tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74044380690522904462024-02-07T19:12:36.166-05:00The Long MeanderMariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-49437080067413940992018-01-02T21:19:00.002-05:002018-01-02T21:19:53.523-05:00New Year, Old Perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Surprise! I'm back. And in January, no less. How very predictable. It is, after all, the time when we double down on becoming the magical beings we aspire to be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This time, however, I didn't make a plan to get back on the keyboard wagon and share my life's story. What happened was this: I was inundated with blasts to my inbox and alerts to my phone of what I need to do to kick the shit out of 2018. They overwhelmed me. And sitting at my desk in the office today, I wondered if I was the only one overwhelmed by it all. So I did what I haven't done in a long time: I decided to do something with that wonder. I whipped out a post-it note, jotted down "Blog Topic: Overload of Resolution and Goal Setting Advice", shoved it in my bag and here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn't make an exhaustive list of resolutions this year, in fact, I've made no list at all — despite the best efforts of seemingly every media outlet on earth to enlighten me on how to do so. I mean, do I want to be my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BestSelfCo/videos/2006798332933339/?_ke=bW52YXJlbGFAZ21haWwuY29t" target="_blank">BestSelf</a>? You bet! Do I fancy myself the Matthew McConaughey character in the movie of my life with a never-ending tenure in <a href="https://www.theschooloflife.com/shop/cards-for-perspective/?utm_source=The+School+of+Life&utm_campaign=403511e3b9-Global+Newsletter+-+Perspective&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_717e06d46b-403511e3b9-22015741&mc_cid=403511e3b9&mc_eid=ba302b9568" target="_blank">The School of Life</a>? Heck yeah. But, with so many ways to do it RIGHT, my instincts are to hide and not try to do it at all.*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet, here I am. Trying something. Again. Surprising even myself. The truth is, I desperately need creative outlets. I need to remember who I am and what I'm good. More importantly, I need to do something about it. I need, what my coach and friend of many years Sara reminded me of today: Purpose. Have you seen mine?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I, along with the masses of other Instagram devotees, posted my <a href="https://2017bestnine.com/" target="_blank">Best Nine</a> of the past year and I was only in one of them. ONE. Seven of them featured the boy. And even the one of me barely features my face. (My body is blocked. By the boy, of course.) To be clear, I am not someone who likes to take photos of myself — or have photos of me taken (much to my mother's chagrin) — but every now and again, it's nice to look back and be reminded of where we've been, what we've done. Physical evidence of our existence and our impact on the world (preferably good, but whatever.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I used to be interesting. I used to be funny. I used to be creative. I used to let my kid take pictures of me with his <a href="https://www.polaroid.com/snap-camera" target="_blank">Polaroid Snap</a> and when the prints poured of the little white box, take a peek and think to myself that maybe, just maybe, I even I <i>looked</i> all these things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe my New Year's Resolution for 2018 should be to meander my way back from <i>used to be</i> to <i>am</i>. Will you join me?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx-EJOxKnzHdWln5e2o62KWFW2Wyg_dEoFInbh9PRoKWPsrORmT6vY2sG_IskBWpLCxJD2hVqkbTJdvJ99b_lfxuMN41lGD1hQNGbY92TxFdEyLQZLKVhnFXsCePb053r6VsaxiovK7k/s1600/IMG_5104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img alt="picture of a picture of a smiling mom taken by her 6 year old son" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx-EJOxKnzHdWln5e2o62KWFW2Wyg_dEoFInbh9PRoKWPsrORmT6vY2sG_IskBWpLCxJD2hVqkbTJdvJ99b_lfxuMN41lGD1hQNGbY92TxFdEyLQZLKVhnFXsCePb053r6VsaxiovK7k/s320/IMG_5104.JPG" title="Portrait of Momma by Son" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">* Lucky for me, my bestie Nicci gifted me a fancy little <a href="https://freeperiodpress.myshopify.com/products/habit-calendar-goal-tracker" target="_blank">Habit Calendar</a> — so easy to use, the hard work is almost entirely done for me! </span>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com1300 Cochran Rd, Richmond, VT 05477, USA44.397639000000012 -72.99620329999999118.875604500000012 -114.30479729999999 69.919673500000016 -31.687609299999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-4184075977750391052014-01-15T23:25:00.002-05:002014-01-15T23:25:50.749-05:00ROLE PLAYINGWhen I was three years old, I took my first ballet class. One of my mother's favorite stories about me dates back to a recital later that year...<br />
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There I was, up on stage with 10 other girls performing our baby plies and pirouettes. As legend has it, my headpiece flew off and ... <i>this is the part where my mom always pauses for dramatic effect </i>... "You kept right on dancing without missing a beat. AT THREE!" my mom will say. "All the other girls would've stopped to pick theirs up. They would've cried. But you, YOU!, were a total professional." A baby Baryshnikov. I was headed for stardom!<br />
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Flash forward 35 years and I, along with millions of others around the globe, have committed this new year to try, like Stella, to get my groove (read: old , smaller, pants size) back. So what do I do? I take that sentiment literally, and throw myself blindly into my first ever Zumba class.<br />
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At the strike of 6, the empty Y gymnasium buzzing with fluorescent tube lights exploded into an all-out salsa-cum-twerking rave-fiesta. Suddenly, I was one of a sea of 50 women (and two men) thinking, "How hard could this be??" Except I quickly learned that all 51 of them had done this before and it was hard as hell.<br />
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'But I was a classically trained ballerina!' I thought, already lost after two beats. I understood then that I'd probably peaked before I hit puberty and that all those years of lessons afterward would not save me now.<br />
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'BUT WAIT,' I thought to myself, struggling to keep up and reaching into the depths of my being for salvation. 'My name is MARIA. I'm a <i>latina*</i> woman, for crying out loud! These moves should flow through me like the blood currently rushing to my head and making me want to pass out.'<br />
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There was no doubt about it. I wasn't a dancer anymore. I wasn't even coordinated. I was Baby. Except, dammit, I totally deserved to be in the corner. My only saving grace was the young girl that was one row up, two spots over from me. Every time I looked over at her, she was doing the absolute polar opposite thing everyone else was doing (and I was <i>attempting</i> to do.) 'At least, I'm not HER', I kept thinking. She had absolutely no rhythm. But in her own spastic, nerdy (would totally have been played by Joan Cusack complete with head gear in the 1980s version of this moment) way, she was bursting with soul. I was just busting a gut.<br />
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Fifty-nine minutes in, I thought maybe, just maybe, I was finally starting to get it. The kick-ball-changes from my years of Tap came flooding back, as did the few bits of Irish step I'd picked up from Erin, Susie, and Abby in grade school. 'I'M DOING IT!' I thought, 'I'M DOING IT!' But it was too late. The last song abruptly ended, the lights went back up, and everyone scattered like roaches. Son of a bitch.<br />
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Still reeling from those last precious 60 seconds of glory, I stumbled out into the -5 degree night in hopes of making it home for my bedtime-story duties. As I approached my car, I slipped on a 2-inch sheet of ice like no one has ever slipped before. Suddenly, I was three again, and it was not onto my ass that I found myself falling, but into the arms of Patrick Swayze, where I nailed the most epic Swan Lift you've ever seen. My mom, like Kelly Bishop circa 1987, would have been so proud. I was a star.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*If you didn't read this with a spanish accent like those crazy news anchors do on TV, please go back and read it again with the accent. The line is WAY better that way.</span>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com2Burlington, VT44.4758825 -73.21207199999997844.385267 -73.373433499999976 44.566497999999996 -73.05071049999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-85235245309580187772014-01-02T21:48:00.002-05:002014-01-02T21:48:46.909-05:00DO OVERMy dad always said that bad things happened in odd numbered years. He seemed pretty insightful in 2001, when my gram died and four planes devastated buildings, fields, and families throughout New York and the world, all within three weeks of each other. I honestly never thought I would feel joy again.<br />
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Flash forward to the first few days of this new, beloved, even-numbered year, and I can't help but feel hopeful and finally exhale.<br />
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<b>2013 was the worst fucking year.</b><br />
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On the other hand, 2012 was pretty epic. Decision after decision, watching the home of our dreams come together beautifully with each passing day. Finding freedom in expressing the absurdity and hilarity of our everyday lives. Good friends and some strangers reached out to let me know how certain tales I told resonated with them. In particular, people told me I was funny. FUNNY! How awesome to be able to make someone smile, let alone laugh?? Even if it is at your own expense.<br />
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As the year came to a close, we moved in to our still unfinished home with no heat, in the middle of a blizzard, both of us with strep. Just over 15 hours from start to finish, to get our stuff out of the old house, drive less than 2 miles away, and put our stuff into the new house. And that was <i>with </i>movers. Well into the night, snow still coming down outside, we collapsed at the home of some beloved friends that agreed to take us in, feed us dinner, and give us a warm place to sleep.<br />
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It was all downhill from there.<br />
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Every once in a while, people made comments about how they missed reading my meanderings. But for all the draft posts that floated through my head, I could never quite get my fingers to the keyboard to put them down on this virtual paper. I wanted to share the insanity that was constantly happening all around us (at home, at work, in life). I just couldn't. I wanted to be able to make it all funny, but the last 12 months were anything but. They were frustrating, sad, challenging, draining, fattening, aging, you name it. All I wanted to do was run away. And, if no one wanted to come with me, so be it.<br />
