tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25511426071642121732024-03-18T21:59:33.988-06:00Two Sisters And My MisterThe Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.comBlogger347125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-85554906466331062912022-04-23T11:00:00.010-06:002022-04-24T10:21:17.865-06:00Sense of Self<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Is my hair dicked up?" she asked, as she took off her helmet. Yes, she said that. And yes, she learned it from me. We were in the desert, our little family of four, literally miles from civilization. And yet, here she was, worried about her hair. We had been riding dune buggies for hours, our cheeks ripped raw from the wind, our faces caked in trails we had just crossed. There wasn't another person from us to the horizon, but none of that mattered. Clara needed to have her shit together. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(For the record, her hair was super dicked up, but I wasn't going to be the one to tell her.)</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><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/AVvXsEgA8UcEfboR203fnHnJzyaqR693BSnwuw1_sCos7N97TtWEm80S46Kw561vsN89H_mlTo_57UZunqyeZYko_YDjNgL56zfOt3qYVzNhe2apMJWMn3o1yN0AY8Gb5fTE4t2rNciCmPrXVnjnykIJpeleLT7KE6Tex4ngRg9f44p4ITFNA3g4j1KhPjzWcQ/s4032/20210116_163803%5B1%5D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8UcEfboR203fnHnJzyaqR693BSnwuw1_sCos7N97TtWEm80S46Kw561vsN89H_mlTo_57UZunqyeZYko_YDjNgL56zfOt3qYVzNhe2apMJWMn3o1yN0AY8Gb5fTE4t2rNciCmPrXVnjnykIJpeleLT7KE6Tex4ngRg9f44p4ITFNA3g4j1KhPjzWcQ/w300-h400/20210116_163803%5B1%5D.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYEE1rIFuInMCr2gaYIjlNclOGSIfqg4JbPTr6hbcVw-A9yLNZWShek0NbfHiMFXDyBamF3CBTvoW7zBcLOPK_bXV4-Axry-E5Og5rZn0LymFDzqca3FYY2az3WimCMAbEMkwx3b_-QVcTG8WTX2cCLoWIiCFb2zQA3kRclhrUqg6F_yvWiUd6BQgyA/s3648/20210116_165305%5B1%5D.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYEE1rIFuInMCr2gaYIjlNclOGSIfqg4JbPTr6hbcVw-A9yLNZWShek0NbfHiMFXDyBamF3CBTvoW7zBcLOPK_bXV4-Axry-E5Og5rZn0LymFDzqca3FYY2az3WimCMAbEMkwx3b_-QVcTG8WTX2cCLoWIiCFb2zQA3kRclhrUqg6F_yvWiUd6BQgyA/w400-h300/20210116_165305%5B1%5D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslT4f93Qe20EacQN7dy3lRWEHXyQrNhMGA3Mef2LzkHXcpiAzG44mFcoNlIczkjXvzll0Zqa6ZVFmJ12zAdU3JmcOXrdAZNcit684mG3hE0imP78GZ1ut_Bfjvec4HJKSJq_YGs24ZXI5t-MzSRomCocpwWU-ZjADc4xH00SLEqDpwCQFA39PDlCZWQ/s4032/20210116_162921%5B1%5D.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/AVvXsEgslT4f93Qe20EacQN7dy3lRWEHXyQrNhMGA3Mef2LzkHXcpiAzG44mFcoNlIczkjXvzll0Zqa6ZVFmJ12zAdU3JmcOXrdAZNcit684mG3hE0imP78GZ1ut_Bfjvec4HJKSJq_YGs24ZXI5t-MzSRomCocpwWU-ZjADc4xH00SLEqDpwCQFA39PDlCZWQ/w300-h400/20210116_162921%5B1%5D.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">From the time she could dress herself, Clara Josephine Lorenzo has been obsessed with her appearance. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Not worried about it, obsessed with it. If there was ever a concern that she would be lost in her sister's shadow, Clara's sheer existence ensured that never happened. She has spent hours rifling through my closet, trying on my shoes, twirling in my dresses, and wearing my lipstick like she's about to head out for a night on the town. And I let her. I always let her.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Morgan never loved to be fancy the way Clara does. In fact, Morgan has never been one to put herself in the spotlight. Where Morgan prides herself on staying behind the scenes, Clara will pick center stage. Every. Single. Time. People like to tease me that Clara is just like me. My "mini me" they like to say. Except she's not. She IS me. All of my sass, my wit, my confidence, squeezed into the body of a soon-to-be seven year old. She is too much. And I love it. All of it. Even on the nights when we both lose our shit and I threaten to take away her birthday (yep, did that just last week), and especially on the days when she is faced with a moment that defines her character. And she handles it like a boss.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhIYJgm_ajutQj5LhH2RrfC5RnEwTtucFSJKKc3PiJzk5brCReHMAJSmT3YP1z-UNmiwutrEZBeFm_JMKgPNL6GEyVdphiJiMAkAJ0q4qLPn22rIjIdsOpyQ0IBCLLZgAtfQqxvWUG8hsKOngJOvDDNrjnWL9oKs6y7NGkSgMduuDzFCQybefertEVw/s4032/20210415_203653.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/AVvXsEgrhIYJgm_ajutQj5LhH2RrfC5RnEwTtucFSJKKc3PiJzk5brCReHMAJSmT3YP1z-UNmiwutrEZBeFm_JMKgPNL6GEyVdphiJiMAkAJ0q4qLPn22rIjIdsOpyQ0IBCLLZgAtfQqxvWUG8hsKOngJOvDDNrjnWL9oKs6y7NGkSgMduuDzFCQybefertEVw/w300-h400/20210415_203653.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpox7kXB32dUMygJjnkQMTHK3DkBwADT_tIGzI7MkxzQMEBY3iDu8bUsyydrI9N2lrlhWuDboHYSThLY8hGz2uk0xToHYHY9wqZwm29iLR5080WUY6m0Q8Avw_Nl2DGYsHOoIAcYrtSukwfvEOG5VMBm9LcgC5gqsJvUl_onsSR5D0eTJ4UQcTAXjlfg/s4032/20210124_180056.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/AVvXsEhpox7kXB32dUMygJjnkQMTHK3DkBwADT_tIGzI7MkxzQMEBY3iDu8bUsyydrI9N2lrlhWuDboHYSThLY8hGz2uk0xToHYHY9wqZwm29iLR5080WUY6m0Q8Avw_Nl2DGYsHOoIAcYrtSukwfvEOG5VMBm9LcgC5gqsJvUl_onsSR5D0eTJ4UQcTAXjlfg/w300-h400/20210124_180056.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09OmH9TYH_IS4sh6K5z8Jk-exWFLciNN1rsy-YqIFepjoEC4ypPu0RW3N_pm9cwbPINCtqa78UDt6hDzlHRvVJmz6Cy3hX4AqqWfGrrGDijrflscCaO8g2GF05gLjAzx078nCNGLCrIdWgZhrtYJRTyYxsQW4ETuQE21yCmRLR0F8bokIsuZX3ii2dA/s4032/20210101_210221.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/AVvXsEi09OmH9TYH_IS4sh6K5z8Jk-exWFLciNN1rsy-YqIFepjoEC4ypPu0RW3N_pm9cwbPINCtqa78UDt6hDzlHRvVJmz6Cy3hX4AqqWfGrrGDijrflscCaO8g2GF05gLjAzx078nCNGLCrIdWgZhrtYJRTyYxsQW4ETuQE21yCmRLR0F8bokIsuZX3ii2dA/w300-h400/20210101_210221.