tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82019611124908111752024-02-07T02:34:00.730-05:00...but then I had kidsA blog about a girl who used to be pretty interesting, but then she had kids.Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.comBlogger338125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-76382837068935841082023-02-14T15:30:00.001-05:002023-02-14T15:30:00.181-05:00Valentine's Day nostalgia<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjEUT94SNGcIjBEzc1eUxOoCLmPh5UX17fBiFm8xmHMO038bdlx8a_gh760hb8507Bk6YXg0o-L-WJLrGBaaaA5tm2yG5B1oV9aiVCVcGIJ1e17C6KbbTHJwbTIaO-3Q4dB_fdT957TknQ1vD1OXoawiLqJC9X-3Ze5Qmk3EXUy6dtxqRq72ggE4pz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjEUT94SNGcIjBEzc1eUxOoCLmPh5UX17fBiFm8xmHMO038bdlx8a_gh760hb8507Bk6YXg0o-L-WJLrGBaaaA5tm2yG5B1oV9aiVCVcGIJ1e17C6KbbTHJwbTIaO-3Q4dB_fdT957TknQ1vD1OXoawiLqJC9X-3Ze5Qmk3EXUy6dtxqRq72ggE4pz=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><br /></div>My babies are giants. When they hug me, I am still surprised by the scratchy stubble, broad backs, and nearly-grown-men muscles. But they are still my babies. (Don't worry. They know this. They are okay with it. In fact, I think they kinda like it.) Back during the preschool days, we used to spend the week before Valentine's painstakingly addressing cards for classmates. Then during the elementary years, we would have family dinner celebrations, complete with heart-shaped paper plates, crystal goblets (which they looooooved using), and pink frosted cupcakes. A couple of years ago, it was an afternoon poolside picnic. This year, one of the boys has beach plans with his buddies, and the other one is planning a picnic with the new girlfriend (yikes!). My babies are certainly no longer babies, but before I left for work this morning, I left pink and red gift baggies filled with giant chocolate candy, mushy cards, and cash (they ARE teenagers, after all...), and covered each of their bedroom doors with 14 construction paper hearts of handwritten compliments. Because no matter how stubbly or muscly or grown they get, they will always be my babies--and my Valentines. <div><br /></div><div><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2020/02/i-miss-those-little-valentines-day-cards.html" target="_blank">This following was originally posted here on February 14, 2020</a>, on the first Valentine's when they were both in middle school.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">I miss those little Valentine's Day cards</h3><div><br /></div><div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">My knees barely fit under the table. It was my boys' coveted Little Einstein's arts-and-crafts-and-everything-they-wanted-to-do-table. There were accidental scribbles on it, and pieces of dried up play-dough. The cubbies underneath had mommy-assigned and boys-ignored designations: one was for the crayons, another for construction paper, and another for puzzles. (Needless to say, those cubbies were always a mess and it always drove me crazy.) I spent countless hours at that table. First with Ben, then with Kai, and sometimes with both. We drew. We colored. We made pizzas out of clay. When Ben had to decorate a t-shirt with 100 things of his choice to celebrate the 100th day of school and he absolutely insisted on making 100 paw prints (his school's symbol) in the alternating school colors in glitter, I sat at that table with him: I dribbled the 5 little globs of Elmer's glue with painstaking precision and he sprinkled the blue and gold glitter over each one. It took us days. But it came out perfect.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4-Ta9M_Awpmc-ejcjqZyw2FYCa1KkCJaqtkSMRh65ELDQfcY_dsQNCb8Gsgh4wPmUAE55fia3vXvjcDouyG2MDV1bFwJm3nlafcBT4ZF0np-KtemiW_WUq5wsZyaKEAFJ9uZxOJtoyQ/s1600/valentine5blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e128a8; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4-Ta9M_Awpmc-ejcjqZyw2FYCa1KkCJaqtkSMRh65ELDQfcY_dsQNCb8Gsgh4wPmUAE55fia3vXvjcDouyG2MDV1bFwJm3nlafcBT4ZF0np-KtemiW_WUq5wsZyaKEAFJ9uZxOJtoyQ/s400/valentine5blog.png" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></div><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Today, the first Valentine's Day in which I have two middle school boys, is also the first Valentine's Day that I did not have to buy cards and candy for class distribution. Maybe if I had realized that last year would be the last year, I would not have complained so much about spending money on candy and cards for his classmates. (But isn't that the thing with parenting? You never know when those tedious tasks you rush through and sometimes dread...bedtime stories, bathtub battles, carrying them asleep to their rooms...will be done for the last time.)</div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAk496h51WRCi8XxufIb5uOz8yXdb6uXG0U4gsM46drdujAoLOqzernfpA68pNQrjbMdZV2SoCtGZNcm_nJfvV56GDo1xahMojEDX7TCF1wGjV6C3ux5Aoz9xigAZRJmG4oLOrB7mYohw/s1600/valnetine4blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e128a8; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAk496h51WRCi8XxufIb5uOz8yXdb6uXG0U4gsM46drdujAoLOqzernfpA68pNQrjbMdZV2SoCtGZNcm_nJfvV56GDo1xahMojEDX7TCF1wGjV6C3ux5Aoz9xigAZRJmG4oLOrB7mYohw/s400/valnetine4blog.png" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9fpyDqgThh3GEl3fRDi1_6yPrh3DdgnX8llIg63GbrFGT6dudYovCLRWPRD83MTt9rYEYWYFDMZIDom7o1aFekvVScxAGtIf-HAsOZJrah1tWIfpN14II2NX5QwfmHEmunMCD3-GtNE/s1600/valentineblog.png" imageanchor="1" style="color: #0066cc; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9fpyDqgThh3GEl3fRDi1_6yPrh3DdgnX8llIg63GbrFGT6dudYovCLRWPRD83MTt9rYEYWYFDMZIDom7o1aFekvVScxAGtIf-HAsOZJrah1tWIfpN14II2NX5QwfmHEmunMCD3-GtNE/s400/valentineblog.png" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>I feel like it was simultaneously yesterday and a million years ago that I sat at that little table, for a few consecutive years, helping them form the letters of their classmates' names and making them fit on those teeny Valentine's Day cards. There were the years in which one or both would insist on finding just the right cards: they <i>had</i> to be Mickey, or Transformers, or sports, and we would have to go to multiple stores to find them. Doing those cards with them was one of those tasks that took forever, and I wondered over and over again why I wasn't doing what so many of the other moms would do: simply label the To/From myself. But it was one of those things that <i>mattered</i> to me. As a teacher and a mom, I felt that these were those important moments when your 2 year old kinda learns how to write and your 5 year old kinda learns some patience. It was tedious and tried my patience probably even more than it tried theirs. I don't really recall with absolute certainty the last time I did it with them. I think I was on the couch instead, and they were kneeling at the coffee table. It was more of a making sure they were following through and their handwriting was neat enough to fit within the card than actually doing it with them. I was probably a little impatient then, too.</div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This morning I excitedly placed their Valentine's Day gift bags and cards on the breakfast counter. Bags filled with nonsense that took me almost an hour to find at Target yesterday. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to find something cheap and Valentine-y to give a 14 year old who is now shaving?!?) As I roamed the store aisles, I debated skipping the whole thing. Why spend $40 or $50 on cards and junk and candy they really don't need? But the truth is, they're still my babies and I actually miss sitting at that little table and being annoyed and wondering how much longer it would take to go through that darned preschool class names list so I could go deal with dinner or watch TV or take a frickin shower. Those days felt endless. I felt like I was trapped in a perpetual fog of little kid responsibilities and mommy minutiae. And yet here we are now: I am spending my Valentine's Day remembering that little table and those little hands with the dimpled knuckles clutching the fat pencils and clumsily forming the letters of their names.</div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">What I realize now, all these years later, is that all those hours I spent torturing myself by making all those Valentine's Day cards with them weren't just about their handwriting and spelling skills. It was about Me and Them Time. Days like today, when their time is spent in a whirlwind of adolescent distractions, and I am but a blip in their day, I can think back to the days at that table and sit with those memories. I can miss them. I can relish them. And I can know that even if they don't think that those days were particularly important, they were for me. Much more so, in fact, now that they are long gone. Don't get me wrong: I want no part of parenting little kids anymore. I love the young men they are becoming and the relationship and life we all have now, but those days filled with messy art tables and Transformer heart cards are forever etched in my heart. And those two big kids right there...they will forever be my little Valentines.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKYPk0-FUimVQVskAAqwqV-H61UdPD9Jfzpr3i6-5Ie10J6dbBHxLBpVggNMh5C9ybUpLSSSarjDnrODsHuiEmq35l2i_AaGVtlxBtiTdI6Ec2AQjglswPXQN_E-DES48XkwMIvlTEP4/s1600/valentine7blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e128a8; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKYPk0-FUimVQVskAAqwqV-H61UdPD9Jfzpr3i6-5Ie10J6dbBHxLBpVggNMh5C9ybUpLSSSarjDnrODsHuiEmq35l2i_AaGVtlxBtiTdI6Ec2AQjglswPXQN_E-DES48XkwMIvlTEP4/s320/valentine7blog.png" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 11.2px;"><span style="font-size: small;">A blurry picture I managed to find of THE Table</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaP8_uAPqzLQy6v5xyMugOroeT_kIqu1aFmxiN7xcCI7AAOEEcoGw6efhwIDkBe_gbCFODaOs9ats1-HhSG3JWt30M2Mdelu2FvjUpONDwPPFZcCOiVuADeQblWLgAQ9mvEnfpRlEcMWxm8ftbD9kJbT5iNXGGKXnB_nBDPWp0DVtcBsgEcPf3E0Nq/s3088/blog%20valentine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="2019 Notice the fancy drinkware" border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaP8_uAPqzLQy6v5xyMugOroeT_kIqu1aFmxiN7xcCI7AAOEEcoGw6efhwIDkBe_gbCFODaOs9ats1-HhSG3JWt30M2Mdelu2FvjUpONDwPPFZcCOiVuADeQblWLgAQ9mvEnfpRlEcMWxm8ftbD9kJbT5iNXGGKXnB_nBDPWp0DVtcBsgEcPf3E0Nq/w300-h400/blog%20valentine.jpg" title="2019" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2019...check out the fancy drinkware</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiVw0ySuHgFBk2RV4xkTqFmGWGTuhdI6x-NJG72WZMF0KOyWTC0O9NlTaZnBg1rfzjY5CqpO1t_0_ilOBhfXt3x3EQrxulTG5IppiEk-TlwS7xs3QUS2N3S8qbTHUmfb8QQOsHrt3R0kgRYaktHkVlQj4gsXPY4iPqkOecZ54HhAwxC1x6q2dvRGg/s3088/blog%20valentine%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="2020 I thought they were so grown that year!" border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiVw0ySuHgFBk2RV4xkTqFmGWGTuhdI6x-NJG72WZMF0KOyWTC0O9NlTaZnBg1rfzjY5CqpO1t_0_ilOBhfXt3x3EQrxulTG5IppiEk-TlwS7xs3QUS2N3S8qbTHUmfb8QQOsHrt3R0kgRYaktHkVlQj4gsXPY4iPqkOecZ54HhAwxC1x6q2dvRGg/w300-h400/blog%20valentine%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2020...and I thought they were so big then!</div><br /></div></div><div style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6-wzoZf3OZmbr6ddahBI6zypcDE8sThsNGUWpEdA3U7BaUPCmPbeKAtcbm7P6yQracrKVS86lnBUjLNmVrYKrfM2IV5bvIwbNL3otTe6_nA8q84EOU4RaOdX5fhSSy5g3phiFVz_ral6PMLf5MM7ddF71wt4ajoPwpCqaOAZnxlK71Jl7PVuAaQ0U" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="My forever Valentines" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6-wzoZf3OZmbr6ddahBI6zypcDE8sThsNGUWpEdA3U7BaUPCmPbeKAtcbm7P6yQracrKVS86lnBUjLNmVrYKrfM2IV5bvIwbNL3otTe6_nA8q84EOU4RaOdX5fhSSy5g3phiFVz_ral6PMLf5MM7ddF71wt4ajoPwpCqaOAZnxlK71Jl7PVuAaQ0U=w300-h400" title="My forever Valentines" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My forever Valentines</div><br /><br /></div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-57022201192298554222023-01-15T16:32:00.002-05:002023-01-15T16:39:09.337-05:00Our teenagers still need us<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs9r6uFBk7Z3SSPVDEbOKp-tb7NdTcbUoXTiMNB051jjimztXKkIBo4aXXAqWAud1O0GAvwAYbvIhvF_p7QvUyZdn0Jt8y4_qAymR00Wqpeg_avz5-9wFTuRj8SnQOGpSFDIxmA1zvxNwOEK4Uby_xefV61HfRIh7ER-VXXJng3dJb_9Y81iRezVyM/s4032/parenting%20teens%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs9r6uFBk7Z3SSPVDEbOKp-tb7NdTcbUoXTiMNB051jjimztXKkIBo4aXXAqWAud1O0GAvwAYbvIhvF_p7QvUyZdn0Jt8y4_qAymR00Wqpeg_avz5-9wFTuRj8SnQOGpSFDIxmA1zvxNwOEK4Uby_xefV61HfRIh7ER-VXXJng3dJb_9Y81iRezVyM/w300-h400/parenting%20teens%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>When my children were little, I was exhausted from all the work: pottytraining, playdates, homework, bake sales, sleepless nights. I worried about their friendships, their grades, their eating habits, and their manners. There were so many moments I thought: “I can’t wait for them to grow up and go to high school, so I don’t have to worry so much and have so much to do!”</p><p>Joke’s on me.</p><p>The potty training has been swapped with nagging about keeping their bathroom clean. The playdates have turned into epic teenage hangout sessions. I’m still worrying about their eating habits, grades, manners, and I won’t even get into the fretting about friendships. The sleepless nights I spent rocking, changing, or feeding are now replaced with checking their locations on my phone, hoping they are making good choices, and waiting up for them to get home safely. </p><p>The reality is: our teenagers need us. Maybe not in the same ways they did when they were babies or toddlers or school age, but perhaps even more so. </p><p>A wise friend (who obviously had grown children) once looked at me when I was complaining about how hard it was to raise little kids. He chuckled and said: “Little kids, little problems. Big kids, big problems.”</p><p>Parenting a teenager is scary, but if we are going to be fair, being a teenager is scary, too. Kids nowadays have a lot more on their plate than we did: academic and athletic pressures, navigating college admissions, and the infamous game changer with which we didn’t have to contend: social media. The rate of depression, anxiety, and suicide among teenagers is staggering. Despite what they may think, our high schoolers need us to be involved, maybe now more than ever before.</p><p>I know, as parents, we are tired—really tired. And let’s be honest, half the time, most of us would not even begin to know how to help with that geometry homework, but these are not the years to take a step back. So, here are some things we can do at this stage of the parenting game:</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Talk to your teen. A lot and often and about everything. I know…they don’t always seem like they’re paying attention, but they are—more than we realize.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Listen. Listen even more than you talk. Do so without turning every situation into an interrogation or a lecture. Try very hard to not react. If you’re doing it right, you will probably start hearing some things that will make you want to gasp and lock them in their rooms until they are 30. However, doing this will guarantee that your teens will stop communicating with you as openly as you need them to.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ask questions. If you are sitting there, thinking: “My child never tells me anything,” strategically posed questions can help nudge them to share more. For example, instead of asking “How was your day?” try “Tell me about the best and worst part of your day.” Plus, asking questions about what’s important to them will show that you care about those things. “What do you like about your new friend, so-and-so?” or “How did your team feel about that game loss/win?” or “Which video game/book/movie/Netflix series is that?” When there are empty spaces in the conversation, don’t rush to fill them. Often, once we can get them to start talking, they realize they have a lot to say—especially if you are truly listening (see previous bullet!).</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Get involved in school. Even if your schedule is too full to volunteer for events, joining the PTSA is essential. Not only does that help the school (read: your kid!), but it will keep you in-the-know on all things school. Check their grades—often. Ask about assignments, teachers, fieldtrips. Join the school’s social media page. Go to open house! (Yes, you should still go to high school Open House!) Attend anything and everything you can.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Get to know their friends. Consider being the parent taxi for events. You’d be amazed by the tidbits of information you can collect while they talk in the backseat. Encourage your teen to invite friends over to the house. Yes, I know what kind of noise and chaos a group of teens can make in a house. Trust me: I have two teenaged boys. The long-term payoff will be worth the short-term mess left in your kitchen.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Talk to other parents. Our kids didn’t come with instruction manuals. We can all learn from each other, and there’s nothing more validating and relieving than hearing another parent has gone through the same thing. We should be each other’s greatest allies.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Respect your teen. I can’t take credit for this tip. After reading this article to my 17-year-old, I asked him if he could think of anything else, from a teen’s perspective, that a parent could do in order to be more involved and connected at this stage. He tilted his head for a minute after listening to me, and with almost no hesitation, replied: “If parents really want to know how to win over their kids, it’s by giving them respect. Kids won’t listen to their parents or care what they think if they don’t respect them. If we feel like we are being respected, we will give that back.” Out of the mouths of babes.</p><p>•<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Seek help. Sometimes, no matter what we do as parents, we need more help. Talk to a school counselor, a therapist, or search for community organizations that can help. Getting through the teen years is ridiculously hard (for everyone); there is no shame in asking for help.</p><p>These days, I have many moments when I think: “I wish I could go back to when they were little and it was so much easier!” But then I look over at my teens, in their nearly adult bodies, who think they know it all, and I catch glimpses of those two little boys who kept me so busy all day and night. So, I know I have to continue putting in the hard, exhausting work that they need at this age. And when I’m lying awake, worrying and checking their locations on my phone, I tell myself: “Hey, at least I’m not changing diapers…” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh135nCKbqLVBP4lhcsf06wByQ0_Slo_F_y_p-mDsBpRmO-Bb26Oq2MiqXBlFHLPiJQ74B2MdOIIHcXB8UElgG50_4za6It1zHi9CGlpeVpUlckU2rJS8CC17Bs7caFWooPwTu748p0mFcF-yeJPCgva7jCxIGV8ZjiCHn-D4DmJegPKJW1wl2403Xl/s3088/parenting%20teens%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh135nCKbqLVBP4lhcsf06wByQ0_Slo_F_y_p-mDsBpRmO-Bb26Oq2MiqXBlFHLPiJQ74B2MdOIIHcXB8UElgG50_4za6It1zHi9CGlpeVpUlckU2rJS8CC17Bs7caFWooPwTu748p0mFcF-yeJPCgva7jCxIGV8ZjiCHn-D4DmJegPKJW1wl2403Xl/w300-h400/parenting%20teens%201.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-62954183416212778562022-10-22T08:47:00.000-04:002022-10-22T08:47:05.785-04:00There is no such thing as a routine mammogram when your sister had breast cancer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXATQ6iTXrOkZ0qvUrmHWmSebYFjQAxZDpTLf_8iwYnS9J5kspQeD5ALqJTzBWbb1f6tIUQCnjHYVQrUDwRKQykC4Kp1ZtZFbJxpF3lwst06-yOSVCXxcdg7NXZSPX9lI28I4SJ_YzGotj1F4bMynZ5VpX5LccxMwmGyeYZ4rYiZ4sGkO96-d2t1W/s500/Facebook-October-is-Breast-cancer-awareness-month-d1a137.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="500" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXATQ6iTXrOkZ0qvUrmHWmSebYFjQAxZDpTLf_8iwYnS9J5kspQeD5ALqJTzBWbb1f6tIUQCnjHYVQrUDwRKQykC4Kp1ZtZFbJxpF3lwst06-yOSVCXxcdg7NXZSPX9lI28I4SJ_YzGotj1F4bMynZ5VpX5LccxMwmGyeYZ4rYiZ4sGkO96-d2t1W/w400-h216/Facebook-October-is-Breast-cancer-awareness-month-d1a137.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Ten years ago this month, my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>We had no family history. She did not have a lump. And they only found it because she is ridiculously, brilliantly diligent: she never skips an annual exam of anything, and when they told her she should have annual mammograms and ultrasounds "just to be safe" due to the density of her breasts, she did so. The mammogram didn't catch it, but the ultrasound did. It was small and stage 1. The type of cancer she had was the most aggressive kind, and it is very possible that if she had skipped a year...because <i>ya' know, we don't really have that in our family...</i>she may not be around right now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes. Happy ending. </div><div>She's happy and healthy and all is well.</div><div>I won't say she "beat" cancer, because I've always felt that to say that about those who survived is to imply that those who didn't, didn't fight hard enough. Cancer is a bitch. And sometimes, no matter what you do or what you believe or how much of a great attitude you have, cancer wins. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes, we are some of the lucky ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's not to say she didn't fight. She fought like a bad ass. She not only listened to her doctors' recommendations, she challenged them, went beyond them, did what was right for her, and did it all with a sense of humor. (After each of her multiple surgeries, she would swing her drains around like a pin up girl with a feather boa and drawl: "Look, Lizy, aren't I sexy?").</div><div><br /></div><div>At the time, I don't think I processed it all too much. Some of it might have been self-preservation (read: denial). Some of it might have been that I was in the throes of raising two little boys. I look back and often wonder: "Good God, how did we all make it through that? How did <i>she </i>make it through all that?" We all know--or can imagine--how hard the war with cancer is, but the details...the everyday, the private horrors...It is amazing how we, as humans, can put our "big girl pants" on and do what's gotta be done.