tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14225759147125034082024-02-19T06:48:28.594-07:00The Mother LoadSarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.comBlogger901125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-39450537017644887362014-08-28T14:51:00.001-06:002014-08-28T14:51:08.831-06:00The Mother Unload: Treating my own carb addiction for a gradeI hate my professor.<br />
<br />
No, that's too strong. I thoroughly dislike my professor.<br />
<br />
No...he's a nice guy, he teaches well, and he's funny. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXkYcCrBhtZrkoCfuj7oFOSC0653g1UvVP6f0hXxnJbK5VReX-0Nz3cWX8IgXHIEzQV134GdYaU8wkzAaCNQ7spm3EHJvAC4X_FNQTzOczfSkBZy6nFjrY7FS22URN0lcfUCzCCtb-Q-x/s1600/get+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXkYcCrBhtZrkoCfuj7oFOSC0653g1UvVP6f0hXxnJbK5VReX-0Nz3cWX8IgXHIEzQV134GdYaU8wkzAaCNQ7spm3EHJvAC4X_FNQTzOczfSkBZy6nFjrY7FS22URN0lcfUCzCCtb-Q-x/s1600/get+out.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final slide of his lecture last week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My professor, though he's a nice, funny, good teacher, makes me want to cry.<br />
<br />
I've made it to the Dependency and Addictions class in my masters degree program for Mental Health Counseling. Our professor announced last week that we would all need to choose a personal addiction, write a treatment plan for our own recovery, follow it throughout the course, and then reflect on it as part of our final papers.<br />
<br />
I should have chosen Facebook. I'm REALLY addicted to Facebook. Why didn't I choose Facebook? (Because I'm REALLY addicted to it. Duh.)<br />
<br />
I just sent him a private message letting him know my chosen addiction is carbohydrates and that my criterion for "sobriety" would by my doctor-recommended carb limit of 150 grams per day.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeoES0mI2vnw44OhJppKpWnVqYUFhGmlPt9QhpQXcoLEGrHrm1dJz1hQ6PNuumGFh1CaLYoU5U-GVqAfuc5_FKEIIjylDC3Yh62BcwU6QhqLSYF84FcmY95chWARM_8ru_XdMIHrqFg_C/s1600/crying+meme.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeoES0mI2vnw44OhJppKpWnVqYUFhGmlPt9QhpQXcoLEGrHrm1dJz1hQ6PNuumGFh1CaLYoU5U-GVqAfuc5_FKEIIjylDC3Yh62BcwU6QhqLSYF84FcmY95chWARM_8ru_XdMIHrqFg_C/s1600/crying+meme.png" height="388" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this is me now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />I now have to choose a theoretical orientation for my personal treatment and lay out the treatment process based on that orientation. Here are some possible theories and their treatment steps.<br /><br /><b>Moral theory</b><br />
I'm not going to choose this one because if there is a God, then God made carbs, so carbs can't be immoral. And if God is love, then God is cheesecake. Amen. (Willful misrepresentation of moral theory? Why, yes! And I'm very proud of it, too!)<br />
<br />
<b>Disease theory</b>:<br />
-<b>Initial detox</b>: Maybe going a few days with zero carbs (NOOOOOO!) or doing a cleanse. (NOOOOO!)<br />
- <b>Finding a 12 step group or other support meeting</b>. (Do they have those at Krispie Kreme? I'd go to meetings at Krispie Kreme.)<br />- <b>Finding a sponsor</b>. (Debbie. I'm definitely going to ask Debbie. Little Debbie. Or my friend Betty...Crocker.)<br />
<br />
<b>Genetic theory:</b><br />
Woot woot! It's all your fault, MOM!<br />
I've done most of the treatment options for this one with my doctor already. I could write a treatment plan that addresses my anxiety AND my carb addiction, but that just sounds like more work AND no ice cream. (NEXT!)<br />
<br />
<b>Behavioral theory:</b><br />
- <b>Aversion therapy:</b> Every time I eat carbs, institute an unappealing consequence. (When I eat a tasty cookie, I then have to eat a<i> less tasty </i>cookie. Yes, I can do that.)<br />
- <b>Desensitization:</b> Practice handling my anxiety or desire for carbs while surrounded by carbs or viewing carb-heavy entertainment. (Willy Wonka! Willy Wonka!)<br />
- <b>Nondestructive reward system:</b> When I avoid carbs, I'll reward myself with a non-carb reward like a hobby or some exercise. (This is like the dufus on my yoga DVD telling me to reward myself with a nice, big glass of water.)<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftFVPWq0C4dxHXXt1c2YL1HkByj6_BJhA31QSviZs_x0xvkthGgYG6ZVqruLfRwe-HFjndQxEAyLhfBiZR1vJ9-HH0nKyk2w0upIrzbhcLBkz3gFRl1wc40YPmlb2G2tNjOXsCoTuOlJX/s1600/that+word.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftFVPWq0C4dxHXXt1c2YL1HkByj6_BJhA31QSviZs_x0xvkthGgYG6ZVqruLfRwe-HFjndQxEAyLhfBiZR1vJ9-HH0nKyk2w0upIrzbhcLBkz3gFRl1wc40YPmlb2G2tNjOXsCoTuOlJX/s1600/that+word.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Reward"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Sociocultural theory:</b><br />
Woot woot! It's all your fault, UTAH!<br />
<br />
<b>Integrative theory:</b><br />
A little bit of what's good about all the other theories. (Like the dessert buffet at Golden Corral. No need to restrict yourself to one genre.)<br />
<br />
Of course, I kid. I'm actually excited to do this project because a) I've been comfortable at 220 pounds for too long and it's time to progress again; and b) I like good grades, and I cannot lie.<br />
<br />
Yes, it will be hard to get serious about my raging carb addiction, but I'll ultimately learn a bit about myself, I'll learn about my future clients, and maybe I'll get a little healthier in the process.<br />
<br />
And I can completely ignore my Facebook addiction.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-32426322359602446062014-08-25T17:53:00.002-06:002014-08-25T18:07:42.071-06:00Nostalgia lies... or Yes, you really were a moron too.Clicking around on The Facebook, and this meme shows up in my feed, posted by someone younger than I am.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIEDUom2AN2rrokY0qIymamDDkdUkBj-jLxzgH5_49ruMPk5jVEWrG5QVNcGudVtrz0dWVak2Mynh0NWBCqiqeJc0luqV7_w1PZimrsXlOsrKmKOPU_L74Ui5vFwDtIbGU6gj9N3qBoYS/s1600/morons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIEDUom2AN2rrokY0qIymamDDkdUkBj-jLxzgH5_49ruMPk5jVEWrG5QVNcGudVtrz0dWVak2Mynh0NWBCqiqeJc0luqV7_w1PZimrsXlOsrKmKOPU_L74Ui5vFwDtIbGU6gj9N3qBoYS/s1600/morons.jpg" height="383" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
Yes, they did.<br />
<br />
And yes, we were.<br />
<br />
I see a lot of nostalgia related memes float around my feed, and I can't help but think that nostalgia is a big, fat lying liar. When I was a kid, kids did stupid stuff all the time. Kids played with matches and jumped off roofs and did back flips into the shallow end of the pool. There was always a kid in every school who would eat the red berries off the bush on a dare, and we thought he was cool.<br />
<br />
Because we were morons.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSGqn7wNQzsfA48bis44-Q1el1yhlMHp6roRgfkm11tkSPUEWS_f7-EsoU-GWfaW_i4FQIv4pXFn-u0Itcp03KvppFycajJ9YB2Ja98sTwFpXa97qeKz8scEtC6tYtgoiBxUpSa5MTKxR/s1600/of+course+you+don't.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSGqn7wNQzsfA48bis44-Q1el1yhlMHp6roRgfkm11tkSPUEWS_f7-EsoU-GWfaW_i4FQIv4pXFn-u0Itcp03KvppFycajJ9YB2Ja98sTwFpXa97qeKz8scEtC6tYtgoiBxUpSa5MTKxR/s1600/of+course+you+don't.jpg" height="280" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Really, it's because we were kids and the frontal lobes of our brains, our judgment and impulse control centers, were still forming. Kids today? Same deal. They do dumb things the same way we did dumb things.<br />
<br />
Except when they don't, by which I mean, except when they're smarter and more tech savvy than adults were as kids. We have a whole other collection of memes for that phenomenon. In this case, nostalgia is pouty. If a lot of the "When I was a kid..." memes are to be believed, we somehow think the inventions we didn't have as kids are the worst thing that ever happened to society because kids today have them...even though we happily use them as adults.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7j-KSNk7b7ZsFVKSQNWhJKA1Ic3URNXR7OS7nYw5yceaB1Vp6evUbqkhMWhmHGe0MH7idgIqP7TKMQqmgy5HvCij3d2gz5dSiSDQVFT9PloYZ5GNXipgV1maVLUPa6QG-lhXZLtnMfLo/s1600/outside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7j-KSNk7b7ZsFVKSQNWhJKA1Ic3URNXR7OS7nYw5yceaB1Vp6evUbqkhMWhmHGe0MH7idgIqP7TKMQqmgy5HvCij3d2gz5dSiSDQVFT9PloYZ5GNXipgV1maVLUPa6QG-lhXZLtnMfLo/s1600/outside.jpg" height="279" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I call sour grapes on this one. We would have LOVED to have smart technology as kids. But we didn't have it, so we poo-poo the kids of today as if our childhoods were so much better. And we conveniently gloss over the VCR, Atari, Nintendo, Sega, television, etc...you know...all those things we chose to do instead of play outside every waking moment.<br />
<br />
Let's see. What else? Aha. "Our music was better than your music" memes.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHkaAEpTLtCNuuQFmPaY-FxHywT16cgd4R4cwTPfVfnoxlBIIZEY3Q9R98AVrhnymdtHbO3IBeYpBrGKqSIKzsj6owcB0zFCnp44-hOA0ivLiMRj0gSwiiSg1a2L9qxqzVvwKknvvXpK1/s1600/Beyonce-narrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHkaAEpTLtCNuuQFmPaY-FxHywT16cgd4R4cwTPfVfnoxlBIIZEY3Q9R98AVrhnymdtHbO3IBeYpBrGKqSIKzsj6owcB0zFCnp44-hOA0ivLiMRj0gSwiiSg1a2L9qxqzVvwKknvvXpK1/s1600/Beyonce-narrow.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I love Queen. I love Queen Bey. No need for conflict between the two. And seriously, the generation that swooned to Milli Vanilli and New Kids on the Block has little room to talk about the music of today. And it didn't take a genius to write the following:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It's gonna take time<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A whole lot of precious time<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It's gonna take patience and time, ummm<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To do it, to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To do it right child<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I got my mind set on you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I got my mind set on you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I got my mind set on you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I got my mind set on you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there are the "Hey, we survived!" essays
that get shared with a resounding, "Hell yeah! Kids today are pampered
babies who aren't allowed to live!"
In this case, nostalgia is dangerously ignorant of history. Here's an
excerpt of one popular share:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To all the kids who survived the 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's
!! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or
drank while they </i><i>carried us.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a
can, and didn't get tested for diabetes. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with
bright colored </i><i>lead-based paints.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or
cabinets and when we </i><i>rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks
we took </i><i>hitchhiking. </i><br />
<i>As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air
bags.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a
special treat.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle
and NO ONE </i><i>actually died from this.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, the good old days of lead poisoning, accidental drug
overdose, traumatic brain injury, and forceful ejection from moving vehicles.
Makes me want to snuggle a Cabbage Patch doll and watch Rainbow Bright.
Squeeeeee! Death! 80s!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing about saying, "Well, we all survived,"
is that all the dead kids aren't around to say they didn't. Because they
didn't.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do I think some warnings and regulations go overboard? Sure.