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And yet, 365 restless sleeps later... I'm still here!<br />
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We had the luxury of ringing in the new year with some great new friends. After more than 5 years, we even made it to midnight. Nay, PAST midnight. Out in the snowglobey Vermont night, in front of a huge bonfire, sharing our hopes and dreams for the next 12 months. Logan made reference to my odd-numbered-year-blues dream of making 2014 our "Away We Go" year. If you haven't seen <a href="http://www.focusfeatures.com/away_we_go" target="_blank">the movie of the same name</a>, it's essentially a couple on a journey to find the place they're meant to live and raise their family. (Please see: aforementioned escape plan.)<br />
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Earlier that day, we'd watched a truly <span id="goog_867896789"></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMlFrSLzKUQ" target="_blank">stunning animated short</a> <span id="goog_867896790"></span>called "Lost & Found" (based on Oliver Jeffers' equally stunning children's book by the same name), leased our skis for the season and bought hockey skates for the family. Three weeks earlier we'd finally hosted a small housewarming party, with heat (!), totally unpacked boxes (!!), and <a href="http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/red-velvet-white-chocolate-cheesecake-50400000131819/" target="_blank">the most decadent 5-layer cake this side of the Mason Dixon</a>. And now, there we were. Surrounded by people we've grown to love, and some we'd met only hours before. The only chaos, the roaring flames. It felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.<br />
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And maybe 2014 is exactly that. The year to just <i>be</i>.<br />
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It was 2am before we all turned in, the kids all nestled snug in their beds until, just a few hours later, each of them ended up in our beds thrashing, kicking, scratching, twitching, and demanding that we wake up to play and have breakfast.<br />
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Little bastards. Don't they know it's an EVEN year?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) Oliver Jeffers</td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com4Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.99241280000001144.314539499999995 -73.153774300000009 44.4960875 -72.831051300000013tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-70293870780493269712012-10-24T00:14:00.002-04:002012-10-24T00:14:09.259-04:00WONDER<div style="text-align: center;">
Today is one of those days that feel full of amazement.</div>
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Maybe it's because I was up until 2:30 in the morning last night, so I'm a bit delirious.</div>
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Or maybe it's because I woke up to find a beautiful note from a friend in my inbox.</div>
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Perhaps it's because of the magnetic force field that caused my computer and my cell phone<br />to crash simultaneously at work today (my <a href="http://forums.macrumors.com/archive/index.php/t-194601.html" target="_blank">PC</a> has yet to recover; <br />the <a href="http://members.pennyrile.net/mmonsour/Mac/reasonsmacsrule.html" target="_blank">iPhone</a>, of course, seems just fine.)</div>
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Definitely, it's because of the 6 ridiculously talented people <br />we just watched play their souls out on stage.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.brandicarlile.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZR2SAszkUr4V3ZXZg7FZm4fRJEwFQ_Blh8YKLYBf4YpzOaKjraZhxF7F5FwL11qAybQKJUfBOwvVFBQEhGf3fDtLkHR9BeTH_rQyTwyFGHBhPlTeBc1-dTunR0qMf0ZCd7v1Yf-WJO0/s320/photo+(37).JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.brandicarlile.com/" target="_blank">How does such a booming voice<br />come from such a small lady?</a></span></td></tr>
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What must it feel like to be so engrossed in your passion that<br />you can share intimate and inspiring moments with a few<br />you know well and hundreds that you don't know at all?</div>
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I got a glimpse of that feeling sitting next to my husband at the<br />show tonight, and a crazy to desire to feel it more and more and more.</div>
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STAT.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">PS: If you have not yet experienced the voice and music of Brandi Carlile,<br />please <a href="http://www.myspace.com/brandicarlileband" target="_blank">do so</a> immediately.</span></div>
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Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Burlington, VT44.4758825 -73.21207244.385242 -73.3700005 44.566523 -73.054143500000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-68291737840014134212012-10-01T22:32:00.000-04:002012-10-01T22:32:12.158-04:00BEING THEREReading has always been hard for me. I love books, but it takes me forever to get through them, and soon after the story ends I can't seem to remember any of the details. The names, places, and situations escape me, leaving only the essence of the tale behind. The same, often times, has been true of my day-to-day life.<br />
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About 10 years ago, I started keeping a day planner. Rather than fill it up with appointments in advance, I used it to jot down what I did during the day, for fear that I would never remember. I kept the entries brief: the name of the person I'd had dinner with, the name of the book I was reading or the the movie I went to see, the general mood of the day—"cloudy; cranky."<br />
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The tradition came to a screeching halt about the time I had my son. After four days of labor, an exhausting surgery, weeks of recovery, and endless feedings, I couldn't bear the thought of keeping track of those days: Couch. Boob. Couch. Boob. Couch. The repetition was maddening, the routine exhausting.<br />
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Since then, I've been pondering the age old question: What am I going to be when I grow up? Despite struggling with the topic for 35 years, I thought that by <a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/01/brass-tacks.html" target="_blank">writing about it</a> I would somehow find the answer faster. Not so. In fact, putting it out there has only magnified the pressure I put on myself to find that one true thing.* This year, this summer, I've felt lost.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.theseptemberissue.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCUvUDPiIHRKJWyddMJN_OYoA5ofbBLYUh3Fa2THFSJ08xqAATeY49etHNNjUcHbYLWtvVjMwqmcmja22Z4mjka4DZSoZgmogz6ckUg0_AZINZyRM10pDwwQAVEOpKBoWdIlP0fbdfHY/s320/photo+(31).JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.theseptemberissue.com/" target="_blank">The September Issue, among the <i>other</i> september issues.</a></td></tr>
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And then September came. "September," I said to a friend, "is my January. I adore it." September marks new beginnings: a new school year, a new season (my favorite!), and the pinnacle of the magazine year. The mother load in the mailbox was more than a girl could ask for to keep busy for the month. But, this September brought with it even more.<br />
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On my nightstand, I had amassed a pile of books that I'd back-burnered, borrowed, or bought for myself, and September was my month to power through them. It was a lofty goal for me, but I was determined. And then, just before the first of the month, the postman delivered a special package—a copy of my friend <a href="http://www.christinarosalie.com/" target="_blank">Christina Rosalie</a>'s new book, <i><a href="http://www.phoenixbooks.biz/book/9780762778560" target="_blank">A Field Guide to NOW</a></i>, and I found myself lost once again. This time by choice.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Field-Guide-Now-Mindfulness-Present/dp/0762778563/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349053831&sr=8-1&keywords=a+field+guide+to+now" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiykNXKXUV_j8VJgIJq8ACvU7Fvl5yFIVHfPimGKzgFOrBIAOociS_2yRwUE4GDsXcf-kO2h0sqQD89NK4o1RzWADd3pw-5okl7_K6RgOiYkD8GRlkW6wy4VN_NDqlYA90aB-XNuZRYc8/s320/photo+(32).JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Field-Guide-Now-Mindfulness-Present/dp/0762778563/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349053831&sr=8-1&keywords=a+field+guide+to+now" target="_blank">(en)Light bedtime reading.</a></td></tr>
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Her prose is thick like honey. Every sentence, a treat to savor and enjoy for what it is: a collection of words so sweetly strung together, so honest and true, that to swallow them too soon would be a shame. <div>
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I wanted to be that good friend that devoured the book in one day and reported back about how amazing I thought it was—and how I wasn't sure I would be able to look her husband in the eye at the coffee machine at work anymore, now that I knew so much about him... But I didn't. Truth be told, I couldn't. I would find myself reading a couple of pages and before I knew it, my mind would wander to my own life and the things I dearly value. I pondered the days I felt I'd lost—either from lack of memory or lack of drive—and made a decision to make a change. To focus on living in the moment. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.madrivervalley.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCbqGv-nJCjhL447UySJQAvacVLekXRUEwRhzz-j-N9XiIcYPjM0Jz3z2SH7e3Czhn7CFw2uEZcIrmjRD874EcDhCrQFPV_CZFzEmicWb8kvPwdnLsQ3Nywct9Y0R4NHPsqjyrcUrSdzE/s320/photo+(34).JPG" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.madrivervalley.com/" target="_blank">Mad River, Waitsfield, VT</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
I ordered a set of the most perfect, <a href="http://www.moleskine.com/web/us/collections/model/product?id=61320#.UGpFP_l24Ww" target="_blank">pocket-sized notebooks</a> and picked up where my planners had left off two and a half years ago. From there, I committed to engaging in life in a way that would warrant the honor of being written down. I discovered <a href="http://www.madsonian.org/" target="_blank">new places to visit</a> just down the road from home. I reveled in Monday night library jaunts and Saturday afternoon dates with my son. I popped over, unannounced, to friends houses and whisked them away on unexpected adventures. I took a step back from the chaos and consternation that comes from building a new house, and watched from afar as my amazing future emerged from a pile of dirt.</div>
