tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61195691993170250912024-03-13T20:26:43.979-07:00Things to Write Down - in the (Mom)entLoni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-79150448860259302582018-02-03T20:49:00.001-08:002018-02-04T06:56:26.613-08:00Head Case<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We drove along the hilly road towards the shopping area on
the south side of town, busy Christmas music blaring as we stopped and started
through red and green lights as part of the lunchtime traffic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perusing a bunch of bustling store aisles for the remaining
odds and ends on my Christmas shopping list with three little ones in tow wasn’t
going to be easy, especially when they hadn’t had their lunch yet. And the busted handle on Holden’s car seat
would make things even more challenging.
I’d discovered the day before that its locking mechanism had suddenly become
faulty—that instead of clicking in place when set upright for carrying, sometimes
it would slide back when lifted, and then the seat and buckled baby would
unexpectedly dump forward like a load of coal, giving me heart palpitations in
the process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, it made sense for me to get this trip over with. I needed to go car seat shopping, for one. And taking the kids with me now instead of
venturing out during some of my elusive free time was totally worth it. Plus, it would be good for the kids to get
out of the house. They’d enjoy looking
at all of the flashy Christmas décor and I’d let them scope out the toys. I’d get them chicken nuggets for lunch at the
food court, and they could run around in the mall play area while sneaking
peeks at Santa in his big, comfy chair nearby.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d be driving in the opposite direction with full tummies
and shopping bags shivering in the back of the minivan before we knew it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were going to get through this. It was going to be fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just hadn’t thought to consider whether everyone else would
make it through our little outing unscathed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…Because not everyone would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hobby Lobby was our first stop. Trying to safely carry the wonky car seat through
the parking lot while holding my busy little boy’s hand was the trickiest
part. Other than that, everything went
pretty smoothly there. Each and every delicate display of holiday knick-knacks
remained miraculously intact in spite of our presence. We especially enjoyed looking at a giant
Santa figurine with a “nice list” that had Alice’s name printed on it in fancy
cursive lettering. And Rowen didn’t even
throw a fit when it was time to hang the shiny motorcycle ornament back on its
hook when it was time to check out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although externally, things went off without a hitch at
Hobby Lobby, something subtle started in my mind when I smiled at an elderly
lady in the entrance of the store. I had
just switched Holden from his car seat to the carrier and I felt like a mama
kangaroo with her newest little joey curled up cozily in her pouch and her
other two roos hitching a ride upon the cart.
I fully expected the woman to smile back at us with a rosy-cheeked, gleamy-eyed
look that said, “What a precious handful you’ve got there!” Because I’d seen the look many times before.
But instead, I was met with a deadpan stare that seemed to say, “Yeah. I see you’ve got kids. <i>And</i>?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It caught me off guard.
Initially, it was just this funny little thing that happened, but
quickly, quietly it snowballed into this menacing question that repeated itself
every time I encountered another person:
What does this person think when they see me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s rare for anything good to come from asking that
question and I wish I’d realized I’d been asking it, quite compulsively, before
it was too late.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was hard enough trying to be a smart and savvy shopper when
my ears were being assaulted by a toddler whining directly into my face and a
preschooler complaining that her legs were getting tired, but when I invited
the nerve-wracking element of what other people may or may not have been
thinking into our personal shopping errand, it was almost too much to take.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For each and every strained and stressed-out move I made, my
mind easily whipped up new labels that the people around me could’ve potentially
been placing upon me, the frizzy-haired freak in the pea coat and sweat
pants. Most of these labels had to do
with my performance as a mother. Over
and over, I imagined them seeing me as “that mom who (fill in the blank).” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One moment I was that mom who enables excessive whining. The next, I was the one who’s too hard on her
kids. I was also that mom who tortures her kids by
repeatedly saying “just a minute” when we all know things are going to take
much longer than that. I imagined them posting
open letters on social media to “the mom at the store who behaves as though her
business is more important than everybody else’s just because she has kids,” or
to “that mom who keeps retaking pictures of her fidgeting preschooler with her
phone, forcing the poor thing to stand still and smile long after the authentic
moment has passed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No longer were we this sweet public petting zoo of fuzzy
kangaroos for passing shoppers to approach and admire. Now we were an obnoxious traveling circus and
I was the unkempt keeper of the wild animals who were literally hanging off me
and my cage-like cart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pressed on, shunning these unfounded thoughts to the best
of my ability as I zeroed in on the tasks at hand—pull Rowen’s thick legs out
of the single hole he’s jammed them into in the cockpit of the cart, decide how
much money is going on these gift cards, go with my gut and just buy that
person this gift that I’ve picked up and put back five times because I’ll
regret it if I don’t and will wind up making another nightmarish trip back here
in a couple of days anyway, and finally, drag everyone all the way back through
the labyrinth of aisles and customers to the other side of the store for one
last bag of chocolate to make the 3-for-$9.00 deal work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can do all things through Christ who gives me
strength.” I exhaled Philippians 4:13 as
I approached the busy checkout section to wrap up this most taxing portion of
our outing. I wanted to embody a cross
between Jacob Braude’s famous description of a duck who keeps its cool on the
surface while churning the waters beneath and the proverb about being like a
tea bag whose strength is unseen until it’s placed in hot water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the perfect opportunity to put myself through the
tea bag test, because temperature-wise, I was burning up. I get hot easily enough under normal
circumstances—you could say I’m an “extra” warm-blooded person—so you can
imagine how I felt after wandering around in a sweatshirt with a big-for-three-months
baby strapped to the front of me for over an hour. And with the way he was starting to grunt and
stir, it felt more like I was wearing a ticking time bomb. He was getting hungry. The kids were getting hungry… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Combine a time crunch, cranky kids, and claustrophobia in a
crowded store and you get one hot mama whose blood has been boiling long before
she’s even been given a reason to rage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sputtered at static-y hair sticking to my lips and took a
few swigs from my water bottle to stave off the monster headache I could feel
coming on. Just when I was starting to get
really desperate—wishing a customer ahead of us would recognize my plight and
let me slip ahead—a Target worker’s face appeared in the sea of backs and butts
before me. He announced that a register
had opened directly in front of mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hesitated a couple of seconds to see if anyone else was
going to go for it, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet to hold off
Holden’s howling. I was a game-faced
kangaroo mom with boxing gloves on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When no one moved, my fate was sealed for the next several
seconds—that register was mine. The only
thing standing between us was a person—a girl wearing black capri leggings with
wool socks and those thick-framed, nerdy-chic glasses with the lenses covering
half her face. With how narrow Target’s
checkout lanes are and how big they make their carts, there was no way I was
getting around the girl without asking her to please skootch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no time to be shy about it. “Excuse me,” I called out loudly. When she didn’t turn around, I went around my
massive cart and tapped her shoulder.