Am I pining for the days when kids felt jumping into the car of a potential
human trafficker was a perfectly appropriate activity. Yeah, no. Not my idea of
nostalgic bliss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are sociological studies that say every aging
generation thinks the younger one is worse/stupid/responsible for the complete
downfall of society (a society they think is worse than the one they
remember...). I could link to those, but I'm lazy (maybe because I wasn't
raised in the 60s?).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's a thing a lot of humans do, but a lot of humans do a
lot of dumb things, so maybe we can lay off the kids a bit. They're okay,
really, even when they're acting like morons.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least when they become adults they'll have no memory of
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-65850279313709936072014-08-13T14:51:00.001-06:002014-08-13T14:52:26.778-06:00The Pinterestphobe Gets Pinteresty: Dollar Store Flower Arrangement<i>Warning: I'm not a crafty person, nor am I a talented photographer. I'm sharing this post because I'm proud of my achievement AND my half-assery. No promises of quality work here, but feel free to do what I did a lot better than I did it. (It'll be a backwards "Nailed it!")</i><br />
<br />
Okay, so like all things trendy and popular, I jumped on the bandwagon of Pinterest kind of late and I hardly ever do anything with it because it scares me. (It was the same with capri pants. No lie.) I know how to use Pinterest and have even done a craft I found on it (badly). Most of the time, though, I stay far away and cock my head at the occasional emails that tell me someone is following my non-activity there.<br />
<br />
Today, though, I made something completely on my own. And it is GOING on my Pinterest page! Oh, it is GOING, BUT GOOD!<br />
<br />
A couple of weekends ago, we were cleaning out the garage and headed down to the dump to get rid of some dumpy stuff. The landfill in our town has a little covered section where people can leave/take items like electronics or furniture or plumbing fixtures that are still in good condition. We check it out every time we're there in case we find something useful (because we're cheap).<br />
<br />
While we were there this time, a man kindly offered us his barely used sun room couch, direct from the back of his truck to the back of our van. It took us a few minutes to decide we wanted it, but once we remembered a) our current family room couch is about 150 years old, b) free couch, we decided to snap it up.<br />
<br />
Only problem was it didn't match our dark brown toned decor.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdN8Zh5K0i_mNJFCRkoKDCPz1Kz5GNlMcEZv6kMSgw12uEnnr2l25-XQCx8DAj5mNfm1jVehwRPmVF30308_XxGrLvQ1OTDgHiYWUlnUyRpIG26IAkh_hqf97eoL24dbCCHauyqx5RgZG/s1600/IMG_1546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdN8Zh5K0i_mNJFCRkoKDCPz1Kz5GNlMcEZv6kMSgw12uEnnr2l25-XQCx8DAj5mNfm1jVehwRPmVF30308_XxGrLvQ1OTDgHiYWUlnUyRpIG26IAkh_hqf97eoL24dbCCHauyqx5RgZG/s1600/IMG_1546.JPG" height="280" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At all.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We bought a solid blue rug to match the trimming and moved the brown stuff upstairs (where it actually looks better..), but that was all the decorating I'd done thus far.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosQ9ht7a8cJ2K7heiGP2d4zxB9H4MSpQQG6xccsoxXhsJ59nzzlwwTCZMAwVEs5YzozSaWBevQKYp8aJdMkfAS3VeGVznarpE4OufHj5Vg80D9eA0Y1aXhWg6zssT16oZzjuNvfPTSD0Y/s1600/front+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosQ9ht7a8cJ2K7heiGP2d4zxB9H4MSpQQG6xccsoxXhsJ59nzzlwwTCZMAwVEs5YzozSaWBevQKYp8aJdMkfAS3VeGVznarpE4OufHj5Vg80D9eA0Y1aXhWg6zssT16oZzjuNvfPTSD0Y/s1600/front+room.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New (to us) front room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I've been itching to put together some kind of flower arrangement for the family room that would tie in the red elements from the couch and add another accent color to the room, but silk flowers and pretty vases are pricey (and I'm cheap). So I decided I would only do it if everything came from the dollar store (did I mention I'm cheap?).<br />
<br />
Finding the right flowers wasn't hard at all. It's like they were waiting just for me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhub8JbF3GkEDzz_UPovZ3wCWUD24soXdc6lcg2vQP93HdomtU8D1p5x0AA8zKX3mPqD9ArQXZXJoCCi9DW4nIFGGavluLdybgyZtIGptGxkONU2fKSFADONexotzRNFph-S4ZE33f16v9M/s1600/IMG_1547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhub8JbF3GkEDzz_UPovZ3wCWUD24soXdc6lcg2vQP93HdomtU8D1p5x0AA8zKX3mPqD9ArQXZXJoCCi9DW4nIFGGavluLdybgyZtIGptGxkONU2fKSFADONexotzRNFph-S4ZE33f16v9M/s1600/IMG_1547.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or the other lady eyeing them. Snooze, you lose, sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Finding a container to act as my vase was another story. I needed something tall and somewhat narrow. Regular stores have lovely tall ceramic vases for $40-$90, but NO (see also: cheap). I knew I could find something that would work to hold the flowers and something else that could make it pretty. My faith was rewarded pretty quickly.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpZtPTO5G4hDVhhMW7dJkqtb0M-FiEWC8yQa2-cqDu_9E53dqnACaqG-36Sx9SmhhvFWvgY5WdADsP23SbRxfL1gYHJHmis6pvUj8xBFUJVadf6AIt848jLoTCFSEKJSAyJipn78bEQ6R/s1600/IMG_1548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpZtPTO5G4hDVhhMW7dJkqtb0M-FiEWC8yQa2-cqDu_9E53dqnACaqG-36Sx9SmhhvFWvgY5WdADsP23SbRxfL1gYHJHmis6pvUj8xBFUJVadf6AIt848jLoTCFSEKJSAyJipn78bEQ6R/s1600/IMG_1548.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behold, thy vase.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLQ_F48JIGPs2assd8WqPUzJDKGbzVG4_pB_NVJ8UjOVhcQjlMcz2iwz8MdQF4v__fU5wcqxKT1RieS1Ea8VtsgVPItEzcgHBKsvzRrP_ycFJWajHX7ACBujcSQ8WoMNq-803ay13EpMH/s1600/IMG_1549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLQ_F48JIGPs2assd8WqPUzJDKGbzVG4_pB_NVJ8UjOVhcQjlMcz2iwz8MdQF4v__fU5wcqxKT1RieS1Ea8VtsgVPItEzcgHBKsvzRrP_ycFJWajHX7ACBujcSQ8WoMNq-803ay13EpMH/s1600/IMG_1549.JPG" height="366" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behold, they vase cover.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I bought some raffia for good measure without any real idea what I'd be doing with it. (Raffia frightens me.)<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31xv6xMyfro5zsSjTqQhkKJNXKP0zO7ioDgBcFe_Md8G2Y5wxtqdSAJDyF0CZ7UtxHidO_E6vbx76jFPYK8DjhPFJgTzmRvGdkw7cH7XwkFa9PotokW_Jc4tB3AsI69U-eMOCS_fUSPo7/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31xv6xMyfro5zsSjTqQhkKJNXKP0zO7ioDgBcFe_Md8G2Y5wxtqdSAJDyF0CZ7UtxHidO_E6vbx76jFPYK8DjhPFJgTzmRvGdkw7cH7XwkFa9PotokW_Jc4tB3AsI69U-eMOCS_fUSPo7/s1600/Untitled.png" height="393" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spooooooooooky, no?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Once it was time to assemble my flower arrangement, I realized very quickly that gallon size plastic storage containers are not so much built for holding tall plastic flowers. My "vase" toppled over a few times until I could spread the flowers out for balance. This wouldn't do, of course, because I have children, cats, and a family that breathes regularly, so I improvised on my improvised vase and added some weight to the bottom.<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNVzSs6ahWWrXXbvl2QnkpNUQJSolrDhL8cr_HigoXWql6pt1tHJfg-ClCYSEuXmxehEaxUR6tm7cl2z6BNuufPxBMBjjV54Hei6txRR044_TCM8xF1VQ21jFW6A-dHESazI1E_sWD-27/s1600/IMG_1550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNVzSs6ahWWrXXbvl2QnkpNUQJSolrDhL8cr_HigoXWql6pt1tHJfg-ClCYSEuXmxehEaxUR6tm7cl2z6BNuufPxBMBjjV54Hei6txRR044_TCM8xF1VQ21jFW6A-dHESazI1E_sWD-27/s1600/IMG_1550.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll make hummus some other time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, all I had to do was put the thing together. The pillow cover went on easily, though it was over-sized. If you go to a real store, you could get one of those cylindrical pillow covers and avoid this problem. Of course, if you go to a real store, you could also just get a real vase.<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWFrluJS2EGGOzyKV3PyepnU3rjjB7iB8IJ4rGZSvFpC1bSsjCLNozvq9sPljcWVlub1C1PHOiQPhTq9G-7RtYdzsQUd0TtCUPbGrCXHXz_J_MGxC4dva-4OBZwRb69D2w5HEwyP_KPmd/s1600/IMG_1551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWFrluJS2EGGOzyKV3PyepnU3rjjB7iB8IJ4rGZSvFpC1bSsjCLNozvq9sPljcWVlub1C1PHOiQPhTq9G-7RtYdzsQUd0TtCUPbGrCXHXz_J_MGxC4dva-4OBZwRb69D2w5HEwyP_KPmd/s1600/IMG_1551.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But where's the fun in that?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Here's where my major half-assery comes into play. My logic has always been, "If no one's going to see the back, it doesn't have to be perfect." (Or even well put together.) I used safety pins to tighten up the top and bottom of the pillow cover and secured the flaps of leftover fabric with hot glue.<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2aoCYbW0xGJsYmHb_jx_4dt6_mZEhKfvKhqjTIS6SSnqQZqVF9AIEq-nVTfqFB2RCL0-sLbRmvN2n3jKECMtE2NgvzWwqA3_TgmalTA29HYQIxYlbvopPHzjiWZrUte8556Ra3LPp0He/s1600/IMG_1552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2aoCYbW0xGJsYmHb_jx_4dt6_mZEhKfvKhqjTIS6SSnqQZqVF9AIEq-nVTfqFB2RCL0-sLbRmvN2n3jKECMtE2NgvzWwqA3_TgmalTA29HYQIxYlbvopPHzjiWZrUte8556Ra3LPp0He/s1600/IMG_1552.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how Sarah sews.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfnEw0ZJw4pnUlTZxxfkTLqIVTK8lN9s8GdSt3F9xBqO__IsY_Ptgyf7t9FDXCE1cbWKVGTxQjX1bT4n9cKVIaJZF3GFcbuEIrku8sEquZHZl3G9xchtrer89YfNwLfmBQjOBny4q-MxMY/s1600/IMG_1553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfnEw0ZJw4pnUlTZxxfkTLqIVTK8lN9s8GdSt3F9xBqO__IsY_Ptgyf7t9FDXCE1cbWKVGTxQjX1bT4n9cKVIaJZF3GFcbuEIrku8sEquZHZl3G9xchtrer89YfNwLfmBQjOBny4q-MxMY/s1600/IMG_1553.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because it works!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdF6cjVxGFdtw8R1eg6iy0afgNto8jrhP59zYNL5eJ6LMfM6FjCN2njkUBO-q64_9J8128y068aW_w4hZQgubvvBka08okXaUDgbJey_NvZbtfKO9ieFI_i_OWYd-dhhZu1_RT2YwOhyYB/s1600/IMG_1554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdF6cjVxGFdtw8R1eg6iy0afgNto8jrhP59zYNL5eJ6LMfM6FjCN2njkUBO-q64_9J8128y068aW_w4hZQgubvvBka08okXaUDgbJey_NvZbtfKO9ieFI_i_OWYd-dhhZu1_RT2YwOhyYB/s1600/IMG_1554.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXvmdAcflfwJoCzuqlKsVaKJSnaD6gAFxhLOeyI9-6TanaJl_pKL-l0lvdpU8vMd3q4hhDJptaqHaNfIg6vcg1s2rJzSws4dwiau-ejx28kDKZ52aa8QD9Kd2pNKi2vEYUokOQbvpVOxp/s1600/IMG_1555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXvmdAcflfwJoCzuqlKsVaKJSnaD6gAFxhLOeyI9-6TanaJl_pKL-l0lvdpU8vMd3q4hhDJptaqHaNfIg6vcg1s2rJzSws4dwiau-ejx28kDKZ52aa8QD9Kd2pNKi2vEYUokOQbvpVOxp/s1600/IMG_1555.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank goodness Cate owns a glue gun. I'll ask her permission later.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUeUu6VVfHhgYRVHceFUU_M8k6unrie6Wn7v7S3ta_h9Pwr4Rem_blWh6pwfx4tZmVz9i-yeqTjmh2kNAxv1g2g9WG8ksGeByOvmffGTyKekuLgp9u4nh16ONwqgQmwtvSApp6dKifzbC4/s1600/IMG_1556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUeUu6VVfHhgYRVHceFUU_M8k6unrie6Wn7v7S3ta_h9Pwr4Rem_blWh6pwfx4tZmVz9i-yeqTjmh2kNAxv1g2g9WG8ksGeByOvmffGTyKekuLgp9u4nh16ONwqgQmwtvSApp6dKifzbC4/s1600/IMG_1556.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And that's what we call "good enough!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKA6TfP9_sf3SVnIUQ1kDRavDV17GhIrBPHM8s5OrUekGdkvjhVnW4CcAlOuYDO2aB7ImHNVmXb2xottE8R0uCmRCO3uq0kd1IHzelHgWZvZcU1uk4DrK8JLU1-3u4fht9YCq0hBc8kGJ/s1600/IMG_1557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKA6TfP9_sf3SVnIUQ1kDRavDV17GhIrBPHM8s5OrUekGdkvjhVnW4CcAlOuYDO2aB7ImHNVmXb2xottE8R0uCmRCO3uq0kd1IHzelHgWZvZcU1uk4DrK8JLU1-3u4fht9YCq0hBc8kGJ/s1600/IMG_1557.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitten approved and everything. (Oh...and meet Claude, our kitten.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because I didn't want an ugly zipper showing at the top of the fabric, I knew it was time to face the raffia. I realized the blue raffia would tie the flowers to the rug and the couch lining, so blue it was.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbQV_Z5JqNNodO-UE7fiCpysCxd4qJQmxGHmgQnx15bEhAIlVpACzhVhQ2syKGEWc0p70834gVLypQRMcuZerLZEpKEl1M58KeBA7w9iggFNiDPQ7xwC2RSQ04EAxtH2c3TbwJgfmlEvb/s1600/IMG_1558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbQV_Z5JqNNodO-UE7fiCpysCxd4qJQmxGHmgQnx15bEhAIlVpACzhVhQ2syKGEWc0p70834gVLypQRMcuZerLZEpKEl1M58KeBA7w9iggFNiDPQ7xwC2RSQ04EAxtH2c3TbwJgfmlEvb/s1600/IMG_1558.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not that I knew what to do with it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBAP4Bu__L8N5ztr4iSzIdn9IMP2nRB9XZ1Adf-EGIZFsADZzKkwqcN1oV4Hfox4LnWDv_ioO9D4kK0XyoKMgPBBGBC8R0C1IooxSolUba6RlqkGsJtyclN-iPbHIHcnmDhcgTGjs1GWt/s1600/IMG_1559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBAP4Bu__L8N5ztr4iSzIdn9IMP2nRB9XZ1Adf-EGIZFsADZzKkwqcN1oV4Hfox4LnWDv_ioO9D4kK0XyoKMgPBBGBC8R0C1IooxSolUba6RlqkGsJtyclN-iPbHIHcnmDhcgTGjs1GWt/s1600/IMG_1559.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claude did. (Why do I think he's going to leave these flowers alone? Because I'm dumb.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I ended up just wrapping the whole skein or ribbon egg or kit n caboodle or whatever it's called around the neck of my vase. When it came time to tie a bow, I had my usual reaction.<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkQUcF4G_2e494FY7QBht8-9BvN0LM5Y-OwXCAN-Reeolh6m7ANWmUccpuubarKZMftC6nudbMeCOR64gLGHvTQ5Y3-CUCkyUM2kOY2arW_mZLrVRcYzuPTeIp1PIA_PiD2k2o9RuNiu5/s1600/IMG_1560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkQUcF4G_2e494FY7QBht8-9BvN0LM5Y-OwXCAN-Reeolh6m7ANWmUccpuubarKZMftC6nudbMeCOR64gLGHvTQ5Y3-CUCkyUM2kOY2arW_mZLrVRcYzuPTeIp1PIA_PiD2k2o9RuNiu5/s1600/IMG_1560.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tears and indigestion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