<div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.findandgoseek.net/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97MJUCEAHse0QrdOuHQtg_6IA1PvLDNhKkR3Xsui7fyFxgvyjyZPr3v0ITXn7PIJn7dFb8VQdnf9_lBo2gmk2hZRSZtIUBeLS3nNQXK-tnqbVUV-r7Z1fCWVna4wRhE6rB1e7uhZ26bs/s320/photo+(35).JPG" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.findandgoseek.net/" target="_blank">Harvest Festival, Shelburne Farms</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Thirty days later, I feel just a little bit closer to the world around me. I know that the notes I've kept will help me remember this month for years to come and will help me to create the next great gift (like the one I made for Logan for our second anniversary: capturing the milestones of our life together on <a href="http://www.blyberg.net/card-generator/" target="_blank">custom library card catalog cards</a> housed in an antique wooden recipe box.)<br />
<br />
I've yet to finish Christina's book. There's no rush, especially since I'll likely forget the details from it that have so enriched my September days. I've yet to figure out where I and in turn, this blog, are headed. What I do know, is where I am now. I'm on my couch—yes, that very same couch—sitting next to my husband, writing what I know and what I care about. My guess is that everyone involved is just fine with that.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Spoiler alert: There <i>is </i>no one true thing. At least not for me.</span><br />
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Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412841.366974 -78.0461238 47.443653 -67.93870179999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-85628152829405837412012-08-30T22:06:00.000-04:002012-08-30T22:11:54.556-04:00MILESTONES<div>
Three years doesn't seem like a long time. Until, of course, you consider everything that's actually happened in that time. </div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Got married</li>
<li>Had a baby</li>
<li>Moved to DC</li>
<li>Bought land</li>
<li>Moved back to VT</li>
<li>Got new jobs (granted, at the same company)</li>
<li>Started building a new house</li>
<li>Dropped son off for the first day of his <i>third</i> year of school (as a Dragonfly)</li>
</ul>
<div>
More than enough to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedding_anniversary" target="_blank">celebrate</a>, wouldn't you say? We thought so. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of Hudson's favorite teachers graciously agreed to come to Richmond to hang out with him while we went to dinner at what is undoubtedly one of our favorite restaurants, <i>ever</i>. It did not disappoint—not the food, nor the company.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.henofthewood.com/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4SrChu6w82FIhlWLnf2jelCTluXXhxK5VVAHJ7ch0sPykrk1BEiOffXlBVWhtUQ1SXh-t8Ef-3zM8k4Aum8u9Z_2xT7VtR1nj-2bQAUIPCGFJ41KMdX8Fcejc2YG3ey0P-4fCl7pbQs/s320/photo+(27).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love & Deliciousness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
This morning, at 7:15, I had to wake Hudson up to get ready for school. I walked into his room, floor boards creaking, and opened his curtains, letting in the morning sun. He sat up in his crib and rubbed his eyes. The first words out of his mouth were, "Where Trixie go?" That's when I knew that all <i>three</i> Browns had had a pretty awesome night.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Happy anniversary to us.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Waterbury, VT44.3378203 -72.756263641.418923799999995 -77.8099746 47.2567168 -67.70255259999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-48245491432840754872012-08-07T23:47:00.001-04:002012-08-07T23:52:44.675-04:00OUTSIDE, LOOKING IN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My parents raised me to be humble. Selective. And, discreet. If things were going well, we didn't need to brag. And if they weren't, it was nobody's business but ours.<br />
<br />
I remember as a kid asking why, since my parents are pretty religious, we didn't go to church on Sundays. My mother always replied, "Church is for the neighbors to know you believe in God. We pray, so God knows we do." It made perfect sense at the time. (Though I always suspected that sending me to catholic school for 13 years was a bit of insurance on their part.)<br />
<br />
Our way of life has always been just my style. Modest. Simple to understand. Easy to follow. Until, of course, I started Meandering.<br />
<br />
Over the last couple of weeks, I've struggled with deciding the events in my life that would make appropriate posts, and those that, as a Varela, undoubtedly would not. Frustrations with friends and family. Disagreements at home. Struggles at work and at school.<br />
<br />
I'll let you guess from the number of recent posts where I landed in most—nay, ALL—cases.<br />
<br />
Since we broke ground on May 1, the big hole has been a physical manifestation of the struggle between my public and private self. Every eye in the village trained squarely on the doings at 300 Cochran Road. Every wheel barrow of cement, every 2x4, a glimpse behind the curtain that is our life.<br />
<br />
"You know those people walking their dogs or out for a run?" asked a woman that is also in the process of building a house in town. "You <i>know</i> they all sneak in at night to check the place out, right?" I had suspected, but I'd hoped it wasn't true.<br />
<br />
So for three months, I've felt out of control and totally exposed.<br />
<br />
But then today, things felt different. The siding is nearly done and painting is well under way. All of the windows are installed, and—best of all—the doors in.<br />
<br />
As I walked into what will soon be our mudroom, the house, behind closed doors, was warm and quiet. For the first time since this whole adventure started, the place really felt like home. And while I know, the super curious will still find themselves trying to peer in, I'll keep telling myself that from here on out, whatever happens inside is nobody's business but ours.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBMH0NKUErMduOd5GE2rR2YDd2jzTDCX-lolAUmNWJDBLDoaxaZvRswbgLpvbXmJYCmR3tcSWS8O5UHN2Dq9JeVppUZSM5qm1lLaFjf6P0p9rVHP6echAVk2fOdQgWHPq0ANNg9vcRvM/s320/photo+(25).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The big house</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/AVvXsEgMFEuraxcamEaVDxtCd_PHVGU6Ml28atmbuZ1vaV8uK_lIoqF-5GEEyuOURCx1SIkVov_7Kzs8FnVozd0co7P8MmdofI3JVKNXplIHMj4mGdJXHXlMiAsphWd-OtA2ijL8TGOiTu16nB0/s1600/photo+(24).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFEuraxcamEaVDxtCd_PHVGU6Ml28atmbuZ1vaV8uK_lIoqF-5GEEyuOURCx1SIkVov_7Kzs8FnVozd0co7P8MmdofI3JVKNXplIHMj4mGdJXHXlMiAsphWd-OtA2ijL8TGOiTu16nB0/s320/photo+(24).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">takes shape</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KHRhyphenhyphen1OVXzhUw-5fcURYHUUj4QDTDAIMazoZFzRSjooVfHBVXSDoX97l7u5Ju8PT8KAkD-ntGh-XNz3p_YzG-x7vX7ZphC4PEN7nqtzwCkRh4IrnsFsfYlf3OepTF182liWreg8mtSM/s1600/photo+(22).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KHRhyphenhyphen1OVXzhUw-5fcURYHUUj4QDTDAIMazoZFzRSjooVfHBVXSDoX97l7u5Ju8PT8KAkD-ntGh-XNz3p_YzG-x7vX7ZphC4PEN7nqtzwCkRh4IrnsFsfYlf3OepTF182liWreg8mtSM/s320/photo+(22).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">with the help of friends.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com4Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3145635 -73.1503413 44.4960635 -72.8344843tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-39871128486681624912012-07-15T23:04:00.001-04:002012-07-15T23:04:17.292-04:00TAKING SHAPEAs someone who's been <a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/01/this-just-in.html" target="_blank">obsessed with magazines</a> from a young age, I've read countless articles defining the variety of female body shapes and the clothing and accessories that best match them. Through the years, the labels have evolved slightly but one thing has remained the same: they're always worded in a short, sweet, simple way meant to make every shape sound attractive.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pear, straight, athletic, curvy... Missing from the list is the one that fits <i>me</i>. You know, the one that's specific, illustrative, and dead-on accurate. Relatively proportional most of the way down, with oddly placed speed bumps on either side of the upper thighs. I'm thinking something like: Python that swallowed a <a href="http://www.humphreysfarm.com/productcart/pc/catalog/5578_General.jpg" target="_blank">whole cheese wheel</a> and is storing it about three quarters of the way down its throat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Needless to say, bathing suit season can be a little stressful. But as I packed for our trip last week, I took an unusual tact. I shoved every bathing suit I owned into my duffel bag without trying them on (most of which I hadn't worn since our honeymoon back in 2009) and hoped for the best.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On our first day at the beach, I had an important decision to make that would set the tone for all of Beach Week: sport the trusted Speedo—the <a href="http://www.spanx.com/home/index.jsp" target="_blank">Spanx</a> of swimwear—and live with the Sudoku board tan lines later, or blindly throw on a bikini and run out the door. I chose B and never looked back (or down.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I spent the rest of the week obsessing over the shapes that really matter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The perfect half moon of Hudson's smile as he learned to ride a tricycle. The giant almonds that were his eyes when he first saw the ocean's waves. The triangles of the swimmies he wore into the pool that so reminded me of the ones I, too, wore as a kid. The star shape of his arms, legs, and head as he launched himself into the pool time and again.</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkxyTt6pRFDmNAayWMDJBszADuQtKXkZFNPRp22M7xX4z9_o5O0BTDmXQpdYw7r_Ptc8IM-_2c8rMUEcqZoyWOPAINURHLwPhoX8-047Qn3ILzZJ04uhHZ3LyRtXPe3OHpzmSK8sqFLI/s1600/IMG_0872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkxyTt6pRFDmNAayWMDJBszADuQtKXkZFNPRp22M7xX4z9_o5O0BTDmXQpdYw7r_Ptc8IM-_2c8rMUEcqZoyWOPAINURHLwPhoX8-047Qn3ILzZJ04uhHZ3LyRtXPe3OHpzmSK8sqFLI/s400/IMG_0872.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hudson loses his inhibitions.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