</div><div><br /></div><div>My sister has some physical scars from her duel with the big C, but I'm pretty sure all of us have some emotional ones. She says her cancer changed her life. She's proud and relieved to say that she's "one of those" who feels she is better off because of it. I suspect we all are. I don't think any of us take much for granted (most days), but every May when I walk into that dark room in my paper robe, I have to remind myself to breathe. I never, ever miss my annual appointment. I don't even allow it to run "a little late." I feel like that's one small way I can pay homage to my beautiful, brave sister. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, ladies. Don't miss that appointment. Don't skip it. Don't put it off. Because you're probably fine. But you owe it to yourself and all those who have fought the fight to put on that damn paper gown, walk into that room, and breathe.</div><div><br /></div><div>***********************************************************************************</div><div><br /></div><div>In honor of breast cancer awareness month and my sister, here are a couple of posts I wrote back then. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2012/11/my-sister-has-breast-cancer-or-time-to.html" style="text-decoration-line: underline;" target="_blank">My Sister Has Breast Cancer (or Time to Put on Your Big Girl Pants)</a>- </b>I wrote this one while sitting in the waiting room when she was having her double mastectomy on November 3, 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2016/02/my-sister-had-breast-cancer-or-time-to.html" style="text-decoration-line: underline;" target="_blank"><b>My Sister HAD Breast Cancer (or: Time to Pop Open the Sangria) -</b> </a>I wrote this one after celebrating her last clean scan on February 3, 2016.</div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-56853379237210103412022-08-16T19:21:00.003-04:002022-08-16T19:21:46.981-04:00My babies are in high school...together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMK5eNTmwofc5EzQXIkptT6CK0HOKL0p70c0t5Nyr7OWoUz2TgCmmYqe18PGdbUd46TCRAn8U46sWS9W-q6q5v-D-cR8Xy9AR2Y-mjuQ0sZECOwZoXZOweMClnQaOclvFjfFVkH5WD51Hue1I1umAXOatuDODxFIQsziMwgWdQub2I7OV3-Ii4ZI4/s2002/boys%20walking%20to%20car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1381" data-original-width="2002" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMK5eNTmwofc5EzQXIkptT6CK0HOKL0p70c0t5Nyr7OWoUz2TgCmmYqe18PGdbUd46TCRAn8U46sWS9W-q6q5v-D-cR8Xy9AR2Y-mjuQ0sZECOwZoXZOweMClnQaOclvFjfFVkH5WD51Hue1I1umAXOatuDODxFIQsziMwgWdQub2I7OV3-Ii4ZI4/w400-h276/boys%20walking%20to%20car.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Today my babies went to high school together. The same babies for whom I started this blog. The same babies I thought would never grow up and let me sleep in late on a weekend or take a shower in peace. I started this blog to survive the early years of motherhood...a time I found awe-inspiring, disorienting, overwhelming, and exhausting. Now, here I am: standing in my driveway, waving, taking pictures, watching them walk together to Ben's car, put their backpacks in the trunk almost in unison, get in the car, and drive off. </span></div><p>For the last 12 years, we always had one or both of our boys with us at our school where we teach. We drove the 40-minute commute in different combinations: somedays all four of us; other days split into pairs (those mornings when we knew the boys sitting in the back seat together for that long was going to be a really bad idea); and yet other days split into a ratio of 1 to 3 ("You take them today because I have them in the afternoon and I really need some quiet time this morning.").</p><p>For the last 12 years, they were always around...hanging out in our classrooms in the mornings or afternoons, being excused from class to see us because they needed something for a headache, or a form they'd forgotten to get signed, a snack, or just because they were running an errand for their teacher and stopped by on the way to say "hi." And my husband's and my favorite moments: those spontaneous, unexpected sightings in the hallways which would usually result in a high five, a passing joke, or (especially these last couple of years with our "gentle giant") a body-jarring hug.</p><p>Today, Aidan Kai (aka The Baby) started high school.</p><p>We overhead them talking about it last night:</p><p><i>"Don't worry, Kai. We'll get there early and I'll walk you around to all of your classes so you'll know where to go. And maybe I can even meet you in between some of the classes." </i></p><p><i>"Ok, thanks, Ben. And oh, can we use our phones in class, or is it like elementary and middle school?"</i></p><p><i>"No," Ben held back a chuckle. "You can use your phone."</i></p><p><i>"Then can I text you during the day?"</i></p><p><i>"Yeah. Sure." </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ytFETZvQTyZ0TGW1Ez5Cu0eMI_I3JiMdw8K3nOauNJitZ7M6Ewfd728sABUnFbmD0Oa5oI5cCjvylOOBZk7YsLCxMG-wbH2-gO6ImO-Ln2ZarwjOpcS1EeTSOLeQQAZegp3SY7Ri91UsyJbutl6XOEAgHUO0F_rOrafuRrp8ie72gKLHeMg56wu2/s4032/boys%20high%20school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ytFETZvQTyZ0TGW1Ez5Cu0eMI_I3JiMdw8K3nOauNJitZ7M6Ewfd728sABUnFbmD0Oa5oI5cCjvylOOBZk7YsLCxMG-wbH2-gO6ImO-Ln2ZarwjOpcS1EeTSOLeQQAZegp3SY7Ri91UsyJbutl6XOEAgHUO0F_rOrafuRrp8ie72gKLHeMg56wu2/w300-h400/boys%20high%20school.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p>We were ready, as parents, for this new chapter. We were ready to be, for the first time, just Mom and Dad, and not Mr. and Mrs. A...to be able to let go after having them with us from kindergarten to 8th grade...to know they will be in situations--academically and socially--that we not only will know very little about, but will also not be able to step in and intercede. We have no "pull" now.<br /></p><p>Knowing Aidan Kai, who has always been a little shyer, a little less daring socially, will have his big brother there to guide him gives us peace of mind. And to know Ben actually wants Kai there...that gives us a satisfaction we cannot express. We spent their whole lives trying to get them to bond, to rely on each other, to be kinder to each other than to anyone. Years spent camping and traveling and playing and talking...we think they are paying off now. </p><p>Towards the end of last school year, Ben told me: "You know, I'm excited about Kai coming to school with me next year. I think it's going to be fun to have him there, to be at the same school again."</p><p>Our boys...</p><p>********************************************************************************</p><p>Today when I got home from work, before I wrote this post, I went back to my first-ever blog post about the boys. It made my heart ache a little for those babies, but it also made my heart swell with pride and joy and excitement watching who they are growing up to be as individuals, but also, as brothers. </p><p><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2009/03/introducing-boys.html" target="_blank">*Here's my original post from March 8, 2009.</a></p><p><b><u>Introducing: The Boys</u></b></p><p>Here they are...the source of much of my joy and frustrations: The Boys.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjZ09fxSWxeMCaebRGmCexGT7rRrESMkGa5mY7KaomBQaSYznJ6XF7AoDoeld-dvIMsFkqXTkTf4fUlXWSSp1_banelk7MoyPc8RWISpdXffjVudmcV-2Njw3vnOt2GcU0L6U2F0BWipHof7t0K-iwEGYic38J2DpgcGjtAAYrGtQ652pNFexSjL8/s320/Ben%20baby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjZ09fxSWxeMCaebRGmCexGT7rRrESMkGa5mY7KaomBQaSYznJ6XF7AoDoeld-dvIMsFkqXTkTf4fUlXWSSp1_banelk7MoyPc8RWISpdXffjVudmcV-2Njw3vnOt2GcU0L6U2F0BWipHof7t0K-iwEGYic38J2DpgcGjtAAYrGtQ652pNFexSjL8/w400-h300/Ben%20baby.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfORKJfaqhnT8SX0bjtbnBZRL_jN3fJDPq-dKQkKUxgGGMmqv2IxZT7FBnnUM1T5wU2vkS0Xm1fZqgGkWEsoSSUZB03-fwuPmMGJaW4GeJa93xFlyEZWfxVx0-td9XkGqI_NY_80iYqC0vzO5i6rDOaw0ZAYZo3kjEoRJe9KqdfPYVDIQI0BoqLr2/s320/Kai%20baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfORKJfaqhnT8SX0bjtbnBZRL_jN3fJDPq-dKQkKUxgGGMmqv2IxZT7FBnnUM1T5wU2vkS0Xm1fZqgGkWEsoSSUZB03-fwuPmMGJaW4GeJa93xFlyEZWfxVx0-td9XkGqI_NY_80iYqC0vzO5i6rDOaw0ZAYZo3kjEoRJe9KqdfPYVDIQI0BoqLr2/w400-h266/Kai%20baby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>Ben's 3 1/2. He's a rock star, for sure. And not only in his parents' very biased minds. Everyone who knows him thinks he's a rock star. So does he. Fortunately, on most days, we totally lucked out with this one. He really is everything you'd want your kid to be: funny, smart, athletic, and (almost always) sweet. But we are well aware that we need to keep a tight leash on this one. He's scary bright. He also inherited some of his parents' "best" qualities: stubborn and opinionated. His favorite sayings? "Watch me," "Try to catch me!" and "I know that."</p><p>Then along came Aidan Kai. The name "Aidan" means "fire." The name "Kai" means "ocean" in Hawaiian. So there you go...a walking contradiction. He's only been around for 7 months, but he's already given us our share of contradictory feelings as well: "Isn't he the cutest thing EVER?" and "Why the heck did we want another one, again?" He spent the first 4 1/2 months of his life wailing, shrieking, crying, and making everyone around him state the obvious: "But Ben was never like this!" And although he now spends most of his time flashing his dimples, he's still known as our "High Maintenance Boy." I feel strangely protective of Aidan Kai. Perhaps it's all the sibling comparisons from everyone, perhaps it's the dimples, perhaps it's the High Maintenance label that has been permanently affixed to him, but I can just relate to him. I can't wait to see what kind of kid he's gonna be.</p><p>******************************************</p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-36118791106149723972022-01-20T18:19:00.008-05:002022-01-20T18:23:37.883-05:00Holding On<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjySeQwU7RuhXuVWNksAF6HXH0GeoDEHOO1Upjpf3JQOSRoqAws231sCrSt8xHSTOzS9j1afhXA2b3fcuv8WGBzfPAdKII9efwU0WgZuI7GcVU118vW1c7x3umssyTNspe2R0KM0AQ_HgFL7RA4XXFknJNtU9tUZG6CSyujrVpg6d8c0E7YWT89UQc=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjySeQwU7RuhXuVWNksAF6HXH0GeoDEHOO1Upjpf3JQOSRoqAws231sCrSt8xHSTOzS9j1afhXA2b3fcuv8WGBzfPAdKII9efwU0WgZuI7GcVU118vW1c7x3umssyTNspe2R0KM0AQ_HgFL7RA4XXFknJNtU9tUZG6CSyujrVpg6d8c0E7YWT89UQc=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><a name="_Hlk93594575"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I used to sneak
into your room<o:p></o:p></b></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>while
you slept<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your chubby
little arms up over your head<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>in relaxed
tiny fists<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>the
dimples on your cheeks<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>matched
the ones on your hands<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>no matter how big you grew<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>no matter how distant your infancy started to
feel<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I would foolishly measure your little-ness<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>by those hand dimples<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>innocent, soft, milky white hands<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>with sweet short fingers, neatly trimmed nails<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>tiny peekaboo dimples over each knuckle<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>assuring me of what still remained:<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your baby-ness and mushy-ness and delicious-ness<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>as long as I could still see those tiny hand
dimples<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I could believe you were still a baby<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>My baby</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>they filled in a while ago<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>along with your face and shoulders and arms<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>you are truly living up to your nickname now<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>The Gentle Giant<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your shoulders almost as broad as your daddy’s<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your muscles almost as strong<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>when I hug you<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I have to get on my tippy toes<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your arms surround me and make me question<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>who<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>at this point<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>is protecting who<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>those tiny, boyish, dimply hands are now<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>nearly the largest in the house<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>they open jars and lift heavy things<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>and can now hold me back with ease<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>when I try to tickle or wrestle with you<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>like we used to<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>the sweetness and softness are still there</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>when you humor me and still let me</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>hold your hand in the car while I drive<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>but now my hand is enveloped<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>swallowed by yours<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>they are grown-man-hands<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>but still feel like my baby’s hands<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b> </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I snuck into your room last night<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your now chiseled face was nearly hidden<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>by your Jurassic Park comforter<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your body so big that<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>one foot nearly touched the wall at the end
of the bed<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>it made my heart sing and ache to see that<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>your hand was curled around<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>an orange stuffed dinosaur<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>but as I leaned in to steal a silent kiss<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>I most definitely did not see <o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>any<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><b>hand dimples</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJXxzUPL0fwAQRvlVwPBsp3qxnKeQZFJwLysQ7DwuCA5ZCGGbPmTpYImUxahTIZsWsVmdx7BSDXkmmC7I69ISrqwR3SR1gD-ERlLVmYotz3O_RuY19rXh-Y_CF_ALVZhjNdMf_QDW8EbWhtep78b3BZMpIdPSLE2Mht_Em67ZXif5IThJk8LsP5QLy=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJXxzUPL0fwAQRvlVwPBsp3qxnKeQZFJwLysQ7DwuCA5ZCGGbPmTpYImUxahTIZsWsVmdx7BSDXkmmC7I69ISrqwR3SR1gD-ERlLVmYotz3O_RuY19rXh-Y_CF_ALVZhjNdMf_QDW8EbWhtep78b3BZMpIdPSLE2Mht_Em67ZXif5IThJk8LsP5QLy=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span><p></p><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-29160992450433671892021-08-08T21:18:00.002-04:002021-08-08T21:18:59.674-04:00Kai turns 13: No more babies here<p style="text-align: left;">You turned thirteen today.</p><div style="text-align: left;">When you were in my belly, I used to tell your Daddy: "This one is gonna be mine." Your brother always had a special bond with your father and so I used to joke that I was going to keep you for myself. "He's gonna love me the most," I used to say.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then you showed up...<a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-amazing-how-you-can-block-something.html" target="_blank">all drama and emergency and chaos.</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-amazing-how-you-can-block-something.html" target="_blank"><br /></a>You cried for nearly the whole first year. (Everyone who was around back then can agree that this is not an exaggeration on my part.)<br />Then, you gagged on every Cheerio and sip of milk and nibble of pancake and spent the next year puking unpredictably.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />But man, were you cute.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-5mlt5cfAr0e6eUkLQcXyWkCbSUYfaJx10-9wPj0qB09w7gO0Yt5MaLUgPEECVHAOPJoZZOMxCokSP5Se1HpZErvzIaU5GfPOW_P6hojjtW1knrveYiLWjqbHjTUWYBWDn0CDW9mQLQ/s1600/Kai+one+year+old+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-5mlt5cfAr0e6eUkLQcXyWkCbSUYfaJx10-9wPj0qB09w7gO0Yt5MaLUgPEECVHAOPJoZZOMxCokSP5Se1HpZErvzIaU5GfPOW_P6hojjtW1knrveYiLWjqbHjTUWYBWDn0CDW9mQLQ/w400-h300/Kai+one+year+old+blog.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXBD4Yxppox-PnB7EUu88v-FzCKGvWJc6Zu_4mw9EdhM4pA8CdnxaDCdyKUJFRLRWhhyypup5rbl8y2ros1O5FWOEc9x1ZG6k6w_ZJJl9Z8GLM58bzJ3jRvOLGkUkJydRXqBomQ9qZ7o/s320/Kai+blog+two+year.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXBD4Yxppox-PnB7EUu88v-FzCKGvWJc6Zu_4mw9EdhM4pA8CdnxaDCdyKUJFRLRWhhyypup5rbl8y2ros1O5FWOEc9x1ZG6k6w_ZJJl9Z8GLM58bzJ3jRvOLGkUkJydRXqBomQ9qZ7o/w400-h300/Kai+blog+two+year.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And funny.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And smart.<br />And sweet.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />You have always been able to wrap me around your little finger. When you were a toddler, you would follow me around the house, clutching at my shirt, my pants, whatever you could grab hold of, whining and crying up at me: "Up-a! Up-a! Up-a!" You would not stop until I picked you up and carried you around on my hip, as I filled the dishwasher, made dinner, helped your brother get ready for school. Your father insisted I had to stop, that I was spoiling you, that that's why my back hurt all of the time. You only did this when I was home. (I think I secretly loved this.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You wore eye glasses since you were a year old. When the eye doctor told us you were ready to graduate from your blue plastic wrap around glasses to "big boy glasses," you knew exactly the ones you wanted: the Sponge Bob ones from Costco. We spent the afternoon driving back and forth from the doctor's office to the store and back to get them fitted and ready. The look of pride and joy on your face when you got to show those little glasses off was worth the price of gas and time in traffic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BH_0NBSTKhZuVgO9i7SVIbXt8-wPKo5sikvumzfDK-rQvymFhPcJQ_x46I-YJN4JCdNexmH9hB55fbuXwseQqrVeATpNFTJDDyiZauEwo5I9uSnAVxFtDvR96GkFhJjusJ3_lyTxweE/s360/Aidan+Kai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="270" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BH_0NBSTKhZuVgO9i7SVIbXt8-wPKo5sikvumzfDK-rQvymFhPcJQ_x46I-YJN4JCdNexmH9hB55fbuXwseQqrVeATpNFTJDDyiZauEwo5I9uSnAVxFtDvR96GkFhJjusJ3_lyTxweE/w300-h400/Aidan+Kai.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gMGopk19IpCzhFX0AJkpGJpyspPVX8XgBc0F8djPtMZnEZbGgwfem-mMXXqE5q38vhkHqTq1R3je6i-5R_rNcx-yVUbLQbvqXoOH1G-NWTGkTPdnK_kwWYxE3d5P7kvzDpD0aLd_Wps/s320/kai+kinder+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gMGopk19IpCzhFX0AJkpGJpyspPVX8XgBc0F8djPtMZnEZbGgwfem-mMXXqE5q38vhkHqTq1R3je6i-5R_rNcx-yVUbLQbvqXoOH1G-NWTGkTPdnK_kwWYxE3d5P7kvzDpD0aLd_Wps/w300-h400/kai+kinder+blog.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>You always loved animals, especially elephants. When you turned four, we took you to an elephant sanctuary where you climbed right up on top of Luke, the Asian elephant, for a photo op. No fear. No hesitation. I believe at one point you might have owned (and slept with) over 20 different stuffed elephants.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ULBBB_B-eUBwz4niXkfR-HzplwfeaHZge6aHuCYbM_7uDtigMjvpw2-vjR5eVXO6Bdxdn1UcepZkpBWh-HKyaglin4HlVMy5_VkA-s5qlaFH9qwvgwqyumR0YCzQEUz8lAdPIKi35Vo/s400/elephant+kai+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ULBBB_B-eUBwz4niXkfR-HzplwfeaHZge6aHuCYbM_7uDtigMjvpw2-vjR5eVXO6Bdxdn1UcepZkpBWh-HKyaglin4HlVMy5_VkA-s5qlaFH9qwvgwqyumR0YCzQEUz8lAdPIKi35Vo/w400-h300/elephant+kai+blog.JPG" width="400" /></a><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2012/10/watching-my-kid-sleep-new-favorite.html" target="_blank">You had these little dimples on the backs of your hands.</a> Around the time you were ready to go into kindergarten, I noticed they were starting to fill in. I became slightly obsessed with those little dimples. I knew once they were gone, it meant your precious little baby hands had turned into big boy hands. Now, your hands are nearly the biggest in the house and they look like grown man hands. When we are in the car together, sometimes I will reach over for your hand, and you never pull away. You sit there in the passenger seat, holding my hand, sometimes even sweetly rubbing your thumb over mine.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek7cCqr-kdKPO9IZU-fLT9B7T6dQucNuJJ4dRwoMSOyruC02hgixF9ZRsJAL5ljJWGMV1V57_DX87OVVaLiq73luI9YoQH0TxDQP8SoTfpIVxZ8seZ97QUOL4QmbzR29Lgo6U9fOhcho/s400/Kai+hand+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgek7cCqr-kdKPO9IZU-fLT9B7T6dQucNuJJ4dRwoMSOyruC02hgixF9ZRsJAL5ljJWGMV1V57_DX87OVVaLiq73luI9YoQH0TxDQP8SoTfpIVxZ8seZ97QUOL4QmbzR29Lgo6U9fOhcho/w400-h300/Kai+hand+blog.