So I Good-Enoughed it. And lo, it was good enough.<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJKA1pzl3zA2TDFuSxKh_ed2_UcOVek-t9wtP-rZc2jhF2OE7ALbIC88uzzGqiDlGGkTd5v2cosV-9YaZV1g2GP8aMuJg23zp_x5ByEyn_aBaHIQoGJ68u_8ii-tSbtYSVhAV3tscqyxw/s1600/IMG_1561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJKA1pzl3zA2TDFuSxKh_ed2_UcOVek-t9wtP-rZc2jhF2OE7ALbIC88uzzGqiDlGGkTd5v2cosV-9YaZV1g2GP8aMuJg23zp_x5ByEyn_aBaHIQoGJ68u_8ii-tSbtYSVhAV3tscqyxw/s1600/IMG_1561.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yea, verily.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The whole project cost between $20 and $22 (counting the beans).<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBJmdKxApYW2ca0ZcIewK2EhHnlZlZMNqGxvPvL5UneIMDsJvwo-yqFpMogUenH2m1HQ-AUDhytWx3ivkUTwdZ28KjO5tDxCLv916ciGRX3TAdOAmyYIrqBthXYwsWABU2S1yzuq06kav/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBJmdKxApYW2ca0ZcIewK2EhHnlZlZMNqGxvPvL5UneIMDsJvwo-yqFpMogUenH2m1HQ-AUDhytWx3ivkUTwdZ28KjO5tDxCLv916ciGRX3TAdOAmyYIrqBthXYwsWABU2S1yzuq06kav/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I added some dollar store art to the walls to the tune of another $4. And the family room, she is beautigorgimous and budgetlicious.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSQpI7Ex9LezRDvoNPkbUQ0gslZICDCXP1WWy53TGRUX6WtKSv8httzdl7wXY0yzrUWUms5ErJWIgrqC5ms_GM7d8c9XA4IQmhchAKT69p6LNwjHQSz4bnXGA8y2DchJFGGtzkznR8e2o/s1600/IMG_1563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSQpI7Ex9LezRDvoNPkbUQ0gslZICDCXP1WWy53TGRUX6WtKSv8httzdl7wXY0yzrUWUms5ErJWIgrqC5ms_GM7d8c9XA4IQmhchAKT69p6LNwjHQSz4bnXGA8y2DchJFGGtzkznR8e2o/s1600/IMG_1563.JPG" height="352" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If nothing else, the family room is cheap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And that's good enough for me!<br />
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<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-76123232928227476752014-07-05T03:54:00.000-06:002014-07-05T03:54:29.401-06:00The Mother Unload: The Fat Lady, the Swimsuit, and the SmileWell, hello, blog world! I'm up from hibernation (translation: got through a heavy/intense/stressful set of classes in my masters program and am officially up for air) with a Mother Unload post.<br />
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First, because you might be wondering, my weight loss since January 21 is now up to 35 pounds! Couch to 5K is still going, but I may or may not be stuck in week 5...or 6. Or 3. One of those. The point is I'm still on the wagon, still moving forward, still working hard and cheating harder on my cheat days.<br />
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This was me about a month ago getting ready to leave a romantic hotel room after a night away for our anniversary. (I'd like the record to show that I spent every waking moment strutting around that room thinking, "Damn! I'm sexy!" It's very important for the record to show this because, Damn! I was sexy!)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even that belly was sexy. </td></tr>
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So today.<br />
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Today we went to the Willard Bay reservoir and spent about five hours having a ridiculous amount of fun swimming, acting like complete goofballs in the water, and hanging out in the shade. This picture of the kids (sans Aaron who's not a fan of water sports) perfectly encapsulates the pure joy of the day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much joy.</td></tr>
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I felt this same crazy, happy abandon the entire time we were at the lake, despite the fact that I also spent my entire time there as a 220 pound woman in a swimsuit and short swim shorts. I frolicked and laughed and smiled and played. And I didn't give two thoughts to who saw me doing it or what they thought of my body.<br />
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This is a huge departure from the older, less body confident me.<br />
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I went more than a decade, maybe even a decade and a half hardly ever swimming because I didn't want to be seen in a bathing suit. I didn't want to be seen in my imperfect state and didn't want to "make" others have to see me either. Baring my body in a typical swimsuit would be an <i>insult</i> to the senses of the other swimmers, right? I <i>had no business</i> wearing a swimsuit at my weight, right?<br />
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When I did swim, I'd get as close to the water as I could possibly get in my fully clothed state, then peel off my extra clothes and race into the water as fast as humanly (and fat-personly) possible to HIDE myself. I'd spend most of my time in water up to my neck because no one should have to see my fat arms, my fat belly, my fat legs. At the end of the outing, I'd do the same race-and-hide maneuver in reverse.<br />
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And I'd hate myself.<br />
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I'm sad for that woman who didn't swim, for the peace she lost and the fun times she missed. I'm sad for the body hate and the hiding. I'm sad to think of her hyper-focused on societal expectations, the incessant cacophony of "beach body" beauty articles, Hollywood infused comedic body shame, and an internet full of "weird" flat stomach tricks and cringe-inducing modesty blog posts.<br />
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Today, there was none of that. I'm nowhere near my goal weight, and I'll never be offered a modeling job for a beauty magazine, but I walked around that beach and through the holiday crowds, and I just smiled because I was happy to be there too. Happy to be swimming. Happy with my body and my life and my family. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy happy, joy joy.</td></tr>
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I took the requisite momly number of kid pictures throughout the day, because moms gonna mom.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And kids gonna kid.</td></tr>
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When I handed my phone to Richard and asked him to take a couple of pictures of me, I knew something very real had changed. When I uploaded them onto Facebook and Instagram, I knew it was here to stay. Never in my life, not even as a well-proportioned 120 pound teenager, have I wanted anyone to see a picture of my whole body in a bathing suit.<br />
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Today, I welcomed the chance, asked for it, NEEDED it. These pictures are part of our family story, and I am a part of it. I was there at the beach today. I want to look back and see myself in the pictures, and not just in <a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2011/02/mother-unload-what-we-really-look-like.html" target="_blank">strategically angled selfie</a>s, but the real, living, breathing me who was in that lake feeling like she could conquer EVERYTHING.<br />
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If you think you don't have the body for bathing suit season, if you think you have no business in the costume of the swimmer, if you spend family swim days racing and hiding, just know that I get it. I was there. That was me.<br />
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But this is me today, and today's me lives more fully and more richly than I ever have. Today's me smiles big. I'm keeping her.<br />
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<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-88586574314533777642014-04-09T13:15:00.004-06:002014-04-09T13:15:53.972-06:00Please join me in giving this a big hand!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Mom, today I got this, and I learned that it's better than chocolate, better than cookies, and better than the best high after a workout. I'm going to keep it and snuggle it and name it Handolyn and buy it a pair of <a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2009/12/stupid-product-handerpants-underpants.html" target="_blank">Handerpants</a>.<br />
<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-60930229045069587742014-04-07T23:12:00.000-06:002014-04-08T11:17:17.120-06:00Now that's a soul healing miracle right there.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Mom, today I learned that there's no such thing as "I'm in a hurry" when you see something like this outside your local library.<br />
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Sometimes, you just have to stop and smell the 25 cent paperbacks.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-44887229043654837442014-04-06T12:00:00.000-06:002014-04-08T10:45:07.731-06:00Cheat days and carbs and Indian food, oh my!So, I'm down 25 pounds, and people are starting to notice. This is in part because I went to the local thrift store and traded the bigger shirts that were starting to drown me for cuter, smaller, better fitting ones. It's also because 25 pounds of weight loss is just noticeable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDF-a_Bct6FNPIulEhBItKjdqpVGkG6Yb2_uhSyf9glachqli5y8n9cqvTjmuKJIvSwbxFxMqngLz9zay3USFm3z1VpkAqzuuwIMUEhuTwR1szann4TmODD07JTfwqOXVUm4XIHUlhZS7/s1600/25+pounds.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDF-a_Bct6FNPIulEhBItKjdqpVGkG6Yb2_uhSyf9glachqli5y8n9cqvTjmuKJIvSwbxFxMqngLz9zay3USFm3z1VpkAqzuuwIMUEhuTwR1szann4TmODD07JTfwqOXVUm4XIHUlhZS7/s1600/25+pounds.png" height="386" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you, person who no longer needed my new favorite shirt!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's especially apparent in my face. This is most likely due to better thyroid levels since a dosage change, but the overall weight loss helps too.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pmb75xMoSmejc7Wj0GoLg6lioICaPUW6XfSMHBjWr8LkGTUIUNBDufvmFdhf9YSSDOZ6q6VLwC-dgnW3I-EyuMT-LmZqJmWbuYHu7XD0ieVmi5pzneHEFQcWNW3AHFNv8zigmE-mysXC/s1600/25+pounds+face.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pmb75xMoSmejc7Wj0GoLg6lioICaPUW6XfSMHBjWr8LkGTUIUNBDufvmFdhf9YSSDOZ6q6VLwC-dgnW3I-EyuMT-LmZqJmWbuYHu7XD0ieVmi5pzneHEFQcWNW3AHFNv8zigmE-mysXC/s1600/25+pounds+face.png" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admittedly, the better hair of the after photo plays a part...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the past, this is the point where I start to feel the urge to sabotage. I've never been good at taking a compliment, especially anything related to my physical appearance. Some of that has to do with my "don't get a big head" upbringing, and some of it is just good, old-fashioned neurosis and sometimes low self-esteem. How do you manage to keep up the belief that you're fat and ugly (<a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2011/02/mother-unload-why-i-like-being-fat.html" target="_blank">and somehow safe because of it</a>) when you start to transform yourself and begin looking more and more trim and pretty? You either have to change your belief or change your body back to fit your belief...and we humans? We HATE changing our beliefs.<br />
<br />
For now, I'm trying to sit in this awareness and just keep shuffling along. When what may be sabotage happens, I'm just making a mental note and continuing on my way. I refuse to feel afraid or guilty. I allow myself cheat days, and I haven't really set any guidelines for how often they can happen. When they do, I manage my self-talk. I didn't do something "bad" or "wrong" or "harmful." It wasn't "stupid" or "dumb" or "disastrous." It was just a cheat day...and we're moving on.<br />
<br />