At night, he and I would climb up onto a white stool in the room we shared and peek out the round window—reminiscent of a porthole on a ship—to say goodnight to the water, the sun, the clouds, the birds, the crabs. One night, on his own, he said, "Goodnight, boat. Goodnight, man on the boat." And my arms mimicked the shape of the window, hugging him tightly to acknowledge his awesomeness.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table 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/AVvXsEjppObhUw-iC0Ov3lTixOtCiLcA4x9-R4PW4Zoqr4yEF8J1q5Mg_Q_Qe5APB_45xwv-bxJ9TX7bwoRWoV6UIIKl_nWazpgprX2phC-90P2deu8CdKwvVoCDZEnM_TNLoxrWaVxOeee8z_8/s1600/IMG_0849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppObhUw-iC0Ov3lTixOtCiLcA4x9-R4PW4Zoqr4yEF8J1q5Mg_Q_Qe5APB_45xwv-bxJ9TX7bwoRWoV6UIIKl_nWazpgprX2phC-90P2deu8CdKwvVoCDZEnM_TNLoxrWaVxOeee8z_8/s400/IMG_0849.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our window.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am so grateful for the time we shared. Watching the sun rise from the beach each morning, and luring crabs with <a href="http://www.bluecrab.info/crabbing/hardcrabs.html" target="_blank">chicken necks</a> off the pier in the evenings. Listening to Grammy Pammy's infamous tales. Hearing about Nic's upcoming book, and the new chapter he, Abby, and Frances will begin this summer in <a href="http://mfaenglish.olemiss.edu/john-and-renee-grisham-writers-in-residence/" target="_blank">Oxford, Mississippi</a>. Logan, Hudson, and I, getting to spend time together as a family, away from the hustle and bustle of every day life.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Years from now, I won't remember what I wore or how I looked, but the memories of our week together will stay with me forever.*</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGHKRgrDXpXnQ0rgjnaPdD9X1X2YadpIBX63FkfFiGd1jWI601oaTtDzlz5NtIW4pfHVnO1h1rYW6E64zf3xIcc2VLzIponTGM-R-98zgsN8aBdQEXMljfe2SnRI93320zy0nwS8gpfM/s1600/IMG_1003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGHKRgrDXpXnQ0rgjnaPdD9X1X2YadpIBX63FkfFiGd1jWI601oaTtDzlz5NtIW4pfHVnO1h1rYW6E64zf3xIcc2VLzIponTGM-R-98zgsN8aBdQEXMljfe2SnRI93320zy0nwS8gpfM/s400/IMG_1003.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polaroid portrait of our little family on the porch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* I know just the place where there's plenty of room to store them. I hope they like cheese!</span><br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
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</div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com4Litchfield Beach, South Carolina33.4565569 -79.103930133.443309400000004 -79.1236711 33.4698044 -79.0841891tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-49727476433552885572012-07-06T22:48:00.000-04:002012-07-26T22:18:52.020-04:00RARING TO GO<span style="background-color: white;">For the first time in a long time, I left work the day before vacation without a major project looming over my head. I felt comfortable knowing that I'd prepared as much as I could for being away. And, now fully staffed with a pretty awesome crew, I know that whatever comes up in my absence will be handled and well.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The best part of the day was the time between work and going home to clean, do laundry and pack. We took a detour to the local park for our annual company picnic—or "family cookout" for those that have been scarred by the inaccurate history lesson on the word "picnic" (I'm thinking of you, here, Buddy.)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">For three solid hours, Hudson owned the Bouncy Castle like his life depended on it. Having missed the chance to jump his heart out at the Richmond 4th of July celebration (there was no way we were waiting for an hour to have him bounce for 2 minutes on the scalding hot slide), he was in heaven today. He claimed the Castle all to himself.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEhxGFgwysfrFa1g8WFRH0LyJ0cCixql2rlDvgGJEa7pNd9D2G_bN1X3H2b9spNAePn2vtOmVQEquaQHAyZ8iwqVgZ_37J2pBY_nniUjlDwYadOE3AZx_tIP_BQJ7kBLTew5SnB0t4fw/s1600/photo+(20).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEhxGFgwysfrFa1g8WFRH0LyJ0cCixql2rlDvgGJEa7pNd9D2G_bN1X3H2b9spNAePn2vtOmVQEquaQHAyZ8iwqVgZ_37J2pBY_nniUjlDwYadOE3AZx_tIP_BQJ7kBLTew5SnB0t4fw/s400/photo+(20).JPG" width="400" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstl2RGNJzYRWw6ibLnKDYn4rhOTNN1Tq-9VdUkijIy9qpuocRV0x1qRr5wx8WU41UkrUpRYrZPfBrCjFPwWnNUuSaQoufe4WaP6YI1FUye58qshh31FeG-_zPYgCWep41U3g0NPVQ_zs/s1600/photo+(21).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstl2RGNJzYRWw6ibLnKDYn4rhOTNN1Tq-9VdUkijIy9qpuocRV0x1qRr5wx8WU41UkrUpRYrZPfBrCjFPwWnNUuSaQoufe4WaP6YI1FUye58qshh31FeG-_zPYgCWep41U3g0NPVQ_zs/s400/photo+(21).JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">On the drive home, we told Hudson that tomorrow morning we'd be going on an airplane and that at the end of the trip, we'd be at the beach. "I want to go to the beach!" he yelled. "We're going!" we yelled back.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">What seemed like ages away way back in January when we booked our flights, is finally here. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;">BEACH WEEK 2012 here we cooooooooooome!</span></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Burlington, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-12828311604628632822012-07-02T00:00:00.002-04:002012-07-02T00:00:45.823-04:00GOING LOCALI went to college in a really small town in Pennsylvania. Population: 5,710. The middle of nowhere.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcqFn7N926ZAPjNjfmh_7uYjGDBv2sSoqi9IZzb2I52wKPhu7vC5gbOpwXz6Vna8RgWlBeg8e6_gT35EBbqwfEIBK0BArw4Bhsuh3K5uzMgsVvRsTd_Mz5J5wI1bNYyxw7gQn263ew1M/s1600/townetavernLewisburg.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfcqFn7N926ZAPjNjfmh_7uYjGDBv2sSoqi9IZzb2I52wKPhu7vC5gbOpwXz6Vna8RgWlBeg8e6_gT35EBbqwfEIBK0BArw4Bhsuh3K5uzMgsVvRsTd_Mz5J5wI1bNYyxw7gQn263ew1M/s200/townetavernLewisburg.PNG" width="189" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Towne Tavern</td></tr>
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There were two bars downtown: the college bar, named after our mascot, and the <i>other</i> bar. The Towne Tavern. While the "e" in the name was added for historical flair, we liked to think of it as commentary on the bar's clientele; it's differentiating factor. Students did not go to the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Lewisburg-Towne-Tavern/280847582791" target="_blank">Towne Tavern</a>. The townies did. And we were <i>definitely </i>not townies.<br />
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We were sophisticated visitors. Just passing through to get our liberal arts degrees. On our way to something bigger and better.<br />
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Fast forward to the present. Hometown, Richmond, VT. Population: 4,500 (at best.) It's definitely safe to say that I'm more than making up for old times lost.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7m39VnMvuvVnQ9cZnMWi7DpExHk9wPOH7hnP_hW4o-_lYXQ7-sl9tS6HebrrSIVgMrtfpCSJ-6RWBZh5ytrX7WTyoW4geRTBwMPSQx0AI-RmmO73TVBzKcZ0ZpxvRim3tW7jl1PfLaQ/s1600/RichmondShops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7m39VnMvuvVnQ9cZnMWi7DpExHk9wPOH7hnP_hW4o-_lYXQ7-sl9tS6HebrrSIVgMrtfpCSJ-6RWBZh5ytrX7WTyoW4geRTBwMPSQx0AI-RmmO73TVBzKcZ0ZpxvRim3tW7jl1PfLaQ/s200/RichmondShops.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown</td></tr>
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Here in Richmond, it's not uncommon to visit the grocery store two or three times a day, each time running in to at least 10 people we know. The sign reads, "Richmond Market & Beverage" but we all call it the <a href="http://richmondmarketandbeverage.com/" target="_blank">Market</a>. The hardware store, from which most of the materials going in to our new house are sourced, is called "Richmond Home Supply," but everyone calls it <a href="http://www.richmondhomesupply.com/" target="_blank">Dan's</a>. Why wouldn't we? After all, Dan owns the place.<br />
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Our pediatrician lives right across the street and Hudson loves to watch him mow his lawn, work on his house, and go for walks with his wife. "What Docta Parker Doin?" is a question he asks at some point every day, whether we're in the yard, driving to school, or getting ready for bed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdoNmTHHZbiLgH1cnltm6hyphenhyphenP5g3RGJNyceBli62iOtbmWJi-i-f_Ea-jqi6inVVEMlkSxYoteQBjmtg8lHxSBqUHybRnINZ-G860bm-jHRgSEdupxE_E_1euMhGXyEhs5H0P-tseHPgk/s1600/Lower-Huntington-Gorge-HDR-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdoNmTHHZbiLgH1cnltm6hyphenhyphenP5g3RGJNyceBli62iOtbmWJi-i-f_Ea-jqi6inVVEMlkSxYoteQBjmtg8lHxSBqUHybRnINZ-G860bm-jHRgSEdupxE_E_1euMhGXyEhs5H0P-tseHPgk/s200/Lower-Huntington-Gorge-HDR-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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This past weekend alone we watched the American flags go up along Main Street in prep for the upcoming 4th of July celebration; floated down the river in our canoe; went on a family bike ride across the rolling hills of farm country; went down the slides at the playground; enjoyed our Sunday morning ritual of scones and black coffee from the <a href="http://www.ontherisebakery.net/" target="_blank">Bakery</a>; kicked some balls around the local soccer-camp fields; and visited with good friends—all without leaving the village. And when tragedy struck here on Saturday afternoon, there wasn't a single one of us that didn't hear, see, feel, or mourn its affects.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkjGqnQgCj-PdrJU8MnjM0oJI0ZxbaQxpw080WjpM8-px4kZWy7xx1nK2k00qKgn2WtgAQeUbzx_-mEm6EMpv8YOricgSsHjyI_PzokttkSfzJpU-nr7g09CXXRo-5WP5T7vcPW7ZL5o/s1600/round-church-richmond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkjGqnQgCj-PdrJU8MnjM0oJI0ZxbaQxpw080WjpM8-px4kZWy7xx1nK2k00qKgn2WtgAQeUbzx_-mEm6EMpv8YOricgSsHjyI_PzokttkSfzJpU-nr7g09CXXRo-5WP5T7vcPW7ZL5o/s200/round-church-richmond.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Round Church</td></tr>
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Part of the weekend was also spent looking for inspiration for the front door of our new house. We searched online and read through books featuring the best historic homes and buildings of New England, only to find ourselves directed to <a href="http://www.oldroundchurch.com/" target="_blank">our proverbial (and almost literal) back yard</a>.<br />
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Sure, on most summer weekends, the adjacent field is full of cars with out-of-state plates. And when the wedding celebration ends, they all—including the bride and groom—go back to where they came from. Do any of them know that we too got married there? That we're on a first name basis with the guy who climbs up into the steeple to ring the church bell for their ceremonies? Do they know that in winter we fly down their "parking lot" on our Mad River Rockets? Probably not. And that's just fine with me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIlskvTxO4BsRWYE4N7B6uFNjLWbgP76JDTRSxkxNK8sVW5L8Rt7_ICoFsOlQHzFDRs6H_jtWu_EtV31PhwMc3oSg5avWaX5gj_tVsvu9sX1R9EZ8KOsWAbyRm8fQw0AMHbIYmI5vg3g/s1600/photo+%252819%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIlskvTxO4BsRWYE4N7B6uFNjLWbgP76JDTRSxkxNK8sVW5L8Rt7_ICoFsOlQHzFDRs6H_jtWu_EtV31PhwMc3oSg5avWaX5gj_tVsvu9sX1R9EZ8KOsWAbyRm8fQw0AMHbIYmI5vg3g/s320/photo+%252819%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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With the addition of trusses and roof decking this week, the "big hole" on Cochran Road—the project everyone in the village is talking about—has now become the "Big House." Its roots reach far deeper than the basement slab. It is the home in which we hope to share a glass of port with our new family when all is said and done. The place we hope to see our son grow into an honest, mischievous, and caring young man. It is the physical representation of all of the love and adoration I feel for this amazing town.<br />