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One of those moments happened this spring, shortly after Clara made the bold decision to cut off all her hair. In the spirit of full disclosure, Clara's motives may have had less to with fashion and more to do with me not brushing her hair, but it was still a bold move. Now, Clara has a number of bad ass role models with short hair, but yet, I worried. I know the "rules" about gender norms, and I know the expectations regarding little girls with pigtails and fancy dresses. And I know Clara could give two shits about all of that. But even in 1st Grade, kids are mean. Girls are mean. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ultimately, her haircut was an impromptu decision. David was out of town, and Great Clips was closing in 30 minutes. It was a Saturday night, and Clara absolutely NEEDED her new look for school on Monday. And so we did it, all of it. Gone. Not one bit of hesitation. And it was glorious. And so we celebrated. With lip gloss and French fries. The way classy bitches do.</div></span></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/AVvXsEhEPRPrZzvDvbVdVlVo64yPuKQ4CvQsxxkWjTk8qPqZDIQztIfS4LCN1SD6cglMHmsRoM5qDOqIntiZ0LYW8jrQ9Mm362NfnCut3n8pKf2yqG_Fqmb6k1VUsTtTxA8F45tOBPyxCarzAdbJrjVpzymvDUzuYLhN-mCxD4lmBaKVkw8aiGzpVmPafwbp-A/s4032/20220122_182622.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/AVvXsEhEPRPrZzvDvbVdVlVo64yPuKQ4CvQsxxkWjTk8qPqZDIQztIfS4LCN1SD6cglMHmsRoM5qDOqIntiZ0LYW8jrQ9Mm362NfnCut3n8pKf2yqG_Fqmb6k1VUsTtTxA8F45tOBPyxCarzAdbJrjVpzymvDUzuYLhN-mCxD4lmBaKVkw8aiGzpVmPafwbp-A/w300-h400/20220122_182622.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkhSuQEVXyuMU7LM1hljjoQuB1TKC8rR7BXQ4fPY8QOPg_b8CmJ_TL291X-3RDsI75aQDQ1biM0-epWn3_eFQekygaO1LYOWEq2M3U7D7Xy6Dgj4O1WAaf-xECqZcoUyUJXdw9V6g_-Xo6ov0JJOzLaTNj2meX6x8Gb1TbHJr7NN4ZAOEP7rvodmReA/s4032/20220122_182543.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/AVvXsEjjkhSuQEVXyuMU7LM1hljjoQuB1TKC8rR7BXQ4fPY8QOPg_b8CmJ_TL291X-3RDsI75aQDQ1biM0-epWn3_eFQekygaO1LYOWEq2M3U7D7Xy6Dgj4O1WAaf-xECqZcoUyUJXdw9V6g_-Xo6ov0JJOzLaTNj2meX6x8Gb1TbHJr7NN4ZAOEP7rvodmReA/w300-h400/20220122_182543.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She arrived at school that Monday, with her new hair and her fanciest boots, and paraded her little self up and down the halls. If that child had a sash and bouquet, she would have taken those, too. Because Clara Josephine Lorenzo had arrived.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But her joy was short-lived. She appeared in David's classroom that afternoon, shoulders slumped, the spark clearly gone from her eyes. What was once a deliberate strut has disintegrated into a meek slink, her confidence clearly rattled.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"What happened, baby girl?"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"A girl was mean to me today, and now we're not friends."</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"What happened?" (Note to the reader: David may have asked his question with all the world's diplomacy, but I can assure you he was ready to fight that chick at the monkey bars.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"She told me she doesn't like girls with short hair, and she told everyone else not to like me, either."</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, the two of them are relaying this story to me over dinner, voices raised to a fever pitch, each of them talking over the other in the hopes of getting to the key points faster. Fortunately for Clara, anyone who knows David also knows he is the world's worst story teller, and was easily outgunned. Clara's cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy, as she shared this moment of trauma.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"So, how did you handle it?" I asked. I could feel my own throat tightening, suppressing the urge to get in the car and go find the little shit who killed my daughter's spirit.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"I told her I still wanted to be her friend, and that she made me sad."</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Well, do you still like your hair, or did this make you regret cutting it?" </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"OH, NO! I love my hair, mom. It looks amazing!"</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibsCWoqrMX4czkRAPEH0TF6IJsf-EwOWM9o0TrhoJtHx6dwkJIIYpd8uHYGa6Vx7zO38I9symGaxadGzhd050PALIR0mIABFymc3v5kK2CPir_fkJRMIQprl9ZwrgvTTYV-wqilozwzF0d9zZddUHl93WtKLnyjqZUFG4VJ0EXogP0LseuFHWICB-gg/s4032/20220401_193412.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/AVvXsEhibsCWoqrMX4czkRAPEH0TF6IJsf-EwOWM9o0TrhoJtHx6dwkJIIYpd8uHYGa6Vx7zO38I9symGaxadGzhd050PALIR0mIABFymc3v5kK2CPir_fkJRMIQprl9ZwrgvTTYV-wqilozwzF0d9zZddUHl93WtKLnyjqZUFG4VJ0EXogP0LseuFHWICB-gg/w300-h400/20220401_193412.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEZVkQmfm-_miMV5-HkAjBFtI2dNC5lfnXbOj-eOQdPaCADrm3I1Bu4DwQQWAUOcpDTTfgvZQbvAr3zrgcEGsaNcGT0HRbAlwLiJOGay2FizkPQKd-1sNQUHrf7b4UZ208bSyh4EZnDr9aZzLm8Hlnvna0DPgMpt7vuIJfEFsUGb-XJaTpwQBCmBnTA/s4032/20220401_193350.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/AVvXsEjpEZVkQmfm-_miMV5-HkAjBFtI2dNC5lfnXbOj-eOQdPaCADrm3I1Bu4DwQQWAUOcpDTTfgvZQbvAr3zrgcEGsaNcGT0HRbAlwLiJOGay2FizkPQKd-1sNQUHrf7b4UZ208bSyh4EZnDr9aZzLm8Hlnvna0DPgMpt7vuIJfEFsUGb-XJaTpwQBCmBnTA/w300-h400/20220401_193350.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">Yes, yes it absolutely does. I hope the world is ready for you, Clara Josephine. And may everyone forever see you the way you see yourself. And may you always be the lightest of lights. The force among forces, the spirit among spirits. You remind me every day to be a bad ass. Even when my hair's dicked up.