This is not to say that every cheat day is on the same level as every other... The day I completed week three of my Couch to 5K also happened to be the day of Cate's 14th birthday party.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50yBuFBxBGs3XTWFAH3CSLLdE3tQveIUa803hDBOc4A_PTcH9x7vSmp8WEj5QCSWGafefVMLA8ZR9dSB5c8uP0a9HdItxju-QlMYjxKr-y-X7hSAeX4YBpsqwyG8_9DxGA28_lurksxoY/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi50yBuFBxBGs3XTWFAH3CSLLdE3tQveIUa803hDBOc4A_PTcH9x7vSmp8WEj5QCSWGafefVMLA8ZR9dSB5c8uP0a9HdItxju-QlMYjxKr-y-X7hSAeX4YBpsqwyG8_9DxGA28_lurksxoY/s1600/014.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at me all happy from running. What a weirdo!</td></tr>
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My kids' birthday parties always include a full meal, and it's always whatever the kid wants me to make (within their party budget). Cate wanted a breakfast buffet, and we went all out: french toast, pancakes, waffles, biscuits and sausage gravy, bacon, scrambled eggs, fruit, juices, and homemade donuts instead of cake. There were carbs EVERYWHERE!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroc_tKCftsihgvUqQNJ-HwF4bbwsqg6frjO61jf46BJG8zEd3pFgwxgJIpzjFaXSlp3k2c0_aFpwB0DlgHQCU4HbjABtIXI94U5KhP3X95iw5WxvdAU27ElpScfGcoL3kHZUu-ztk1li9/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroc_tKCftsihgvUqQNJ-HwF4bbwsqg6frjO61jf46BJG8zEd3pFgwxgJIpzjFaXSlp3k2c0_aFpwB0DlgHQCU4HbjABtIXI94U5KhP3X95iw5WxvdAU27ElpScfGcoL3kHZUu-ztk1li9/s1600/021.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I ate ALL THE CARBS!</td></tr>
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The next morning, I thought about how many small powdered donuts I'd ingested the night before, along with the two plates of various breakfast foods and the two (or three) cups of orange juice, and I realized I had a choice in how to experience that memory. I took a deep breath and said, "Man...that was fun...and I'm a really good cook!"<br />
<br />
Moving on.<br />
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Last week, Richard and I walked down to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SitaraIndia" target="_blank">Sitara India,</a> which is fast becoming one of our favorite places to spend a date night, and I had this wonderful fusion biryani meal-o-carbs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5y4vdxW5YGinruuasUdtghVPOxoKi9mOF0c8VkgmrtTvMyKEdb4Co-0mMVL5qPKlbbLdpqqxHD2CadEm5OzpDNXzJ-Gi0mvRIJLBGytxlYIVOIkxInYGJfIsW75uX3R87tif92pmFpXX/s1600/IMG_0181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5y4vdxW5YGinruuasUdtghVPOxoKi9mOF0c8VkgmrtTvMyKEdb4Co-0mMVL5qPKlbbLdpqqxHD2CadEm5OzpDNXzJ-Gi0mvRIJLBGytxlYIVOIkxInYGJfIsW75uX3R87tif92pmFpXX/s1600/IMG_0181.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I enjoyed every spicy bite of it!</td></tr>
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And even though my carb count was already high from the naan and the rice (and the DEEP FRIED spinach appetizer whose name escapes me), I happily sipped warm chai sweetened with sugar and refused to stop smiling about it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxSZ3FiN5tY_k2DaHOdE0XJcxh6LyKV5nQxAECOUJ8vMrxkgGHqG2PpoPlnZDCxnRRFvmcALv4DoQ7lOJIABe9EtxGe7TTxd3bDLQT3yHdY_LT35D4L6GyaMjU4QuFLgXCR2IhCSOZzHS/s1600/IMG_0180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxSZ3FiN5tY_k2DaHOdE0XJcxh6LyKV5nQxAECOUJ8vMrxkgGHqG2PpoPlnZDCxnRRFvmcALv4DoQ7lOJIABe9EtxGe7TTxd3bDLQT3yHdY_LT35D4L6GyaMjU4QuFLgXCR2IhCSOZzHS/s1600/IMG_0180.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now, unlike the birthday party food fest, I took most of the meal home with me, having enjoyed only one plate of it at the restaurant. Like the party, though, this meal was a cheat. And like the party, I look back on it and say, "Well, that was a lot of fun!"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAizD0eR41DnRXkQvP4PTzbJJBK6iUank-7GIOLyuZlv2wRVEVvxhRi9XxDEHS8jamPuhe1vWcmR3Uf4Tb0LgQo6m0IBhGMMfu9uNEstun1z9t5glw_eKJTomb80LmDyWLIoNxYf3JFgi/s1600/IMG_0173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAizD0eR41DnRXkQvP4PTzbJJBK6iUank-7GIOLyuZlv2wRVEVvxhRi9XxDEHS8jamPuhe1vWcmR3Uf4Tb0LgQo6m0IBhGMMfu9uNEstun1z9t5glw_eKJTomb80LmDyWLIoNxYf3JFgi/s1600/IMG_0173.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gift that kept on giving.</td></tr>
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Now, I can point out that the green tea in chai has been shown by reputable research to have a protective effect on people with my liver condition. I can say the same for some of the spices in Indian food. But I didn't go to Sitara India for my liver. I went there because it was date night and I wanted Indian food, darn it! And because I had done really, really well all week and knew a cheat day would be all right.<br />
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Sabotage is still a possibility, and I'm working on the emotional me over on <a href="http://phenomenalsarah.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sarah...Phenomenally</a>. For now, I'm less worried about what it is when I choose to have a little more fun with a meal. Whether it's sabotage, taking a cheat day, or just a normal part of an otherwise healthy diet, it's okay by me. Obviously, the occasional treat hasn't stopped me from continuing to lose weight. As long as these rendezvous remain infrequent, I'm fine with them. If they get more frequent, I'll decide what to do then.<br />
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<i>(Author note: Update on my liver situation: My CT scan showed nodules, so this means there is irreversible damage. However, my doctor says they are "small and slight," so it's possible I can stop the damage from progressing and still reverse the fatty liver altogether. Losing weight is the best fatty liver treatment, so I'm glad for the progress I've made already and looking forward to even more. I'll go back in 6 months for another scan, and we'll see how well I've done then. And even though I didn't go out for Indian food for my liver, I have begun to incorporate near daily chai and curry into my diet to help things along.)</i><br />
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<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-76398210536012800442014-04-06T00:29:00.002-06:002014-04-06T00:30:15.013-06:00The logic of the 17 year old smart aleck<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiio8k-FcvVm3Azn5nv3rDWVZ-QNIL32YQld55kg5TL_Q3cYdb2gkOjeWcslmAACgoph8K5MS8Eamu0avIj0Hc4b6v0skgPoJ9m5Aav93nh8bgFxVs5psjfnu9cvfab_9mXfKaNbYM4CvO1/s1600/IMG_0185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiio8k-FcvVm3Azn5nv3rDWVZ-QNIL32YQld55kg5TL_Q3cYdb2gkOjeWcslmAACgoph8K5MS8Eamu0avIj0Hc4b6v0skgPoJ9m5Aav93nh8bgFxVs5psjfnu9cvfab_9mXfKaNbYM4CvO1/s1600/IMG_0185.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not what I meant...</td></tr>
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Mom, today I learned what happens when I insist that the groceries be organized on the belt for the convenience of the cashier and bagger. Har-de-har-har, Aaron.<br />
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<i>(High five to other grocery shoppers like me who take this seriously. It just makes sense, right? Right!)</i>Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-51574039523223596582014-03-25T18:31:00.001-06:002014-03-25T18:31:24.354-06:00It's not like I was going to eat it.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGcLhLJUGPuah-tKVaK5ZRYvkk2IjW1jPZaMN5E2yC6QykuCdVFb-zM2pdJ3uLNfmHwM-Wg8T8suwBayv1AcdgNNTbuyuPdI3-drlgMpha2Y1rNHKI5dkBv3IDmM7ao6bCON8fusxi4KA/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGcLhLJUGPuah-tKVaK5ZRYvkk2IjW1jPZaMN5E2yC6QykuCdVFb-zM2pdJ3uLNfmHwM-Wg8T8suwBayv1AcdgNNTbuyuPdI3-drlgMpha2Y1rNHKI5dkBv3IDmM7ao6bCON8fusxi4KA/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Mom, today I learned that Evelyn has taken frosting sneakery to a new level. I'm not even mad. That's just impressive.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-2497305713884947972014-03-24T18:18:00.000-06:002014-03-25T18:20:43.342-06:00I would have been down in the dumps...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RSRDVJLtOJuprU5reHP-_CY0R-6ie9sHzrzng3IB2g4MW89GWj0JoW-vq8d97B4P4f149Aes48u6dVv_76EIV_dNyAkQdaj0JXQjuzoFV4rDIAqe8-4gLEiwdtURo_K3gRa_utwLSV7K/s1600/IMG_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RSRDVJLtOJuprU5reHP-_CY0R-6ie9sHzrzng3IB2g4MW89GWj0JoW-vq8d97B4P4f149Aes48u6dVv_76EIV_dNyAkQdaj0JXQjuzoFV4rDIAqe8-4gLEiwdtURo_K3gRa_utwLSV7K/s1600/IMG_0068.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Mom, on Sunday, I learned that when you're faced with this...<br />
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You're really grateful for these. Until you learn they have no toilet paper...<br />
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And then you thank God, angels, and the universe you keep a stash of these in your car.<br />
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<em>(Note to self: Hand sanitizer. Start keeping hand sanitizer in the car.)</em>Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-33023026180297858692014-03-17T07:44:00.000-06:002014-03-17T07:46:11.981-06:00Mother of the year ruins daughter's birthday, feels remorseI've never been good at knowing my limits. I do things I don't really know how to do, and it turns out well often enough that I keep plunging into new territory without the know-how and hoping for the best. This worked for me when I decided to <a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2011/04/all-i-ever-really-needed-to-know-about.html" target="_blank">refinish a hardwood floor</a> using only YouTube and blog posts as a guide.<br />
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When things don't turn out so well, my brain conveniently forgets the failures and focuses on the successes, enabling me to keep barreling on ahead regardless of whether or not I should. It's called confirmation bias, and I'm really good at it. (How would I know if I'm not?)<br />
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Unfortunately, last night, my attempt at ignorant, beginner's luck glory fell flatter than a tone deaf soprano, and this time it left a victim. My failure caused my newly 14 year old Cate to look at me with such sad disgust, I was sure I'd ruined her birthday. In fact, I think I may have retroactively ruined every birthday before it, including the day 14 years ago I spent 13 and a half excruciating hours getting her here. (I feel like I need to apologize to HER for her painful induced labor.)<br />
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To prevent more tragedies like this one, I'm documenting the sad story here so my brain won't repress it in favor of happier memories. I'm here to confess and make amends. My crime? I ruined Cate's birthday cake. I ruined it, but good, and I'm pretty sure my daughter is never, ever going to forgive me for it.<br />
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Don't blame Cate or label her an ungrateful teen. The cake in question was hideous. My other kids looked at it and immediately suggested I submit it to online fail collections, cake and otherwise. <br />
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When I decided to blog my sad cake exploits, I hooked my iPhone to my computer to transfer the picture I took of it (the sad, sad picture that never got better, no matter what I did to edit it). Clicking "yes" to an unfamiliar question promptly deleted all the pics I'd taken today. Obviously, I don't know how to use my iPhone any more than I know how to decorate cakes, so this didn't really surprise me.<br />
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Any dismay I felt was quickly overshadowed by relief. I think my actual words were "Oh, sweet holy cannelloni of dumb luck awesomeness! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"<br />
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I didn't actually want anyone to see the cake. I joked with a coworker that I could describe the monstrosity in 100% accurate terms, and you'd all think I was exaggerating and imagine a cake that looks way better.<br />
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A few hours later, my lost photos miraculously reappeared on my phone again. Like a zombie reanimating and beginning its quest for human flesh, the cake picture returned from the dead. Maybe it's like that video in the movie "The Ring". It wants to be shared and will send a creepy dead girl to kill me if I don't pass it along. So...here it is.<br />
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(FYI: I still don't want you to see the cake, and I'm adding this other birthday picture here so this post will at least have a different