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We call you the Gentle Giant. In the last year, your shoulders have broadened, your arms have developed muscles, and your jawline has widened. The other night, the four of us were rough housing on the couch. Your brother and Daddy were holding you down so I could tickle you. Even between the two of them, they had trouble. "He is pure brute strength," Ben whispered in shock. "Babe, I could barely hold him down," your father admitted. Yet, you would not hurt a fly and when you and your older brother really do get into it, you never fight back.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNjXhg1PbFqNuSyxwDFLDEIQ6tx3su3D4CuKbjxftv4BS-Wpz961PIjsUUcaSc-nh9-Tf9yCS8i2I61h8Yb5zJScJckEVmefnhHdhBUmgijDKcYopI_bgRotrz3Qa3BhJBjwVDTLdpbU/s2048/kai+surf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNjXhg1PbFqNuSyxwDFLDEIQ6tx3su3D4CuKbjxftv4BS-Wpz961PIjsUUcaSc-nh9-Tf9yCS8i2I61h8Yb5zJScJckEVmefnhHdhBUmgijDKcYopI_bgRotrz3Qa3BhJBjwVDTLdpbU/w400-h300/kai+surf.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When your grandmother turned 80, you spent hours teaching yourself how to play "Happy Birthday" on the saxophone.</div><div style="text-align: left;">When your brother complained yesterday about wanting more sushi, you offered him yours.</div><div style="text-align: left;">When your dad and I got sentimental watching the finale of <i>Schitt's Creek</i><u>,</u> you put an arm around each of us and leaned your head up against mine.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6UFDMCD24x9n3Gzx1wQGfawWR8GkZZXX2FzPo6rQRLEBp8a1_7NdtzalCVNaTxuJVbKMdBomA_kAu05Bo7ih6wLJqntN7UyXoFOqi3P-rxHE9f6t5R90SGkTBfkl41JyqF0oDv5lg-E/s1143/kai+sax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6UFDMCD24x9n3Gzx1wQGfawWR8GkZZXX2FzPo6rQRLEBp8a1_7NdtzalCVNaTxuJVbKMdBomA_kAu05Bo7ih6wLJqntN7UyXoFOqi3P-rxHE9f6t5R90SGkTBfkl41JyqF0oDv5lg-E/w284-h400/kai+sax.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is very hard to put into words what a special soul you are. Everyone who knows you, though, knows it. You win everyone over with your kindness, gentleness, silliness, and sweetness.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't believe you are a teenager. Although it makes me a little sad to know your "little boy days" are behind us, I am so excited to see you continue to grow and mature into the amazing man I know you are going to become. I am ridiculously honored to be your Mommy, and I mean it when I say you will always be my little baby. I love you all the way to the stars, Aidan Kai. Happy Birthday. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfU9y0tb_ygjLc-VWtzUMY3-yXlvaOtSn7FfVEj0URx-daMCftKlndld_ZNMGo1sMJOSKG55gDb_fF0Gy5rT5CQ5rkdPw4bQ34ma_1kAA19StGdA2iVxLvizuqxkDgv1CbIxorkJXgn0/s320/aidan+blog+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfU9y0tb_ygjLc-VWtzUMY3-yXlvaOtSn7FfVEj0URx-daMCftKlndld_ZNMGo1sMJOSKG55gDb_fF0Gy5rT5CQ5rkdPw4bQ34ma_1kAA19StGdA2iVxLvizuqxkDgv1CbIxorkJXgn0/s0/aidan+blog+pic.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIFDPwBPn7zsJMxKc8SsVjrtlT9TC2HtJiSQ94iUI6Gtmyfjfi9zTsfroskG_wnQUvdbCRn_HLxa5MpXK9e2oRj7UFQPbSqqPzIzM67ntkLflBAzgwBqAGEA0DpmR_u6S-ugKleijHgg/s2048/me+and+kai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIFDPwBPn7zsJMxKc8SsVjrtlT9TC2HtJiSQ94iUI6Gtmyfjfi9zTsfroskG_wnQUvdbCRn_HLxa5MpXK9e2oRj7UFQPbSqqPzIzM67ntkLflBAzgwBqAGEA0DpmR_u6S-ugKleijHgg/w300-h400/me+and+kai.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-91044805629846320452021-06-15T17:03:00.004-04:002021-06-15T17:16:47.028-04:00I fell in love with Hawaii a very long time ago...<p>In honor of our departure tomorrow for our second trip to Hawaii with the boys...</p><p>...a throwback post explaining how my love for these islands began and how I felt right before we took our boys for the first time. (originally <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2016/06/its-just-trip.html" target="_blank">posted here</a> on June 14, 2016)</p><p><br /></p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">It's "just" a trip.</span></u></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPzhiiW1TEwO5soH-0hXAPk60tlr_oEHungxz1AHPKRjQONha7ZfzUwiP9v7zTG-S8iDJFN_fVAmtk0nfu2sN8TxreVVZlCWSypcJ6GKWQRThxN7eTJuOE7kmjM-PDl9yu0olpIkWmXk/s400/blog+hawaii+pic+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPzhiiW1TEwO5soH-0hXAPk60tlr_oEHungxz1AHPKRjQONha7ZfzUwiP9v7zTG-S8iDJFN_fVAmtk0nfu2sN8TxreVVZlCWSypcJ6GKWQRThxN7eTJuOE7kmjM-PDl9yu0olpIkWmXk/w320-h240/blog+hawaii+pic+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Lahaina Luau 2004</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I fell in love with Hawaii instantly. The first time I went was in 1996, and I felt like I was home, even though I knew that didn't make any sort of logical sense. I attributed this feeling with being young and not having had much travel experience. I figured it was normal that I fell in love with such a beautiful place if I hadn't been to too many other places. I wasn't sure when or how, but I knew I'd be back. Fast forward 8 years. I had been divorced, remarried, and had a few other really beautiful places under my travel belt. I surprised my husband for his 30th birthday with two tickets to Maui. I worried he would not love it as much as I had, and I worried even more that I would not love it as much as I thought I had. Like so many other things we fret about in life, both of those concerns were pointless: I loved it even more than I had the first time, and he had the same exact reaction to the sights, culture, and feel of the island.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLW0d7-5r5vx9NBoGpUHAoBQA-eaM3gPjLta4IEYSskgMKc2eh_bFgJPGUXTfX75tMJhI-wl-yL5Al5WCXihkHh8K7p2bwoJiryFnllQOd7SNzZ7CfW3AUqfW3nXWj-SscZy10ZOIuOY/s400/blog+hawaii+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLW0d7-5r5vx9NBoGpUHAoBQA-eaM3gPjLta4IEYSskgMKc2eh_bFgJPGUXTfX75tMJhI-wl-yL5Al5WCXihkHh8K7p2bwoJiryFnllQOd7SNzZ7CfW3AUqfW3nXWj-SscZy10ZOIuOY/w320-h240/blog+hawaii+pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching sunrise at 10,000 feet at Haleakala Crater 2004</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />At this point in our relationship, we had been struggling to start a family for a while, and while on our trip we both agreed that we would give it one more year. If after one more year of trying, we could not get pregnant, we would take it as a sign that it was not meant to be and we would pack up and move to Hawaii. We returned from the trip feeling homesick for a place we weren't even really from, and started investigating cost of living and swapping our Florida teaching certificates for ones from the State of Hawaii. We discovered we were pregnant 8 months later. Raising a child away from our families and the grandparents (Hello...free babysitting!) was not an option. We shelved the "We Are Gonna Move To Hawaii Life Plan" for a bit. When Ben was 18 months old, we left him in the very capable hands of his grandparents and returned to Hawaii--this time to the island of Oahu--for a glorious getaway for our 5 year anniversary. Little did I know that my husband had been planning a surprise renewal of vows ceremony, complete with a minister and professional photographer.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbF0jOUaKWDAICsp6HD3jJtQtHCo7acx_MAjkWdwDUxWFGNAKqieabDeOO_Wup_K5LeBH1__HhWoR6FZM8far7ToGbaeEcPYlBNNLw02qC2GG3FzLk_hiq0P-4mQIvjXB0kzzTimf0NJI/s400/blog+hawaii+pic+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbF0jOUaKWDAICsp6HD3jJtQtHCo7acx_MAjkWdwDUxWFGNAKqieabDeOO_Wup_K5LeBH1__HhWoR6FZM8far7ToGbaeEcPYlBNNLw02qC2GG3FzLk_hiq0P-4mQIvjXB0kzzTimf0NJI/s320/blog+hawaii+pic+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Renewal of vows ceremony at Halona Cove Beach 2007</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>That night was the beginning of yet another magical few days spent in Hawaii. At the conclusion of that trip, sitting on the most amazing white sands of Lanikai Beach in Kailua, we decided two things: we wanted to have another baby (even though we had sworn we would only have one child) and once they were both old enough to appreciate it, we would return for a summer in Hawaii with our kids.</p><p>That was almost 10 years ago.</p><p>Tomorrow we leave on that trip.</p><p>We've been talking about it for years, and actively planning it for three.</p><p>It's only a trip, I keep telling myself. It's only a trip.</p><p>But really, who am I kidding?</p><p>This is not just a trip.</p><p>This is a dream.</p><p>And we made it happen.</p><p>We rented a little house on the sand on the North Shore of Oahu. We will be there for half the summer--a whole month. We are flying for 3 days in the middle of the month to Maui. We will take our boys back to all those places we loved and hope they love it as much as we have. There have been many sacrifices made for this trip...big decisions and little ones. And for a long time I wondered if this would ever happen. It's hard for me to explain how important this trip is. Making this a reality is proof to myself that I can choose the kind of life I want to live: that I can prioritize what is really, truly important and make it happen. Although I understand that this is not really an accomplishment, I still feel a sense of pride that we did it: we made it happen. We're really doing this.</p><p>I have wondered what my reaction to the islands will be this time around. Can they possibly meet my expectations yet again? Will I get that same feeling...like I'm home? Will I again feel homesick when it's time to return to my real home? Or will I realize that, after all the traveling and cool places I've been to in the last decade, Hawaii is just one more wonderful, amazing place? Will I feel like: okay, I'm good now. No more longing for a Hawaiian relocation...?</p><p>I wonder. I don't know. But I do know one thing for sure: after this month, I will be able to say I spent a summer with my kids in a little house on the North Shore of Hawaii.</p><p>No big deal. It's "just" a trip.</p><p>Aloha...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqw2KXQ_ZPRGYMUPQ6VQ-Mnv2zrlDRHbsgS-SQV9QmS3lL0mVcJMD5G6GA1gHKlB9RHHn3VgM-b4vq27S3GLOw0B7jjgpMArFYDo0U6L8lw-kuBO3dPCDWY507CY2yMbkug-yVGFp9Bc/s400/blog+hawaii+pic+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqw2KXQ_ZPRGYMUPQ6VQ-Mnv2zrlDRHbsgS-SQV9QmS3lL0mVcJMD5G6GA1gHKlB9RHHn3VgM-b4vq27S3GLOw0B7jjgpMArFYDo0U6L8lw-kuBO3dPCDWY507CY2yMbkug-yVGFp9Bc/w320-h240/blog+hawaii+pic+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mai Tai-ing It in Waikiki 2007</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-21079935497588385632021-05-04T17:58:00.001-04:002021-05-04T17:58:58.566-04:00I Think COVID Fatigue Stole My Cinco de Mayo Mojo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbLYpmLaoII-VsfHvqd4iLIlKNcA1uu23ztzQKOrp8EIcreiJ0UXpTIRPLy6GYwIk5zbaDgxok9FwxrOB3xYk_y67S0k7G4RiF0Vl0BnuaHZetwkVlpWQwfa4i8OOMxzmYsW21JFWx-8/s1080/IMG_1712%255B1421%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbLYpmLaoII-VsfHvqd4iLIlKNcA1uu23ztzQKOrp8EIcreiJ0UXpTIRPLy6GYwIk5zbaDgxok9FwxrOB3xYk_y67S0k7G4RiF0Vl0BnuaHZetwkVlpWQwfa4i8OOMxzmYsW21JFWx-8/s320/IMG_1712%255B1421%255D.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Cinco de Mayo always gave us an excuse to act like college kids. Imagine a bunch of forty-year-olds running around in bathing suits and giant sombreros, posing for pictures with inflatable, human-size Corona bottles, licking salt and sucking lime wedges to soothe the tequila sting right before jumping into the pool. My girlfriends and I would spend the few weeks prior scouring Amazon, Target, Walmart, and Etsy for THE Perfect Cinco De Mayo Adorable Tank Top. My husband and his friends would spend the same weeks growing out ridiculously unattractive mustaches. You'd never guess based on these descriptions that we are mostly all incredibly respectable, often quite Type A, never-late-on-a-mortgage-payment, sometimes even a little boring grown ups. Which is probably why we love throwing these parties: they let all of us loosen up and have a good time with each other. (The tacos are a bonus.)</p><p>I spent Cinco De Mayo of 2020 moping. I longed for my backyard to be filled with tipsy friends and loud music and itchy, stick-on, dollar store mustaches that would always inevitably get gross and sweaty and fall off. </p><p>"When this is all over, I'm going to throw The Biggest Damn Cinco De Mayo party EVER!" I declared. "I'm going to throw a July 4th party too! And St. Patrick's Day! What about Easter?!? Can I throw a loud Easter party? And I was thinking of a luau...!"</p><p>I swear, I am not exaggerating. That might have even been a direct quote.</p><p>That's how I got through COVID Cinco: planning all the parties I was going to throw in 2021.</p><p>Yet here we are. There are no stacks of tacky sombreros or liters of tequila sitting in the pantry waiting for the party guests. There are no five-pound bags of shredded cheese in my fridge. There are no plans being brainstormed to convince the local grocery store manager that we must have the Corona store decorations with the face cut outs for a cultural project for our schools (yes, those stories have worked every single time). And I realized recently that there is also no desire for this party. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTXluBCjtwQ4iPs42YLesiXx2bE9kXLE2QZUoBB0wowkFrhWJVpG14SEn4dBcWfmwIaTDWYtdDcuvth8bDTC9U9mRaVLSqS7v2SJzhX_8CGbyWE5RdVoGvFLwEu21RWimNvh2aeD9spk/s2926/IMG_7698%255B1423%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2926" data-original-width="2564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTXluBCjtwQ4iPs42YLesiXx2bE9kXLE2QZUoBB0wowkFrhWJVpG14SEn4dBcWfmwIaTDWYtdDcuvth8bDTC9U9mRaVLSqS7v2SJzhX_8CGbyWE5RdVoGvFLwEu21RWimNvh2aeD9spk/w280-h320/IMG_7698%255B1423%255D.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p>I can't figure out why. COVID is definitely not "all over," but things--and life--are definitely more normal. We have found a way to live within this new (hopefully still temporary) normal. I don't have a reason other than: I just don't feel like it. </p><p>I am realizing that I just don't feel like doing a lot of things lately. Some of it is life, its hectic-ness, the end of the school year. Some of it (I admit this begrudgingly) are these new hormones that seem to be insisting on warning me that my 50s are approaching. But I think that some of it is the mental and emotional fatigue of this past year...the sensation that I am still getting my bearings after these last 14 months.</p><p>I just don't always feel the lightness and frivolity of my pre-Covid self.</p><p>And I think that I'm going to give myself permission to be okay with that for now.</p><p>So this year, I'm going to dig out my perfectly adorable Cinco de Mayo tank top circa 2019, have a margarita (or a few) with some friends, and possibly plan The Biggest Damn Cinco De Mayo Party EVER for another year. Maybe it will even be next year. Don't worry. I'll give y'all enough notice to order your shirts and grow out your mustaches. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Mei3PYlx90KSegE9bwUZ_fXdeVRN4d_xr1dApEAEg5dqVGmLGYXE4jgZTODVofuUXlyilvhZEFJzIawTyE_WfAzTcIpEh3MTZfgEPerBSumzxHfpsOjKGwLAnpIWNZxJChLAFxDjsx8/s1080/IMG_1706%255B1415%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Mei3PYlx90KSegE9bwUZ_fXdeVRN4d_xr1dApEAEg5dqVGmLGYXE4jgZTODVofuUXlyilvhZEFJzIawTyE_WfAzTcIpEh3MTZfgEPerBSumzxHfpsOjKGwLAnpIWNZxJChLAFxDjsx8/s320/IMG_1706%255B1415%255D.JPG" /></a></div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-73705897007695798792021-03-23T18:56:00.000-04:002021-03-23T18:56:22.855-04:00A not-so-private love letter<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote this in 2010 and it was<a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/02/private-love-letter-for-world-to-read.html" target="_blank"> originally posted here,</a> as part of a love letter blogging challenge. Eleven years ago, and this--all of this--still rings true.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy 19 years to the man who will forever remain my buzz long after last call.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SCtafbkpWf-4GV4moVlZ_B55dPicg8y2ms9m0jREOGDVO2pGKtpui4bkGykt1uqxCppJdv6Zy0ZnvxoBWDaPOFvaTrwpRd6e6AYx2ywW1w7AhiLakr5mjGhD5wWysFofUEohTyOBfpI/s2048/blog+us+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1317" data-original-width="2048" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SCtafbkpWf-4GV4moVlZ_B55dPicg8y2ms9m0jREOGDVO2pGKtpui4bkGykt1uqxCppJdv6Zy0ZnvxoBWDaPOFvaTrwpRd6e6AYx2ywW1w7AhiLakr5mjGhD5wWysFofUEohTyOBfpI/w400-h258/blog+us+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Dear P, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">When Momalom put out a challenge to write a love letter, you immediately came to mind. I hesitated, though, because really...what would people think...that I am choosing to profess my love to my husband? And on the Internet?? Seriously, how corny and codependent is that? I thought of so many other clever "loves": my stilettos, my cocktails, my pillow. Even writing a love letter to my children, although very predictable, would have been more acceptable, I suspect.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But I chose you. I think I owed it to you and to Us to be honest. To put it out there. You have never been afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And as loud as I usually am, I think you deserve a little more noise from my side.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Plus, our love affair started on paper...post-its stapled shut, letters on notebook paper...the lines impossibly and frantically filled with confessions, promises, and fears.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So let me just say it...the cliche...the thing so often found inside greeting cards this time of year: I don't know how I got so lucky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I don't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I look around and find it impossibly delicious that you are mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">There was something about you, from the beginning, that made me stop breathing. Literally. I would stop breathing when you walked into a room. What is that? Really. What is that? And although I can say I think you're hot as hell, and although I am sure you'd love to hear that it was your amazingly rugged good looks that did it to me, it wasn't. It was something else entirely. Although, even now, ten years later, I still can not name it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The absolutely most amazing thing about it is this: when you walk unexpectedly into a room, and I look up and am surprised to see you, in that moment when the realization hits that it is You, I still get a flutter...there is still a very slight, very shallow, very sudden intake of breath. Oh. It's you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Some of my love is shallow and silly. Sometimes, when we're out on a date night, I scan the room. I look at all the men there and I pretend I don't know you and I am always amazed that you are the only guy I would want to buy me a drink. And probably take me home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Some of my love is the kind that can only grow from the everyday: raising children, paying mortgages, real life. When the children are sick, you wake up right alongside me (sometimes without me), you take the temperatures, you clean the vomit, you hold them close until they fall asleep. You make them feel safe. When the house needs cleaning, when the dinner needs cooking, when the laundry needs doing, you just do it. You don't point it out. You don't ask for props. You never call it "helping."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But even more than my partner at home, you're my partner in crime. There is no one I have more fun with...no one I'd rather get slammed drunk with....no one makes me laugh as much as you do. How is it that I have married a man who can be at a club with me til 4:00 in the morning, partying like a frat boy, and then be Daddy the next day, so often better than I can be Mommy?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">You love like no one I know, yet you don't offer it easily. It's hard to get to you. It's hard to matter in your life. As sensitive and passionate as you are, you reserve that for a very select few. You simply don't have time, you say. And, as you so honestly put it, just don't care. You don't care about being politically correct. You don't care about what others want or expect. You answer to nearly no one. Yet for those of us who have been lucky enough, your loyalty is frighteningly intense. You will go to the ends of the earth for someone you love, but always expect the same in return.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">From the beginning, you put me first. That was our deal. Above everything and everyone, we would make Us our priority. And even after the kids came, even after life became more and more difficult to juggle, you've held me to that. You've held Us to that. When I get caught up in Life: the bills, the responsibility, the kids, the general noise inside my head, you call me on it. You want to talk. To drink wine. To listen. To love.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I love you as much for this constant desire to make time for us as for your absolute refusal to put up with my shit. I can be tough. I can be clingy. I can be whiny. I can be bitchy. You call me on that, too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yet despite your total and complete commitment to me, you have your own life. You have your passions outside of Us. You need your time away, your time alone, to be your own self, separate from being mine, or ours, or theirs. Your love for the outdoors, for your bikes, for testing your limits, makes me love you even more. You are, without question, your own person, apart from your family. And so you understand why I need to have my own things, too. It is what makes you understand all of me...my blog, my friends, my interests, my latest crazy idea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">That is the best thing about you, I think, if I had to pick one (other than those forearms of yours): you understand me. Really, and truly, you understand me. You've seen my absolute best and, embarrassingly, my absolute worst, and everything in between. You not only accept who I am, but you want me to be more of it: you are the one who constantly reminds me to stop being afraid of myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So, no. I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know what happened or how it happened or why it happened. Sometimes I look around, at you, at our kids, at us, and I still can't believe this has worked. I can't believe we are this happy...this in sync. So, yes. My love letter had to be to you. Because there is nothing and no one I love the way I love you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Love,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Me</span></p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-77968657693831237342021-03-03T19:41:00.001-05:002021-03-03T19:42:51.045-05:00The More the Merrier (as in more friends, but yeah, more writing too)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI3YmDosJGRYHsgSWIVUI0Ws4fz2B6UrghuubeJUAuAmreW5zeVQ9tfFUnYeUDjbnZw13ZmcswJdMqRchtF796eWPBwKkj2nJJ-ah74cWX4PRByKdL9QJMKH3ATr2mh1g8a136xnqYi8E/s2048/blog+table+set+up.