</span></div><p></p>The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-57650029910152721732020-05-02T11:17:00.000-06:002020-05-02T12:15:34.267-06:00Circus Tricks<span style="font-size: large;">When I made the decision to start writing again, I had zero idea that a global pandemic would overshadow literally every second of my existence. I am tired of projections, I am weary from rising death tolls, and I am exhausted by skyrocketing unemployment and an onslaught of economic forecasts that have me wondering if selling a kidney could yield higher returns than my 401k. Not to mention, my children. Good god. How do they still have so many stories? We have been together for 5 weeks straight. Yes, I saw your cartwheel. Yes, I heard you whistle. Yes, I know your pee smells like the asparagus we had last night. No, I am not coming into the bathroom to smell it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Life is Groundhog Day. I muddle through work, slog through 37,482 Zoom meetings each day that are primarily me judging everyone's home decor, and then try to feed my family some sort of dinner that doesn't include popcorn as part of the main entree. Oh yeah. And then I decide I won't drink, and that I won't eat carbs, and that I will get in 30 minutes of vigorous activity. Instead, I put the kids to bed, swap out my joggers, and pour a crisp Chardonnay over a tall glass of ice. Because I am classy like that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I do <i>think </i>a lot about making some changes. This may come as a shock to many of you, but I am fat. I generally prefer the term "sturdy" or "thick" as it makes me feel like a Viking. I even had a guy in grad school refer to me as the "Husky Mountain Girl" because he couldn't remember my name. </span><span style="font-size: large;">While I am trying not to overthink our current circumstances, I do think about how to model good choices for my children. I simply do not want my girls to struggle with their weight the way I struggle with mine. See, that's a lie. I no longer struggle. I let go of those "thigh gap" dreams years ago</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Over the past 5 weeks, I have had an increasing sense of anxiety that my children may be using food to foster a sense of security and predictability. </span><span style="font-size: large;">So, we talk about healthy food choices, and being active, and eating treats only occasionally. And that bodies are different, being strong is more important than being thin (although, my current push-up challenges have confirmed I am neither). As an aside, </span><span style="font-size: large;">David is clearly a lost cause; I just found two ham steaks and a box of raisin bran under his pillow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And my daughters think I am the bees knees. Because I am confident, and I own my stretch marks, and I am not too vain to live the example I try to set. In fact, I recently had to school both of them on how to do a back bend. No, I couldn't finish the walk over, but no, we didn't have to call the paramedics. My girls were both fascinated by and embarrassed of their mother, and both had their own back bends mastered by the end of the night. I assured them that being 44 and chubby meant nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then Morgan decided to call my bluff. As I pulled into the driveway last week, I encountered Morgan and Clara in the street. Morgan was on her pogo stick, and Clara was running the timer. They were confident Morgan's 3 minutes of bouncing was on the verge of a world record, and I was confident one of my children was about to crack a tooth. And then the unthinkable happened:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Mom, do you know how to use a pogo stick?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, but it's been a really long time."</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Don't you want to try it?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Uh, I think it's just kid sized."</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"No, Mom. The weight limit is 250 lbs." (Seriously, why did I let her learn how to read?)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, I will give it a try..."</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"YAY! And we'll take pictures of you!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"Yes, please document this shit. That's exactly what I need right now." (</i>Fine, I only thought this one.<i>)</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And so I did it. And I nailed it. And my girls were cheering. It was glorious. And then they showed me the pictures. And they were horrifying.</span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">My double chin was going in for the triple;</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">My belly was just about to surpass my boobs as the area most likely to catch a dropped fry; and</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">My ass probably needed its own pogo.</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">My internal reaction was intense. And visceral. And full of self loathing. And an absolute contradiction to every bit of positivity I have been trying to instill in my daughters for the last 12 years. But man, whoa.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Mama, can you see how good you are? Can you see how many times you bounced?"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, baby. I see."</span></i></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">"When I grow up, I want to pogo just like you. I want to tell all my friends that my mom is the best pogo sticker in the world!"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."</span></i></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">'But Mama, you should put this on Facebook so all of your friends can see!"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">She was right. Because that moment wasn't about my chin, or my belly, or my ass. It was about living my word, and setting an example. It was about owning who I am. And having fun. And it was about creating that tiny little memory with my girls. The night their mom <i>almost </i>broke a world record.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next up, unicycles.</span></div>