“Excuse me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She whirled around, startled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi. Is it OK if we
just squeeze past you to get to that register?” I asked, scurrying back and gripping
the cart’s throttle…er…handle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being polite in a hurry has never been my forte. I feel like I always come across as really rude
or psychotic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, um, uh, sure,” she responded, fumbling with her cart to
make room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know. These lanes
are so narrow,” I said as I pushed the cart forward. “But I think we can make it through. Thankyousomuch!” And just as the front of my cart started to
pass Nerdy Chic’s, I realized I still had a blonde-haired barnacle in a green
winter cap clamped onto the side. She
was scrunched in the space between our carts.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, oh!” Nerdy Chic softly exclaimed, hovering her hands
protectively over Alice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew Alice would be fine, but I figured I’d better check
on her based on the concern contorting Nerdy Chic’s face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you OK, honey?” I asked. “Can you stand up nice and straight? We’re just gonna <i>squeeze </i>through here real quick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned to Nerdy Chic and hastily assured her, “It’s
OK. She’s OK.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nerdy Chic didn’t look convinced. She haltingly cradled
Alice’s head and let out another sympathetic, “Ohh!” as I forced the cart
through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thought hit me—“<i>She
thinks I’m some selfish mom who cares more about winning the race to the check-out
than about the well-being of her own daughter.”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was “that mom” again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to take a light-hearted approach to defending
myself against my suspicions and pretended to ram the cart in the direction of
the open register. “I’m like, ‘Ahh! I gotta get over there! Ha, ha ha!’” I cackled, hoping that by
mocking myself, she’d let me off the hook and stop giving me that look. It seemed a girl in big glasses would have a
good sense of humor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…You’d think, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No such luck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just didn’t want her to hurt her little head,” she explained
in a tiny, tender voice, touching my daughter’s head for the final time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s when I’d had it.
My daughter didn’t need an advocate fussing over her. Not when she was in my care.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t <i>either</i>,”
I scowled, barely looking at Miss Mousy Millennial as I stepped out of her line
and barreled towards the open register like a bull seeing red. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After spending my entire trip guarding myself against a
constant barrage of jagged-edged judgments, my claws had finally come out. The only problem was that all of the
nastiness had taken place inside my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…Except for the thing I’d just done. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turned out, I was the only mean person I’d met all
day. Yep—I’d done a bang-up job of
spreading good old-fashioned Christmas sneer.
No wonder my name hadn’t been on Hobby Lobby Santa’s nice list.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallowed hard—literally representing the term “hot and
bothered—as I rumbled along. I yearned
to go back and apologize to the girl—to explain that my stress level had been
skyrocketing before I’d even gotten to her—and that it still was—but that I
shouldn’t have taken it out on her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I should actually be
thanking her for caring about my daughter,” </i>I realized with a sudden sting
of shame.<i>
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I was running out of time. The kids were all squirming, especially
Holden, who was due to detonate at any moment.
Plus, Nerdy Chic had already started placing her items on the counter. Going back to talk to her would’ve meant
clogging up the area all over again. I
felt like I needed to unclog myself first—to drain myself of all of the
defensiveness and paranoia and anxiety still storming in my system—before attempting
any kind of apology. Otherwise, chances
were I’d dig myself an even deeper hole than the one I was already in, making
the meantime into an even “meaner” time, if you know what I mean, and instead
of having one thing to apologize for, I’d have ten. I knew
because I’d sabotaged saying sorry many times in the past. I didn’t want that to happen now—especially not
with a complete stranger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt conflicted and convicted—still angry, but also
ashamed. I pushed all of my sticky
feelings aside so we could get out of there as quickly as possible. I skidded to a halt at the open register and
looked up to find a familiar cashier—an upbeat, shaggy-haired woman who adorably
mispronounced her “Rs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello!” I smiled maniacally, still revved up from the
adrenaline of rage and regret.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you have a Target
RedCard?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nope!” I responded
from the other side of the cart. “Sorry
I’m throwing stuff!” I had packed my merchandise
all the way around Holden’s sprawling car seat.
My ability to bend over the cart was hindered by having Holden strapped
to me, and I didn’t want to have to keep walking around it to unload it, all
the while dodging Alice, who was now roaming free. So I simply began throwing everything onto
the conveyor belt. Duck and chuck. That was my strategy, even though I knew it
was obnoxious. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Nerdy Chic was watching, I figured maybe it would make
her feel better to see that she wasn’t the only recipient of my recklessness. I imagined her cashier watching me with
widened eyes as she commented on my outrageous behavior. “Can you believe how <i>rude </i>some people are? I
heard what she said to you back there.
And that poor little girl!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She’s probably just having a hard day.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imaginary Nerdy Chic was so gracious and kind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found two more hidden bags of Hershey’s Kisses and hurled
them like grenades. I sneaked a peek at
Real Life Nerdy Chic—I couldn’t help it.