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1615" data-original-width="2048" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI3YmDosJGRYHsgSWIVUI0Ws4fz2B6UrghuubeJUAuAmreW5zeVQ9tfFUnYeUDjbnZw13ZmcswJdMqRchtF796eWPBwKkj2nJJ-ah74cWX4PRByKdL9QJMKH3ATr2mh1g8a136xnqYi8E/w400-h315/blog+table+set+up.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've been revisiting a lot of my old writing lately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Since I recently started taking online writing workshops, I needed to carve out some sort of daily work space for my writing and lessons. Silence has always been big for me. And no clutter. I like a space that feels my own and is silent.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Reality check.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I live in a tiny, noisy, love-filled house that I share with my three favorite humans. (Two of those humans are<i> </i>boys--<i>teenage </i>boys.) They are all amazingly respectful of my writing time: they turn down their TVs (to still-audible-in-the-other-room-levels), always apologize after they interrupt me, and only roughhouse and bond loudly over inappropriate jokes with their dad until they remember I'm sitting there.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I realized the writing had not been happening for way too long, so it was time to stop making excuses and find a way to adjust (anyone who knows me probably chuckled right there..I'm not known for my flexible adaptability). So here's what I did: I completely commandeered the dining room table (which is literally only used for actual dining when it's my turn to host book club and the rest of the time is the holder of all things random and pending). My shiny new red laptop and adorably kitschy turquoise mouse now sit there, along with printed reminders of my writing. My writing notebook. The 9 instructional books I wrote. The anthology in which one of my essays was published. And my blog books which hold 12 years worth of my writing.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Twelve years. Lately, every time I looked here, on this blog, instead of noticing how much I had written over the years, I would focus on the gaps of time between posts. I would focus on how many ideas never got put to paper (or screen). So while taking these courses...recreating and rebuilding my writing practice...I needed some reminders of what I've created through the years. Now, when I sit at my no-one-ever-dines-here-dining-table, I feel like it's my space. It is far from silent and somewhat cluttered, but I'm using the noise in my head to tune out the gaming noises and episodes of "Breaking Bad," and the clutter that sits on this table inspires me to remember what I have done and what I can do. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">********************************</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The following essay was published in <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GRY3WDA/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0" target="_blank">The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship</a> (edited by <a href="https://www.schoolofsmock.com/" target="_blank">Jessica Smock</a> and <a href="https://stephaniesprenger.com/" target="_blank">Stephanie Sprenger </a>of <a href="https://www.herstoriesproject.com/" target="_blank">The HerStories Project</a>.) </i>It was originally <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/09/more-merrier.html" target="_blank">posted here</a> on September 30, 2010.</span></div><div><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><u>The More the Merrier</u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've been thinking a lot about friendships lately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">My dearest friend's 7-year-old granddaughter is having some issues on the playground. She can't quite understand how her best friend can be her best friend one day and completely ignore her the next.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">"That's just rude, Gram. And it hurts my feelings."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It's tough being a girl. Women are difficult creatures. We desperately need each other but we push each other away, claw and snap and bitch, and talk behind each other's backs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">My friend assured her granddaughter that "one day" she'd find that one true best friend:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">"Really, Gram? You promise?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">"I promise."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I told my friend that I thought that had been a terrible promise to make (we're honest like that). I'm not sure I really believe in the notion of a best friend anymore, although lately (and here's the truly ironic part) I feel I am in some of the healthiest relationships of my life. The notion of That One True Best Friend--the promise that little girl is holding out for--puts a whole lot of pressure on her and especially on the girls around her. No one person should be responsible for being every thing to anyone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">That little girl may be so busy looking for that One Girl that she may miss out on all the ones skipping happily around her on the playground.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">* * *</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In spite of the fact that most people would probably describe me as very outgoing, I've actually spent most of my life being somewhat anti-social. Growing up, I was never accepted into any of the Cliques Of The Moment, and more often than not, I'd find somebody who was "like me" (read: a little too loud or a little too dramatic or a little too awkward or a little too whatever I happened to be at the time) and I'd latch on. I'd found her: my friendship soulmate! And eventually, as is almost always inevitable with females, she'd screw me over. There was Marilyn in 3rd grade, who one day came back from lunch and abruptly and silently pulled her desk a few inches away from mine and refused to speak to me. I remember Lena, in middle school, who decided hanging out with "the other girls" was way cooler than hanging out with me (she was probably right). The list goes on and on. I realize there were probably many times that I, too, had disappointed them...I don't doubt that I said something completely inappropriate to Marilyn that day at lunch, but couldn't she have told me what that something was?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">What I've come to realize over the last couple of years is that all that time I spent excluding everyone else to be with my One True Best Friend, I had missed out. A lot. On people, outings, experiences, adventures, life lessons.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I now find myself surrounded by a lot of really remarkable women...some I had pushed aside for years because I simply "didn't have the time" to spend with them. I am more open, less judgmental, and having a whole heck of a lot more fun. My "collection" of girlfriends are all incredibly different: with some I can discuss, in great details, Marc Jacobs's personal make-over...others shop "exclusively" at Walmart and Target. For some of my friends, sweating is restricted to dancing and sex...others are game for anything from a 5k to a full-out adventure race. I would not call any one of these women my Best Friend. I know who I can call in the middle of the night when my kid is running a fever of 105. I know who I can call when I'm desperate for a night of dancing and drinks. Some of these women know secrets about me that the rest of the world would be shocked to know. Others, I'm just starting to truly trust.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Today, I "asked a girl out." Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I recently started to talk to someone at work who seems to be so amazingly interesting and intelligent and just plain "cool," that I stepped out of my old comfort zone and, after 30 minutes of chatting about designer galoshes, world-wide travel, Christian Louboutins, mamas' boys, marriage and children, I decided to make a plan to get together next week. This may seem like a totally normal thing to do. But for me, it felt foreign. This woman may become one of my girls. Or, perhaps we will get together and have absolutely nothing to talk about (although after that 30-minute-all-inclusive-chat, I doubt it!). But the point is that I have finally figured out that I don't need one Best Friend. I need lots of really fantastic friends. I am no longer disappointed, because I don't put all my eggs in one basket. I have lots of baskets, and I'm skipping happily around with them on the playground.</span></p></div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-68594503143287991572021-02-22T19:46:00.000-05:002021-02-22T19:46:19.991-05:00Returning to my writing and my self<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p>After taking another hiatus from my writing, I realized (yet again) that I simply cannot <i>not</i> <i>write</i>. As it so often happens with The Universe, something perfectly timed landed in my lap (or my inbox, really), and I jumped back in. After completing the writing course with <a href="https://www.herstoriesproject.com/" target="_blank">The Herstories Project</a>, I decided to go down the memory lane of this blog and found this poem, which I wrote--how appropriately--after another one of my writing "breaks." I don't even remember writing it, but I thought: what a fitting way to come back here, to this space, and put my voice back out there.</p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCutud6HT7yIxbn2uqm_lPFfMVg2EEPARyqGg_FLy8EvV3Z-4RPEuH-7uo03ymN-OYObQwdQeodDKKqbr84YTCeoZ7t9vrHMxbOKW6QC4CONTmY-BkClYkljMcZW-ftJA1muRpZVPs8I/s2048/blog+header+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1110" data-original-width="2048" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCutud6HT7yIxbn2uqm_lPFfMVg2EEPARyqGg_FLy8EvV3Z-4RPEuH-7uo03ymN-OYObQwdQeodDKKqbr84YTCeoZ7t9vrHMxbOKW6QC4CONTmY-BkClYkljMcZW-ftJA1muRpZVPs8I/w400-h216/blog+header+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><u><b>Wish You Were Here</b></u></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><u><b><br /></b></u></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">if you come back</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">to your words</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">your space</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">after a very long time</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">if you come back</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">does it matter</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">if anyone missed you</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">or only if</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">you missed yourself</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">if you come back</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">do you have to explain</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">to yourself</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">or anyone else</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">why you were gone</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; text-align: left;">*originally posted </span><a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2014/10/wish-you-were-here.html" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; text-align: left;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; text-align: left;"> on October 4, 2014</span></p>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-28677323190683311662020-08-08T10:19:00.004-04:002020-08-08T10:24:50.878-04:00When your baby boy turns 12<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCYDfxJKRDa5tznOqbtuBOd-u2ZYzvOTUwhYGaNGqgeQEeNXKocc7gEX0uNgXo3ztTOdiprmxHvwEELR3tl2snqktoeB9AByMzvqwXKEjMWLHK6iomV2YdRbSn9zNfePLFL69ftXQ6mA/s400/kai+blog+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCYDfxJKRDa5tznOqbtuBOd-u2ZYzvOTUwhYGaNGqgeQEeNXKocc7gEX0uNgXo3ztTOdiprmxHvwEELR3tl2snqktoeB9AByMzvqwXKEjMWLHK6iomV2YdRbSn9zNfePLFL69ftXQ6mA/w300-h400/kai+blog+3.jpg" width="300" /><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6_rQn5D4Sa75_TpEaMpnZB5MgTCbMKZFrjJg1TKVUrT_n69lL-tqio80v0KS4j5chkFLf12s9ovY38i7RsZAKub8UBFzT7KEMMmUf6tddDD5wwfmmfVSD1lscv_FIGQurIfc93AYPcU/s400/kai+blog+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="959" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgli4LTWLBO2J4-8ySS-zFY99z0huwkgX8FoBFQjI3GCi3RtTwQb8bxGktfTEpeceGdw7oVbLS4bh6mSHWQce_fKNhVNiFMl8-7IrUuRxV4vR8VmfI_TzQOv0JBo_h5tpFoP2HpVOy9M/w384-h512/kai+blog+2.jpg" width="384" /><br /></a></div></div><div>Aidan Kai turns 12 today. Our baby. The post below from his 2nd birthday still pretty much covers his personality. We knew he was special and funny back then. He still is. But as he's grown up, we've realized that he's also one of the kindest souls ever. Our "gentle giant." We are so lucky he picked us.</div><div>Love you Kai-sy, all the way to the stars. Happy Birthday. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Originally <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/08/no-matter-how-many-times-we-told-you.html" target="_blank">posted here</a> on August 8, 2010</div><div><span face="" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #cccccc; color: #333333; display: inline; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: bold 18px "arial","tahoma","helvetica","freesans",sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">No matter how many times we told you not to bite the candle, you just didn't listen...</span><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYV1uEmGxUzkz1wa-SfDMzRSejj2FgGSm-m1U7RMl9L3uEhht0IMzUW7RQN9DmC1mn64bYfF2hzmsy4ANfa-hDh_LB-P1EaUZ2e7TtveNuEqw1vkJXAey5acY4XYKc7FW5wwqPncyP2I/s1600/IMG_5553.JPG" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #e128a8; font-family: "arial","tahoma","helvetica","freesans",sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503237698742418978" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYV1uEmGxUzkz1wa-SfDMzRSejj2FgGSm-m1U7RMl9L3uEhht0IMzUW7RQN9DmC1mn64bYfF2hzmsy4ANfa-hDh_LB-P1EaUZ2e7TtveNuEqw1vkJXAey5acY4XYKc7FW5wwqPncyP2I/s400/IMG_5553.JPG" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position-x: 0%; background-position-y: 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto; border-image-outset: 0; border-image-repeat: stretch; border-image-slice: 100%; border-image-source: none; border-image-width: 1; border-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px rgba(0,0,0,0.2); height: 300px; padding: 8px; position: relative; width: 400px;" /></a><br /></div><div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Aidan Kai,</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You were born 2 years ago today. It was dramatic, your entrance to the world. It was so silent, that moment when they took you out of me, and we couldn't see you or hear anything, and from the other side of the blanket, we heard your shrill, powerful cry. I looked up at your Daddy, and his face crumpled in a way I had never seen: fear, stress, joy, relief. "He's got red hair!" the nurse pronounced, and I wondered: <em>'Where the hell did you get that?!?'</em> but I didn't care. You were okay. I was okay. We'd be okay.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then...and here's where it can get kinda funny...not funny in that ha-ha way, but funny in that ironic kinda way...that shriek we were so excited to hear when you were yanked out of me so violently became the soundtrack of our day-to-day for the first four 1/2 months of your life. And that is only a very, <em>very</em> slight exaggeration.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No reason, apparently. You just cried. All the time. It makes sense to me, now, when I look back on those early weeks, and I see you now, the little boy you are turning into: you cried because you could, because it drew attention, because you have a flair for the dramatic, because it matches your personality, which is big and loud.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You are an incredibly funny kid. I don't think too many people know that about you yet. You tend to be somewhat reserved around people, and you can be pretty stubborn in your anti-social behavior when you want to be (hmmm..wonder who you get that from). But you are hilarious in a way that I didn't really know toddlers could be. It's a subtle, clever humor, with a bit of "stick-it-to-ya" mixed in there for good measure. Your Daddy and I like to think of ourselves as pretty tough parents...consistent and firm with high expectations...but you...you have managed to pull all kinds of stunts and then get yourself out of them with this sly, dimpled grin and these squinty, knowing eyes.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If the methods you and your brother use to get out of trouble are any indication, he will grow up to be a lawyer and you will be a stand-up comedian. You manage to answer our rhetorical questions with the most unexpected answers, like tonight, when you bit me playfully and I said "Hey! Are you a dog?" and you immediately responded with "Yes" and then proceeded to show me your teeth, make biting noises, and go straight for the sofa. Never in a million years did we ever think we'd find ourselves saying the sentence: "No biting the furniture!" Of course, all such behaviors are punctuated with a wide grin on your proud face.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been an interesting couple of years, to say the least. We're still waiting for you to "get easy." We joke that perhaps you're getting in all your punches now and in a couple of years, you'll become the Easy One. You just never stop moving. You wiggle off the chair in sushi restaurants and manage to hang off the edge of the table going <em>"Monkey! Monkey!"</em> before we have a chance to put down our chopsticks and lunge at you. You fall off bar stools and practically bounce right back up onto them. You make your swim class teacher carry you around the pool on her back while she works with the other kids, because when she'd put you on the step to wait your turn, you'd run out of the pool, indignantly stomping "<em>All done</em>!" You stand at the edge of our own pool at home and put your head straight down on the concrete, insisting you can <em>"Flip! Flip!"</em> like your brother. And you would, if we'd let you.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been an interesting couple of years, to say the least. You certainly wear us out on a regular basis. But you're special, in a way that, I think, only your Daddy and I can truly understand. You make us laugh, a lot. You are silly and goofy and we can already see that you don't take yourself very seriously. You've brought an energy and life to this house that we didn't know was missing, and you've completed our perfect little family.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Birthday, our littlest boy, the last baby, our fireball...we love you. Thank you for picking us.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love, Mama</span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div><div> </div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-31955498796682986382020-06-30T10:19:00.000-04:002020-06-30T10:19:05.673-04:00Travel blog continues: Outer Banks, NC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-travel-blog-returns-where-we-were.html" target="_blank">Once again, we find ourselves not quite where we were "supposed" to be.</a><div>
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We originally planned Outer Banks as our first "real stop" on our 5-week, semi-spontaneous RV road trip. We had 10 days scheduled there and then we were moving on to Charlottesville, Va., Myrtle Beach, SC, Tybee Island, NC, and finally, Cocoa Beach, Fl. Well, after three and a half days of driving, 2 ferries, and 1000 miles overall, we arrived in our blessed OBX campground only to have four consecutive days of rain and record low temperatures. In spite of (once again) making the best of our situation, this was definitely not the OBX blissful experience we remembered from past years. We decided to extend our stay by a couple of days, but once the sun (and all the other campground kids) came out and the waves kicked up, the boys asked to stay even longer. In total, we spent the last 17 days at the Cape Hatteras KOA in Outer Banks, where there was an excessive amount of daily surfing, sunning, Dairy Queen-ing, and boozing (the boys did the DQ part and Hubby and I drank our calories). We decided to cut out the middle portions of the trip, head back home to South Florida for a few days, and then go back out as scheduled to Cocoa Beach, Fl. We were "supposed" to be in South Carolina right now, but instead, we are only a couple of hours away from home for our unexpected (and actually, very welcomed) mid-trip break at home.</div>