The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-51093187237776852322020-04-05T10:48:00.004-06:002020-04-05T12:44:47.461-06:00On Death and Cadbury<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On July 8, 2019, at approximately 2:17 am, my mother-in-law took her last breath. She died peacefully, at home, which was more than any of us could have hoped. But ALS was an angry and unforgiving monster of a disease, and had robbed her of her life long before that night. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">After two years of misdiagnoses and false hope, The Mayo Clinic offered the final and terminal assessment. David had spent a week with his parents at the Clinic, running tests, listening to convoluted results that no one in the room had the education or emotional bandwidth to understand. We had hoped it was her spine, her medications, anything that was treatable. Anything but ALS. But we all knew the truth. It was just too unfathomable for any of us to say those words aloud. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The night they returned, David stood in our kitchen and sobbed. The deep, guttural sobs that suck the air from the room and leave nothing but exhaustion in their wake. "She's dying, Amy. My mom is dying." That night, we became members of the club that no one wants to join, that no one understands until they watch someone they love begin to die. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's been nine months since Lorraine died, and the helplessness of COVID-19 has unearthed the sadness and uncertainty I have worked so hard to suppress. When Lorraine died, I missed exactly two days of work. One on the morning she passed, and one on the day of her services. I told almost no one, as her loss was a burden I chose to bear on my own. Those I did tell were kind and supportive, but often did not understand the depth of pain I felt. After all, she was "just your mother-in-law." Or, "If you think this hurts, wait until you lose your own parents." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I loved that woman fiercely. Lorraine had two sons, and had longed for a daughter her entire life. For 16 years I called her "mom" - we had a relationship that was honest, heartfelt, and filled with the Italian traditions she desperately wanted to pass on to the next generation. She taught me how to throw a dinner party, shared with me her eye for interior design, and tried (futilely) to teach me how to knit. She was an exquisite seamstress, sewing everything from drapes to bed skirts, to the dress Morgan was baptized in. She could get lost in her craft for hours, sometimes days, and emerge with works of art that continue to remind us of the ways in which she mostly easily shared her love. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At just 4'11", Lorraine was a force to be reckoned with. She had the final say in every family decision, and still carried a wooden spoon in her purse, just in case someone got out of line. My direct nature and crass vocabulary was a steep learning curve for Lorraine, as her entire life had been centered around making things pretty. She bought ribbons by the truckload, and put bows on literally everything, including the extra rolls of toilet paper and bars of soap in her master bath. Needless to say, she saw me as a work-in-progress in the class department. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My relationship with Lorraine changed forever on August 22, 2008. When Morgan Noelle Lorenzo roared into our family, Lorraine was no longer a mother and friend, she was Nana. And for the next 11 years, that was all that mattered. There were sleepovers, and baking parties, and afternoons spent sewing at the kitchen table. Birthdays and Christmas were lavish (fine, ridiculous) and centered almost solely around my daughter. And Lorraine was in her element. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">By the time Clara was old enough to share in these adventures, the disease had already started to silently rob Lorraine of her ability to enjoy many of her passions. Her loss of balance meant she could no longer stand in the kitchen, and the tightening of her fingers meant sewing was more of a burden than a joy. When I think about the most painful part of her death, it's not that David and Peter lost their mother, or that Nick lost his wife of more than 50 years, it's that Clara will never have the wonderful memories of her Nana that Morgan does.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But there is a beauty to being four when your grandmother dies. Clara has brought a level of pragmatism to our mourning that made even our darkest hours more bearable. When Lorraine died, David asked just one thing of me, to tell our children so he didn't have to. I sat with Morgan in our living room, and we cried together. She was wise, and insightful, and empathetic in ways only she can be. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Morgan was sad, and surprised, but also shared my deep relief that Lorraine died with dignity, and was no longer suffering. I held her in my arms and made her promise she would tell her baby sister all the wonderful things she needed to know about her feisty little Italian grandmother. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I told Clara late that afternoon, when I picked her up from preschool. Morgan and David were waiting in the car, and Clara immediately sensed our somber tone.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What's wrong, why is everyone so sad?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Clara, Nana died today. And we won't get to see her anymore."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Are you okay? Are you sad?"</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Nah, it's okay. At least we still have Grandma!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Amidst our tears, we laughed. Because she was right. Not because she didn't love Lorraine, but because she doesn't yet have the ability to process the magnitude and permanency of the loss we have experienced. And because nine months later, we do still have Grandma. And Papa, and Gampa. Who are all in quarantine, just minutes from our house. Who are still real, and alive, and very much present. And who, along with the rest of the world, want this chapter to end. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The last two years often felt helpless, and hopeless. As Lorraine slowly deteriorated, I simply stood by, unable to intervene, unable to offer respite from her symptoms or her suffering. In that time, my children have grown by inches, the seasons have changed, and we have begun to experience the year of "firsts" without her. Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas. And now, Easter. For as long as I have known David, he marked every Easter by giving his mother a single Cadbury Egg. Frankly, I'm not sure she even liked them, but it was their tradition. In fact, he tucked one final egg into her hand the day we buried her. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Today is Palm Sunday. While I am not a religious person, Lorraine was a deeply devoted Catholic. For many Christians, today is historically a day of celebration. Palms symbolize goodness and victory, abstract concepts for many of us right now. And in this time of uncertainty, I can only assume that if Lorraine were still here, she'd be telling us to cherish what we have, celebrate the goodness we see, and have peace in knowing this, too, shall pass. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And she would be doing it all with a wooden spoon in one hand and a Cadbury Egg in the other. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<br />The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-52822874439900595712020-03-25T15:55:00.000-06:002020-03-25T17:20:46.491-06:00Writer's BlockI just finished a Zoom meeting that may have helped change the trajectory of my life. Not because I won the lottery, and certainly not because I have found a cure for COVID-19 (just to be clear, I have zero skills to make that happen). Rather, I had an honest and authentic conversation with a near-total stranger about who I used to be, who I am now, and who I want to be. She was kind, encouraging, and gently reminded me that not all changes in life have to be significant in order to still be significant.<br />
<br />
As we talked, I reflected on the emotionally distraught poems I authored as a teen, the short story I wrote in high school, and the "mom blog" I started 247 years ago to chronicle my experiences as a mother. I suggested that she read my blog, and she suggested that I get back to writing, even for an hour, once a week. And so I'm back. At a time when blogs are out of fashion, and most of you no longer care about the shenanigans of my children (don't worry, you will), I am back in saddle, playing catch up on four years of stories, four years of memories, four years of traumatizing the next generation.<br />
<br />
Given that our Governor just issued a "shelter-in-place" I am about to get reacquainted with the family I have worked so hard to avoid over the last four years. Like many other families around the globe, we will pretend to enjoy all of our time together by using social media to share both overly glossy family photos of us in the wilderness, as well as pictures of baked goods that magically manifested with no dropped eggs and no burnt fingers.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I am grateful, and I take neither my health nor my family for granted. However, I am also painfully aware that the shrinking of our universe is making many of us scared, uncertain, and uncomfortable. And fears about about isolation and mental health are real. And often out of our control. For many, the road ahead will be long and potentially difficult. In the meantime, many of us are navigating changes at a much more basic level, like counting toilet paper squares, and stockpiling wine, and working from home. Yes, working from home. With a husband, two kids, and a dog. And so.many.snacks.<br />
<br />
I have been telecommuting for exactly 4.7 hours. During that time, my children crashed two video conferences, my colleagues had the pleasure of watching me threaten both of them with their lives if they didn't stop interrupting, and then Clara threatened to pour milk on me if I didn't immediately get her a bowl of cereal. Things are going swimmingly.<br />
<br />
And so I end my re-introduction to you with a few humble recommendations for those of you muddling through your career from your kitchen table.<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Consider using your car as a home office. My laptop fits beautifully on my dashboard...and I can lock my children out of my car much more easily (and legally) than I can my house. </li>
<li>If you work for government, day drinking is still off the table. If you're going to bring a copper mug to our "meeting" I am going to assume it's not water.</li>
<li>If you're going to telecommute, be mindful of your camera. Yes, I can see you didn't comb your hair today. Yes, I can tell you're not wearing a bra.</li>