thumbnail when it's shared on Facebook. And to give you a few more seconds to change your mind.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaFCtvgzdogIVs7Dja0QZvDev2IsmbozcTcZ-X4KnLKYVHjohXC02KPziufK0JdlhG4N71grxzRgrQFXKDS9XWCv5qN_kx8vfSLBg7SEKlKv_Q6ogan91zHCJnjy2XTjF3mTgkj7adqjg/s1600/bday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaFCtvgzdogIVs7Dja0QZvDev2IsmbozcTcZ-X4KnLKYVHjohXC02KPziufK0JdlhG4N71grxzRgrQFXKDS9XWCv5qN_kx8vfSLBg7SEKlKv_Q6ogan91zHCJnjy2XTjF3mTgkj7adqjg/s1600/bday.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Gah. Okay. Here's the stupid cake! Are you HAPPY?!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_738f9o6hjcvP4CFNL4jc6W9KRmZzEcZVm2sprRTaGd3yGPUjyJzy6nbZI_OR5IzKRl3XkdZ6Ptc4lwfqEFe2IG_rQ4wV_t1lQN2O9ZT-TwhS_r4NA2EOs748czFFWmYqSwWlwlGxg1w/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_738f9o6hjcvP4CFNL4jc6W9KRmZzEcZVm2sprRTaGd3yGPUjyJzy6nbZI_OR5IzKRl3XkdZ6Ptc4lwfqEFe2IG_rQ4wV_t1lQN2O9ZT-TwhS_r4NA2EOs748czFFWmYqSwWlwlGxg1w/s1600/photo.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm...I mean, it's possessed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was going for "whimsical." I got "mentally deranged and at risk for homicide" instead. Oh. The. Humanity. Don't cry for me, blog readers. Cry for my poor middle child who is wondering what she did to deserve this and whether or not it's too late to join another family or run away with the circus. <br />
<br />
It wasn't all sadness and dislike. Richard, ever the kind, bright-side-looker-on-er, excitedly exclaimed, "It's Seuss-ian!" However, he's sweet to a fault and frequently love drunk, so I don't ever take his word for the things I do. (If I did, I'd be insufferable. Well, more than I already am.)<br />
<br />
Also, the problem with calling this leaning tower of craptitude "Suess-ian" is that there are talented people in the world who know how to make Dr. Suess-style cakes. They do so on purpose and their cakes look nothing like this. Accidentally making a disaster like the one above and THEN labeling it Suess-ian doesn't really make it Suess-ian. It just makes it sad.<br />
<br />
Now that you have my confession, I must ask for forgiveness.<br />
<br />
Dearest Cate...Catybug...Mini-me,<br />
<br />
Remember when you were four and you cut off all your beautiful, curly hair the day before we took family pictures? We're even.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mom<br />
<br />
I guess I apologize as well as I decorate cakes.<br />
<br />
At least Richard will like it...<br />
<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-27211537393638669332014-03-14T04:34:00.001-06:002014-03-14T04:36:42.144-06:00Is this thing on?<div>
Mom, today I learned that I can blog from my new iPhone. I can't figure out how to do it correctly, but I can blog. What I really learned is that Richard is no fan of touch screens, BUT he perks right up at the words "spreadsheet app" because he's a big old nerd, so we're good.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<i>(Also, in case you missed it, iPhone!!!)</i></div>
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Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-779004858380173232014-03-11T17:05:00.001-06:002014-03-11T17:13:08.620-06:00The Mother Unload: "But I want to enjoy my life!"I had several possible Mother Unload posts in mind, but staring down the barrel of the two barium-sulfate smoothies I'll be drinking tomorrow morning made my choice for me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-r1LrpoYq2TJZ-LS-pBhOc35n0Bbl1xfbMP-5inZjYxPAA9kddlUG0mrjXNR_iAe7KEh8aCRQS1q5-ty6NXhUhotx3H5dLNqIsd5LyrMSYqIf3f2ZJA06EVm4igYBTZ1ZetvD32kKsIJq/s1600/barium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-r1LrpoYq2TJZ-LS-pBhOc35n0Bbl1xfbMP-5inZjYxPAA9kddlUG0mrjXNR_iAe7KEh8aCRQS1q5-ty6NXhUhotx3H5dLNqIsd5LyrMSYqIf3f2ZJA06EVm4igYBTZ1ZetvD32kKsIJq/s1600/barium.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pharmacist says "Drink them cold. Drink them fast. Use a straw."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The last time I made big strides in changing my lifestyle/eating better/exercising, someone told me they could never do what I was doing because, "I want to enjoy my life!" To her, enjoying life meant allowing herself to eat whatever she craved and not worrying about the calorie counts, carbs, fat, or chemicals. The restrictions I'd placed on my eating and the obligation I'd added to my life to exercise daily seemed to her to be too restrictive, too harsh, or at least, they didn't leave room for a happy, enjoyable existence.<br />
<br />
She had a point. Junk food tastes good. It's sweet and creamy and smooth and crunchy and salty and savory and made to order. And fast! So fast! You don't have to do much of anything to eat junk food. It's just there, waiting for you, in all its junky deliciousness. (Gas station nachos with banana peppers? Yes, please!)<br />
<br />
Exercise is annoying. You sweat. Your face gets red. You have to schedule it just right or else you're stuck taking a second shower (and having to do your hair again...gah). It's hard and can hurt and makes you sore the next day. It can be boring and monotonous and can feel pointless when you plateau. Sometimes, you look completely ridiculous doing it. (This is why I don't do Zumba in groups. No one needs to see me flail like that.)<br />
<br />
So, yeah, I absolutely agree that there is enjoyment inherent in eating whatever you want and avoiding exercise.<br />
<br />
Do you know what <i>isn't</i> enjoyable in an enjoyable life like that?<br />
<br />
- Worrying that you won't fit on an amusement park ride and will be asked to get off. (It hasn't happened yet, but who needs the stress?)<br />
<br />
- Sitting out every active game at family events because you know you can't keep up with fitter family members. (I'd never heard of Ultimate Frisbee until I met my in-laws. If I played, they'd have to rename it Freakishly Pitiful Frisbee.)<br />
<br />
- Leaving early when walking to a store or doctor's office so you can hide in the bathroom and stop huffing and puffing before you have to actually talk to anyone. (And flushing the toilet repeatedly so people can't hear your shame. Sorry, environment...)<br />
<br />
- Joint pain associated with the added strain of extra weight. (If my knees could talk, they'd say, "GYAAAAAAHHHHHHH! What the heck, Sarah?!)<br />
<br />
- Shopping for clothes. (So many tears.)<br />
<br />
- Seeing the worry on your doctor's face when the fatty liver disease you reversed 2 years ago has come back and is worse. (Don't fire me, Dr. Shelby. Remember, I make you laugh.)<br />
<br />
Being sick isn't enjoyable, and while not every overweight person is unhealthy, a lot of overweight people are.<br />
<br />
I am sick.<br />
<br />
I can tell you without hesitation that there isn't a food I've enjoyed in the last two years that is worth this. No delectable piece of cheesecake is worth the intermittent discomfort/pain I feel on my right side, the elevated liver enzymes showing up in my blood work, or the ominous looking spots that show up on an ultrasound of my liver. No $2 serving of gas station nachos is worth the $1300 we'll be paying (after insurance) for the CT scan I'm having tomorrow. Nothing is worth the non-alcoholic cirrhosis I'll develop if we don't fix this now.<br />
<br />
If you're avoiding healthy eating and exercise because you want to "enjoy life," learn from my fail. Let me be your cautionary tale. Let me be your After School Special for the day. Hurting your body has consequences, and they're not enjoyable. <br />
<br />
Also, if the healthy food you're eating isn't enjoyable, you're doing it wrong. 2011 taught me there is a WORLD of delicious and healthy food out there, and there are at least 8 trillion blogs devoted to teaching people how to prepare it. It also taught me that the more you eat healthy foods, the more you begin to enjoy them and crave them and the less you want the junk food you used to crave. (You'll never stop craving cheesecake, though. That would be stupid.)<br />
<br />
If the exercise you're doing isn't enjoyable, try something else. Find something that you like and do that, even if you look stupid. In high school, I got my coach to agree to letting me skip the mile instead of run it (like a little girl in a classic Disney movie...skipping along with my friend Gina and singing "Tra-la-la-la-la-la!" the whole time). I looked like a first class idiot, but I came in under the required time and got full credit (and exercise). On days I don't run on my treadmill, I'm in my room, dancing around like a crazy person while I watch something funny on Hulu. <br />
<br />
I don't have much else. If you want to send some energy my way as I try to heal my overworked liver (again), I wouldn't kick you out of my blog readership. If you've done the barium-sulfate smoothie thing and have some tips for getting it/keeping it down, I'd welcome them. If you want to be my "looking like an idiot exercise buddy," come over and flail with me!<br />
<br />
I think laughing at someone else would be really...enjoyable.<br />
<br />
<i>(I completely forgot to mention that I'm down 20 pounds since I had my wisdom teeth out 7 or so weeks ago. Hey, everyone!</i> <i>I've lost 20 pounds! Send me brownies! No, wait...don't do that...)</i>Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-39818265948973893382014-03-06T13:42:00.000-07:002014-03-06T13:43:59.651-07:00Scientifically speaking, it's in her genes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavekoEblrvGF-j61bc1s4H1T7PVGktR79QevrJtE9yOE8iDSd8wwjPl8zhRT_8Knyy_Eney-PrW9GznWApLXmrGIMq4wNCO7fHdf8XaDGqfPGcU8BfPlSdmOhBxmMXNPjw4fwdhgXubNI/s1600/science+fair+cate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavekoEblrvGF-j61bc1s4H1T7PVGktR79QevrJtE9yOE8iDSd8wwjPl8zhRT_8Knyy_Eney-PrW9GznWApLXmrGIMq4wNCO7fHdf8XaDGqfPGcU8BfPlSdmOhBxmMXNPjw4fwdhgXubNI/s1600/science+fair+cate.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Mom, today I learned that Cate CAN take a mature, non-silly picture on science fair day.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMl_B648NZzsiKLWp3wVoGrurCcAFi6on_b31g2NEoG-JaoinZVayKrS3tg_wDa-275olX2MAwO9woNZfBNylmTTmjNA6hyk7KiT_qhwNJT9lmvTAmV0sHmjGno-J9zR1jwWFovKm_xKke/s1600/science+fair+cate+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMl_B648NZzsiKLWp3wVoGrurCcAFi6on_b31g2NEoG-JaoinZVayKrS3tg_wDa-275olX2MAwO9woNZfBNylmTTmjNA6hyk7KiT_qhwNJT9lmvTAmV0sHmjGno-J9zR1jwWFovKm_xKke/s1600/science+fair+cate+2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
As long as she gets to take this picture first.<br />
<br />
<i>(I also learned that an Honorable Mention award in the district science fair is NOT something she wants to be congratulated about...so I'm definitely not posting this to congratulate her for her awesome Honorable Mention award for her amazing project. Nope, definitely not congratulating my smart and talented daughter. Wouldn't dream of it.)</i><br />
<br />Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-41251379479923198572014-02-26T19:15:00.002-07:002014-02-26T19:15:38.570-07:00The Mother Unload: Big Rewards for Baby StepsI want someone to throw me a parade. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1w0PKGVZdSXGdHf14N98o03CBEfFOpWjzZcOn0h-zIgTcjIQOmEKPgcpHs8y4IP80-2dXCgzkkZODhneSVErrAm0wxcIpId7ieY4hjGtBnZ7V5Q_SIOamBxC-aNv31__nMSpzRI8XS6K/s1600/parade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1w0PKGVZdSXGdHf14N98o03CBEfFOpWjzZcOn0h-zIgTcjIQOmEKPgcpHs8y4IP80-2dXCgzkkZODhneSVErrAm0wxcIpId7ieY4hjGtBnZ7V5Q_SIOamBxC-aNv31__nMSpzRI8XS6K/s1600/parade.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jorge-11/" target="_blank">George M. Groutas</a></td></tr>
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I worked out two days in a row, so it should be a big one. Mandatory attendance by the whole town.<br />
<br />
My waist and abs are sore, so someone will need to bring a big Snoopy balloon. Intentionally sore abs always call for big Snoopy balloons.<br />
<br />
And because I kept my carbs down today despite wanting to cry, someone should definitely pelt me with candy I won't eat. I just want to smell the sugar. I'll just smell it...I promise.<br />
<br />
I'm in the phase of weight loss where I don't see what the point is (even when I know full well what the point is). I know I have to lose weight for my own health, but my sugar addiction is still firmly in control of my world. I feel like I'm breaking up with a friend, and I hate doing that, especially a friend that brings me beautiful breads and sweets and fizzy drinks whenever I'm stressed.<br />
<br />
I'm in that place where every little, teeny-tiny, ridiculous baby step needs a reward to keep me motivated. And since my go-to reward is usually food based (and my food is usually carb based), I'm kind of stuck. <br />
<br />
So someone needs to throw me a parade. Yesterday. You don't even KNOW how serious I am.<br />
<br />
I'll be camped out on Main whenever you're ready.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-75146188410345814592014-02-21T05:01:00.001-07:002014-02-21T05:12:13.981-07:00Confessions of a Not-So-Nurturing Mom<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->I don't know if you realized by the title of my blog or by my picture right there in the corner or by a message from the great beyond, but I am a) a woman and b) a mother. (I'm lots of other things too...a Weird Al superfan and a zombie lover/hater, for instance...but this post deals with those first two things.) <br />
<br />