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This trip, admittedly, was very different from our other RV trips. The boys, now nearly 15 and 12 years old, are changing: they bicker more over stupid things, crave more time with other campground kids, and are not quite as eager to sit around playing Jenga and eating s'mores with Mommy. Because of COVID, some of the places and activities were closed or limited. After having quarantined at home together for so long prior to the trip, the four of us were not quite as good at being in a tiny space together for so long. And those first few days of crazy rain and cold definitely put a damper on things. But there's still a magic, for us, to this place. Even with an experience that was short of perfection, Hubby and I noticed it...it's the vibe, the energy, the feeling there, in that space. The first time we visited Hatteras, I said that if Hawaii and Key West had a baby, this would be it. That feeling is still there, and if this is our "consolation prize" for losing our pre-Covid planned Hawaii trip, then I am certainly not complaining. <div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">At Cedar Island, the campground where we catch the ferry early in the morning for OBX...<br />burning off some energy after sitting in the RV for a couple of days on the drive north.</span><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">No matter how many times we've done it, I'm still always amazed when we load up the RV and truck onto the ferry for the two water crossings over to the cape<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Making the best of the rainy days with sightseeing</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">They surfed pretty much every day while I drank and read...<br />probably why I'm the only one who gained weight on this trip!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of our traditions: nighttime crab hunting. They graduated from catching tiny ones with nets while squealing to catching huge ones with their bare hands.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Part of the magic of this place: the sunsets on the sound side of the campground</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of my favorite moments of the trip...<br /> the boys and I watching Daddy finally kicking ass on a kite board</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Homebase for 17 days</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Campfire plus the traditional OBX stilt houses lit up in the background equals magic</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">On the last night, right before bed, the boys thanked us for "an amazing family trip," so I guess in spite of the spontaneity, bumps, weather, and bickering, we did all right...</span></td></tr>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-74213625876357593072020-06-10T17:34:00.005-04:002020-06-10T17:54:37.814-04:00The travel blog returns: where we were supposed to be todayWe were supposed to be on a plane right now, heading to Kauai. We had planned it and saved up for it for almost 2 years, but then the bizarre situation that is our world these days stepped in. It sucks. A lot of things suck right now, but I am not so delusional or spoiled that I don't understand that my Hawaiian getaway is not nearly even close to high up on the list of Sucky Things Happening In The World Right Now.<div><br /></div><div>But even though we are incredibly grateful that we have not lost loved ones, jobs, or our minds (although that last one really depended on the day), we are still, admittedly, incredibly sick and tired of being cooped up and having our lives put on hold. (Have you seen those pandemic memes about the introvert friends needing to check on their extrovert friends because they are most certainly, absolutely not okay? Yeah, that's us.) We, as a family, are rarely home. We rarely sit still. We are always out and doing, and when we are not, we are planning the out and the doing. So when our big trip to paradise had to be postponed another year (no, I am not even contemplating the possibility of 2021 being as fucked up as 2020), we sat down and said "Okay, so what can we do instead?" <div><br /></div><div>We are lucky that when COVID pretty much shut down every kind of travel option, we were able to resort back to our usual mode of summer adventure: our RV. We usually spend at least a year planning and organizing our summer road trips...from the stops to the activities to the daily mileage. This time, we turned to the kids immediately after canceling our flight to Kauai and asked "If we can't go to Hawaii this summer, what would make a good runner up?" Luckily, this was one of those rare times when all four of us had the same response: <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2015/06/stop-2-rodanthe-outer-banks-nc.html" target="_blank">Outer Banks, NC...where our oldest learned what the word "bliss" meant many moons ago.</a> So in an unprecedented and very non-type-A-personality move, we threw together a 5-week road trip with the only non-negotiable being a very long stay at our favorite beach campground in Outer Banks.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>We loaded up and headed out yesterday, driving about 8 hours from South Florida to a little campground in Georgia where we just spent the night. Today, we were supposed to stop to sleep at <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2018/06/stops-1-through-4-melbourne-fl-st.html" target="_blank">South of the Border, the infamously tacky and frighteningly similar-to-a-cheap-horror-movie-set campground where we stayed a couple of years ago. </a> But after making really good time and only driving about 5 hours, we all agreed we'd stay on the road a few more hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>But first, the boys humored me by recreating some cheesy pics from our last stop there: </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqbS2k8hs2Y_Nb_RU68KYgG34pKBUBJAKl35hPr4zULQpk8rBCOuckEAQpKhkJ3n3Zh-plwQlaW1tKNo-ugSDrrKgAYz2gq4Bg5alrX7c6siQFtF4BUPOtwrTZ5IWOnHOxQ_Jq_xBzeE/s3088/SOB+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqbS2k8hs2Y_Nb_RU68KYgG34pKBUBJAKl35hPr4zULQpk8rBCOuckEAQpKhkJ3n3Zh-plwQlaW1tKNo-ugSDrrKgAYz2gq4Bg5alrX7c6siQFtF4BUPOtwrTZ5IWOnHOxQ_Jq_xBzeE/w300-h400/SOB+1.jpg" title="Today" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="4">TODAY...</font><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwprpRoida8hYi32yHYcxcM7QpsgW-rMUJfk1Iet4ETQf7XweI7SGpLEjj41-sVYDrnsTwLoqzdpzg2Bj1835-tpJ9DxP-00f1D57My84hTcPIHXv3FrtmaGQscQpDc6RsB7dH1VxzVoY/s1280/sob+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Then" border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="961" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwprpRoida8hYi32yHYcxcM7QpsgW-rMUJfk1Iet4ETQf7XweI7SGpLEjj41-sVYDrnsTwLoqzdpzg2Bj1835-tpJ9DxP-00f1D57My84hTcPIHXv3FrtmaGQscQpDc6RsB7dH1VxzVoY/w300-h400/sob+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="4">...and THEN</font></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLeidIAApImzPgFGfEafUoEHtete-pUQpU5QXtZVAMlulvepHJg5h_F1lyi1xU-oAHHn3hLQvU1La6sep5T8Z6yqBUztEb-WiMENeViZVVTOhLghoSDGhuVU1nuFYOzaV-g0vN2gQc7Ak/s1280/sob+ben+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLeidIAApImzPgFGfEafUoEHtete-pUQpU5QXtZVAMlulvepHJg5h_F1lyi1xU-oAHHn3hLQvU1La6sep5T8Z6yqBUztEb-WiMENeViZVVTOhLghoSDGhuVU1nuFYOzaV-g0vN2gQc7Ak/w300-h400/sob+ben+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="4">Ben<br />TODAY..</font>.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnGT8iYeTrUsDCumT5DgV_ZRvY3-2unGXgFVJJzy9UkMqQnAtX9DmvxtNhn-T1X49yi4-ialSdcYcATO13l9FHgiQgAyVTkIUxpCJNOOkNZOU3MO0Gb4PfwXi8UmFshotUFqX7BddSXs/s1280/sob+ben+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnGT8iYeTrUsDCumT5DgV_ZRvY3-2unGXgFVJJzy9UkMqQnAtX9DmvxtNhn-T1X49yi4-ialSdcYcATO13l9FHgiQgAyVTkIUxpCJNOOkNZOU3MO0Gb4PfwXi8UmFshotUFqX7BddSXs/w300-h400/sob+ben+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="4">...& THEN</font><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8H6fR55S2Mi1Np0C88KqgMJ9uHRKYGFFMJODXY6fhYuVfYbMbBdmPHB2kkTQPUCdyk651Pva5VEsBDjBxBQ7CdoNNDKNkTlYiTixhidhsiHZsWSK2ovXE5GkUdBUvFTp0GjsUkVPkjc/s1280/sob+kai+whale+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8H6fR55S2Mi1Np0C88KqgMJ9uHRKYGFFMJODXY6fhYuVfYbMbBdmPHB2kkTQPUCdyk651Pva5VEsBDjBxBQ7CdoNNDKNkTlYiTixhidhsiHZsWSK2ovXE5GkUdBUvFTp0GjsUkVPkjc/w400-h300/sob+kai+whale+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="4">Kai<br />TODAY...</font><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCXMTOgQDucwgXLF-n3_ELhyphenhyphenDE-iHwst2r1CacZjjgibXXezxICp2dyQ6KKQNGBTmlxCgqDyTnwBXskkx6-XHVUxyY9krJVIZQp76mEl-QVjknJFV1UKweqIb-PDsfKgqk-KGv1JFplk/w400-h300/sob+kai+2+whale.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">.<font size="4">..& THEN</font></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We'll be staying somewhere in North Carolina tonight and head out tomorrow to <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2018/06/stops-1-through-4-melbourne-fl-st.html" target="_blank">Cedar Island, where we will kill time in a very isolated and oppressively hot beach area while we wait to get on the ferry</a> to the Outer Banks early the next day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since I woke up this morning, I have been thinking about where we were "supposed" to be today. After all, the date June 10, 2020 had been figuratively circled on my calendar for more than a year. I even had one of those silly vacation countdown apps on my phone. It had a little Hawaiian-themed suitcase graphic on it. I am incredibly aware of how lucky we are...driving to spend all these days in our second favorite place in the world, and then moving on to spend more weeks discovering new places and revisiting old faves. So even though I was "supposed to be" on a plane right now, I am pretty damn happy and grateful that I am where I am, with my three favorite people around me, healthy and well. And maybe...just maybe...on the road all together in our beloved RV is where we were "supposed to be" today all along. </div>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-48800679916263840332020-06-02T19:01:00.001-04:002020-06-02T19:01:09.508-04:00Graduating during the pandemic: this is not the way it was supposed to end<div>
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On the first day of kindergarten, Ben walked up to his teacher, unprompted, stuck out his hand, looked up, and announced, "Hi, I'm Ben. It's nice to meet you."<div>
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When he was about 3 or 4, he asked me, "Mommy, if I'm holding your hand when you die and go to heaven, will I be able to go with you?"</div>
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He's always been this intense, special, old soul: wise beyond his years, sensitive, headstrong, outspoken. So bright, it's scary. The kind of kid who would question everyone around him all the time---his teachers, his friends, his parents--not out of disrespect, but simply because he was probably seeing some loophole in their rules or suggestions that did not make sense to him, and he, quite frankly, just wanted to know <i>why...</i> We have spent years trying to teach him how to keep that self-confidence and sharpness, but not step on the toes of those in authority (too much). There have probably been an equal number of days in our parenting lives in which we have had to say "Damn it, you're right," and "Damn it, 'cause I say so." So often, he is the one calling us out, making us look at a situation in a different way, bringing us together as a family in the midst of an argument or a disagreement or a moment of discipline. Sometimes when he is driving me craziest, I have to laugh and shake my head and remind myself: "Mannnnn, this kid could rule the world..." </div>
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He and I are so alike, it's startling. There are countless times when we notice the same exact detail about something, make the same comment, understand each other's thinking in a way no one else can. How often does Hubby say "You two are exactly the same person." And so, we have a bond that's unique and comforting. But when we clash...you can almost see the energy surging around us. I imagine we must look like two fighters literally dropping the gloves and coming at each other, or those bighorn rams you see butting each other on the heads on the nature channels...but we come at each other with our words, usually powerful, often sarcastic, and always indignant. It scares me, sometimes, how alike we are, how connected I feel to him, but the true beauty of it is when we come out of it on the other side: the battles usually end up bringing us closer. </div>
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And now he's about to finish up his elementary and middle school years. He is "graduating" from 8th grade and crossing over to being a High Schooler. (How in the hell did I become the mom of a high schooler?!?) He has spent the last 9 years at the same school (the same school where Hubby and I teach). From that kindergarten first day when he pretended to be all grown up meeting his teacher to this final year, he has <i>excelled</i>. (Did I mention that when he earned his first B on a report card in 3rd grade, he literally threw himself on the floor of our kitchen crying? When we tried consoling him, he sobbed: "Well, maybe it's good enough for you, but it's not for me!" Luckily, he's loosened up a bit through the years...) He's made every honor roll and been inducted into every honor society. He's won competitions in his STEM classes. He's missed (maybe) one or two homework assignments the entire time. This year, he took the award for Top Algebra Student (I can't even add tip to a restaurant check, so this is the one area in which we are absolutely nothing alike). But the ending of these years is not only special because of his academic achievements. He's made friends. Good, tight, special friends. He's played football. He was on the jump rope team. He built robots and made award-winning paper-mache masks. It's been a really, really good 9 years. </div>
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And now he's closing this chapter of his life and is the only one leaving the area's school to go to his neighborhood high school. He's excited. ("I want to do ALL the activities!" he whispered to me at the high school's open house.) He's ready. We all are. This school will open a whole new world for him---one that includes not only academics, but sports and socializing and learning who he is in isolation of all those kids he's literally grown up around. </div>
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But--it wasn't supposed to end like this.</div>
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Like so many other parents, students, and teachers, we are heartbroken by how this pandemic has affected our school lives.</div>
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He spent the first three semesters of this school year busting his butt to complete not one, but two, online high school classes so he could "play" in phys ed the last semester with his best friends. The day the last semester was supposed to start, we were already in quarantine. So here's this kid---my kid---who made the responsible choice for himself: "I won't take phys ed on my last year with my buddies, even though I really want to, because I should get high school stuff out of the way, but I'll make sure I get it all done early so I can have those last 9 weeks to hang out and enjoy myself..." and...nope. He was supposed to go on a graduation cruise with his best friend. There was a 3-day field trip he was especially excited about to the state colleges. Two trips to Orlando parks for the honor society kids and the graduating class. A graduating ceremony. He had already picked out his tuxedo (John Wick style, thank you very much) for his 8th grade prom. </div>
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That's how it was supposed to happen. </div>
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But as we know, nothing is as it's supposed to be these days. Nothing.</div>
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And so we have done like so many other families: we have made the best of a terrible situation with small socially distant gatherings with only his best friend and his grandparents...with car parades with posters and balloons and honking horns...with promises---oh, how we've made promises--of future trips and sleep-overs and beach days with his friends...all his friends...any of his friends....as many things as he wants to plan when this is "all over" (whatever that means). </div>
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Of course, he has handled it all beautifully. Remember, he was born an old soul. Wise and sensitive and sharp. He understands he can't complain about a canceled field trip when there are people dying around the world. But somehow, that makes me hurt even more. Because--and I know I'm super biased here-- I feel like: <i>Man</i>, if there ever was a kid who deserved to go out with a bang, it's this one. My boy. </div>
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Congratulations, Ben. Words cannot express how proud we are...not just of your school achievements, but even more so of the young man and amazing soul you are. We love you. </div>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-64545939909885886112020-02-18T16:00:00.000-05:002020-02-18T16:00:06.885-05:0020 years ago<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I walked away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">from a life I thought I was supposed to want</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">from the plans I made because I thought I was supposed to</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">from the picket fence dream that was someone else's</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">from the expectations everyone had for me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and the ones I forced on myself</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I walked away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">from always feeling out of breath</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">restricted</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">trapped</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">my voice was always too loud</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">my clothes were always too bright</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">my ideas were always too outlandish</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I thought what I wanted was not what I was supposed to want</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I thought who I was was not who I was supposed to be</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I thought I was not strong enough</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I walked away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">20 years ago</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">a lifetime ago</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">just yesterday</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and walked into a life I never thought possible</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">a life I thought I was greedy for wanting</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">a life I thought existed only in movies or books or my dreams</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I was strong enough to walk away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">to refuse everyone's opinions</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">to trust my own</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">to trust you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I walked away from a life that was never mine</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and walked into ours</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I am still in awe</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and although you still take my breath away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">now I can breathe</span></div>
Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-41662289482767212492020-02-14T16:17:00.000-05:002020-02-14T16:17:01.823-05:00I miss those little Valentine's Day cards<div>
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My knees barely fit under the table. It was my boys' coveted Little Einstein's arts-and-crafts-and-everything-they-wanted-to-do-table. There were accidental scribbles on it, and pieces of dried up play-dough. The cubbies underneath had mommy-assigned and boys-ignored designations: one was for the crayons, another for construction paper, and another for puzzles. (Needless to say, those cubbies were always a mess and it always drove me crazy.) I spent countless hours at that table. First with Ben, then with Kai, and sometimes with both. We drew. We colored. We made pizzas out of clay. When Ben had to decorate a t-shirt with 100 things of his choice to celebrate the 100th day of school and he absolutely insisted on making 100 paw prints (his school's symbol) in the alternating school colors in glitter, I sat at that table with him: I dribbled the 5 little globs of Elmer's glue with painstaking precision and he sprinkled the blue and gold glitter over each one. It took us days. But it came out perfect.<br />
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Today, the first Valentine's Day in which I have two middle school boys, is also the first Valentine's Day that I did not have to buy cards and candy for class distribution. Maybe if I had realized that last year would be the last year, I would not have complained so much about spending money on candy and cards for his classmates. (But isn't that the thing with parenting? You never know when those tedious tasks you rush through and sometimes dread...bedtime stories, bathtub battles, carrying them asleep to their rooms...will be done for the last time.)</div>