</ol>
<div>
And a few even more humble recommendations to myself, now that I am forced to look at my own reflection for every work conversation.</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>Resist the urge to keep talking with my hands. No one is going to replace my laptop if I knock it off my own table.</li>
<li>Anti-frizz serum, add it to my COVID grocery list. Why didn't anyone tell me that I look like I got electrocuted?</li>
<li>Buy a better house. Or better furniture. Or at least clean up the office so no one knows how trashy I am.</li>
<li>Children, reconsider my decision to have them. They are loud. so loud. And way less charming than I thought they were.</li>
<li>Those 20 pounds that weren't a priority, yeah, they should be. The double chin situation is strong. In related news, consider Botox, a face lift, or maybe a just a paper bag.</li>
</ol>
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Here's to rekindling old passions, refocusing old priorities, and to embracing a face that is currently made for radio!The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-2829985866624043852016-05-22T09:27:00.000-06:002016-05-23T09:58:19.811-06:00Straight ShooterIt has been so long since I last blogged that I was worried I wouldn't remember my password this morning. December 15. The last time I posted. I am confused and troubled by this. It would be easy to say that I have been too busy to write, that I have finally succumb to the frenzy of two children. And while life is indeed different than it was a year ago, my silence is much less about the lack of hours in the day and much more about my overwhelming sense of confusion as to why in the WORLD we decided to have another kid.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I love Clara in a way I never thought possible. She is sweet, and easy, and the perfect little person to round out our family. Morgan loves her fiercely, and is quick to correct my parenting on just about every level. In fact, Morgan is quick to correct me on just about everything these days. She is seven going on 17, confident that she knows more than me on issues ranging from weekly spelling lists to whether I accurately assessed her eye rolling when I told her to go fold her laundry. We are cut from the same cloth. God help us all.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, after what I thought was a lovely family outing, Morgan began chatting from the backseat. For those of you who have (or have survived) a seven year old, they are masters of randomness. They can literally talk for hours without having a single compulsion to connect their thoughts into any sort of cohesive sentence. I get daily updates on recess drama, interspersed with hot lunch reviews, and in-depth analyses of the newest addition to her rock collection. And while I love all of this, I don't always feel compelled to listen particularly closely to every.single.detail. Imagine my surprise when the following conversation began to unfold:<br />
<br />
<i>"Dad, you know you don't have to do everything Mom says, right?"</i><br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, what?" I shared a sideways glance with David from the front seat, trying not to react. Because you KNOW I was on the edge of my seat waiting for what was coming next.<br />
<br />
<i>"It's just that you don't always have to do what she tells you to. You know you're not her butler, right?" </i>Yes, you read that correctly. Butler.<br />
<br />
"Morgan, your Mom and I have a system, one that works well for us." I could see the little beads of sweat forming on David's forehead. Yeah, we have a system. One that involves me constantly reminding David that spending three hours organizing his tools in the garage is NOT the same as picking up the house.<br />
<br />
<i>"But Mom is telling you what to do all of the time. Like 'David, I told you to do this. And David, I asked you to do that.' Mom is always saying what has to get done."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
At this point, Morgan launched into a lengthy and shockingly accurate role play of the interactions at our house. There was no malice in what she was saying, just her simple observations of the world as she sees it. Oh, but it stung. David and I work hard not to bicker in front of our kids, and we have developed a system that generally involves me <strike>dictating</strike> guiding our daily decisions. But it works for us. Well, at least I thought it did.<br />
<br />
Morgan finished her reenactment, complete with hand gestures and horrifying voice inflections. And when she was done, she leaned forward, pulling on the back of my seat as she craned her neck to look me in the eye. With her brown eyes, big as plates, she met my gaze.<br />
<br />
<i>"Any questions?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I looked away, not wanting her to see the tears that were welling. I shook my head, and she leaned back into her seat, quite smug with her insight. I sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what to do next. In my heart I wanted to explain to her the complexities of adult relationships; I wanted her to understand that David and I have a relationship that involves lots of lists and lots of reminders and that it really <i>does</i> work for us. But she doesn't give a shit about that, she just sees that I am bossy. And maybe I am.<br />
<br />
David loves to remind me of my greatest strength and biggest weakness; I am the person who says what everyone else is thinking. Looks like I'm not the only one.<br />