She was staring at her feet, looking sad and self-reflective. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crap. I’d shattered a
fragile soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You should really think about signing up for a RedCard,” my
cashier continued. “You get 5% off every
purchase and there’s even a debit card option.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d gone back and forth about the RedCard on past shopping
trips to the point where it had become something of a joke between us. She’d ask me, “Has your husband changed your
mind about letting you sign up yet?” And
I’d smile and shake my head. She was
kind of my buddy. But that was back when
I used to go to Target more often. It
seemed she’d forgotten me in my absence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought that, perhaps if I reminded her, she’d recall our
little ritual. I lifted the car seat to
check for any hidden merchandise and grinned through gritted teeth, “We’ve talked
about this many times before.” As I said it, though, I realized how snippy it
sounded. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, OK. Sorry about
that,” she stammered quietly, seemingly caught off guard by my directness. She kept her head down as she scanned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Man. I was on
fire. And not in a good way. I felt like a first-class dragon lady. Definitely not a cute, composed, tea
bag. A dirt bag was more like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, no, no. I wouldn’t expect you to remember!” I breezily responded
as I slid my card. I plastered on a
vacant smile and detached myself from the fact that I was inches away from
having a major public meltdown. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once we exited Target’s checkout lanes and wandered into the
wide-open walking area of the mall, I fought the urge to stay in that distant,
detached, “checked-out” place. I wanted
to ruminate on everything that had just transpired until I arrived at some kind
of resolution, but I also knew I needed to be present with my kids. I wanted to throw my flailing thoughts in a
box and shove them aside until I had some alone time to sort them out. I figured the best way to do that was to
pray—to give it to God my Father and trust Him to counsel to me through it whenever
He saw fit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I allowed myself another minute inside my head as we entered
the food court. I prayed for Nerdy Chic—that
my behavior wouldn’t harm her or ruin the rest of her day. I prayed that she wouldn’t despise her good
intentions. I prayed that she’d forgive
me, and herself, if she was feeling badly for stepping on my toes. I prayed that God would turn the entire
situation around for good and His glory and that He’d use my words and actions
to bring life and not death. And
finally, I prayed for another chance to apologize. I knew I hadn’t gotten a close enough look at
her face to be able to recognize her in the future, so I prayed that if we were
to ever cross paths again, she’d remember me and approach me so I could say “sorry”
and “thank you,” too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ordered chicken nuggets and fries to go with the baby
carrots and clementines I’d brought for Alice and Rowen and a Jr. Whopper and a
Coke for myself. The cashier handed me
cardboard crowns for all three kids, even though he knew Holden was too young
to wear one. We found a table to sit at
on the edge of the dining area and I adjusted the crowns to fit Alice’s and
Rowen’s heads.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I smashed the circular crown down over Alice’s golden
hair, she grinned up at me and insisted that I wear Holden’s crown. I knew it was just a silly, throw-away thing
from a junk food joint, but I didn’t feel worthy of it. I put it on anyway, for the kids’ sake, and stared
off into space, nibbling on my burger as the brooding resumed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I realized there was a five-second delay for every
response I was giving to the kids while they chattered at me, swinging their
legs and licking ketchup off their fingers, I turned to Alice and said, “I’m
sorry I haven’t been answering you, sweetie.
I have something on my mind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She popped another salt-sprinkled fry in her mouth and asked,
“What’s on your mind?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was such a grown-up response that I had to remind myself
I was speaking with a four-year-old so I wouldn’t collapse into a fit of
incoherent crying as I answered her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I feel bad because I was rude to that lady in the checkout
line back at Target. I wasn’t very nice
to her, and I wish I could tell her I was sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d had to gulp between words and some tears seeped out, but
I’d held it together, for the most part.
Confessing my wrongdoing out loud was a relief, especially when I’d been
worrying that Alice had picked up on my pride and poor example. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I praised the kids for doing a good job eating their food
and looked around at the busy food court, hoping my face wasn’t beet-red as I
sipped my soda. Just as I was wondering
whether it was obvious that I was the kind of person who lashed out at
strangers, a white-haired lady approached our table and placed her delicate
hands on the back of one of the empty chairs.
She looked around, slowly taking us all in with her lips pressed
together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mind started racing again. Was she an angel? Did she have some sort of message for me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She commented on the kids and the fact that there were
three. She asked them their ages and
names and I translated for her. She
actually wasn’t saying much, so I offered up the fact that we’d been looking at
the toys in Target and were headed to the play area next. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You need to relax first,” she nodded matter-of-factly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gawked up at her.
So it was true. God had sent me a
Christmas angel. Or, at the very least,
He had sent an unwitting messenger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cringed, caught in the act, and confessed, “I know…I’m a
little amped up.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited for her offer me more words of wisdom in her soft, straight-forward
tone, but she just stood there, so I smiled and told the kids to tell her “Bye-bye!”
and “Merry Christmas!” to end the awkward moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After she walked away and I started gathering all of our
garbage onto my tray, I realized that, rather than advising me to settle down, the
woman had simply been commenting on the fact that we were taking a break in the
food court before going to the play area.
Rather than saying, “Get a grip, girl,” she was more-so saying, “Oh, I
see. You’re taking a break first. That’s a good plan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smirked at my mistake. It did make me feel better, though, to know
that we had once again become a mild, amiable petting zoo that little old
ladies and the like felt welcome to stop and see. And even if she hadn’t been advising me to take
it easy, I knew that’s what I needed to do, and that that’s what God had been
telling me all along. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, I get so worried about what other people are
thinking that I forget to take my anxious thoughts captive to the obedience of
Christ. I let them capture me instead. As Proverbs 29:25 states, my “fear of man”
becomes a snare, and rather than reaching out to the outside world, I become
trapped inside my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But praise God, who offers me a way out in every
circumstance where I find myself encased.