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I feel like it was simultaneously yesterday and a million years ago that I sat at that little table, for a few consecutive years, helping them form the letters of their classmates' names and making them fit on those teeny Valentine's Day cards. There were the years in which one or both would insist on finding just the right cards: they <i>had</i> to be Mickey, or Transformers, or sports, and we would have to go to multiple stores to find them. Doing those cards with them was one of those tasks that took forever, and I wondered over and over again why I wasn't doing what so many of the other moms would do: simply label the To/From myself. But it was one of those things that <i>mattered</i> to me. As a teacher and a mom, I felt that these were those important moments when your 2 year old kinda learns how to write and your 5 year old kinda learns some patience. It was tedious and tried my patience probably even more than it tried theirs. I don't really recall with absolute certainty the last time I did it with them. I think I was on the couch instead, and they were kneeling at the coffee table. It was more of a making sure they were following through and their handwriting was neat enough to fit within the card than actually doing it with them. I was probably a little impatient then, too.</div>
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This morning I excitedly placed their Valentine's Day gift bags and cards on the breakfast counter. Bags filled with nonsense that took me almost an hour to find at Target yesterday. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to find something cheap and Valentine-y to give a 14 year old who is now shaving?!?) As I roamed the store aisles, I debated skipping the whole thing. Why spend $40 or $50 on cards and junk and candy they really don't need? But the truth is, they're still my babies and I actually miss sitting at that little table and being annoyed and wondering how much longer it would take to go through that darned preschool class names list so I could go deal with dinner or watch TV or take a frickin shower. Those days felt endless. I felt like I was trapped in a perpetual fog of little kid responsibilities and mommy minutiae. And yet here we are now: I am spending my Valentine's Day remembering that little table and those little hands with the dimpled knuckles clutching the fat pencils and clumsily forming the letters of their names.</div>
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What I realize now, all these years later, is that all those hours I spent torturing myself by making all those Valentine's Day cards with them weren't just about their handwriting and spelling skills. It was about Me and Them Time. Days like today, when their time is spent in a whirlwind of adolescent distractions, and I am but a blip in their day, I can think back to the days at that table and sit with those memories. I can miss them. I can relish them. And I can know that even if they don't think that those days were particularly important, they were for me. Much more so, in fact, now that they are long gone. Don't get me wrong: I want no part of parenting little kids anymore. I love the young men they are becoming and the relationship and life we all have now, but those days filled with messy art tables and Transformer heart cards are forever etched in my heart. And those two big kids right there...they will forever be my little Valentines.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A blurry picture I managed to find of THE Table</span></td></tr>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-80858291775430931232020-01-28T15:40:00.000-05:002020-01-28T15:40:07.636-05:00You can love being with your kids--AND without themI was at a kid's birthday party once, discussing vacation plans and travel tips with another mom, when I asked her if the trip she was planning was a family one, or just a getaway for her and her husband. She--<i>I kid you not</i>--literally gasped, put a hand to her chest, and said "Oh nooooo, we never travel without the children. I don't have those kinds of urges." While I was busy trying not to respond inappropriately nor giggle at the use of the word <i>urges</i>, she then threw in the following statement, unprompted, just for good measure: "I asked my husband once. He said he does not have those urges either." *<br />
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<i>*Fine print: no portion of the aforementioned conversation was exaggerated, tweaked, altered, made up, or misquoted for the sake of comedic effect.</i><br />
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I do have those urges.<br />
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I had them when they were teeny-tiny babies and smelled delicious and their presence in my life felt as tender and unexpected as the soft spots on their heads. I had them when they were bigger but still so little and called me "Mama" in their raspy little voices. I have them now when they are pre-teen and full-blown-in-my-face-teen and simultaneously awe and enrage me.<br />
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I love my boys. I love snuggling on the couch with them on family movie nights. I love listening to them tell me stories about how they handled a socially charged situation in school. I love climbing into our RV and spending a bunch of days with just the four of us making s'mores, riding bikes, and searching for adventure. I love that they both still expect (and enjoy) their bedtime songs and nightly rituals. I love being Mommy.<br />
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But I love being Liz, too. I love paddle boarding by myself at sunrise and discussing books over wine with my book club girls and reading the 704th book from the <a href="http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/" target="_blank">Outlander series </a>in peace.<br />
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And I love being Hubby's Wife, too. I love strolling on the boardwalk in the afternoon hand-in-hand to decompress from our day and talking with him quietly over beers at our favorite local bar and spending an entire day at the beach drinking way too many Jack and Cokes.<br />
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I have urges. Lots of 'em.<br />
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I have been fortunate enough to be able to go on many getaways with Hubby, sans kids, thanks to amazing grandparents. Most of the trips have been little getaways, designed to help us reconnect and recharge so we could do Us better, but also so we could do Parenting better. These days, we go on way more family trips than Just Us trips, because we know we only have so many years left with the boys before they: a) are no longer able to take time away from their school/sports/schedules, b) grow up and move away, or c) no longer want to travel with us. Plus, now that they are not babies anymore, there are a lot of places we want to show them and lots of things we want to discover. So for now, if we can sneak in a long weekend once or twice a year without the kids, that's enough.<br />
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We are getting ready to take the boys on their first cruise in the next couple of months, and planning for that got me thinking about the last time Hubby and I were on a cruise. It was the first time we went away together after Kai was born<i>. </i>We were parenting an almost-4-year-old and a very high-maintenance 6-month-old so let's just say we were <i>urging</i>. <i> </i>Reading that post made me relive both the desperation we felt to get away and the sweetness of feeling like we were leaving someone behind who would miss us with nearly equal parts desperation. Let's just say Ben's reaction, at age 4, was quite different to what his reaction would be now, at 14, if we were to announce we were going away for a few days. It definitely made me a little melancholic, but I guess the bright side is that as they get older and less dependent on us, the more opportunities we will have to satisfy those other urges.<br />
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So here's the Throwback post from that cruise getaway originally posted <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2009/07/pina-colada-anyone.html" target="_blank">here</a> on July 7, 2009:<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Pina Colada, anyone?</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em>"Four days?!? You and Daddy are gonna be gone for four days?"</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"Yes, Ben, that is why </em>(pause here for dramatic emphasis) <em>you get to rent FOUR<strong> </strong>Blockbuster movies for grandma's house!! Isn't that gonna be cool?!?"</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>"But Maaaamaaaa, I don't waaaant you and Daddy to be gone for four days. I want to be with you guys aaaaall the time."</em><br /><em></em><br />We have been telling Ben about our upcoming <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2009/06/surrender.html" style="color: #820055; text-decoration-line: none;">"Mommy and Daddy Vacation"</a> for a few days now. I think it just hit him today that maybe, just maybe, he might have a problem with it. It seems that 4 rental movies do not cancel out 4 days of no Mama and Dada. Darn.<br /><br />Hubby and I are big believers in spending quality grown-up couple time together. We do not think a fancy dinner can be romantic with 2 children sitting at the table with us (in spite of what some parents we know tell us...repeatedly). We do not think a family vacation--although wonderful in its own right--is as relaxing or as recharging for the marriage as a true getaway all alone. I realize that not everyone has this option. We do. We have my mom, Babysitter Extraordinaire. We are lucky. Really lucky.<br /><br />So we will be leaving in exactly 40 hours (um, ehem, approximately), and we will tap into our Old Selves. The ones we were before we were Mama and Daddy. The ones we were when we met. And dated. And held hands. And kissed. And giggled. And flirted. And, uh, other stuff. It's hard to be Those People in our daily lives. It's hard to...and we try, Lord knows, we try. We reach out across the expanse of our family room, strewn with rattles, Hot Wheels cars, balls, books, and Nerf darts, and we try to reconnect as often as possible. With winks. With kisses. With smiles. With hugs. And after we put the boys down to sleep, we try to, with some regularity, open a bottle of wine, put on some music, talk (yes, really talk) and love each other. On the best nights, it feels like old times. On the worst nights, we're too tired to even bother with any of it. On most nights, we manage to steal an hour to ourselves before we collapse with exhaustion. This is Our Lives right now. It's what we want. But it's hard.<br /><br />If you're lucky enough to be parenting with someone you'd still marry all over again, then it can definitely be more rewarding, but in some ways it can make day-to-day life even more frustrating. Because when you actually like the person you're parenting with, when you actually miss him even though he's still right there, living with you, sleeping in your bed, making breakfast with you everyday, helping you turn little boys into men, well, then it can be doubly hard because it's the parenting that's keeping you apart. So to have four...count 'em...four whole days and nights to OURSELVES on a cruise ship...away from the Real World, away from Our Current Lives, away from...yes, The Kids...it will be heaven. But as I finalize my packing, as I count down the last few hours, as I get my passport ready, I realize that I am leaving behind 2 little boys...one who will notice our absence, <em>really</em> notice it, for the first time, and in spite of the promises of Blockbuster movies, special outings with the grandparents, no bedtimes, and extra candy, well...the truth of the matter is, fortunately or unfortunately, he still likes being with us best.<br /><br />So when I heard the panic creeping into his voice today, I felt a bit of the same panic creeping into me. Not so much because I will miss him, but because I want him to behave for Grandma and Grandpa...I want him to have fun...I want him to be happy...and, I have to admit, I want to leave guilt-free. And if he is clinging to my leg upon my departure, it will take me more than a couple of umbrella drinks to unwind and really let go. And letting go is the whole purpose of this trip.<br /><br />I think I'm gonna need a lot of singles for the bartenders.</span></div>
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<br />Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-88114919621808308662019-12-18T15:30:00.000-05:002019-12-18T15:43:57.654-05:00Forty seven and happy (AF)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am 47 today.<br />
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Forty-seven!<br />
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Definitely an age I used to think of as "old." Didn't we all? I mean, my parents were 47. My aunts and uncles...my teachers (gasp)...they were in their forties. Forties were old.<br />
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<a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2012/12/viva-las-vegas-my-life-in-lists.html" target="_blank">When I turned 40, I didn't really have an issue with it. I was distracted with fabulous birthday plans and stilettos and cocktails.</a> Besides, Gwen Stefani and Sarah Jessica Parker were already 40, and they were awesomely cool and soooo not-old.<br />
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Then 41 and 42 and 43 got a little weird. I was like, "<i>Waaaaait a minute...40-SOMETHING is not quite as fun as 40 was...I'm not going to Vegas and it's really not quite a novelty anymore and holy shit...I just realized I'm closer to mid-forties than 39...WTF?!?"</i><br />
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It was at about the 45 mark that I started to notice that there wasn't much of a difference in how I looked in pictures between, say, 32 and 41, but there seemed to be a sudden (and sometimes shocking) difference in the pictures between 41 and 45. It was as if all those years of sleepless nights due to early parenting had suddenly caught up with me. (Yes, I am sure that my obsession with the sun and booze has absolutely nothing to do with it.)<br />
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So let's just say there was a bit of an adjustment period somewhere in there. For the first time in my life, I started trying expensive skin creams. <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2011/05/cosmetic-surgeons-hoard-all-good.html" target="_blank">I looked into those crazy expensive laser treatments at the dermatologist.</a> I upped the SPF. When I'd enter a nightclub I never, ever got carded anymore. (The worst was when we'd go with our still-in-their-30s-friends and they'd get carded ahead of us and as Hubby and I started looking for our IDs, the bouncer would just wave us in.)<br />
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Fast forward to now.<br />
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I don't know what happened. I'm not exactly sure when it happened. It just did, and I've realized it pretty recently.<br />
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I'm happy. Like, really, really, really, contentedly, unapologetically happy.<br />
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Let me clarify: Technically, I've been happy for a very long time. I've been married to my absolute favorite person for 17 years. I have two ridiculously awesome boys. I love where I live. I (usually) really like what I do for a living. I am surrounded by amazing friends. My family is healthy and nearby.<br />
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But I mean I am happy with myself...having nothing to do with all these amazingly lucky blessings. I feel like I woke up one day, looked around, and realized I am completely happy with Me. Don't get me wrong: I am still (and always will be) working on self-improvement in some area. But overall, I feel like for the first time--ever--I am no longer pining to be skinnier/cooler/better dressed/richer/ calmer/fitter/prettier/fill-in-the-blank-with-pretty-much-any-word. I know what I like now. I won't apologize for my music or drink of choice. I know I have waaaay too many ripped jean shorts that would never pass the<a href="https://www.tlc.com/tv-shows/what-not-to-wear/" target="_blank"> "What Not To Wear" test</a>, and I use the words "<i>dude</i>" and "<i>fuck</i>" way too often.<br />
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I'd love to tell you how I got here. I am well aware that I sound like one of those essays you'd find in a "Forties" book or in the Oprah magazine: "Oh, now that I'm in my forties I have <i>arrived!</i>" Puhleeze. I would be totally eye-rolling too. Truth is, I'm not sure. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that my kids are a little older and more independent, so I can spend more time on myself without feeling guilty. Maybe some of it is that I have put so much effort into my eating and exercise choices over the last few years, that I finally feel like I'm good with what my body's doing. Maybe the two knee surgeries I had to have over the last couple of years taught me how truly disciplined and bad-ass I can be when I need to. Maybe it's the meditating. <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2014/02/open-houses-suck.html" target="_blank">Maybe it's the big life move we made a few years ago that freed up so much of our money and time so we could go to the beach any damn time we please.</a><br />
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I am sure it's some of that and some of this. The point is I'm here now, and it's an incredibly peaceful feeling.<br />
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It took me nearly 47 years. It's a good thing I didn't know that going in, because that's a long ass time. So, today I'll celebrate, because...<i>dude</i>, I'm happy as <i>fuck</i>.<br />
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<i><br /></i>Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-37186104655691219482019-11-29T11:17:00.000-05:002019-11-29T11:17:29.605-05:00...but then her kids became peopleI fell in love with the power of a perfectly-crafted sentence when I was in second grade.<br />
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Ms. Davis was one of my least favorite teachers ever. She rarely smiled, had a raspy, nicotine voice, and had some sort of scarring on her neck that scared the hell out of my 7-year-old little self. But every day after lunch, she would perch herself upon a wooden stool and read aloud a chapter from <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/91253.Ramona_Quimby_Age_8" target="_blank"><i>Ramona Quimby, Age 8</i>.</a> I fell completely in love with mischievous little Ramona. When Beverly Cleary wrote about the pink eraser Ramona's father gave her as a little gift, I felt like I, too, could feel its rubbery smoothness in my palm and smell that perfect new-eraser smell. I didn't know that I could fall into a book in this way simply because a writer could write a good story. (Remember, I'm old...my kindergarten reading memories consist mostly of sitting in front of a giant chart and reading sentences about a girl named <i>Meg, </i>her dog, <i>Spot</i>, and all those <i>Dick</i> and <i>Jane</i> bores.) After Ms. Davis finished <i>Ramona</i>, and I found out there were more books about Ramona and her sister, I made my dad take me to the public library, where I had the librarian teach me where I could find the rest of the them. I then proceeded to methodically <i>check out, read, return, repeat</i> until I had read all of the Cleary books (yes, even the ones about the mouse and that Henry Huggins kid). </div>
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A bit later, cheesy pre-teen paperbacks came into my life. Whenever we visited the cousins, I spent as much time as possible in my older cousin's room, admiring all her uber-cool, teenage paraphernalia. She had a closet door covered with posters and high school football ribbons and a book shelf filled with paperbacks that had pouty, preppy-looking girls looking wistfully towards mannequin-handsome football player types. I was fascinated. She would lend me any book she deemed not too racy and I could never wait to go back. It was like my own little teenage-themed public library. I still have the book she lent me that made me want to write. I can't, for the life of me, remember what, exactly, it was about, but I remember finishing it and feeling something really important that I could not name. It sits on my bookshelf, still, among Hemingway, <i>Outlander</i>, <i>Tuesdays with Morrie</i>, and my poetry books. Every time I do one of those house purges, I pick it up, look at it, feel a bit sheepish for keeping it, think about putting it in the "donate" pile, and then put it back on the shelf. I am pretty sure it was right after finishing that book that I really started to try my hand at "chapter books." I still have a huge box in my guest room filled with rubber-banded, typed chapters of unfinished "novels." My ages when I started them probably range from 11 to 17. I have not read them in years. They take up a ton of space in my nearly-tiny house. I still can't get rid of them.<br />
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I started this blog because early parenting made me feel stifled and overwhelmed. I had a hard time figuring out how the life I had before I had kids would transform into the life I was living now. Don't get me wrong; I always wanted kids. In fact, Hubby and I had <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/11/disney-princess-half-marathon-coming.html" target="_blank">quite a few struggles having Ben</a>, so I was quite grateful we managed to have 2 healthy boys. This, however, just contributed to my feelings of guilt and confusion in those early years: I wanted this, so why am I not feeling like those "happy-happy-joy-joy" women who came before me and told me things like <i>"Becoming a mother was the most fulfilling thing I've ever done"</i> or <i>"I knew the moment they put my newborn son on my chest that I loved him more than anything."</i><br />