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At breakfast last weekend, my friend Amy and I daydreamed about the variety of up and coming businesses we might attract to our downtown if we just rolled up our sleeves and got to work planning for it. (Full disclosure: to date she's done <i>more</i> than her fair share in this department.)<br />
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Maybe, someday soon, we might find ourselves welcoming that new brew pub she and I chatted about. So what if it's only for us townies? I wouldn't really want it any other way.<br />
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3601835 -73.0713768 44.4504435 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-76066347738712867522012-06-13T21:53:00.000-04:002012-06-13T21:53:21.788-04:00House Update #6-18!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Just as I'm feeling like life is literally standing still, I swing by the "big hole" and am shocked by how quickly things are actually flying by.</div>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0300 Cochran Rd, Richmond, VT44.397491 -72.994169444.396073 -72.9966369 44.398909 -72.99170190000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-65396547358950538342012-05-17T23:39:00.000-04:002012-05-17T23:39:06.057-04:00WHINE, CHEESE! & HOUSE UPDATE #5<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's 11:38pm. My son and husband are sound asleep in their warm, comfy beds. I'm sitting at the dining room table. Working. In a few minutes, I'll shut down, brush my teeth, and collapse under the sheets. Bright and early tomorrow morning, I'll be back at my desk to do it all over again. And I'll still be a month behind.</div>
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So I just keep telling myself it'll get better. Because while it <i>seems</i> like work is all there is, I remember there's this:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpqbzWV-DPWB1zYF9ttNZ5p9SgqSqkf_XHcmvEuuvmOlozh4xnzseXMvHf_Pa0410ukKAj18nZzwsnvzPzCGrOyKjDhgGhEBAupOELVFjClUBtMo__fOIGs5oYGeh8om251EpD49jtKY/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpqbzWV-DPWB1zYF9ttNZ5p9SgqSqkf_XHcmvEuuvmOlozh4xnzseXMvHf_Pa0410ukKAj18nZzwsnvzPzCGrOyKjDhgGhEBAupOELVFjClUBtMo__fOIGs5oYGeh8om251EpD49jtKY/s320/photo+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horsie!</td></tr>
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And this:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8L30-jAfhNHmp19JRjPlE_Z8Gu05Vu3W89abLUFKKQ7jY6MZaSATZsRvXNhlpvH30svWPvPbImTVimrDY2r4Ijevq8NeFCqt-PTBj9v8y2LvevrmwZdxSF6V4FmZBSIURWST9dil9fk/s1600/photo+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8L30-jAfhNHmp19JRjPlE_Z8Gu05Vu3W89abLUFKKQ7jY6MZaSATZsRvXNhlpvH30svWPvPbImTVimrDY2r4Ijevq8NeFCqt-PTBj9v8y2LvevrmwZdxSF6V4FmZBSIURWST9dil9fk/s320/photo+(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peanut Butter!</td></tr>
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And THIS:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yuwrxkJbibLrHKYt7dlk_I9Nk5LGUqZbEZbQMsyzcdDc7a6fe6hsdIKd0WFzBUg16xudonEIPYjDsogHzeXbE_f19dPsFQKJhA7YMgudNBijW7jxikZp9gX0FGWIwrE4aO11RzWynTs/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yuwrxkJbibLrHKYt7dlk_I9Nk5LGUqZbEZbQMsyzcdDc7a6fe6hsdIKd0WFzBUg16xudonEIPYjDsogHzeXbE_f19dPsFQKJhA7YMgudNBijW7jxikZp9gX0FGWIwrE4aO11RzWynTs/s320/photo+(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ICFs have arrived!</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com1Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-19853851314179917812012-05-15T22:34:00.000-04:002012-05-15T22:34:15.008-04:00HOUSE UPDATE #4OK, so I lied. (Clearly I don't know too much about home building.) The last photo did not, in fact, feature "footers" as indicated, but rather the framing for the footers. Tonight, I redeem myself by sharing an updated photo featuring the <i>actual </i>footers... fully poured and setting nicely!<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/AVvXsEhzM0lS0wp0sAi9KxzstGqRrR95xAq8AMTjf-BeIw1xRiifq6aOTrSA5Aw2xvLNefqwBn7JlwnmHWYAhEuJ2sYsiC5gUc3WcsraFBUgmBRFPc4VqRwrlC8Ny_9E-J8MgWKfT_7-NEvIoWM/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzM0lS0wp0sAi9KxzstGqRrR95xAq8AMTjf-BeIw1xRiifq6aOTrSA5Aw2xvLNefqwBn7JlwnmHWYAhEuJ2sYsiC5gUc3WcsraFBUgmBRFPc4VqRwrlC8Ny_9E-J8MgWKfT_7-NEvIoWM/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I hadn't said anything, would you really have known?</td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0300 Cochran Rd, Richmond, VT44.3974786 -72.99417344.3960606 -72.9966405 44.3988966 -72.991705500000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-53693801069486732432012-05-14T21:07:00.001-04:002012-05-14T21:07:28.408-04:00LOVE, LAUGHTERToday, as on most days, I found myself running from one meeting to the next. I was shuffling along, trying not to bump into the man walking in front of me, when I noticed him look left down a short hallway. At first he looked confused, but as I watched him do a double-take, smile and keep walking, I knew exactly what he was doing. The man in question was a colleague. The object of interest down the hall, his wife Sara.<div>
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Our company was founded by a young couple, and through the years, many more have followed in their footsteps. Partners, lovers, husbands and wives, each bringing new meaning to the expression "my work is my life."</div>
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Several years ago, we were graced with the presence of yet another young couple: Rob and Kasey Bromee. I knew them as one of <i>us</i>. We shared a few meetings here and there, but what I remember most were the reputations that preceded them. As individuals, they were well known around the office as incredibly smart, charismatic, helpful, and dedicated. As a unit they became known as pilars of hope, faith, and courage. Nearly a year and half after being diagnosed with Anaplastic Oligoatrocytoma, Rob Bromee passed away this weekend surrounded by the people he loved.</div>
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It was when I circled back to Sara's desk to share with her the secret moment I'd witnessed between her husband and her back, that I understood a simple truth: where we work, <i>family</i> means more than significant others. "Thanks so much for sharing," Sara said. "I really needed that today." I asked if she was OK, but I knew that she wasn't. None of us were. We'd lost one of our own. </div>
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Sara and I hugged without saying too much. She went back to her work, and I shuffled off to my next meeting where I sat and thought about the things that really matter.</div>
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Those moments when we think no one is watching. The all-too-brief encounter with someone so special that they inadvertently change our lives forever. The people we love. The people that make us laugh. What else is there?</div>
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<a href="http://www.bromee.com/zen/?m=201205" target="_blank">May the force be with you, Rob.</a></div>
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<br /></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Burlington, VT44.4758825 -73.21207244.430561999999995 -73.291036 44.521203 -73.133108000000007tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-42961554649483502802012-05-12T20:44:00.001-04:002012-05-12T20:44:56.975-04:00HOUSE UPDATE #3<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/AVvXsEgWnyVlGEwa4BX7FAkE6bbKcuCyws35lNSmOsK9hSGWkK_Ej0pVCrk87AvGNs8DIcCVpBwSI3FxsUh6eUDByAKHQSPc2yXa6BA3KCzb3MPQuRRHoeEt0CrCxw-CnpaP1TQIpMG-grFpY2Y/s1600/photo+(18).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWnyVlGEwa4BX7FAkE6bbKcuCyws35lNSmOsK9hSGWkK_Ej0pVCrk87AvGNs8DIcCVpBwSI3FxsUh6eUDByAKHQSPc2yXa6BA3KCzb3MPQuRRHoeEt0CrCxw-CnpaP1TQIpMG-grFpY2Y/s320/photo+(18).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The footers are in!</td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0300 Cochran Rd, Richmond, VT44.3974786 -72.99417344.3960606 -72.9966405 44.3988966 -72.991705500000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-29562777067749736042012-05-08T23:31:00.000-04:002012-05-09T07:17:34.747-04:00BAD BOY!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Hudson has two older brothers: Baloo and Nigel. Nigel is the sweet, fat one who's always looking for love. If somethings is yours, he'll sit on it and keep it warm for you. In particular if its something you need or are trying to read. He'll jump in your lap, bake biscuits on your belly, and literally wrap his arms around your neck to give you a hug and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Baloo on the other hand is the one that's bad news bears. He jumps, scratches, nips at your heals, escapes from the house every chance he gets, takes huge bites of your freshly baked cake when you're not looking... the list goes on and on. While I was pregnant, I would have nightmares about Baloo jumping into the baby's crib at night. </div>
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Oh, did I mention they're cats?</div>
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Turns out, I had absolutely nothing to worry about. While Nigel was relatively indifferent to Hudson, Baloo took it upon himself to be his guardian angel.</div>
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For a while I think Hudson thought the cat's name was actually "NOBALOO!" since that's what we yell at him 90% of the time. As he got older, he'd mimic us shaking a finger at Baloo telling him to stop whatever bad thing he was doing at the time—most often, laying all over Hudson's Thomas the Train tracks just as he was trying to squeeze his engines around the bend. Nowadays, they're peas in a pod, and we're the ones getting dirty looks for scolding either of them.</div>
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Most of the time, it's hard to remember why we love him so much, especially since he's always getting into trouble. It's not infrequent that Logan's complaining about the wretched smell of Baloo's poop (he has the totally-not-endearing habit of leaving his twosies uncovered in the litter box... like he's trying to show the world who's boss) or I'm yelling things like, "Why is he so bad!?!? Why don't we just let him run away!?"</div>
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The answer is simple: Because just like our human kid, we love him unconditionally.</div>
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And so, as he headed to the emergency vet a few mornings ago with a hugely swollen face, and we were told there's a possibility it's a tumor, all of the bad thoughts we'd ever had about Baloo flew from our minds and we buckled down to take care of our sick boy. After undergoing surgery, he came home with a drainage tube sticking out of his face and a cone around his neck (which, evidently, is <i>not</i> used to help deaf animals hear.) </div>
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Tomorrow, our oldest son will go back to the vet to have the tube removed and to undergo some additional tests. Despite everything, I just want him to be OK, to come back home, and to tear up the place just like old times. </div>