When I’m stressed and hard-pressed, wedged-in and wild with worry, He
cradles my crazy head and leads me through into a spacious place. And a gracious place, where forgiveness is
free and He gives me space to get a handle on how much I can handle in this intensely
sweet, sensitive, insane season of being a mom of three little ones. He gives me strength when I feel fragile, and
I know I can expect the same in each new season to come. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you, God, for this indescribable gift. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Psalm 118:5— “<span style="background: #FDFEFF;">When hard pressed,
I cried to the Lord; He brought me into a spacious place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Isaiah 40:11—“He tends His flock like a
shepherd: He gathers the lambs in His
arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have
young.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Matthew 11:28-30—“</span><span class="woj"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you
rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn
from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for
your souls. For my yoke is easy and my
burden is light.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="woj"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="woj"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2 Corinthians 12:9-11</span></span><span style="background: #FDFEFF; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—“</span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But he said to me, <span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"></span></span><span class="woj"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is
made perfect in weakness.’</span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so
that Christ’s power may rest on me. <b><sup> </sup></b>That
is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in
hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am
strong.</span>”</span></span><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-43492505696335247722017-11-30T12:49:00.001-08:002017-11-30T13:06:38.973-08:00This Too Shall Pass<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s not like this is
going to last forever…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thought stands silently-yet-firmly at the back of my
mind, encouraging me to keep pressing on in spite of some of the more trying
moments that accompany this season of life.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkucAjijhwRoATfMOJdMnuzBI7g0yC9lteAwVr_rs9GJqOVaZxLq7ghafXZbkaxqH7O68hFG5uWpAkc8zzsftmiyggXTr4WkadHqIQKN2-FkuafjpnbQEifnVKV0qBt5cCvOomPfr5IsM/s1600/IMG_4666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkucAjijhwRoATfMOJdMnuzBI7g0yC9lteAwVr_rs9GJqOVaZxLq7ghafXZbkaxqH7O68hFG5uWpAkc8zzsftmiyggXTr4WkadHqIQKN2-FkuafjpnbQEifnVKV0qBt5cCvOomPfr5IsM/s320/IMG_4666.JPG" width="320" /></a>I remember it when I’m meandering through a crowded Walmart
store at 4:30 pm with an infant, a toddler, and a preschooler in tow, trying to
keep the spinning preschooler out of the way of other shoppers and the toddler
from twisting around and waking the sleeping infant as I attempt to stuff a
week’s worth of groceries around the infant’s bulky carseat. I remember it when the preschooler suddenly
announces she has to pee, not only because it’s going to be a chore to trek all
the way across the expansive store and drag all three kids into the potty room
with me, but because my daughter is completely terrified of the
automatically-flushing toilets. I
remember it as the four of us enter the last stall in our winter coats, my
toddler’s mittens-on-a-string dangling down and kissing the dirty floor as I
pull the preschooler’s pants down and she starts screaming bloody murder at the
cacophony of flushing toilets and blasting hand dryers surrounding us. I remember it as I gently-yet-forcibly set her
down on the seat, telling her she’ll feel so much better once she goes and that
I’ll hold her hands the entire time as I pray the other customers don’t start
to speculate that some form of abuse is going on inside our stall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I’m huddled in the corner of our living
room couch, attempting to nurse a distracted baby as the two-year-old and
four-year-old shriek and wrestle and bounce around next to me, bumping into me as
I shield the baby’s head and shove them away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when it’s the night before Halloween and I’m
learning I’ll be taking the kids trick-or-treating solo for the second year in
a row because my husband will be working out-of-town overnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVVD1-0sxGOilJrdrwFJvwrXnweipgdso_02WgJLsWAmN5Ti9nPbEs5ohKm127dhNsrKCPKEzNdxROiDHY55WnFiXwZ6uXhyphenhyphenjUQfI2a0sXcj0hyphenhyphenB_3KAKjAr9U_0taoE2fo-gX4-EKas/s1600/IMG_4709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVVD1-0sxGOilJrdrwFJvwrXnweipgdso_02WgJLsWAmN5Ti9nPbEs5ohKm127dhNsrKCPKEzNdxROiDHY55WnFiXwZ6uXhyphenhyphenjUQfI2a0sXcj0hyphenhyphenB_3KAKjAr9U_0taoE2fo-gX4-EKas/s320/IMG_4709.JPG" width="320" /></a>I remember it when I’m racing around the house to the sound
of a screaming infant, tripping over kids as I change their diapers, fix their
hair, and stuff them into puffy coats and gloves that make it near-impossible
to get their little fingers into the right places, all in a mad dash to get the
four-year-old off to preschool on time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I’m yanking the two-year-old off of the
newborn for the umpteenth time in a row for fear that he’ll either crush or suffocate the baby with his lumbering love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I’m attempting to make a double batch of
cookies to share with the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdXEr_p1rX0MuAz5iMItePtojJA2s239o5-_5swWC40yE7NpXfvXmZQexBvA6v_Uu0NrcSqPJ0IdQZpI-VecpoyON5xCTOjvMZKyY8AaSSF1TAIjaooZMI9QqSzfeFmGH_vC6Bs0okP8/s1600/IMG_4388+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdXEr_p1rX0MuAz5iMItePtojJA2s239o5-_5swWC40yE7NpXfvXmZQexBvA6v_Uu0NrcSqPJ0IdQZpI-VecpoyON5xCTOjvMZKyY8AaSSF1TAIjaooZMI9QqSzfeFmGH_vC6Bs0okP8/s320/IMG_4388+%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
neighbors while the baby snores in his carrier,
drooling on my chest, and the other two twerps suddenly pop up in front of me, blinking
brightly, asking if they can please “help.”
I remember it when my focus gets fudged by their chatter as they’re
taking turns dumping in cupfuls of flour and I have to take the four-year-old’s
word as to how much they’ve already put in.