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The boys grew up on these pages, and really, so did I. I suspect if I look back and count, I wrote more posts venting about the bad stuff with a bit of humor mixed in than gloriously gushing. I was totally, completely honest. And the response was overwhelmingly positive. Suddenly, I was hearing lots of <i>"Me too!" and "Ohmigod, this parenting thing sucks!" </i>and <i>"I didn't know it would be this hard!" </i>One of my most statistically popular posts was called <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/05/sometimes-i-dont-like-my-kid.html" target="_blank">"Sometimes I don't like my kid."</a> I never felt like I was betraying them. Really, they were barely people then. Ben was 3 1/2 and Kai was a few months old. I complained about <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2011/06/potty-training-boot-camp-or-and-so-i.html" target="_blank">potty training</a> and <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2010/02/so-this-is-what-it-feels-like-when-your.html" target="_blank">preschool playground drama</a> and <a href="https://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2013/09/when-your-kid-flips-you-bird.html" target="_blank">my toddler flipping me the bird</a>. My readers either related to it or they didn't, but if they judged, they were judging my parenting and perception of it, not my kids.<br />
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It's different now.<br />
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Over the last few years, they've turned into actual human beings with opinions and passions and their own mini struggles. Almost every time I thought "I gotta write about this..." I stopped myself. If I wrote about my teen's social struggles, there was a really good chance someone who knew someone who knew him was going to read about it. I knew my son did not want his pre-teen dramas unfolding on my pages, because no matter how insignificant or typical they were in reality, they were neither of these to him. My 11-year-old is just now entering those years of social trial-and-error and trying out different personas and becoming interested in girls. Although he does not have the intensity of his older brother, I know he is easily embarrassed and hates it when I talk about nearly anything that is even slightly-possibly-maybe-personal in front of just about anyone else.<br />
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So. This blog sat here silently and I tried repeatedly to silence my words inside my own head. I told myself I was done and that it had served its purpose and that <i>really, who the hell even uses the word blog anymore</i> and they weren't babies anymore and there was no need. But here's the problem: the theme of this blog might have been my kids, but what it really always has been is a space for my words.. And now that my kids are (almost) their own people and I am (almost) feeling like an actual person who is way more than just a mom in survival mode, I still have (almost) perfectly-crafted sentences left to write. </div>
Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-90907195657759627032019-11-19T16:18:00.000-05:002019-11-19T16:22:34.443-05:00I am a writer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdteEU6fFCDOFh-HFriot1X_fbrakRv3XuqKVxugL1ECgD43cMrc6hmEjxA3aZXEnWOMvP46NVCyGeQzWmUrOc6Xyw0sm7v-GX_rMFcjKIBPrDys4lzjHrYkEntJS6NNgUlg_ErnYKd8/s1600/blog+i+am+a+writer+kid+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdteEU6fFCDOFh-HFriot1X_fbrakRv3XuqKVxugL1ECgD43cMrc6hmEjxA3aZXEnWOMvP46NVCyGeQzWmUrOc6Xyw0sm7v-GX_rMFcjKIBPrDys4lzjHrYkEntJS6NNgUlg_ErnYKd8/s400/blog+i+am+a+writer+kid+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I am a writer</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>always have been</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I remember</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>when I was little</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I did not covet</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>my sister's clothes</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>so much</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it was </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>her typewriter</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I could not</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>get to it</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>fast</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>enough</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>Sometimes</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it lies dormant</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>for whatever the reason</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I can not</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>tend to it</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>and I think</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>Oh</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>It is done</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I am good</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>that part of me</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I've had enough</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I've done enough</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I'm good</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>Then</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it comes back</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it gnaws at me</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I ignore it</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>push it away</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>scoff</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>ignore</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>eye roll</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>wait</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it will recede</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>that feeling</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>but then the feeling</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>becomes a need</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>and I am</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>simultaneously</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>irritated and relieved</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it's there</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>it won't go away</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>dammit</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;">I have to write again</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>I am a writer</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>always have been</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>and so</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>I am back</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>begrudgingly</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>here I am </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>unavoidable</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>you can only ignore</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>who you are</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><b>for so long</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-82852360249158898972018-08-08T23:55:00.002-04:002018-08-08T23:55:38.371-04:00You are ten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7m1p7BgXmnPCMwZqI5J-w0WlrYs_reig9zgEhds6KnxfzcHKsWTJraOW3xvF8h2NTWWO0-CS4QV0KKKjnUkWe2AcZaBlsYG6424YfbU-ZTweu0-7ehjEn-yj9F63QI0oVDIRMGlEqG0/s1600/file-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7m1p7BgXmnPCMwZqI5J-w0WlrYs_reig9zgEhds6KnxfzcHKsWTJraOW3xvF8h2NTWWO0-CS4QV0KKKjnUkWe2AcZaBlsYG6424YfbU-ZTweu0-7ehjEn-yj9F63QI0oVDIRMGlEqG0/s400/file-15.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">I remember</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">when the nurse called out</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">across the room</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you were okay</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">we heard your cry</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"A redhead!" she announced</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>"A redhead?!?"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">the relief</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">we felt</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">the relief</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I saw</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">on your daddy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">it crumpled upon him</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">folded him in</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you were okay</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">then your baby years</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you were loud</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">disgruntled</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">chronically agitated</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">(we were, too)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you toddled around later</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">with your little blue rectangular glasses</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">a little professor</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">those dimples</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">on your cheeks and </span><span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">your little fists</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">those curls</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">now blonde</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">now chronically happy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">chronically sweet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">this little boy now</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">growing up</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">the freckles sprinkled across your nose</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">silly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">smiling</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">fearless</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">in love</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">with </span><span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">elephants</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">in love</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">with me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">"wrapped around your little finger"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">the cliche</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">repeated to me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">often</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">it has not taken us long</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">to realize</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">you have this effect</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">on many</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you give hugs so freely</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you play</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">still</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">with toys</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">sleep with stuffed animals</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">(a million)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">you ride</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">the scariest rides</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">arms up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">never flinching</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">always ready</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">for the party</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">for adventure</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">there is a softness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">a sweetness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">on your face</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">in your eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">in the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">squish</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">of your hugs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">you came into this family</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">you carved your own space</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">with gentleness and giggles</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">with expectations of love and affection</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">equal</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">to what you give</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">you are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">your own person</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">and we are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">so lucky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">chose</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">the 3 of us</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">Happy 10th Birthday Aidan Kai...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">You have our hearts.</span></div>
Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-73872266939503078812018-07-14T16:53:00.003-04:002018-07-14T16:53:52.613-04:00The Last Stop: Destin, FL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our last stop on the road trip was Destin Beach, Florida where it was just playing on the beach all day, every day. There were no giant bounce pillows or organized campground activities or a pool with slides or other kids to run around with (<a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2018/07/stop-5-hatteras-island-outer-banks-nc.html" target="_blank">a la OBX</a>), so instead there was a lot of family time and a lot of "<i>Whattaya wanna play now?</i>" Here is evidence (and my favorite shot!) of some of the silliness that ensued during our free time: </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Look at what we can do with our hair, Mommy!"</td></tr>
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<br />The first time we camped in Henderson Beach, Destin was in <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-4-of-us-for-8-days-in-20-year-old.html" target="_blank">2012 during that first "long"short trip</a>. I had been completely amazed by it: no mosquitoes, a gorgeous campsite that was super clean and private and spacious, a beach with water so clear and sand so white that it looked straight out of a postcard. I referred to it as the "Marriott of Campgrounds."<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And we loved it this time, too, for the same reasons. Not to mention that we were exhausted from the last few weeks and all the activities, so a few days of consecutive "just beach" days were very appealing. However, believe it or not, we chose to leave a couple of days earlier than planned. We had all been missing home (even when you're "glamping" in your own RV, some comforts and joys of home can't be matched), and...brace yourselves...here's a sentence I never thought I'd say...ready...? </div>
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I just could not face one more day of hot sun and alcohol. </div>
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I know.</div>
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But it's true. </div>
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By this point of the trip, Hubby and I were getting to the point where we were actually craving acai bowls, water, and vegetables. (You know life's good when you almost have too much vacation time.)</div>
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Plus, I think after so many years of traveling and camping, I've come to realize that although I'm happiest on any beach, some beaches make me happier than others. <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2018/07/stop-5-hatteras-island-outer-banks-nc.html" target="_blank">The bliss and connection I felt in Hatteras in Outer Banks was missing.</a> If OBX was all Roxy and Quicksilver, Destin is all Lily Pulitzer and LL Bean. Nice...but not our thing. </div>
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We spent the days walking on the beach, slathering on layers and layers of SPF, playing in the sand, body surfing, being silly, going crabbing, playing family ladder toss tournaments, stand up paddle boarding, boogie boarding, drinking, and eating. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's Kai's head sticking up out of the sand...LOL</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor Hubby...we called him the Family Mule the whole trip.<br />Here he is carrying my SUP the nearly half a mile walk from the beach back to our campsite!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for our table at the local restaurant...a wait time of an hour did not seem that long when I had beer and beach!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night time crabbing</td></tr>
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<br /><br />It feels like forever-ago that we took that first summer road trip in our first RV. That had felt like such a daring adventure. And now here we are, all these years later...the boys are so much bigger, the trips are so much longer, and the adventures are so much more daring. We are already planning our next summer road trip...this time to the national parks and the Grand Canyon. As much as I joked above about having too much vacation time, don't get me wrong: Hubby and I do not take these days for granted. We're lucky; we know. We've worked at this life, though. We've made changes and sacrifices and every day we work at setting up our lives so we can go on these trips, have these experiences. It is our hope that these days help bond the boys to each other (and to us) even more...that they look back on their childhoods and remember these days...and even more importantly, that those memories help shape them into men who value family, each other, nature, and adventures, because after all...<a href="http://www.quoteambition.com/famous-helen-keller-quotes/" target="_blank">"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.</a>"<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">...and now</span></td></tr>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-48177461244535038292018-07-08T13:04:00.003-04:002018-07-08T13:04:30.725-04:00Stops 7, 8, & 9: Nashville, TN; Lynchburg TN; and Florida Caverns State Park, FLBefore heading back to Florida, we wanted to make a couple of stops in Tennessee for two of our favorite things: country music and Jack Daniels Whiskey.<br />
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<b>Stop 7 was Nashville, TN. </b>We knew this was not a particularly family-friendly town, but we wanted to scope it out and see if it was somewhere Hubby and I would want to go back for a mini getaway in the future. Plus, the kids could say they saw a super popular city, even if they hated it (which, by the way, they did). The campground where we stayed, despite a million excellent online reviews, was a bit bizarre and quite disappointing. What we thought was going to be a cool, family campground with a country theme, turned out to be a clean, but super hot and shade-less parking lot filled with really old and serious folks listening to even older people perform on their little stage at night. I felt like I was stuck in a parody of RV traveling. One of the perks of traveling this way, however, is the flexibility it allows, so we cut this part of the trip short and only spent a couple of days there. We went into downtown Nashville for a few hours on the first day, ate dinner at the <a href="http://fglhouse.com/" target="_blank">Florida Georgia Line House</a>, longed to go into one of the many smoky and totally kid-inappropriate bars we walked by where excellent live music was playing, and watched the city prepare for its huge July 4th festivities.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Nashville<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating July 4th at the bizarre campground<br />Disclaimer: No children were harmed in the taking of these photos</td></tr>
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The next day was <b>Stop 8 Lynchburg, TN</b>...a town that seems frozen in time. Seeing my truck with all the boards parked in front of the Jack Daniels Hardware Store in "downtown" Lynchburg was quite amusing.</div>
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We toured the Jack Daniels Distillery, which, even for non-whiskey drinkers is a major tourist destination, so for us...well, if you know us, you understand.<br />
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The excellent reviews we had read did not lie: this tour was super cool. Even the kids tolerated it. They especially enjoyed the part when they found out that Jack Daniels died of gangrene infection brought upon by a broken toe from kicking his safe in frustration.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggO0vKpfO2oyoZ6vs6fUwIXVgKM8gCZjcpyMUwmWycEuM3k8Tho7fkQ7jY5sJw7ecbTadaLfZuJJycNc_6XFS3ReZh_-7tyIjLxsoJbRXMJV5j15PeDEv2zbAm7FUP5-LchJoifNoT4Co/s1600/file-35.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggO0vKpfO2oyoZ6vs6fUwIXVgKM8gCZjcpyMUwmWycEuM3k8Tho7fkQ7jY5sJw7ecbTadaLfZuJJycNc_6XFS3ReZh_-7tyIjLxsoJbRXMJV5j15PeDEv2zbAm7FUP5-LchJoifNoT4Co/s400/file-35.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dramatization of the fateful moment when Jack Daniels kicked his safe</td></tr>
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And if you've ever seen <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4F61rWFOFc" target="_blank">any of those Jack Daniels commercials on TV</a>....well, all those people really do work there. We hung out a bit with this guy and got some cool stories.<br />