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The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-17421892624900903792015-12-20T11:03:00.000-07:002015-12-21T09:08:06.570-07:00Celebrity Babies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A friend of ours recently referred to us as "the family that nothing bad ever happens to." Although I know that's not true, I also know that we are very, very fortunate. In addition to incredible amounts of hard work, we have had unique opportunities shine on us on more than one occasion. When David and I first met, we were contacted by e-Harmony to do a news segment in Virginia about on-line dating (they even sent us crystal from Tiffany!) - Two years ago, we were profiled on our local NPR affiliate to talk about our experiences as a family...I wrote about that <a href="http://idaholorenzos.blogspot.com/2013/08/15-minutes.html" target="_blank">here</a>. But then, earlier this month, something happened that topped it all. My children became just a little bit famous.</div>
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When Clara was born, we made the decision to splurge on newborn photos. It was something I deeply regretted not doing with Morgan, as the JcPenney portrait studio just didn't quite capture the essence of her new baby perfection. We decided to work with a phenomenal <a href="http://www.briannachaves.com/" target="_blank">local photographer</a>, who then spent hours with our little family one Saturday morning, tenderly posing our new daughter. The results were stunning; as soon as I saw the proofs, I wept. They captured everything, from the tiny cowlick on Clara's forehead to the newly formed bond between two sisters. They were magic.</div>
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Fast forward to this month. We received an invitation to a reception being held at the hospital where our girls were born. Our photographer let us know that she had been awarded a contract with the hospital and would be profiling some of her work throughout the maternity ward. One of Clara's newborn photos had been selected, and we were invited to attend the unveiling. </div>
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We arrived that night in standard fashion - 15 minutes late, swinging a diaper bag and a car seat. The lobby was packed, filled with families and hospital staff swapping stories between forkfuls of cake. Canvases lined the walls, showcasing tiny windows into the lives of newly formed families. We had no idea which photo of Clara had been chosen, so we had no sense of what to expect. I set our things down, smoothed my hair and reached for a cup of punch. And there it was. The photo. So perfect. So sweet. </div>
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We stood in awe, overwhelmed and humbled. Of all of the families, of all of the babies, ours were chosen. Chosen to help tell part of the hospital story, chosen to showcase the impeccable work of our photographer, chosen to highlight the wondrous journey that is family. Tears of pride hung in the corners of my eyes, falling only when David's glance met mine. Our babies.<br />
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The hospital coordinator invited us on our own tour of the maternity wing. She explained that in addition to the photo in the lobby, Clara was highlighted in four more photos throughout the halls and within the maternity rooms. And so we went, swept immediately back in time as we entered the halls I walked for hours as I labored with both my daughters.<br />
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With each photo, my heart burst just a little more. I was struck not only by how tiny and perfect Clara was, but by how much she has changed and grown in such a short period of time. What were once tiny coos and squeaks have been replaced by demanding squawks and screeches. The tiny bundle that once only rested while nestled in my arms now fiercely fights being snuggled too tightly.</div>
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The picture of our girls together also adorns one of the birthing rooms, and I thought it only fitting to capture those two moments in time. So as we finished our tour, our guide took one more photo of us as a family. Just seven months and an entire lifetime between those images.<br />
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As we said our goodbyes that night, our photographer encouraged us to take a brochure. David declined, assuring her we were done having babies and that a brochure was unnecessary. She calmly persisted, encouraging him to pick one up from the table. As he nonchalantly handed it to me, I gasped. There was Clara again, quiet and serene, a subtle reminder of just how fleeting and perfect life's moments can be.<br />
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So no, we are not the family that nothing bad ever happens to. But we are the family who cherishes our daughters, whose hearts swell at just the mention of their names. If you're ever at the St. Luke's in Meridian, whether it's to have a baby, visit a baby, or return a baby that's become an unruly toddler, look for our family on the walls there. Autographs by appointment only.</div>
The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-52371775467415293782015-11-26T09:02:00.000-07:002015-11-26T09:15:29.060-07:00Finding JoyThe holiday season is such a complex time of year. Without fail, it makes me pause, makes me reflect, makes me think more deeply about my life. And my life is pretty damn good. I am married to my best friend, have two precious and spirited daughters, and have the luxury of parents who have been together for nearly 40 years and in-laws who have been together for more than 50. And they they all live here. And they genuinely like each other. And they like me...most of the time.<br />