For some people in my culture (read: religious community and to a lesser extent, society at large), there is no difference between the word woman and the word mother. All women are seen as mothers or potential mothers, born with a supernatural ability to nurture the young, endowed with this nurturing power by their DNA, or their female spirits, or...their love of shoes and rom-coms and their inability to back up cars? I've never been very clear on where the innate nurture powers come from. But they're there! We have them! Because we are women! And women are incredible! Wheeeeeeeeeee!<br />
<br />
I think I might be a man...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CbeoivX3Va3fQIy6_MY8aOOtYaS094PYO8Z__KmZoydthpox8oLoRlzKuu_92y-I1JczuL073SHAJy0zDV4BecMKRD1-rpWGF9v7_Hl8t3cJhBTlRFSBrz3yRfZBDk11YCwmJ4-i1UnV/s1600/yeah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CbeoivX3Va3fQIy6_MY8aOOtYaS094PYO8Z__KmZoydthpox8oLoRlzKuu_92y-I1JczuL073SHAJy0zDV4BecMKRD1-rpWGF9v7_Hl8t3cJhBTlRFSBrz3yRfZBDk11YCwmJ4-i1UnV/s1600/yeah.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or something...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When God was handing out "womanly" attributes, someone must have tripped me. Every talk I hear about the wonderful, innate nature of women makes me wonder what went wrong with my wiring. When womanhood is conflated with motherhood, I KNOW something's amiss.<br />
<br />
Here are a few of my non-nurturing mommy secrets:<br />
<br />
- I breastfed all my babies for as long as I could, but it made me anxious every time.<br />
- I detested spoon feeding.<br />
- I am hug and kiss deficient. Once my kids are over the age of two if they want a hug from me, they have to initiate it. (If they want a kiss, they have to use force.)<br />
- When a child gets hurt, my first response is at least a worried, "Are you okay?" but once I know they are, I usually just scold them for whatever they were doing that got them hurt. Then I direct them to the bathroom to clean themselves up. <br />
- When Evelyn came to me a few years ago, worried because our turtle Padme wasn't moving, I poked Padme a couple of times and said, "Oh. She's dead," and then put her in the garbage bin outside. It wasn't until I saw Richard walking up the stairs, tenderly cuddling a sobbing Ev in his arms that I thought, <i>Oh...yeah...I should have done that...moms do that...</i><br />
- Nurturing is something I watch other moms do and try to mimic. It doesn't come from anywhere inside me. When I'm successful at it, it's because I've planned it, practiced it, willed myself to do it.<br />
- Working outside the home keeps me from going crazy and shooting up
shopping malls, and I will never apologize for keeping the community
safe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZL-__Nh06f8Ga-4IuHP7zcCBgNZha1iUozUyRbiVZyNVdxBQuCbPXhkzWcRF81UThLQAEtceMsLYygl8UxXO8Dzfd8EpJItUNYvgBAbnGMxyrJri0jT7kw6eQSbAGIHcznesrAHtlaS-/s1600/guns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZL-__Nh06f8Ga-4IuHP7zcCBgNZha1iUozUyRbiVZyNVdxBQuCbPXhkzWcRF81UThLQAEtceMsLYygl8UxXO8Dzfd8EpJItUNYvgBAbnGMxyrJri0jT7kw6eQSbAGIHcznesrAHtlaS-/s1600/guns.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/" target="_blank">Kevin Dooley</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love being a woman and a mom, but I am NOT a nurturer.<br />
<br />
I blame my mother. <br />
<br />
As I mentioned in my <a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-wisdom-tooth-saga-comedy-of-stupid.html" target="_blank">wisdom tooth saga</a>, my mom was never an ultra-soft, mushy gushy, kiss your boo-boos and make them better type of mom. Someone tripped her in the womanly nurturing line too. When we got hurt, her response was, "Are you bleeding? You'll live." If we whined about some chore or injustice or perceived unfairness, her answer was usually a concise, "Tough."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjr3UicvvALwhaCede46QEYAv_a0M4HCSJU0wTXAXRkfefBcodW6ZZ7DEf1PW-G-Nfxl9NiqZ3LQk4dyl3Qf5zG_lXO0ElKqZLs8jDULV9u7Y3p0DjItD7qXuoMjBmZb6uc0QFPLJSQjZ/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjr3UicvvALwhaCede46QEYAv_a0M4HCSJU0wTXAXRkfefBcodW6ZZ7DEf1PW-G-Nfxl9NiqZ3LQk4dyl3Qf5zG_lXO0ElKqZLs8jDULV9u7Y3p0DjItD7qXuoMjBmZb6uc0QFPLJSQjZ/s1600/us.jpg" height="273" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, kid. You'll have to kiss your own boo-boo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When the annual permission slip for in-school spankings (back when that was a thing) came home in our backpacks, Mom signed it without question, saying, "If you ever do anything in school that makes them want to paddle you, you'll be glad <i>they're</i> the ones doing it." When my high school one-act play failed to win the regional competition and my younger sister and I mourned our loss in tears, Mom sided with the judge. When my older sister was a bride for a second time and deliriously happy to have found love again, Mom told her to settle down and stop being so excited.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Adq-6WHBH_rVrR5oYwMnBeknEHo4X1r3cgaj7wlr6QV9yecxS23UkwlY5hW8LisEZc6LqTgoRwCkNmudqCwGZwH6wv-aKc_Vsr9d-hOYLE_-VI30d0Gfat3KAUGdioPddaOTudz2GPrI/s1600/Gina+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Adq-6WHBH_rVrR5oYwMnBeknEHo4X1r3cgaj7wlr6QV9yecxS23UkwlY5hW8LisEZc6LqTgoRwCkNmudqCwGZwH6wv-aKc_Vsr9d-hOYLE_-VI30d0Gfat3KAUGdioPddaOTudz2GPrI/s1600/Gina+wedding.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simmer down, now. Simmer down</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I love my mom, but my mom is NOT a nurturer.<br />
<br />
She blames Iowa.<br />
<br />
In an effort to help her children better understand her complete absence of enthusiasm for "kiss it better" mothering, my mom sent each of her children a copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Little-Heathens-Spirits-During-Depression/dp/0553384244" target="_blank"><i>Little Heathens</i>, one woman's account of growing up poor in Depression era Iowa</a>. It might as well have been titled, "Why Willie Braudaway Is the Weirdo That She Is." (Alternate title: "So Your Mom Doesn't Coddle You? Are You Bleeding? You'll Live. Tough.")<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgV0NQDRca7e1mjkFuRX2XsR6LfpnLRq3SysHS80-gAi_UzPuliVjm0MmAcxh1_wQymqBAJPmzfolH8vWkuM1un2qnnjw06igiageuAJtU2g5DqtsdIZ6KIEFvPMrrJaBNYyMzQuRcuIv/s1600/iowa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgV0NQDRca7e1mjkFuRX2XsR6LfpnLRq3SysHS80-gAi_UzPuliVjm0MmAcxh1_wQymqBAJPmzfolH8vWkuM1un2qnnjw06igiageuAJtU2g5DqtsdIZ6KIEFvPMrrJaBNYyMzQuRcuIv/s1600/iowa.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tabor-roeder/" target="_blank">Phil Roeder</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I kid.<br />
<br />
What the book really did was help me understand the hardscrabble, pragmatic, Puritan roots that made up the Iowa culture in which she was raised, a culture that viewed childhood as a disease to be cured and overt affection as unnecessary. (In one vignette, the author's grandmother complains about a neighbor's parting declaration of, "I just love you all!" by muttering, "Well, of course we like her too, but does she have to say it?") My mom was a product of that culture, and to a slightly lesser extent, so am I. <br />
<br />
As I've grown and learned and experienced more of life, I've met more women like me, women who have children and love them fiercely but don't feel the innate nurturer feelings they've been told all their lives are a part of their natural make up. I've also met incredibly nurturing men that turn the idea of nurturing as innately female on its head.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharutjTLJradHdvex_2d6ef9nIjJMWhTShKx5kCfb0u7BkuQJYcp1V72MO95RT7joEM5xFFBVhQ4K84I66-6qOtCja7MU5Ysn7dOUo07IiSYclesx64pmH01oyBqdtXArkoYtsK0x7XIHa/s1600/hike+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharutjTLJradHdvex_2d6ef9nIjJMWhTShKx5kCfb0u7BkuQJYcp1V72MO95RT7joEM5xFFBVhQ4K84I66-6qOtCja7MU5Ysn7dOUo07IiSYclesx64pmH01oyBqdtXArkoYtsK0x7XIHa/s1600/hike+8.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I found this one, I married him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The more I examine the issue, the more I think the woman = nurturer thing might not actually be true. Maybe we're all just who we are regardless of gender, and maybe there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that.<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of my life wondering why I didn't get the mom that kissed boo-boos and sang lullabies and found fulfillment in speaking baby talk to small children. (She approaches babies with a stern, "Hello. How are you today?" Not even kidding.) Spending all that time wondering why she wasn't the mother everyone said mothers are supposed to be kept me from appreciating the mother that she was...a mom who did sing with us, a mom who taught us to work, a mom who tried hard to protect our vocal cords by modeling good vocal cord behavior (this consisted of her never screaming at any sporting events, opting for a long, high, sustained operatic tone. It was gorgeous and massively embarrassing, but her pipes are in great shape.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewoSASnxTL28FsJq461mXXYmjOIm94reGQlxhDDdlyCe6HSqxqzrXjurCtqMTdrshzdJN2vMvEjkn6lWMgV_o5gq9OrXqJleTN4Ue2X4j3kb_IWd_FZvUa_tTT-N4wPm0Yx3PZDjTj9hw/s1600/mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewoSASnxTL28FsJq461mXXYmjOIm94reGQlxhDDdlyCe6HSqxqzrXjurCtqMTdrshzdJN2vMvEjkn6lWMgV_o5gq9OrXqJleTN4Ue2X4j3kb_IWd_FZvUa_tTT-N4wPm0Yx3PZDjTj9hw/s1600/mom.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah...that's about what it looked like...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Worrying that I'm not the nurturing mom so many assume I should naturally be keeps me from appreciating the mom I actually am...a mom who has presided over weekly "Bad Manners Night" dinners for 9 years running, a mom who blasts Weird Al from the car with the windows down and dances in the driver's seat like an idiot whenever the kids request it, a mom who looks for ways to teach her kids through embarrassment only to find her kids are more than happy to join in the fun.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdt_2ruJZXE8LdnL62UzLQO8PCe2evVJ9BOA2lQRHBQ7Boe12SF60HehqvsY_0buC3hXzmc26kMhl1sLQk95n_IaOZ8KZmd-ebal_t_a2Be1vez0M-TZ9cyhf6aDoMSO6Bf416dhL0ZQZW/s1600/aunts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdt_2ruJZXE8LdnL62UzLQO8PCe2evVJ9BOA2lQRHBQ7Boe12SF60HehqvsY_0buC3hXzmc26kMhl1sLQk95n_IaOZ8KZmd-ebal_t_a2Be1vez0M-TZ9cyhf6aDoMSO6Bf416dhL0ZQZW/s1600/aunts.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To be fair, they probably get that from their aunts.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyL7g9Biu8ZD-lcgzKVW4t2Yi_VnJMbWU1XQzmmNNRAVUgdqpkGrI1YzRmp8Z0mX9R98iu4jUpSLUOcywKsJoI0YEIhaEBHIOawsfchyH8Qabji9lPeGRcdUxPgwToQampnXNRGSQs4mDi/s1600/uncle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyL7g9Biu8ZD-lcgzKVW4t2Yi_VnJMbWU1XQzmmNNRAVUgdqpkGrI1YzRmp8Z0mX9R98iu4jUpSLUOcywKsJoI0YEIhaEBHIOawsfchyH8Qabji9lPeGRcdUxPgwToQampnXNRGSQs4mDi/s1600/uncle.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or their uncle...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4-dJI0HxUAlRaYM_6ofpYDClhundvtN-dsz8jfxA-ALu36LrzsSFjHqcFPIdwlPjClB14uKcjBb_b-lvCQsLMGv_pnqq8hltkJGNNr2FNlZNhTu7gzpaiP3JgArINAwzjtjwX6RwvW89Y/s1600/face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4-dJI0HxUAlRaYM_6ofpYDClhundvtN-dsz8jfxA-ALu36LrzsSFjHqcFPIdwlPjClB14uKcjBb_b-lvCQsLMGv_pnqq8hltkJGNNr2FNlZNhTu7gzpaiP3JgArINAwzjtjwX6RwvW89Y/s1600/face.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or their mom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
If you're a woman, a mom, and you're not a natural nurturer, it's about time to stop beating yourself up and start appreciating the mom you are. We can't all be baby-talking, lullabye-singing boo-boo kissers. Some of us have other talents to contribute.<br />
<br />
I'd say not shooting up shopping malls is a more than valuable contribution to society.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-38803978006226643132014-02-17T16:12:00.002-07:002014-02-18T18:44:03.061-07:00Frozen's Gay Agenda? The "Well-Behaved" Mormon Woman Does Not Speak for Me<i>(Author's note: This is not the usual post you might see here on The Mother Load, but it's important enough to me that I wanted to share. This post is a response t</i>o <i>a blog post I read today, warning parents away from the movie "Frozen". The post is linked below. Feel free to read and come to your own conclusions.)</i><br />
<br />
I don't know Kathryn Skaggs personally. Perhaps she is as even keeled and kind and normal as the next gal. Unfortunately, I would never know it from her blog, <a href="http://wellbehavedmormonwoman.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">A Well-Behaved Mormon Woman</a>, which is often an exercise in self-righteous, hyper-Conservative, black and white scrupulosity.<br />
<br />