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The distillery is to Lynchburg what Disney World is to Orlando. The entire area (which, ironically, has been a dry county since the days of Prohibition) is completely dependent upon the distillery, which is the only place in the world Jack Daniels whiskey is made.<br />
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We spent quite a bit of money in the store, which sold everything from key chains to furniture made out of the recycled barrels. We have been enjoying some of our souvenirs already...<br />
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After saying goodbye to Nashville and Lynchburg, it was time to start heading back to our home state. <b>Stop 9 was Florida Caverns State Park in Florida. </b><br />
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<a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-4-of-us-for-8-days-in-20-year-old.html" target="_blank">Back when we were rookies at all this RV stuff, we took our first "long" road trip: </a>8 days in Florida, and the caverns was one of our stops. We wanted to take the boys back there, especially since Aidan Kai didn't really remember much.<br />
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Here we are in the caverns in 2012 on that first trip:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2012<br /><br /></td></tr>
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And here we are in 2018:<br />
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One of my first RV-ing memories is of pulling into that campground, late at night, opening the door, and being a bit intimidated and awed by the height of the trees and the darkness in that park. It felt so isolated and "in the woods." It was interesting to go back now, all these years later, and see how the trees weren't really <i>that </i>tall, and it wasn't any darker than other parks.<br />
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We toured the caverns and were once again amazed by them and their natural history. We also did a mini hike that took you by and through some caves which were used by Native Americans and returned to a natural spring recreation area which we had visited in 2012. We had a lot of fun jumping off the diving board and into the cave opening of the spring, and after all those frigid water temperatures in the mountains, 72 degree water did not shock us quite as much as it did the first time around.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aidan Kai's cannonball</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben's dive of joy</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super cool spot but it's no beach...</td></tr>
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Next (and last) stop: Destin, Florida!<br />
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<br />Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8201961112490811175.post-1033313567716732662018-07-05T12:16:00.000-04:002018-07-05T12:16:28.879-04:00Stop 6: Smoky Mountains, NC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6q31UjUchDADngQJSbOI8EDZtQQTiurB4Lh8VLqHlC-3e3hooK7gi90GgAAQVVxnUhDlZdmRG2wc7FwGwa3VMQLZsnx7g2YK0nz7vVW6P5p_NesPAwmHUrdzz_3UxI2jiaMg8zFuQ2zA/s1600/file-22.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6q31UjUchDADngQJSbOI8EDZtQQTiurB4Lh8VLqHlC-3e3hooK7gi90GgAAQVVxnUhDlZdmRG2wc7FwGwa3VMQLZsnx7g2YK0nz7vVW6P5p_NesPAwmHUrdzz_3UxI2jiaMg8zFuQ2zA/s400/file-22.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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If Outer Banks was all decadence and bliss, then the mountains were all ass-kicking and adventure. Base camp was a KOA campground in Cherokee, North Carolina, but we pretty much covered everything from Gatlinburg, Tennessee to Asheville, North Carolina. The mountains portion of this trip was awesome and exhausting. We had 6:00 am wake up calls almost every day, and pushed our Florida flatlanders' asses to the brink pretty much constantly. </div>
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Adventure #1: Get over my fear of white water rafting.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybIRWrLh_m9JM7eA_nJ9HJLm2RjKshH34li_A5TDQRyxnvQ1pOTAjpcWPgqv1uOAQF-W19XhoCpJC_Xu4iMuU8fzbZmauY0UdVeMc0ZV9cIt1jryF7vuo3omRvIAYgDIbq7WDL0s9JQg/s1600/file-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybIRWrLh_m9JM7eA_nJ9HJLm2RjKshH34li_A5TDQRyxnvQ1pOTAjpcWPgqv1uOAQF-W19XhoCpJC_Xu4iMuU8fzbZmauY0UdVeMc0ZV9cIt1jryF7vuo3omRvIAYgDIbq7WDL0s9JQg/s400/file-9.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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I had only been white water rafting once, and if I had the picture with me now, I would post it here so you could see the proof of my terror: I literally threw myself into the bottom middle of the boat in the fetal position in such a way that you can not see me in the picture. At all. So, needless to say, when the boys all said they wanted to do this, I was not looking forward to it. I'm not sure if it's the fact that the kids were with us this time, but somehow I managed to put on my Big Girl Pants and get on that raft. Because Hubby was certified in white water rescue back in the days, and because he actually knows what he's doing about 99.9% of the time, we opted for the self-guided ride. The deal was this: Whatever he said to do on that raft, the three of us were going to do it. This was one of the very rare times in the history of this family when there was no arguing about who among us is the Alpha.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PeszYL-vHq1xfqBqzf4UF5jB2EKOvupVYL4jNDPsZ_jELACnoUf9A1ZJV9ry82gJ2mohuQrpgHJMR06hRbXMdjZTZtkRTUdfcY-tN9ofD3SBmWh2I7hfBYNUZknlAAdwZqPs850U89w/s1600/file-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PeszYL-vHq1xfqBqzf4UF5jB2EKOvupVYL4jNDPsZ_jELACnoUf9A1ZJV9ry82gJ2mohuQrpgHJMR06hRbXMdjZTZtkRTUdfcY-tN9ofD3SBmWh2I7hfBYNUZknlAAdwZqPs850U89w/s400/file-11.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmsXTofhiROsBmFfHohk-Evao_KrPE9CFWxVdtdhYoayson_3HDzwb5ofZGI-LxNrB6-5l7AC1vTlDI8NABQyzCXqGzQsnMOWKIurz6YwZbHmv0w9NhdciKh6vxKIExetOozfl0PcNrI/s1600/file-12.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmsXTofhiROsBmFfHohk-Evao_KrPE9CFWxVdtdhYoayson_3HDzwb5ofZGI-LxNrB6-5l7AC1vTlDI8NABQyzCXqGzQsnMOWKIurz6YwZbHmv0w9NhdciKh6vxKIExetOozfl0PcNrI/s400/file-12.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Most of the river was class II, some III mixed in, and one class IV drop at the end. We managed to get through that last one without anyone falling out of the boat (or dropping to the floor in the fetal position and missing the photo op entirely), but boy, were we ever not graceful...<br />
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We watched other boats do that rapid later on, and every one either went straight through the line expected, around it, or even zig zag...a few people did fall out...but everyone pretty much was facing forward somewhat. Not us. Nope. Forward was too easy. We went up and over the main rock and ledge...backwards. Let's just say our Alpha Guide was shouting out some expletives amidst his orders of "Paddle hard right! Paddle hard right!"<br />
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I think we were all so relieved when we realized we had made it without losing anyone, that the look on our faces was pretty priceless in some of the shots.<br />
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Amazingly, this little adventure completely eradicated my fear of white water. I actually, for a moment, debated doing it again. And talk about family bonding...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioImPwhxS1we3odU4S5h0gz4qIi6NTBVg-AEsYD7BdkmVY3uc_Ewd7OgFiJWSE3p8F-TxUxnkcpVStxrrUX2azXK9kxuYaLSEtzrVLt_xQEW8u7kCnAsPHOsdl2iuh9c8OlwYJ6JJInts/s1600/file-13.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1026" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioImPwhxS1we3odU4S5h0gz4qIi6NTBVg-AEsYD7BdkmVY3uc_Ewd7OgFiJWSE3p8F-TxUxnkcpVStxrrUX2azXK9kxuYaLSEtzrVLt_xQEW8u7kCnAsPHOsdl2iuh9c8OlwYJ6JJInts/s400/file-13.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Adventure #2: Hike the 6 mile trail of Looking Glass Rock in Pisgah National Forest.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8xSTjM-teWFxd9YtGP3VDFrUbzArkS34QOBTiNGwRN3AIpgGF_7E2EPwVgCxZhQnS_KuYMDpErMMlZXkBtPrMg8dmfIreueTTycM4A2i1dqqZPovHnBnIJVsI7anGCt8CVLMsiOMVac/s1600/file-14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1082" data-original-width="1600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8xSTjM-teWFxd9YtGP3VDFrUbzArkS34QOBTiNGwRN3AIpgGF_7E2EPwVgCxZhQnS_KuYMDpErMMlZXkBtPrMg8dmfIreueTTycM4A2i1dqqZPovHnBnIJVsI7anGCt8CVLMsiOMVac/s400/file-14.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We hiked 3 miles up to an elevation of 3,970 feet, to a stunning overlook (with a scary-looking drop) that made the work worth it for a 9-year-old, a sometimes-surly preteen, a middle-aged woman with a somewhat-still-busted-post-op-knee, and an ever-optimistic and uber-athletic Hubby who got stuck carrying about 30 pounds worth of all our water, lunch, bug spray, and just maybe, some baby wipes I snuck in there. I'd like to say that the 3 miles down were a piece of cake, but we were passed by quite a few people, during which I wanted to yell "We are from the very flat, flat state of Florida!"</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uxB1TW9e5z_R1jJL8J9oYrN7lQSC5XK1X63P4_rjqfHUAf91QeCDM4zVdsBiIBkFLI4FOYj9fv_ii3zhacP3gZS-iEYjgIK5BdJRLwZIOblgQFO5E3hy6ffFPUl79ZhGrnbIY-ByoPY/s1600/file-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1600" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8uxB1TW9e5z_R1jJL8J9oYrN7lQSC5XK1X63P4_rjqfHUAf91QeCDM4zVdsBiIBkFLI4FOYj9fv_ii3zhacP3gZS-iEYjgIK5BdJRLwZIOblgQFO5E3hy6ffFPUl79ZhGrnbIY-ByoPY/s400/file-15.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View at the top after the first 3 miles</td></tr>
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<br />After that, we drove a few miles to <a href="https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=sliding+rock+north+carolina&view=detail&mid=9057205ACB34FEBF4DF49057205ACB34FEBF4DF4&FORM=VIRE" target="_blank">Sliding Rock</a>, a place we had seen on videos online, but, as South Floridians, had a hard time wrapping our heads around. Hubby and I were actually not too excited about this one, but the boys <i>really</i> wanted to do it, and since they managed to complete the hike without ever complaining once or admitting they wanted no part of it, we figured we owed them one. <div>
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Boy, am I glad. It turned out to be one of the <i>funnest</i> things I have ever done.<br />
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Adventure #3: Slide down a 60-foot waterfall<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDy8XOfvoHz4b_AiEoB_aXMTl2CNbDzBduxdPRHaQJNGcr86reoV5gDfxaMdHjyaemf2hGh73zGDPiu-aDK6pxg2OBWV5H_TQdX41UTE4yLDMc9oupJ0xPAruV-nr5jphLIUxNIpnZt_o/s1600/file-16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDy8XOfvoHz4b_AiEoB_aXMTl2CNbDzBduxdPRHaQJNGcr86reoV5gDfxaMdHjyaemf2hGh73zGDPiu-aDK6pxg2OBWV5H_TQdX41UTE4yLDMc9oupJ0xPAruV-nr5jphLIUxNIpnZt_o/s400/file-16.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Sliding Rock is a natural boulder that has been smoothed out over time enough that people can slide down the 60 foot waterfall relatively unscathed and plunge into an 8 foot deep "pool" of 50 degree water. Words to describe: freezing, thrilling, silly, butt-scratching, bumpy, fun. I sincerely thought, before I got there, that maybe I would do it once, just to say I did it, but I felt like a little kid wanting to go back "again and again" and "one more time." It wasn't until I bruised the right butt cheek on a wayward rock ledge and scratched the left on that one-damn-rough-spot-that-pretty-much-no-one-else-managed-to-slide-over-except-me that I finally called it quits. The best part was that you were allowed to slide in groups, pairs, train formations....so the four of us had a blast. I literally could not stop giggling the entire time we were there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLD2cqUHcJ-O5fr8TXMlSbro38kd6AlH0gUPzAT2qY7ceTbHt3YV0bgjP53diHLAsELZBe9MgCjAgWlA6tB2Jtk5xq4PcFTaCR9aY_gMNcRgaRiCAbA7CFwqCdyKTRu31-HGBDqis95ak/s1600/file-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLD2cqUHcJ-O5fr8TXMlSbro38kd6AlH0gUPzAT2qY7ceTbHt3YV0bgjP53diHLAsELZBe9MgCjAgWlA6tB2Jtk5xq4PcFTaCR9aY_gMNcRgaRiCAbA7CFwqCdyKTRu31-HGBDqis95ak/s400/file-19.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy and the boys after their "train" came apart</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the boys...we started out together holding hands but inevitably would always come apart</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby and me...of course, I'm holding my nose while he is all arms in the air woo-hooing</td></tr>
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After Sliding Rock, we drove into downtown Asheville for a pizza dinner and the best ice cream sandwiches we've ever had. That was one of those days...from morning to night...when you just go to bed with a smile on your face, feeling grateful and exhausted all over.</div>
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Adventure #4: Aerial Park (or, When the hell did I develop a fear of heights?!?)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEWkq0vQEZr1CA1M9tQ96zVOhdflZqYLdlj8DLQIXIpOTAVmQT0CsbmMWsJjmL8XQXIzWH9KUziFaQ8Ni3YMQl9Wr2XSdOR_FFunmIbsVnJ1CNXs49K2hfq_1vN86jSy6bZlI07tJTrE/s1600/file.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEWkq0vQEZr1CA1M9tQ96zVOhdflZqYLdlj8DLQIXIpOTAVmQT0CsbmMWsJjmL8XQXIzWH9KUziFaQ8Ni3YMQl9Wr2XSdOR_FFunmIbsVnJ1CNXs49K2hfq_1vN86jSy6bZlI07tJTrE/s400/file.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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We drove into Tennessee for an Aerial Park Adventure. <a href="http://but-then-i-had-kids.blogspot.com/2015/07/stop-7-loon-mt-new-hampshire.html" target="_blank">We had done this before in New Hampshire on a much larger and higher scale,</a> so I wasn't worried. Little did I know that, apparently, while I wasn't looking, my mind decided to develop an unnatural fear of heights. We listened to the safety spiel, harnessed up, clipped in, and climbed the tower. I wasn't nervous. I wasn't worried. I, in fact, was the one who insisted on doing this particular activity. Then I stepped onto the first "challenge" as they call it: a log suspended about 20 feet in the air. Complete and utter panic. Tears welled. Heart drummed. And I thought for a second that I couldn't do it. I would simply go back the one whopping step and go back to the ground. I think the only thing that stopped me from doing just that was the disbelief: I have never been afraid of heights! What the hell is wrong with me?!? So I pushed through...did a few while literally holding back tears...had to go back to the ground to center myself a bit (I insisted I just wanted to take pictures of the boys to everyone but Hubby). Then I made myself go back out there. The boys didn't even find out I was freaking out the whole time until almost the end. In fact, once Ben found out, he was so kind and protective, it made the whole experience worth it. At one point, I was making it to the end of a particularly challenging obstacle, and he was standing on the platform waiting. I started to fall (which really means I would have fallen about 2 feet before my harness caught me), and he grabbed my rope and kept saying (in the same exact tone we would have used with him or his brother) "It's okay. You're okay. I've got you." </div>
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We spent three hours on the course, which ranged from a minimum height of 14 feet and soared to over 50 feet up at its highest. The boys did a couple of the highest, while I completed most of the ziplines and challenges on the first level, all the while literally hugging the trees as I arrived on each platform. I think I did more of my meditative breathing at this place than I have in all my yoga and meditation sessions combined! (That breathing shit really works. FYI.)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would love to say this was a silly, posed shot, but nope...that is literally how I would stand on the platforms while waiting for my turn.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aidan Kai on one of the lower challenges while Ben and Daddy wait on the side platforms</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqpa7P0cWXBHS_dvQCJGnhwRx31NLFB__hCNIKgbSEgjxlITUVztraAey85douGp2dzc3PkaBEJZDXl0q_6on1Oi1iQN6uBQmipoWmifgrnI6cNqKcAJU9ZKJ-5m7T84RwXpQ8s4AkWk/s1600/file-16+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqpa7P0cWXBHS_dvQCJGnhwRx31NLFB__hCNIKgbSEgjxlITUVztraAey85douGp2dzc3PkaBEJZDXl0q_6on1Oi1iQN6uBQmipoWmifgrnI6cNqKcAJU9ZKJ-5m7T84RwXpQ8s4AkWk/s400/file-16+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the easiest challenges that didn't scare me so much so I managed a smile</td></tr>
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Adventure #5: Tubing (Lazy river, my ass!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYFtKpaMtBvYTl1vEZ362tdR7AWgv8KUHdoe9548nJm6D_Tl2qtWFf8vcYvDMhRqJgjDNNdaIwn8O9oL2TaIzL3eKLemT5-Dda3sx4fK29boWpByHQmDBgTNdbHnUcEIwco2lSOOJDrA/s1600/file+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYFtKpaMtBvYTl1vEZ362tdR7AWgv8KUHdoe9548nJm6D_Tl2qtWFf8vcYvDMhRqJgjDNNdaIwn8O9oL2TaIzL3eKLemT5-Dda3sx4fK29boWpByHQmDBgTNdbHnUcEIwco2lSOOJDrA/s400/file+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Don't let this serene pic fool you....</div>
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Perhaps we should have known we were in for a little more than some lazy tubing when the teenage girl returning her tube declared it as "eventful" and the lady at the desk chuckled as she declared that "the river is really high and fast today, so you're gonna have some class IIs in there..."</div>
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Give us an ocean filled with sharks, jellyfish, waves, and rip currents and we are good to go. Put us in a river on some giant floaties and watch us nearly drown.</div>
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Most of the river was either calm, like the picture above, or fun little rapids, but there were a few spots where overhanging trees along the edges and rocks made for a couple of close calls. Incident #1 happened when the rope we had used to tie our tubes together got caught up on a tree limb right over a super strong current, trapping Aidan Kai right over the rushing water and nearly flipping Ben, who I saw panic for one of the first times. Hubby managed to get everyone unstuck and onto dry land, but it left the boys (and me) a bit shaken. Incident #2 happened after we decided that the rope was a bad idea, and Aidan Kai fell out of his tube. Watching your kid floating down a river with no life vest as he desperately tries to swim to the shoreline where his brother is reaching out to grab him is no joke.<br />
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Incidents aside, we did have a ton of fun on our first tubing adventure. We felt kinda silly that we had found it so rough, but felt a bit validated when, back at the campground, one of the local "mountain people" told us he wouldn't let his grandkids do it because the river was a little too high and dangerous.<br />
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More reason to love the ocean...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Incident #1</td></tr>
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Adventure #6: Hike 4.6 mile Alum Caves Trail Hike</div>
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We decided to do one more hike after reading about the Alum Caves Trail Hike, in Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. The trail is 4.6 miles and has an elevation of 4,955 feet. This hike had more to see the whole way, as opposed to just the one breathtaking view at the top. As we hiked, the kids stopped to explore little pools in the streams and build rock cairns. There were pseudo-bridges made of logs with "railings" on only one side, rock stairs with cable handrails along Arch Rock, panoramic mountain views, and Alum Cave Bluff, a massive concave overhang that towers 80 feet high. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering Arch Rock (you can see the "cave" and the rock stairs to the right of the bridge)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at the Bluff</td></tr>
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Prior to this one, I had never really enjoyed my mountain trips very much. We had either always had bad weather or other glitches that made me wonder why so many people loved traveling north for these kinds of vacations. And I'll be honest: green mountains just do not impress me. (Put 'em up against a backdrop of clear turquoise waters, however, and I'm sold.) But this trip was just pure <i><b>fun</b></i>, and I found myself wearing a shit-grin most of the time. It was just the four of us. Just playing. I can finally say I loved a trip to the mountains and want to go back. <i>BUT</i>...I still spent a lot of time at the campground drinking Coronas, missing the beaches, and listening to <a href="https://www.kennychesney.com/videos/34839/pirate-flag" target="_blank">Kenny Chesney's Pirate Flag song</a>, completely understanding why he sings: "<i>I come from a little bitty, homegrown small town, Smoky Mountains, nice place to hang around...but I jumped on a greyhound bus one night and took it all the way to the end of the line...</i>" I guess you can take the girl out of the beaches, but you can't take the beaches out of the girl...even when she has an awesome time playing in the mountains. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2tduGRit2bRbzqqvFG_l-ishseN8Pqj5wvRnPG1pZ7tt-LVl9mKQRPzYgjT13nrHqJZUlX9sMYcU2KxjCvcwbmT-mBgiH6EDmNqFRP595Pzs_hIXrofnvS4x0f-YLHtepYVb0JStEcw/s1600/file-9+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2tduGRit2bRbzqqvFG_l-ishseN8Pqj5wvRnPG1pZ7tt-LVl9mKQRPzYgjT13nrHqJZUlX9sMYcU2KxjCvcwbmT-mBgiH6EDmNqFRP595Pzs_hIXrofnvS4x0f-YLHtepYVb0JStEcw/s400/file-9+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Next stop: Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Liz Aguerrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465793815137696650noreply@blogger.com0