I remember it when the cookies come out of the oven smelling delicious
but looking flat as pancakes and it takes me two hours of distracted, start-and-stop,
trial-and-error to fix them because I’m stubborn and cheap and the thought of
tossing them makes me want to “toss my cookies” in a whole different way.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I go on a harried Christmas shopping
spree for toys only to find out the next day that all toys from that store are
25% off. Alanis would call the scenario ironic,
but it’s actually just annoying. I
remember it when I drag myself across town to return the gifts and rebuy them
for that one-day sale, and I remember it again when, thanks to all of the weird
videos of grown men and women unpackaging and playing with the latest toys on
YouTube, my daughter proceeds to change the top item on her Christmas wish list
on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…Oh, I remember it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I’ve finally finished cleaning our grimy
kitchen only to find that the two-year-old has completely torn apart the back
two bedrooms in the process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when I consider my now-regular wardrobe of
sweatpants, baggy T-shirts, and hoodies, when I suddenly notice how long my
fingernails have gotten because I don’t take the time to trim them, and when I
try to run my fingers through my hair but can’t because of the dreadlock-like
snarls that have formed near the base of my neck from lack of brushing,
because, again, who has time for that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember it when it’s the end of a long day of caring for
and playing with my three high-maintenance monkeys, and after the toddler has
gone to bed, all I want to do is collapse on the couch, but the preschooler
innocently approaches me and asks what we can do for some “special time”
together. Then, after she’s long been
asleep and so has my husband, I remember it when the baby won’t settle down
after his final feeding. In tired
desperation, I lie him down on the couch near my chest, facing me, and I listen
to him squeak and sigh and sing sweetly into my heart, and as we’re both
drifting off into dreamland, I remember to savor moments like these, because it’s
not like this is going to last forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-52400678010000976552016-04-04T13:43:00.000-07:002016-04-07T07:37:21.548-07:00Spring Break<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwJVfyh5aq6hFaPl94hTB_zBoPCeaY8DvNIbQC9HTPgeAUbtH8O5mVj7HQGoCJ1JYFTRDqmjAZKDtxAVXtBQFrFczYjbmBYdyrRMeBU_6Pg829x_SugkexLtAlOddnouwFabiZxIR2O0/s1600/IMG_0055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwJVfyh5aq6hFaPl94hTB_zBoPCeaY8DvNIbQC9HTPgeAUbtH8O5mVj7HQGoCJ1JYFTRDqmjAZKDtxAVXtBQFrFczYjbmBYdyrRMeBU_6Pg829x_SugkexLtAlOddnouwFabiZxIR2O0/s320/IMG_0055.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I have tufts of purple frizz sticking out from the bottom of my messy bun—evidence of the hair-dying escapade I embarked on with my daring older sister, Danni, when I visited home last month. I actually liked the purple surprise peeking out from the underside of my ponytail, because it made me feel like the <i>My Little Pony</i> toys I played with as a kid. Since I like to shower at night and I am too impatient to blow dry my hair, however, I wound up with violet stains marring my pillowcase and marking the backs of many a T-shirt collar. (Lucky for me, I only wear my husband, Ryan's shirts to bed. Haha.)<br />
<br />
In the end, I decided I wasn't up for the upkeep involved in channeling my inner punk, so I tried to dye the hair over with a warm brown to make it match the rest of my head, but apparently, electric purple is more stubborn than I’d anticipated.<br />
<br />
Maybe purple should be the color associated with stubbornness, just like yellow goes with cowardice, green with greed, red with anger, blue with sadness, and so forth and so on. <br />
<br />
If that’s the case, this ear infection I’ve had for three weeks is<i> totally</i> purple. After taking four different types of antibiotics, I’ve started to get the hearing back in my left ear, though the infection has been simultaneously muffling and amplifying my breathing, making it sound like Darth Vader has set up camp inside my head. <br />
<br />
I suppose that would be fitting, because I’ve felt a little Darth Vadery lately—all moody and mad, like I’ve got a bone to pick with the tone life has taken as of late.<br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong—all in all, things are going pretty smoothly and I’m grateful for that.<br />
<br />
There are just a few key things that aren’t operating in the most turnkey fashion, I guess you could say, and it has me feeling frustrated.<br />
<br />
My three-year-old daughter, Alice, was watching <i>Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood</i> on PBS this week, and on the episode she was watching, I overheard Daniel’s mother describe being frustrated as feeling like you can’t do what you want to do.<br />
<br />
That totally describes me right now. Daniel Tiger-son, wisdom flows fiercely in your family's tiger blood.<br />
<br />
My camera lens is busted and my beloved laptop, a beautiful, black Toshiba my husband surprised me with several years ago to show his support for my foray into the world of creative freelance writing, is also broken.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXO1aPkPdkzdu7NqOcM1D8HW_6htzJ-3gAZR0UzQpW2n7TPAJJrKQGUUrSKqJC8vdn9KqR0WpfgCuoD5O09bh0oEZiiVMAtc1mt8b_Y7qtxFyr02ERk5wMxpPRmdbyhzHdkh711cBhKI/s1600/IMG_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXO1aPkPdkzdu7NqOcM1D8HW_6htzJ-3gAZR0UzQpW2n7TPAJJrKQGUUrSKqJC8vdn9KqR0WpfgCuoD5O09bh0oEZiiVMAtc1mt8b_Y7qtxFyr02ERk5wMxpPRmdbyhzHdkh711cBhKI/s320/IMG_0049.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
And this all has me feeling a little broken and busted up myself.<br />
<br />
Maybe the spring’s to blame. I actually love springtime, but one thing about it is that it makes winter melt, and hiding beneath that pure, snow-white blanket of concealment that once covered the ground is, quite frankly, a load of crap. Yes, crap—thawing dog droppings to be exact, along with garbage gone undetected for months, pot holes…<br />
<br />
That’s how I feel. I feel like I’ve hit a giant pot hole and someone (or should I say “Someone?”) has pressed the pause button on every project I had planned to complete with the aid of my computer and camera.<br />
<br />
My plan to hurry up and finish that online photography class? Cue the whining trombone. (<i>Wah, Wah, wahhh</i>...) <br />
<br />
My personal project of compiling and printing off all of our family photos from the past year? Sidelined.<br />
<br />
The personalized baby board book I’d wanted to organize and order before my son, Rowen’s, first birthday? Postponed.<br />
<br />
All of the notes I'd compiled for the blog posts I intended to write as soon as the timing was right? Temporarily lost, and I so hope and pray their loss<i> is</i> only temporary.<br />
<br />
I felt similarly stuck last spring after giving birth to Rowen, except it involved the breaking down of my physical appearance. Though I'd taken the time to set up our home and get all of our baby gear ready before he was born, I'd neglected to assemble some supplies of my own—ones that would keep me from feeling like a total frump following the delivery.<br />