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Huddy's been extra careful with him since this whole thing started. Petting him gently on the head, saying "Baloo sick. I love you, Baloo." </div>
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Well, I love you, too, Baloo. Just like the Wooz does. (Maybe more.)</div>
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<img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgat2bCw0VlVcK8Hf31XSAc25DEvpvGW7pIAlSdhynhMgwIr_1ps_zu9PaaWvrR08oiDBper8KSd_Cqd1Z6aLkrUcG_8Ng13molCUtEjUaYJesZgJK8oqTl8nbXVyngGn57Dzi7Pq2UrGg/s200/IMG_1084.JPG" width="200" /><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSnhxBjOiDAVkZo6NuHNtRP4eUxgsh_NMGzkuXGFjTLVOqLdkVOgXfWKxzJv1eLvI9Qdx5YLhyphenhyphen0FNz0fSt3fbXMjixl3CCJ-90dZhDGb0PzghXj7o_VOGAZ7llJo0F0X5AYUAwlWmxc4s/s200/IMG_1663.JPG" width="150" /><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiq2SOS-pOcdfZUkYYa1ScylFqBy6HouXpdlnR-xsZpkz51xFhgqYJz3ZiHcWJFLawTFCqFKi8HYt0RhH0JgydlW6H_a6KNyBnRvfKtZYiKT_aH9K5zHCRihRxlM6SQnLZfAIzGbYuwQ/s200/IMG_1707.JPG" width="200" /></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-17474739926947501242012-05-06T22:53:00.002-04:002012-05-06T22:53:14.296-04:00THUMB(S) UPWhile the bulk of my thoughts normally tend toward the mysterious (<a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/01/brass-tacks.html" target="_blank">what am I going to be when I grow up?</a>), the worrisome (<a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/05/house-update-2.html" target="_blank">how are we going to pay for this thing?</a>), the frustrating (<a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/03/teachable-moment.html" target="_blank">why do people suck?</a>), and the things that are out of my control (<a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/05/fact-checker.html" target="_blank">why did Sacramento have to be west of LA?</a>), this weekend was different. I traded in my everyday worries, for 48 hours of fun.<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2084557038"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfFhVYS4BBwQPXdUDInpKawJR-yCqXTNpoPo3-rcrO7FwYC58HMZW701AiVfQlmiG7KG85Bj4aeXKq-uW49dWWwPUwI0B9OHvUQM8ukRb9xu_1xxtz2KTGZWw0DWazG8NBDxv_WHXUCzc/s320/IMG_0541.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.homedepot.com/webapp/catalog/servlet/ContentView?pn=HT_WS_KidsWorkshops&storeId=10051&langId=-1&catalogId=10053" target="_blank">LIKE... that I know where we'll be <br />every first Saturday of the month</a>.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BPw_0yuQaiN9dSgUA98P8CXqmkCJhKyoeWgQMvyHbYvMfZNYgszaROoRCPSZjBN-YTUoaqQj5OJXy5NwijMhmqMdggaYlN1WIjONzrxqPcfsc1SObPbta0_0rJhiwhwkRHcbiKsXrkY/s1600/IMG_0549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BPw_0yuQaiN9dSgUA98P8CXqmkCJhKyoeWgQMvyHbYvMfZNYgszaROoRCPSZjBN-YTUoaqQj5OJXy5NwijMhmqMdggaYlN1WIjONzrxqPcfsc1SObPbta0_0rJhiwhwkRHcbiKsXrkY/s320/IMG_0549.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LIKE... that Hudson is obsessed with "Backet-Ball"</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboJWGqDFrjk7gM-TpYyofOyc42sKk4g-kxsT9dFQmg9AK0oLvQ2pgWLoXgtWCGDjriddz9bQTWbQIyhyphenhyphenstmAgNOSU4HEdfq-QkzSbwuj44Of4txN3XLqpJ1MWkMpJN-AjTdAvPmFoBLw/s1600/IMG_0553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboJWGqDFrjk7gM-TpYyofOyc42sKk4g-kxsT9dFQmg9AK0oLvQ2pgWLoXgtWCGDjriddz9bQTWbQIyhyphenhyphenstmAgNOSU4HEdfq-QkzSbwuj44Of4txN3XLqpJ1MWkMpJN-AjTdAvPmFoBLw/s320/IMG_0553.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">but LOVE ...that he's smartening up quickly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcW7x18PSxM2uFfIWiDI8ASn83cXxkMQ1Zfi9CW6J8YlxKMgS8AAvaEc6uUCblITBK5HtvBsaqkiJy-_HpDfltM3SuHiNypYZPzjew22L0akzUf7AcpsJZPcAugcW1F-HHFeEzcgGHKs/s1600/IMG_0559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcW7x18PSxM2uFfIWiDI8ASn83cXxkMQ1Zfi9CW6J8YlxKMgS8AAvaEc6uUCblITBK5HtvBsaqkiJy-_HpDfltM3SuHiNypYZPzjew22L0akzUf7AcpsJZPcAugcW1F-HHFeEzcgGHKs/s320/IMG_0559.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LIKE... that these two guys know how to celebrate a birthday in style.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir_XCBLH6kwVtQUMmkX_QBBqP1ysroKfu55xJuf1scDmVrascZICULfIUzZ-CkkL7Em4fS59rmH8b2TqsM10BkC1pcqDv2ksB2SJRBOzQhlPK9580viiuCD76slphzWOmtgTn205owhM/s1600/IMG_0568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir_XCBLH6kwVtQUMmkX_QBBqP1ysroKfu55xJuf1scDmVrascZICULfIUzZ-CkkL7Em4fS59rmH8b2TqsM10BkC1pcqDv2ksB2SJRBOzQhlPK9580viiuCD76slphzWOmtgTn205owhM/s320/IMG_0568.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LIKE... that these two guys don't care who's watching.</td></tr>
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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/AVvXsEjpX1EfAb4gz56xwOjyU5MWBhaQzTh2JG0P7DBJs2dMX89p5ua5m1boZQogrVa_IRncJdPNFfVfAmPBEmXM3AdqwgjbpfvrhU-rlMyg4sTyOxDpX2Fy7rqWEU5h9kGC_wSL28QJ-CfrAzw/s1600/IMG_0575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpX1EfAb4gz56xwOjyU5MWBhaQzTh2JG0P7DBJs2dMX89p5ua5m1boZQogrVa_IRncJdPNFfVfAmPBEmXM3AdqwgjbpfvrhU-rlMyg4sTyOxDpX2Fy7rqWEU5h9kGC_wSL28QJ-CfrAzw/s320/IMG_0575.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LIKE... that doggies are models of unconditional love.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfp9jehWulp5bH7rdxMe83SU6B8ognXvU3wrPvi33FTLTQ_78UvAKxMQupsRgNAuOJLPyTDGZcony4HvxUWOI1Lz-RKZRc2qQI5l4vicqCaDQODYRXyQMnuq45yUt9YJmO43b6zXgnzg/s1600/IMG_0576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfp9jehWulp5bH7rdxMe83SU6B8ognXvU3wrPvi33FTLTQ_78UvAKxMQupsRgNAuOJLPyTDGZcony4HvxUWOI1Lz-RKZRc2qQI5l4vicqCaDQODYRXyQMnuq45yUt9YJmO43b6zXgnzg/s320/IMG_0576.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LIKE... that Hudson is the Assistant GC.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2084557082"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbHouUsXhhrLNwfbKuWChkzQ3DfEOJWk2IWCZIOEj1mUErH_8szVzlAW_Zhy5pDMoaQ2oww3Y7-7Rrb8CvKmtl4lyJHPl13gaGrpgnvOxD9oDODqHzwBx9HqUNzVxObxXNuhToCtC4uIc/s320/IMG_0585.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LOVE... that I know where my breakfast comes from.</td></tr>
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</div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com2Vermont44.5588028 -72.577841543.110813300000004 -75.104697 46.0067923 -70.050986000000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-34576189733288193882012-05-04T23:56:00.000-04:002012-05-04T23:56:39.564-04:00HOUSE UPDATE #2<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/AVvXsEhX_ghOUMNEipBcTmyLapQOMRfQonxh0MS3F40MCL3wTtQIThmZNFGs-XNZL4zxmxqRQ6v-4q7-0HHCVvqkpV_-4iiPnNII8CFv7LXUm9QduyehNjKWya92btIzduqaZlac4-PVXs9iNeM/s1600/photo+(18).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_ghOUMNEipBcTmyLapQOMRfQonxh0MS3F40MCL3wTtQIThmZNFGs-XNZL4zxmxqRQ6v-4q7-0HHCVvqkpV_-4iiPnNII8CFv7LXUm9QduyehNjKWya92btIzduqaZlac4-PVXs9iNeM/s320/photo+(18).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The floor plan is laid out!</td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0300 Cochran Rd, Richmond, VT44.3974786 -72.99417344.3960606 -72.9966405 44.3988966 -72.991705500000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-53960081738733953782012-05-03T21:58:00.000-04:002012-05-03T22:14:14.061-04:00FACT CHECKER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The non-profit I've work for over the last 5 years was founded in 1986 by two amazing people. Our mission is to reduce the economic and environmental cost of energy, which makes it pretty easy to get out of bed and go to work every morning. </div>
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Technically, 2012 marks our 26th year. And yet today, we kicked off our official 25th anniversary celebration in grand fashion. Over 260 employees, from 4 regional offices convened in Burlington to honor the company and the great work we've achieved to date. Add to that, two pretty inspiring speeches by Senator Bernie Sanders and Vermont State Governor Peter Shumlin—neither of whom are actively campaigning, meaning they came to our office because they really believe in and are proud of the work we do—and who cares if the math's a little wonky?</div>
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The after-hours pizza party had been billed <i>Employees Only</i> so we thought it would be inappropriate to bring Hudson. When I mentioned that to our Director, he said, "That's ridiculous." Add that to the fact that another couple (both of whom work with us) had gotten clearance to bring their kid, we decided to buck the system and bring ours too. After all, he relocated to DC for the firm. Didn't he deserve a little pizza?<br />
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After dinner came an epic trivia contest. (Imagine, if you will, 150 pretty nerdy people answering wicked nerdy questions.) After the 1st round of pre-scripted questions, the tables were turned and each team of 4 was asked to come up with questions of their own. Just as round 2 was beginning, 1/4 of our team went home and I had to leave the room to change a diaper. When I returned, I learned that Logan had submitted a question on our team's behalf. A <i>geography</i>-based question. I knew we were in trouble.<br />
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"What city is west of LA?"</div>
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A. Tijuana</div>
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B. Sacramento</div>
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C. Phoenix</div>
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D. Tahoe</div>
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He thought it was brilliant, given that we'd recently seen an <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTjHCCU2E4c" target="_blank">awesome Google Chrome ad</a>—and subsequently conducted <a href="https://www.google.com/search?sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&q=is+tahoe+west+of+la#hl=en&sclient=psy-ab&q=tahoe+is+west+of+la+bullshit+snapple&oq=is+tahoe+west+of+la+&aq=1q&aqi=g-b1g-q2&aql=&gs_l=serp.1.1.0i8j0i22l2.6785.6785.0.8316.1.1.0.0.0.0.81.81.1.1.0...0.0.dmCpp9WlC5c&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.,cf.osb&fp=8316e992ae23057e&biw=1660&bih=872" target="_blank">a pretty funny Google search</a>—that revealed the answer. Well, <i>sort of</i>. </div>
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At first we were thrilled, NO ONE had guessed the right answer except our team, which meant we got bonus points. But when the "correct" answer (D. Tahoe) was revealed, the crowd revolted. Smart Phones whipped out faster than you can say <i>Please do not bring your cell phones to this event</i>. Engineers, Planners, Customer Services Representatives, HR Managers... all were up in arms. "It's SACRAMENTO!!" they yelled. What ensued was 10 minutes of arguing, Googling, and finally an on-screen digital presentation that proved that Sacramento was, in fact, west of LA. And while Tahoe is <i>also</i> west of LA, Sacramento is wester. Seriously, people? <i>Wester? </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloquMB2fs7a0kMaLMDHN-V53AJrVN4AxTKaGMaCf1wBUfC8Ai-r3uoUYtj1SIGl8XXjdcCU_nrEjcFq4qdhxEpsto22lH8LuSBHC_AptWBwwAt_TY6wsm8mhfuOhCrY8AH6wGG-Ph-AA/s1600/Wester.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloquMB2fs7a0kMaLMDHN-V53AJrVN4AxTKaGMaCf1wBUfC8Ai-r3uoUYtj1SIGl8XXjdcCU_nrEjcFq4qdhxEpsto22lH8LuSBHC_AptWBwwAt_TY6wsm8mhfuOhCrY8AH6wGG-Ph-AA/s320/Wester.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wester.</td></tr>
