name). Not a monkey.<br />
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Dean: *scolding the dog for digging under the fence*<br />
Dinah: Don’t yell at my Mucket! (musket)<br />
Dean: She’s in trouble. <br />
Dinah: No. She loves me! <br />
Dean: I know she loves you, but she is in trouble.<br />
Dinah: I LOVE HER!<br />
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Dinah sitting on the couch with her daddy as I leave for work: Bye, Mama!<br />
Me: Bye, baby. I love you.<br />
Dinah: Mama! <br />
Me peeking back into the room: What?<br />
Dinah: Daddy loves you. <br />
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Now, I just need to get better about writing things down as she says them so I don't forget. <br />
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<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPTxMoEJ4zkleYFFMhLkCYvefO6KCJNKudE_AFxiOnLUCdsEo1PvBS-VflLIGUcbunT7311fcANYVRWxfDt1JnadF1sCE31hBYJJ4oCHJh-ejqsoLlJYyqL7IMgaobPzyuO94Cp1XcpAj/s640/blogger-image-165853026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPTxMoEJ4zkleYFFMhLkCYvefO6KCJNKudE_AFxiOnLUCdsEo1PvBS-VflLIGUcbunT7311fcANYVRWxfDt1JnadF1sCE31hBYJJ4oCHJh-ejqsoLlJYyqL7IMgaobPzyuO94Cp1XcpAj/s640/blogger-image-165853026.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqK5Dq6j9w3XKCl5EjPGXqFrVwk5xa-Xtwtkijn5HSDCR30uCzAf9opPjuOTeWAPp5PDz1sQmzTIA-5BEIvq7aDkzMd_EH_AEFSZpGsHW4FXpFu8WDV9SUl6U62a0o55b7K1PHtjMaDHJt/s640/blogger-image--1014661136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqK5Dq6j9w3XKCl5EjPGXqFrVwk5xa-Xtwtkijn5HSDCR30uCzAf9opPjuOTeWAPp5PDz1sQmzTIA-5BEIvq7aDkzMd_EH_AEFSZpGsHW4FXpFu8WDV9SUl6U62a0o55b7K1PHtjMaDHJt/s640/blogger-image--1014661136.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02743941417746514483noreply@blogger.com0