<br />
All at once, I was out of contact lenses and eye make-up—both of which were expensive and a pain to obtain. My hair was a mass of split ends, overdue for another dose of dye. Most of my clothes were either ill-fitting or worn-out. And, as could only be expected for any post-expectant mama, I felt completely out of shape.<br />
<br />
It truly is frustrating to feel like you've been prevented from carrying on with life as usual. In my present situation, however, I'm starting to wonder if maybe...just maybe, God has allowed two of my most precious possessions to break in order to take the pressure off of pastimes He'd originally intended for my pleasure—to remove the stress from things He'd meant to bless me with. It's like He has me on a forced vacation—a spring break, if you will.<br />
<br />
Speaking of breaks, a funny thing has happened since I started writing this—my phone has suddenly gone on the fritz—chiming incessantly and saying it's charged when it's not. And the touch screen has gotten really touchy—responding to my poking and swiping in some cases and going numb to my forefinger and thumb in others. <br />
<br />
So basically, it's broken. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBu-cDuxR2UJ13tN7liwJnmtb0hRzEa0dF9KWznO9GW_mN733q1yZPtKXRDM4A8NIPS7g4j7kkRz5YVzRbTsN1JrC8ZaAlUtScupHnZhIHadIFrk5rLlSnjJ2lZ88hP9FA7QE71Dwpehc/s1600/IMG_0059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBu-cDuxR2UJ13tN7liwJnmtb0hRzEa0dF9KWznO9GW_mN733q1yZPtKXRDM4A8NIPS7g4j7kkRz5YVzRbTsN1JrC8ZaAlUtScupHnZhIHadIFrk5rLlSnjJ2lZ88hP9FA7QE71Dwpehc/s320/IMG_0059.JPG" width="240" /></a>You know what they say—when it rains, it pours, and we've just entered into the month of April showers. But it’s OK, because I’m trusting the One who gently gives and takes away, who works all things together for my good even when it doesn’t feel so good, and who teaches me to dance in the rain. Through letting a few little things in my world go to pieces, I believe He's giving me peace.<br />
<br />
As I said earlier, springtime may be messy, turning up debris and dead leaves and doggy doo-doo, but it’s also a season of beauty and of new beginnings, of refreshed perspectives and of positivity. <br />
<br />
A little over a week ago, Alice and I dyed Easter eggs, and while I taught Alice about colors, God taught me about having a better attitude. Together, we dipped the eggs in dyes of yellow, blue, red, and green—colors that spoke of cheerfulness instead of cowardice, serenity instead of sadness, romance instead of rage, and growth instead of greed. <br />
<br />
And, ironically enough, the prettiest, most vibrant egg of all turned out to be purple—stubborn old purple. Stubbornness isn't <i>always</i> such a bad thing, though. <br />
<br />
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For example, I will choose to stubbornly move forward through this season of disappointment and disrepair not with a limp but with a spring in my step that comes from believing in the God who makes all things new and beautiful in their time, including cranky little me. </div>
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I don't know what you think, but I'm pretty sure God's not gonna let <i>that </i>spring break.<br />
<br />
<i>"I will send showers, showers of blessings, which will come just when they are needed" (Ezekiel 34:26b, NLT).</i>Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-31584825124055467182016-02-18T12:08:00.000-08:002017-11-30T12:51:01.909-08:00Priorities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fIpALIQGZMWS9mNdkz4owAmrWVbPu1gWPzfzATxLvvJgsc4FzH8yu055_TAiAkqPTCnEaR8YArT55bHeq9RsmKTZL0L0qagKeuaodv0Kw6Hq02v4qFPPDiwOfjQAGK9NOewoY0HkvWU/s1600/feb+2016+2+014_edited-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fIpALIQGZMWS9mNdkz4owAmrWVbPu1gWPzfzATxLvvJgsc4FzH8yu055_TAiAkqPTCnEaR8YArT55bHeq9RsmKTZL0L0qagKeuaodv0Kw6Hq02v4qFPPDiwOfjQAGK9NOewoY0HkvWU/s400/feb+2016+2+014_edited-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTAOnQaBsMFWgNHY461Fqg7STZYUvocnCW2d2FMl4vHpS7WHsqVk2LhLgwYXbmHa1oDVd9m4mBcupgDRAmnEc_B57xcyT9iiUabcD0rbq-sug8hW84vHjG7Z6PoLOGa_sI8Ljm7Lkebk/s1600/feb+2016+2+008_edited-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTAOnQaBsMFWgNHY461Fqg7STZYUvocnCW2d2FMl4vHpS7WHsqVk2LhLgwYXbmHa1oDVd9m4mBcupgDRAmnEc_B57xcyT9iiUabcD0rbq-sug8hW84vHjG7Z6PoLOGa_sI8Ljm7Lkebk/s400/feb+2016+2+008_edited-2.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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Where are they today?Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-55008653296502684592016-02-07T19:20:00.000-08:002016-02-10T11:52:54.292-08:00On My Hands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3geZ5pClmfCPelviOFip3_yWY7f_mG8xcUPQTpC_hJw7Jfq7JGsFFCf3ZYodDr6dptGiIWrihVBG9e6nS7MMaRt5Ibztcr6gejUgfHpmsILgCV520u0cBiIaaZydxNG2n6iu2jSq2EE/s1600/peep%2527s+3rd+bday+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3geZ5pClmfCPelviOFip3_yWY7f_mG8xcUPQTpC_hJw7Jfq7JGsFFCf3ZYodDr6dptGiIWrihVBG9e6nS7MMaRt5Ibztcr6gejUgfHpmsILgCV520u0cBiIaaZydxNG2n6iu2jSq2EE/s320/peep%2527s+3rd+bday+026.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Rowen had a blow-out diaper this morning. When I went to change it, I announced to Ryan
(my husband), “I’ve got poop on my hands,” not actually meaning that I had poop on my hands, but that I simply had a messy diaper to deal with. But then I looked
down at my fingers, and sure enough, I actually did have poop...on my hands. Oh, the joys of mommyhood. ;)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-19185477224622543632016-02-05T19:07:00.000-08:002016-02-07T10:35:33.170-08:00Naughty Pants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEvv_by7ht0k5pJwCXXsaKUqb2Q7Ohh8wfONE9YNuKj8cKmtK6KebAckslbDTB7oELx352mcx7Ee60lwJntZTNNibO2iagVDypdXuLTTQfgNKYJq2PEpd-gdABBjrsRk1X9LMRlns4OA/s1600/naughty+panys+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEvv_by7ht0k5pJwCXXsaKUqb2Q7Ohh8wfONE9YNuKj8cKmtK6KebAckslbDTB7oELx352mcx7Ee60lwJntZTNNibO2iagVDypdXuLTTQfgNKYJq2PEpd-gdABBjrsRk1X9LMRlns4OA/s320/naughty+panys+004.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most people have heard about crabby pants, and they’ve heard
about big girl pants. Many have even
heard about traveling pants, as in <i>The
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants</i>, but did you now there is such a thing as
naughty pants? Yep. Mmhmm.
They are a thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know because my daughter, Alice, has a pair. I bought them off of the clearance rack at
Old Navy last spring. I didn’t even like
them all that much at the time because they were skinny jeans overalls (just
plain old awkward) and they had thin shoulder straps that formed a weird “Y” shape
in middle of her the back instead of the traditional set of parallel straps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In spite of my better judgment, I purchased them. I guess I thought that, like the homely-at-first-glance
<i>Little Mermaid </i>jumper someone gave
her for her baby shower, they might transform into something completely
adorable the moment I slipped them onto her.