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The crowd argued that we didn't deserve any points for our deceitful question, but I—in defense of my husband and the honor of my son who seemed perplexed, but greatly amused by all the commotion—retorted, "We deserve 5 points, not 1, for causing this much fun!"</div>
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Logan will likely never live down the great 2012 debacle now infamously known as "The Sacramento incident", but I know that 25 years from now—or 26 if you're <i>really </i>counting—I'll be as proud of being part of the Vermont Energy Investment Corporation family as I am today.</div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Burlington, VT44.4758825 -73.21207244.430561999999995 -73.291036 44.521203 -73.133108000000007tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-29143256606152419852012-05-02T22:15:00.001-04:002012-05-02T22:15:42.311-04:00HOUSE UPDATE #1<div style="text-align: center;">
May 2. The hole gets bigger.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2_OdAgcHOOikjB6PN9Tvezxcyxvu136SKOb6xtuMwWP97anquuueAgJ4C1W3utjjIbM4US3huR2L_R3STprVUqtoRqmUujnK8ZBO9xn8zDtRSwl4CzGdbcVUGnev1Ksn1KCVxV3KnxY/s1600/photo+(16).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2_OdAgcHOOikjB6PN9Tvezxcyxvu136SKOb6xtuMwWP97anquuueAgJ4C1W3utjjIbM4US3huR2L_R3STprVUqtoRqmUujnK8ZBO9xn8zDtRSwl4CzGdbcVUGnev1Ksn1KCVxV3KnxY/s320/photo+(16).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I PUSH IT!"</td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-22381213627550275212012-05-01T23:17:00.002-04:002012-05-01T23:17:18.022-04:00GROUNDBREAKING<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I once worked with a woman who was born on December 29. Her parents named her after her grandmother: Mary Christman. Yes, seriously. Luckily for her, her parents gave her two gifts: 1) they nicknamed her May; 2) they decided to spare her the disappointment of being forgotten amidst two major holidays by moving her birthday to May 1st. I've always loved that story, and though we've lost touch over the years, I always think of her on this day.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, here we are. May. My <i>actual</i> birth month. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I've always been a huge fan of birthdays. From kindergarten through twelfth grade, my birthday always marked the time of year when spring had officially sprung, and the countdown to summer vacation was in full swing. College was a little more challenging. Since classes ended about a month earlier, my birthday always fell smack-dab in the middle of exam week. Even still, we always found some small way to celebrate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As an adult, I've been thoroughly perplexed by the people that take the day off from work in honor of their special day. "But if you're not <i>here</i>," I say, "then how can everyone wish you a happy birthday??" Clearly, my view of birthdays is similar to that of a two year old. Hudson seems to be fully on board with the concept of celebration, as evidenced by the fact that he blows out imaginary candles every time he hears the word. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Three times in my life thus far, I've had to share my big day with all of the mothers in the world. This year will make four. I've spent the better part of four weeks now dropping not-so-subtle hints to Logan that I fully expect to get <i>two</i> cards from my boys. And then today happened.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JiQ1G1I3XQO7O7GdbeMmDHDV_w7up_k9K9HcLEefeM6deuNPsWu_oJ_iKODb4tBcLW8T7xembJM0mGgLAYIg9BBJY5SQ9qU2rb7TRn9i8IB3CujE3R5MDxSjx8SwSgAChAttghwQN3Y/s1600/photo+(12).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JiQ1G1I3XQO7O7GdbeMmDHDV_w7up_k9K9HcLEefeM6deuNPsWu_oJ_iKODb4tBcLW8T7xembJM0mGgLAYIg9BBJY5SQ9qU2rb7TRn9i8IB3CujE3R5MDxSjx8SwSgAChAttghwQN3Y/s200/photo+(12).JPG" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">And away we go!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">While at the office, our friend Morgan popped over to tell us that her husband and son had spent the morning checking out the trucks working at our new place. Turns out, we broke ground today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After work, we rushed right over to the land to check things out. There we found, much to Hudson's amazement, life-size replicas of the "big trucks!" we read about together in his books every night. From the woods we could hear a persistent buzzing. "What's that sound?" Huddy asked. "A chainsaw!" dad replied. It was our GC, friend, and "uncle" Gary, clearing the land to make the property line more visible for the excavators. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At bedtime tonight (from which, it seems, most of my revelations seem to stem), Huddy and I shared a pretty awesome exchange:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hudson: "Gary, chainsaw, cut down treeeeeeee!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Mom: "Wow, Huddy. That's awesome that you remember that. Good job! Can you say 'awesome'?"</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Hudson: "AWESOMMMMME!"</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Mom: "Do you know who is awesome?"</div>
</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Hudson: "GARY awesome!"</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After Hudson went down, I hopped on Facebook to share the story with the big man himself. It was there that I learned that today, May Day, is actually his birthday. And he spent it working on our new place. Putting a big hole in the ground, helping to make our dream a reality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today, I learned a lesson in sharing. Maybe one card would be OK after all.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENnuQ31srYLyDvMlAc5jv56nirYKTG5YJ6L6g19PkV_-t_jetUgFX4BKrJumryLtgw8Q0iORKLEt7_Iwl9FpqpJICCbY_BzLcrLNtKFCEWomSbwOsg0HEt-2jVRx81L0wkJ3lAuUjWWE/s1600/photo+(15).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENnuQ31srYLyDvMlAc5jv56nirYKTG5YJ6L6g19PkV_-t_jetUgFX4BKrJumryLtgw8Q0iORKLEt7_Iwl9FpqpJICCbY_BzLcrLNtKFCEWomSbwOsg0HEt-2jVRx81L0wkJ3lAuUjWWE/s320/photo+(15).JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">300 Cochran Road, Richmond, VT</span></td></tr>
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<br /></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT, USA44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-34745573484756234592012-04-30T22:24:00.001-04:002012-05-01T00:17:48.509-04:00OUT LIKE A LION<div>
April was a blur. "Oh, Really?" you say. "How would <i>we</i> know, what with only one post and all." Well, you're right. But do let me explain.</div>
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It all started with the mad rush to prepare for Hudson's birthday party. By the first of the month, we'd picked a theme, and the to-do list grew from there. I took two full days off of work, determined to prove that it's possible to throw the greatest construction-themed-event that ever was, while holding down a way-more-than-full-time job. Hardhats, tool sets, nail aprons, homemade chocolates... the whole nine yards. I'll admit, it turned out pretty well (you rock, <a href="http://www.paperandcake.com/" target="_blank">Paper and Cake</a>!) Hudson had fun, and I think everyone else did too, including my sister-in-law and niece—both of whom made a surprise cameo appearance at the big event (thanks for coming, gals!). </div>
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It was shortly after the party, that two distinct thoughts started to takeover my brain. The first, a good one, was the sudden realization that my son had become my favorite person in the world. Talking in (relatively) complete sentences, telling me about his day, pointing out everything he saw, and most wonderfully and amazingly, telling me he loved me. The second, a scary one, came later: the overwhelming feeling that I have precious little time to share with him. Though I know this is likely my way of processing the fact that he's growing up quickly—that before I know it, he'll be off to college, then out exploring the world—there's a part of me that is terrified that something might happen to one of us. In either case, I worry that I'm not a strong enough person to let him go.</div>
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Suddenly, life started to feel more precious and real. </div>
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Not one but two friends shared with me the grief of separating from the ones they love. How do I even begin to let them know how sorry I am and how much I understand? Uncle Mickey's passing was <a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/04/fond-farewell.html" target="_blank">particularly bittersweet for me.</a> As was learning that someone I'd always thought of as a dear friend got married back in December without my knowing. Truth be told, I didn't even know she was dating, so what does that say about me as a friend? Certainly the mature side of me understands that she's entitled to share her life however and with whomever she pleases, but the sadness I continue to feel about it is so foreign and deep, that I can't even pull it out of me, let alone rationalize with it.</div>
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The last day of the month has been no different than the 29 that came before it: a delicate balance between awful and wonderful. I ended the work day by drafting an email that read: "NOTE: Given that it is 4:48 PM and changes are still coming in, I think we can all agree that this program is NOT launching today." I hit send, grabbed my stuff, and walked out the door. After a quick pick-up at school and a long drive home, Logan, Hudson and I got in just in time to welcome Maryanne who came bearing more pizza than three and a half people could possibly consume. </div>
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I think we can all agree that April wasn't my best showing. I didn't intend to let my Meandering fall by the wayside, but the more time that passed, the harder it was to find my way back. We'll see how it goes...</div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com1Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-92028672251960730222012-04-18T22:44:00.000-04:002012-04-18T22:52:22.628-04:00A FOND FAREWELLAt present, my son Hudson is obsessed with three things: his dad (Daddy-O!), airplanes (nnnnneeeeeooooowwwww), and <i>Mickey Mouse Clubhouse</i>. When it comes to the latter, he's been adamant and consistent about the fact that regardless of what <i>TV Guide</i> or the opening credits say, the show is called <i>Minnie</i>.<br />
<br />
Each morning, it's the first word that comes out of his mouth. "MINNIE!" he'll yell and point down the stairs. He'll watch two episodes and drink a cup of milk while we shower, dress, and get ready for work. "Minnie!" he'll yell when the second episode ends. "No more Mickey," we'll say. "Minnie!" he'll correct us.<br />