Kathryn Skaggs has a large Mormon following and holds court on the internet as a leader for many looking for like-minded responses to the movements in society which may frighten them. She has been interviewed by the press as the voice of more Conservative Mormon women, providing quotes in opposition to Mormon progressives and feminists. She uses the word "we" far too often in discussing how Mormon women think and feel about issues, to the point that people outside the Mormon faith might mistakenly identify her as an official spokesperson on Mormon matters.<br />
<br />
Kathryn Skaggs does not speak for me.<br />
<br />
Kathryn Skaggs does not speak for Mormon women as a group. <br />
<br />
With <a href="http://wellbehavedmormonwoman.blogspot.com/2014/02/movie-frozen-gay-homosexual-agenda.html#more" target="_blank">Skaggs's recent blog post decrying the Disney film "Frozen" as a cleverly constructed liberal indoctrination piece created to advance the gay agenda</a> in the United States, I'm hard pressed to figure out who she could ever be speaking for at all. Certainly not thoughtful, level-headed people who believe teaching kindness and self-actualization to children is a net positive.<br />
<br />
In her blog post on "Frozen", Skaggs spends a lot of time talking about the dangers of the media and the movie itself, using fear, shame, and othering as rhetorical methods to "challenge" readers who might have missed the evil gay undertones because they thought they were just enjoying an animated musical with their kids.<br />
<br />
While admitting that her conclusions will seem like a pretty far reach to most people (including the vast majority of friends and family members who disagreed with her), she plows forward with her argument, dropping bits of panic and terror in nearly every paragraph. You guys! The gays! They're in your HOUSE! They're COMING FOR YOUR CHILDREN!<br />
<br />
Of course, her post includes the requisite disclaimer that she harbors no ill will toward gay people and has no wish to force her personal religious beliefs onto them (while invoking at the same time the force of law to do just that). Surrounded by the vitriol of the rest of her post, these words represent nothing more than the usual paving stones of good intentions followed by harmful action.<br />
<br />
Ms. Skaggs waits until she's three quarters of the way through her blog post to actually support the previous fear-mongering and explain why she thinks "Frozen" is "so gay." It's clear only <i>that</i> she thinks the entire story symbolizes a gay person's journey out of the closet and into freedom and that she believes "Let it Go" is an anthem written to underscore that symbolism, and she makes it clear <i>why</i> she thinks those things.<br />
<br />
What she fails to clarify is why I should think those things.<br />
<br />
Art, done well, is evocative and interactive. No two people staring into the face of the Mona Lisa will walk away having had the same impressions or experiences. True art makes us think, feel, and grow, and true art reveals much more about the participant viewing it than it does about its creator.<br />
<br />
I watched "Frozen" and saw myself in Elsa. I saw a very real and current journey played out in her feelings of captivity and repression and subsequent freedom and empowerment. "Let it Go" has become my anthem for the year. Funnily enough, contrary to what Ms. Skaggs might think, I am <i>not</i> a closeted lesbian who has finally decided to come out. <br />
<br />
How can that be, when (despite any evidence to back her up) Kathryn Skaggs KNOWS that the people who wrote the story and songs did so with the homosexual agenda and gay marriage in mind? I think the answer to that says much more about Kathryn Skaggs than anyone else. She is <i>afraid</i> of the progress being made in society and that <i>fear</i> has caused her to see in "Frozen" what she fears.<br />
<br />
As a lover of art, I have no wish to diminish Skaggs's experience of "Frozen". That is hers. However, she crosses a line when she presumes to tell Christian families why they are raising their kids wrong, why they have erred in allowing their children to watch "Frozen" without also pointing out and refuting the gay themes she sees there.<br />
<br />
Her shame and fear-based tactics to convince parents that a great evil has been allowed into their homes, based only on her own, admittedly non-mainstream interpretation of this film represent a new low for her blog. She is scaring good parents into feeling they've done something sinful and that their children's very salvation will be at stake if they don't right their unintended wrong.<br />
<br />
A final word about "Let it Go": Skaggs makes a point about the lyrics of the song promoting rebellion and disobedience among children, and many will likely agree with that interpretation, especially considering the words, "No right, no wrong, no rules for me," are included. However, the song itself cannot be judged within a vacuum. Set within the story of "Frozen" in which Elsa has lived under harmful, damaging, soul-killing rules set by her parents (and in opposition to the recommendations that were given them), breaking free of those negative rules does not constitute the type of rebellion Skaggs speaks of.<br />
<br />
It's also important to note that this song is sung at the very beginning of Elsa's transformation, not at the conclusion of it. Elsa is only half free in her isolation and must learn hard lessons before becoming truly free of her past. In learning to accept herself AND live in society as the queen (a title that likely comes with many rules she will now willingly embrace), she finds the happiness she has always wanted because she gets to live authentically and have a relationship with her sister again.<br />
<br />
Rules are not righteous simply because they are rules, and shrugging off societal restrictions that hinder our progress or the happiness of all is not automatically sinful. Our country has a long tradition of imposing harmful rules on others and then moving past those because courageous people chose to speak up and fight the system. Being well-behaved within an oppressive culture often simply perpetuates further harm on others. <br />
<br />
There may come a day when the makers of "Frozen" reveal they wrote the movie and music just as you say they did, in an attempt to foster understanding and kindness toward the gay community and to send a message to gay people that it's okay to be who they are. The difference between you and I is that I see that as a good thing. In case you didn't realize it, Kathryn Skaggs, gay teens are attempting and succeeding at suicide at alarming rates...because they don't know how to make sense of who they are within a culture that demonizes them. If gay teens and adults watch "Frozen" and find a message of hope and love, good on the makers of "Frozen." If the family members of those people watch "Frozen" and learn to relate to their gay relatives and begin to treat them more inclusively, good on the makers of "Frozen."<br />
<br />
Because if those people read your blog, they're going to need inoculation from your divisive, shame-based views.<br />
<br />
<i>(Check out these other thoughtful and well written responses below.)</i><br />
<a href="http://www.jeffjsnider.com/archives/the-many-interpretations-of-frozen/">http://www.jeffjsnider.com/archives/the-many-interpretations-of-frozen/</a><br />
<a href="http://sethadamsmith.com/2014/02/18/hidden-messages-in-frozen/">http://sethadamsmith.com/2014/02/18/hidden-messages-in-frozen/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.feministmormonhousewives.org/2014/02/other-agendas-frozen-is-subtly-forcing-into-your-childs-brain/#comment-1251476" target="_blank">http://www.feministmormonhousewives.org/2014/02/other-agendas-frozen-is-subtly-forcing-into-your-childs-brain/ </a><br />
<a href="http://doubledoubleedge.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-wrong-lens.html?m=1">http://doubledoubleedge.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-wrong-lens.html?m=1</a> Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-33785868425583083352014-02-13T08:00:00.000-07:002014-02-13T08:00:04.548-07:00I mustache you to stop!<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/stache_zps0e5bb3ca.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo stache_zps0e5bb3ca.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/stache_zps0e5bb3ca.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Mom, today I learned the mustache trend gets weirder every day.Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-33121599761263085302014-02-12T08:00:00.000-07:002014-02-12T08:00:08.276-07:00Chillin' like a villain<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/quill2_zps0c13177d.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo quill2_zps0c13177d.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/quill2_zps0c13177d.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Mom, today I learned we should have named Quill "Chill" because he's all about the chillaxin'.<br />
<br />
<i>(And we thought we bought those chairs for the humans...)</i> Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-21436064740642272862014-02-11T08:00:00.000-07:002014-02-11T08:00:06.964-07:00Too late to plead the fifth<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/fat5_zps3cee5e26.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo fat5_zps3cee5e26.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/fat5_zps3cee5e26.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Mom, today I learned I don't have to look too far to find evidence of why I weigh what I weigh.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/fat3_zps5f54ec1e.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo fat3_zps5f54ec1e.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/fat3_zps5f54ec1e.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Seriously...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/fat2_zps4c9713cc.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo fat2_zps4c9713cc.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/fat2_zps4c9713cc.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
It's all<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/fat_zps73ed42c5.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo fat_zps73ed42c5.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/fat_zps73ed42c5.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
On<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/fat4_zps69ebc021.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo fat4_zps69ebc021.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/fat4_zps69ebc021.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Facebook.<br />
<br />
<i>(In my defense, posting pictures of your food is official Facebook law.)</i> Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-86143542613955026872014-02-10T08:00:00.000-07:002014-02-10T08:00:07.266-07:00You could say I'm future motivated.<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/frontrunner_zps10412661.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo frontrunner_zps10412661.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/frontrunner_zps10412661.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
Mom, today I learned that a few days of exercise will make me think I can tackle this without any problems. I can do it! I am woman! I will master those stairs!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/frontrunner2_zpsdc392224.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo frontrunner2_zpsdc392224.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/frontrunner2_zpsdc392224.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Fortunately, a few months of sedentary living scream louder and calm me right back down.<br />
<br />
<i>(I'll hit the stairs soon. I promise. By promise, I mean I'll think about it. By soon, I mean by the Zombie apocalypse for sure...)</i>Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-78475571059562556582014-02-09T04:57:00.002-07:002014-02-09T06:03:46.884-07:00Awesome Product: Red Cross Toothache Kit<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/redcross_zps46287a9a.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo redcross_zps46287a9a.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/redcross_zps46287a9a.jpg" height="400" width="337" /></a> <br />
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Tooth pain. It's stupid. It's a special kind of stupid hell. It's a stupid torture I've known off and on for a <a href="http://themotherloadhome.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-wisdom-tooth-saga-comedy-of-stupid.html" target="_blank">stupid long time</a>.<br />
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As a student of science, I understand on a rational level that the excruciating pain of a toothache is an evolutionary adaptation that forces us to get help and take better care of our teeth and yada yada yada. This helps us avoid the early, gum disease related heart attacks that took many an ancient human and blah de blah, isn't it great we live today? Yeah, the rational me is super smart. Who the heck cares? The emotional me frickin' hates tooth pain and doesn't give a flying caveman what the pain <i>means.</i><br />