Plus, they had a delicate white flower print all over them. Who can resist a pretty flower print? And especially at the low, low price of five
measly smackeroos?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, I’d sure love to “smackeroo” the person that sold them
to me. Not really, but I now know why
they were on the clearance rack, reduced in price for quick sale—it’s because
Old Navy wanted to get rid of them. They
knew what those pants were capable of and they wanted them off their dirty, no-good,
hustlin’ hands. I guess I can’t blame
them. (On a positive note, I did find a very
cute, very harmless-looking thermal shirt for Alice at Old Navy yesterday that
only cost a dollar.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m starting to suspect that the “Y” in the back was designed
to stand for “naughty,” as in “naught<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Y</span>.” OK, so that’s <i>probably</i> a stretch, but seriously, as
soon as Alice puts those pants on, it’s like this unruly aura overtakes her and
she’s completely defenseless against the pants’ corrupting powers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It starts with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and then it
spreads to her mouth, forming “The Grin.”
Maybe you’ve seen other kids do it.
With her, it looks like this: she
juts her chin out, squints her eyes, crinkles her nose, and grits her tiny,
white corn kernel teeth together. The fact
that she has fairly wide spaces between her pearly whites makes her look like a
shark, giving “The Grin” an even freakier effect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here’s an example:
she was sitting on the potty a couple of days ago, with the overalls
pushed down to her ankles. After she’d
done her business and I’d wiped her, she suddenly pulled up her underwear and
sprinted out of the bathroom with a wild shriek, the buckles clanging against
the linoleum like shackles and chains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Alice!” I
whisper-yelled as I pushed myself up off the ground. I took off after her into the living room,
trying to decide which behavior to address first. “Rowen’s <i>sleeping</i>! Be quiet and get<i> </i>over here!” (Rowen’s bedroom,
the bathroom, and the living room are all very close in proximity.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I got a hold of her and started pulling the overalls back up
over her pale little legs, but then she purposely began buckling her knees,
slumping down onto the ground like a wet noodle, and laughing wickedly all the
while. “Alice!” I hissed, still whispering. “Knock it off!” I wish I could say that we succeeded in
getting the overalls fastened without discipline being administered, but we did
not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After I dumped my wild little pill off in her room for a
much-needed nap (much-needed for both of us), I heard her chirp, “No! I not goin-a-bee good!” Her happily-defiant declaration was followed
by a sinister horror movie giggle. I
shook my head and staggered over to the living room, where I plopped down onto
the couch and waited for her to fall asleep, which she eventually did. Thankfully, after giving me a good kick in
the pants, the overalls took it pretty easy on me for the rest of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, if you can believe this, I had her wear them again
today, but it was only because I knew I’d be writing this post and I wanted
some pictures of the infamous Naughty Pants in action.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX6QONZnqY3JzGgTlOv2kW-G4w0Q8xIFpwxCUBALxnI8wJDqv3mWNWdISPiol9Lgxf-uv-FUJA8-fuqulSfTlmpnW5huPIaNEsIhHCYS-PE_E2FR2uZBFZ8OMlGJvfvlNzadHxuKK2mo/s1600/naughty+panys+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX6QONZnqY3JzGgTlOv2kW-G4w0Q8xIFpwxCUBALxnI8wJDqv3mWNWdISPiol9Lgxf-uv-FUJA8-fuqulSfTlmpnW5huPIaNEsIhHCYS-PE_E2FR2uZBFZ8OMlGJvfvlNzadHxuKK2mo/s320/naughty+panys+007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The ironic thing was that Alice was actually behaving quite
sweetly until I directed her to start jumping on the cushions and climbing over
the arms of the couch to stage misbehavior for a picture. She’s normally not allowed to do those
things, so you’d think she’d jump (literally!) at the chance to engage in the
forbidden with my permission, but nope!
She gave me a few half-hearted bunny hops and then refused to climb up
the side. She was misbehaving by <i>not </i>misbehaving, if you can believe that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Alice! Please!” I
begged, pulling the camera away from my face and turning up the
enthusiasm. “Jump right over here! C’mon!
It’ll be fun!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was then that the power of The Pants officially kicked in. “No!” she giggled, dashing into the kitchen,
the ugly denim “Y” bobbing in full view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Alice!” I scolded.
“Get back here!” I couldn’t believe I was getting after her for <i>not </i>jumping on the couch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgyWF_KWTuy56hFVe1uOR8ddnCYPFUAH-CiJI3uiqeTYRYF7r0Qf46aIwlmR3gdwrILzi3l1oLKJ9mojyG0Mwl6SBJgaofScjnuVlbyk1hfpKMhw9enCiTrYJ9qZ2HMAbnKyyLi44ees/s1600/naughty+panys+005_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgyWF_KWTuy56hFVe1uOR8ddnCYPFUAH-CiJI3uiqeTYRYF7r0Qf46aIwlmR3gdwrILzi3l1oLKJ9mojyG0Mwl6SBJgaofScjnuVlbyk1hfpKMhw9enCiTrYJ9qZ2HMAbnKyyLi44ees/s320/naughty+panys+005_edited-1.jpg" width="185" /></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The charade continued for a few more frustrating minutes
until I finally realized how ridiculous (and undoubtedly confusing for her) the
whole thing actually was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A little bit later on, Alice, Rowen, and I were sitting
together in the living room. Because her
birthday’s in a few days, I asked her, “What do you think you’ll get for your
birthday, honey?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“<i>Kee-oh!” </i>she
replied, flashing me The Grin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>“Kill?” </i>I repeated,
trying not to sound too shocked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yeah!” she answered, bounding off the couch. “Kee-oh!”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I chose to ignore this random act of rebellion and changed
the subject. After all, only The Pants
could’ve inspired such an off-the-wall and inappropriate response as that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">…So why don’t I just get rid of those wicked pants, you may ask, by
giving them away? (C’mon, that would be cruel!) And why don’t I just toss
them? The answer is simple: Because I paid five dollars for them. I realize I said earlier that they were
cheap, but on the same token, five dollars is five dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe I sound a little crazy, but no biggie. I blame my pants. (They’re the Devoid of Reason sort.) ;)</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119569199317025091.post-14905039850247042682016-02-04T13:47:00.000-08:002016-02-04T15:21:34.205-08:00Properly Exposed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Gtm-IDxrHmSJdxSR71HajtUwLDbGNzJ8rW1rUj0GEwEP12ZZd7spvDqRpAIoBcEZSZXm_Zy-iBupa1UI_2ksO6HTU-ufuB8FVrhzGG2kKJ7B-VRpra1Fi7hSDSmGEQRWiypfgLQl994/s1600/jan+2016+017_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Gtm-IDxrHmSJdxSR71HajtUwLDbGNzJ8rW1rUj0GEwEP12ZZd7spvDqRpAIoBcEZSZXm_Zy-iBupa1UI_2ksO6HTU-ufuB8FVrhzGG2kKJ7B-VRpra1Fi7hSDSmGEQRWiypfgLQl994/s400/jan+2016+017_edited-1.jpg" width="377" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I officially found out today that I indeed do look as tired
as I feel. And not only tired, but <i>old. </i>I remember a comment my mom once
made about how presidents tend to age a lot from the beginning of their terms
to the end because of all of the stress they endure while in office. Well, I’m not exactly President of the United
States, but next Monday, I will have been Mom of the Swensen Household for
three years (yeah, yeah, I know I’m a dork), and I think the same rule applies
to my position. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d begun to suspect that perhaps I was starting to look
older when I observed the broadening crow’s feet curving out from the corners
of my eyes like spare smiles. But I
brushed off any negativity that accompanied the observation, reminding myself
that I’d always hoped to have crow’s feet when I got older, since they seemed
to be signs of a joyful, friendly person.