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Yesterday afternoon, I had picked Huddy up from school and we were on our way home. He seemed happy to see me, but I could tell he was a little disappointed that dad wasn't with us. As we drove south on the Interstate, he spotted a white speck in the sky. "Airplane!" he yelled happily. "You know, Huddy," I replied, "Daddy's on an airplane right now. He's on his way to Kentucky. He went to say night-night to <a href="http://www.kentucky.com/2012/04/16/2153584/former-uk-mens-basketball-player.html" target="_blank">Uncle Mickey</a>." I didn't know how else to say it.<br />
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Within seconds, Hudson had moved on to yelling out the names of the other things he spotted through the windshield—Big truck! Trees! Nan-nan! (his word for motorcycle)—but my mind was still on Logan's journey.<br />
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Just five months ago, we made the trip to the Bluegrass State as a family. It was my first time in Kentucky, and it was truly wonderful. I met four generations of Logan's family and they welcomed me with open arms. It meant so much to Logan to be there with all of them, and to introduce them to his own little family.<br />
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On Thanksgiving day, we visited Twin Oaks Assisted Living where I had the honor of meeting Uncle Mickey and Aunt Betsy. Hudson was fascinated with them, in particular when Uncle Mickey clenched his hands, touched the tips of his seemingly quadruple-jointed pointer fingers, and asked, "Can you do this, Hudson?" as he wiggled them side to side. When I looked up at Logan, he too was staring in awe at Uncle Mickey. He whispered: "I totally remember him doing that to me when I was a kid." It was a moment I will never forget.<br />
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Last night, I followed bath time (normally Daddy-O's duty) with our latest bed time routine: 5 books and 3 songs. I tucked him in and said what I always say, "I love you, Woozles. Can you say night-night to Momma?" He waved, as he normally does. But then, as I started to walk out of the room, I heard Hudson say something. "What was that?" I asked.<br />
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"Night night, Mickey," he said. And I was so happy to know that he, too, remembers.<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;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1855667955"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkBYO2uBpzrqhTrbrsiIiKdLIIOCpGyeJsaZNmls45qfiZZ2jgIjy5P_xSRUI_GWiTLDRTVoBTm2qQJJd-dq60HHt57owjcWJlGhikvofYYwbWwEtZ2kTmybD19fE4yV88fV7m2WIfqc/s320/layton_rouse3.jpg" width="295" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.kentucky.com/2012/04/16/2153584/former-uk-mens-basketball-player.html" target="_blank">Dr. Layton "Mickey" Rouse (1919-2012)</a></span></span></td></tr>
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<br />Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0New Castle, KY38.4334003 -85.169676838.4209623 -85.1894178 38.445838300000005 -85.149935800000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-7189625719038909472012-03-28T22:09:00.001-04:002012-03-30T13:58:00.157-04:00SAY WHAT?So, by now everyone knows how much I love magazines. It's true. <a href="http://www.thelongmeander.com/2012/01/this-just-in.html" target="_blank">I do</a>. You know what else I love? Commercials. Not just any commercials. The smart, witty ones that I can relate to, that make me think about things a little differently, and most of all that make me laugh out loud.<br />
<br />
Sure, there are some that I've loved that have been pulled off the air faster than you can say <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cgck3r6uXI4" target="_blank">RANCH</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNsqVNqIGj4" target="_blank">TOOTH</a>, but for the most part my favorites have been a roaring success both within the trade community and with consumers.<br />
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One that I've been thinking about a lot lately is the IBM classic, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIxcxfL5jas" target="_blank">Buzzword Bingo</a>. "These innovation meetings are killing us," they say. "The hype, the jargon. These buzzwords are killing us. Every time you hear a word, you mark your card."<br />
<br />
If I had the energy to actually put a card together, I'd be killing it at work. The latest offenders include INFO GRAPHIC, TRANSPARENT, PLUS-DELTA, THOUGHT LEADERS... They join the age-old classics like SYNERGY, STRATEGIC, and DEEP DIVE.<br />
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Really though, it's collections of words more than the singletons that truly get under my skin.<br />
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I first noticed my aversion to certain phrases when I was home on maternity leave two years ago. It was an overwhelming time to say the least—in both good ways and bad. And after weeks of sitting in the same spot on the couch with a small man constantly latched onto my chest, the very last thing I wanted to hear in between suck sessions was, "Um, I think he's hungry." WHAT??? NO. NOT. POSSIBLE. He JUST ate. Even if it was true (goodness gracious, how <i>could</i> it be?) did I really need to hear it every minute of every day?!*<br />
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Sure, there have been other offending phrases spoken—and incessantly repeated—since then, but none have risen to I-think-he's-hungry status. until now.</div>
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"You're doing a great job!"</div>
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Over the last several weeks, I've had countless conversations at the office about transition, personalities, performance, and potential. It's not my best quality, but I'm not really comfortable talking about myself and I'm the opposite of gracious when I'm complimented. It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, I do. Particularly because when the words are uttered, they come with a supportive smile and complete sincerity. The thing is, I am not motivated by accolades. In fact, they make me uncomfortable. When it comes to my work, or how I approach anything in life, the opinion I value most is my own. I've been told I'm my own worst critic (more times than I can count... maybe it should be on my list of banned phrases?), but that really is OK with me. It's who I am, and it's what drives me to do what I do and to try my best.</div>
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So when I'm asked, "Would it be helpful for me to tell you more often how well you're doing?" Can you guess what my answer has been every single time?* Aside from loving magazines and really good commercials, there's one other thing about me everyone should to know: I mean what I say, and I say what I mean.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLw00kx_wiZ1MWxskhekkewyleqdXvsfljlyPaD795hjmnXaLrxqWjLR3VJpyqJdf7rHGVcROROqkY5wg4YtTNpqIMmN8TPLOalznbJRpZhiAWwb21iZtJVplv9FomS2jwjoYIDpJBT4/s1600/44284_428056825783_572135783_5190277_2325822_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLw00kx_wiZ1MWxskhekkewyleqdXvsfljlyPaD795hjmnXaLrxqWjLR3VJpyqJdf7rHGVcROROqkY5wg4YtTNpqIMmN8TPLOalznbJRpZhiAWwb21iZtJVplv9FomS2jwjoYIDpJBT4/s320/44284_428056825783_572135783_5190277_2325822_n.jpeg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hudson at 4 months.<br />
This guy, <i>hungry</i>? SERIOUSLY??</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Did you guess "no"? BINGO!</span></div>Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com1Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599385 -73.0713768 44.4506885 -72.9134488tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7404438069052290446.post-35963791121446315962012-03-21T00:26:00.001-04:002012-03-21T00:26:57.437-04:00TEACHABLE MOMENTYesterday at 4pm, the dreaded call came in from school: "Hudson has a fever. You have to come pick him up and he can't come in tomorrow." Well, there goes another day of work, I thought. As if it were possible to feel more behind... So this morning, as I emailed everyone to let them know I wouldn't be in the office, I knew I had a choice to make. Half-ass both work and taking care of my kid, or pick one and do it as well as I could.<br />
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I opted to shut down my computer and join Logan and Hudson on a great adventure. We took a walk through the village, dropped a load of cash at the Zoning Office, and landed at the park. "I SWING!" "I SLIDE!" "I RUN!" Who said this little boy was sick??<br />
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When Logan headed back home to get the car (extraction from the park takes serious planning and logistics), Huddy and I headed down to the river with two big cups filled with rocks. One by one, he launched the rocks into the water, reveling at every PLOP. We were having the grandest of times, when two slightly older, amazingly annoying boys showed up, running straight into the water, grabbing fistfuls of mud and throwing them all over the place.<br />
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Minutes later, a woman showed up behind them and the showdown began. Clearly a mom used to ruling the roost, she copped a major attitude implying that she owned the park and that, really, there was no room for a rock-throwing toddler on her riverbank. Before I even had a chance to properly rebut, Hudson went barreling down toward the water to play with the big boys. I sprung into action, scooping him up and saying, "No, Huddy, you can't play near the water just yet. It's dangerous." He, of course, burst into tears and started thrashing about with all his might. Hudson was still bawling as I walked up the hill, away from the river and that MOTHER. I felt so bad for him. How was he supposed to understand why other people could ruin his fun, and turn an awesome, chill moment with mom into total chaos and frustration?<br />
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I did the only thing I know how to do. I gave him a big hug to help calm him down and I told it to him like it is. "Sometimes, Hudson, no matter what you want or what you do, life just throws stuff like that at you, and you know what? It totally sucks. It sucks that we were having fun and they ruined it for us. It's not fair and I'm really, really sorry."<br />
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Dammit if that amazing son of mine didn't stop crying, look up at me, and smile. "What does life do sometimes, Huddy?" He looked me straight in the eye and said, "SUCK!" I hugged him so tight he started thrashing again, laughing this time rather than crying. I took his hand and he mine, and we walked up to the bridge, from which the rocks fly farther and plop louder anyway.<br />
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It occurred to me then that sometimes things that suck in the moment can actually lead to something even better than what you might expect. Kind of like being forced to skip a day of work, only to have a wonderful day with your son.Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18348712562411670231noreply@blogger.com0Richmond, VT44.4053135 -72.992412844.3599375 -73.0713768 44.450689499999996 -72.9134488