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I gave birth to five kids without pain medication. I would do it 50 more times rather than deal with tooth pain. I had my gall bladder out and suffered painful complications which kept me in the hospital for five ugly days (for outpatient surgery). It was better than tooth pain.<br />
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I have the pain tolerance of a thick-skinned rhino being stung by a bee, but when my teeth hurt, you'll find me rolling around on my bed, crying for my mommy. And I have a mommy who dealt with our childhood injuries by saying, "Are you bleeding? You'll live." Doesn't matter. In the delirium of tooth pain, my memory of my mommy becomes all softness and sympathy, and I WANT HER!<br />
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It's possible (not really) that I'm elevating tooth pain to a higher than deserved level (nuh uh) simply because it's the most recent pain I've experienced (you MUST be joking). Even if that's the case (it's really not), pain is painful, so products that reduce or eliminate pain? They get the awesome label of awesomeness. Because not being in pain is awesome.<br />
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I learned about today's Awesome Product, the <a href="http://www.walgreens.com/store/c/red-cross-toothache-complete-medication-kit/ID=prod1769-product" target="_blank">Red Cross Toothache Kit </a>a few days after I had my wisdom teeth out when I briefly worried I might have developed dry socket. Knowing that dry socket is a pain like no other, I hurried to the interwebs to find a pain solution and found this kit. Fortunately for me (and people in my city...because someone would have died), my problem is not dry socket. My missing wisdom tooth has left the root of an adjacent molar exposed, so my pain is not constant and my gums will heal in time.<br />
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But it is pain...tooth pain...so, you know...several times a day, I want to slam my head in a door to take my mind off of it.<br />
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Luckily, thankfully, oh-my-gosh-this-could-have-been-so-much-worsefully, the Red Cross Toothache Kit keeps me from having to do that.<br />
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The kit (which includes a disclaimer that it has no affiliation with the American Red Cross...weird) consists of a small box of tiny cotton pellets, a pair of itty bitty tweezers, and a teeny weeny bottle of clove oil (mixed with sesame oil as a carrier oil). I mention the size of its contents not to disparage the product. A ridiculously small amount goes a long way. I just want you to know it's cute. Cute can be a surprisingly effective distraction from pain. When cute works this well, you begin to consider it one of your babies. (The cutest one.)<br />
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I found my kit at my local <a href="http://www.walgreens.com/" target="_blank">Walgreens </a>where, strangely, the corners are Antelope and University, not Happy and Healthy. I paid roughly $8 for it. Your price may vary depending on where you live. For me, $8 might as well have been $8,000. It's worth even more than that.<br />
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This stuff WORKS. I've never had anything work this well on tooth pain before. If I'd known about this before, the past energy of the universe would have been much more peaceful (and would have contained far fewer swear words). As I type this, pain free, I'm just grateful I know about it now.<br />
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A few tips and cautions: While the cotton pellet was useful the first time I used the oil, I found that a Q-tip is a little easier to work with. With a Q-tip, I can direct the oil more precisely and hold it there for the one minute the product suggests. Be aware that the oil does burn a bit at first, and it doesn't have the most pleasant taste or smell. (It's not so much a <i>bad</i> taste as it is a very <i>strong</i> one).<br />
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You'll want to avoid swallowing while you're placing the oil, and you're going to spit once your minute is up...a lot. When you think you're done spitting and you start to walk away from your sink, you will probably turn around and spit some more. I promise you, you'll agree that all of this is well worth it once the pain relief kicks in within a few minutes. When you realize it lasts for hours, you're going to spit again and praise the burn just to pay homage to the wonder that is clove oil.<br />
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If you are one of the unfortunate people in the world who does develop dry socket after a tooth extraction, I hear that the pellets are very well suited for packing the tooth socket and relieving pain while it heals. I'm no dentist (as if I could be that evil), so I would recommend a dentist visit for any tooth pain. However, while you wait for that visit, this product is a life saver. And by life saver, I mean many people you might have strangled in your pain induced rage fest will be spared if you use this.<br />
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Tooth pain is stupid, but the Red Cross Toothache Kit is a smart solution to a stupid problem. Buy one even if your teeth aren't hurting. Someday, they will hurt, or someone in your family will experience tooth pain. You might as well have this on hand to ease the pain that much more quickly.<br />
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When your family asks you what beautiful, intelligent, fantastically wonderful person told you about this amazing product, I know you'll do the right thing and mention my name.<br />
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(If you don't, I'll probably punch you in the teeth.) Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-32480232258620620022014-02-07T08:00:00.000-07:002014-02-07T08:00:09.600-07:00It's...a Valentine's wreath...<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/wreath_zps37b5d993.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo wreath_zps37b5d993.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/wreath_zps37b5d993.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
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Mom, today I learned that the prospect of taking this off the door, walking it into the garage, and placing it into a plastic bin is way more of a pain than having the neighbors laugh at my laziness.<br />
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<i>(To be fair, it makes all the snow seem less depressing. I'm really doing the neighbors a favor.)</i>Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-25927716855981872532014-02-02T04:55:00.000-07:002014-02-02T04:55:13.589-07:00The Mother Unload: Back on the Wagon...AhhhhhhgainWell, hello there.<br />
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I last posted a Mother Unload post in March of 2012 and reported that despite some kid medical issues that were stressful, I had been maintaining my weight. It was not long after this post that a kindly doctor said, "Yep...brain surgery," and that was that. I moved from the maintaining category back into the gaining camp.<br />
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<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://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/stress_zpsc4190cf3.jpg.html" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo stress_zpsc4190cf3.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/stress_zpsc4190cf3.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/22964099@N05/" target="_blank">bottle_void</a></td></tr>
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I have a few coping skills in my mental health tool bag, but stress eating is the "skill" for which I have the most natural, uh, talent. Food is comfort, safety, insulation. When emotions get the better of me, it's often food that brings me out of the tailspin. When <a href="http://phenomenalsarah.blogspot.com/2014/01/where-ive-been-and-where-i-am.html" target="_blank">my anxiety level</a> rises so high I feel like I'm suffocating, it's food that gets me breathing again.<br />
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Stress eating is not a positive coping skill. It's just a very efficient and effective one.<br />
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Today, I weight 243, so just 4 pounds below what I weighed when I started writing these posts however many years ago and more than 20 above what I weighed the last time I wrote.<br />
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But.<br />
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I'm 12 pounds lower than I was a week and a half ago, so go me. Or more accurately, go my oral surgeon who took out four of my teeth and made it impossible to eat anything but soup and smoothies for about 3 days and a lot less food than I usually consume in the days since.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/icepacks1_zps4639aa87.jpg.html" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo icepacks1_zps4639aa87.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/icepacks1_zps4639aa87.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
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Having my wisdom teeth extracted wasn't an ideal way for me to lose weight, and weight loss certainly wasn't the goal behind the surgery. Still, lose weight I did, and it's a jump start I needed to kick a new phase of healthy eating and exercise into high gear. I learned a few things too.<br />
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1. I can live with way less food than I've been eating. This shouldn't be a surprise, but it is.<br />
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2. You're never more mindful of what you're putting in your mouth than when the consequences for it are immediate. There are consequences to the things I eat. They're just the slow building, long term kind. I don't think about them nearly enough. Spending those days knowing, "If I eat this...it will hurt," changed the way I ate. I was careful, thoughtful, and particular. There wasn't room for junk because every calorie needed to count.<br />
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3. I don't have to clean my plate. Growing up in the generation I did, this is still hard. I put too much food on my plate and then think I have to finish every bite because I took it. I've been amazed at how often I'm putting food back or giving it to Richard or passing up seconds I wouldn't have thought twice about before. I still don't want to waste food, but I'm less inclined to overfill my stomach just to show I'm grateful.<br />
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The result of the above is that I put on a pair of jeans this morning that I haven't been able to wear in a few months. I'm finding my old face again. I'm feeling better.<br />
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Please, sir...may I have some more?<br />
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To avoid losing my momentum, I've decided to start a Couch to 5K program again, the same one I did several years ago. Because of my sad knees, and because running without something funny to watch at the same time sounds about as worthwhile as stabbing my eyeballs with a rusty spork, I'll be doing all my running on my treadmill. It absorbs a lot of the impact, is never covered in ice or snow, and is conveniently located facing the TV in our family room.<br />
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Anyone want to join me? (Please, don't make me do this alone!) Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1422575914712503408.post-81732416212318904482014-02-01T14:56:00.000-07:002014-02-02T03:00:10.012-07:00I took a picture so it would last longer<a href="http://s114.photobucket.com/user/mamasitasarah/media/Image12062013200927_zps2e128755.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo Image12062013200927_zps2e128755.jpg" border="0" src="http://i114.photobucket.com/albums/n277/mamasitasarah/Image12062013200927_zps2e128755.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
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Mom, today I learned what the girls' closet can look like when you tell them they can't go to friends' houses until it's clean.<br />
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<i>(I may have also said, "It seems like some of you are pretending to not know what deep clean means. Maybe I should pretend to not know what you like to eat when I go grocery shopping today...)</i> Sarah Braudaway-Clarkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454223032234785781noreply@blogger.com0