One girl in my high school youth group even used to say that she
pictured Jesus with crow’s feet. That
and red, red lips. She would grin and hiss when she said "lipsss", like she was really relishing the image. The red lips part
secretly scared me, but I always loved the idea of Him having crow’s feet. People with crow’s feet are just so
approachable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I noticed the bags, too.
You know, the puffy, dark under-eye circles that serve as indicators of
actual, physical baggage in one’s life.
Not to say that my children are “baggage,” but they are most certainly a
responsibility. My almost-three-year-old,
Alice, sure gives me a run for my money.
<i>She</i> runs. Everywhere.
And she talks. Non-stop. And she’s learning to use the potty (‘nuff
said). And my increasingly-active nine-month-old,
Rowen, is shaping up to be a real mover and a shaker, too, what with all of his
rockin’ and rollin’ and what not around the house. (Literally.
He has yet to crawl, but he rocks on his hands and knees like a madman and
he rolls across the carpet like his onesie’s caught fire.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I visited one of my good friends, who is also a mom to two
young children, this past fall with Alice and Rowen. One day, while sitting on her living room
floor with our tiny tots, we were talking about make-up, and how, though we
each struggled with getting it on our faces before lunchtime each day, wearing
it was important—even when we planned to stay in—because it helped us feel more
engaged with the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“There is one part of my face that I purposely leave make-up
free,” my friend admitted, her hazel eyes twinkling with self-satisfied rebellion. “I don’t cover up the dark circles under my
eyes because they’re sort of like a badge of honor…for being a mom to young
children.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d known what she was talking about. We’d snapped a lot of pictures of each other
during my stay. One of my favorites was
an image I’d captured of her standing on her porch, smiling down at me as she
cradled her brand-new baby in a pink swaddle blanket. The morning sun shone radiantly upon her
head, creating a sort-of halo effect atop her famously-frizzy brown hair. I told her I loved the image because I felt
like it captured a certain kind of glory that accompanies the exhaustion of a
woman postpartum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d totally meant it at the time that I said it, but today I
say…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ga-lory Scha-mory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...Not about her.
About me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know I’m not a mom to a newborn anymore, but I’ve still
got the under-eye baggage, which is currently making me feel like one <i>giant </i>bag—an old one! I have yet to research ways to conceal my two
little “badges of honor” (ha!), but as soon as I find the time, I will! Unlike my pooped-out-and-proud-of-it friend,
it was never on purpose that I left my under-eye bags unchecked—I guess I’d just
been in serious denial of how pronounced they actually were! Maybe <i>that’s
</i>why she’d brought up the whole leaving-the-dark-circles-uncovered thing in
the first place—because she’d assumed I was doing the same thing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nope. I was just
clueless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thank my DSLR camera for helping me finally see the light
a couple of days ago. Well, I <i>sort of </i>thank it. I’m also sort of mad at it. While I’m loving the clarity and crispness it
brings to the photos I take of my rosy-cheeked, porcelain-skinned children, I’m
finding the camera does a little bit <i>too </i>good
of a job of capturing the complexities of my rapidly wrinkling complexion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d been taking some “selfies” (I hate that word, by the
way) of myself and Rowen below our long line of living room bow windows while
Alice napped. All of the pictures were
going to be close-ups since my camera had no “zoom in/out” function and
propping the camera on a chair and setting the timer wasn’t giving me the same quality
of exposure that I got from pushing the button myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yeah, the camera did a <i>great</i>
job of providing exposure. <i>Too</i> good of a job, because when I
stopped all of my snapping to check out the images, I felt <i>completely</i> exposed. Pretty
much naked. The pictures were so clear,
I could even make out the outline of my contact lenses against the whites of my
eyes. Cheek wrinkles, forehead wrinkles,
crow’s feet, under-eye circles…every blemish and scar and freckle was laid bare
before my eyes as I gasped and pulled my baby’s grabby little paws away from
the appalling screen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I used to watch <i>What
Not to Wear </i>like the show was going out of style<i>. </i>One of the hosts, Stacie
London once said that if you put on an outfit and look in the mirror and think
that something looks a little funky, it’s probably true. As much as you’d like it to be the case, the
mirror isn’t just playing tricks on you and you aren’t imagining things. I guess the same goes for dark circles and
wrinkles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have three sisters.
Two are older and one is younger.
Throughout the years, I’ve been asked repeatedly whether I’m the
eldest. I used to wonder if it was
perhaps because I came across as a little more mature than the rest. (Anyone who knows me very well is probably
laughing right now. My sisters are
undoubtedly rolling their eyes.) Well,
roll no further, bag-free and beautiful eyes of my sneering sisters, because I’ve
finally figured out the reason behind their erred assumption: I look old.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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Loni Swensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14058195848786576773noreply@blogger.com1