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My children have an aunt and two uncles who adore them, doing their part to undo all of my parenting whenever they see my girls, reminding me that, indeed, some rules are made to be broken. My home is warm and full of love, which I hope will always overshadow our moments of anger and frustration. My friends are my village, giving me the love, support and encouragement I am too often afraid to ask for but need nonetheless. My life is whole.<br />
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In all of that, I know. I know what my family shares is special. Because holidays are stressful, reinforcing more of what we lack rather than what we have. Relationships are strained, budgets are stretched too thin, and so much time and energy is spent on just trying to "get through." The loss of loved ones is felt more deeply this time of year, when someone's boisterous laugh isn't heard at the table, or when you realize you can no longer pick up the phone to get tips on your turkey or how to keep your pie crust from burning.<br />
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Several of my dearest friends lost parents this year, and this season will be a struggle to find balance between mourning and celebration. A number of my friends will mark milestones without their spouses, their lives forever shaped by the loss of the person they thought they would grow old with. Because life so rarely works out just like we think it will.<br />
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In all of that, I also know. I know there is joy. There is love. There is kindness. If we are willing to pause, reflect, and think for a just a moment, we will find it. Not surprisingly, it is in those tiny, mundane moments that can so easily be overlooked:<br />
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<li>The woman who hugged my husband at WinCo this week when he paid for the last bit of groceries she couldn't afford. It was just kidney beans and popcorn, but it meant she didn't have to put anything back.</li>
<li>The new parents we took dinner to, who spent a large portion of our visit gushing about how perfect their newborn's belly button is.</li>
<li>My seven year old, who offered to give my mother some of her Halloween candy after my mom expressed concern that they hadn't bought enough to handle the swarm of trick-or-treaters making their way through the neighborhood.</li>
<li>The friend whose husband has started warming her car each morning, making her commute each day a little less chilly.</li>
<li>The neighbor who we regular swap flour and eggs with. In a time of convenience stores and 24-hour supermarkets, it's still nice to send your kid next door with an empty measuring cup.</li>
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And so today, and for the rest of this holiday season, I will continue to pause, reflect, and think. Because it grounds me and keeps me humble. And because it reminds that we always, always, have much to celebrate. And for that, I am forever thankful.<br />
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The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-49553516059572163702015-10-18T09:35:00.000-06:002015-10-18T09:35:16.583-06:00Hat Trick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The thing about new babies is that they don't actually DO anything. Sure, they smile and coo, but most of their time is spent sleeping, and eating, and pooping...and not necessarily in that order. When Clara was born, Morgan wanted to <i>immediately </i>play with her. Despite months of preparation for the fact that Clara was going to be little more than a lump, Morgan was heart broken when she realized that it was going to be a long, long wait until she and Clara could actually interact with each other. </div>
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At one of Clara's first appointments, our pediatrician warned us that the single biggest risk to her safety is her big sister. Despite their good intentions, older siblings often over estimate their abilities and underestimate just how fragile newborns are. Morgan was no exception. She wanted to burp Clara, change Clara, soothe her, and cuddle her. We very quickly had to implement a "no touch" policy unless an adult was present to supervise. Not surprisingly, Morgan soon found a work around to this new rule.</div>
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It was a matter of days before Morgan started putting things on Clara's head. Technically, this wasn't a violation of the new rule, as placing household items on her little sister didn't necessarily involve any actual contact. Just FYI, give Morgan any rule, and she is guaranteed to tell you just how far you can push those boundaries. She is going to make one hell of an attorney one day. </div>
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Things started benignly enough. Who doesn't love seeing their daughters in coordinating headbands?</div>
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But then they started to escalate. Clara was soon the proud recipient of a hot pink plastic Mohawk:<br />
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And then Morgan decided that Clara needed a new work out accessory:<br />
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Now that Clara was beginning to sit up a little on her own, Morgan decided to take things to the next level and actually balance something on Clara's head. Clara was less than impressed:</div>
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Things finally started to take a turn at a recent trip to Lowe's. I am not sure what this is, other than it's some sort of insert for recessed lighting. Morgan clearly thought it made a good hat. While Clara may have agreed, I decided that using random home improvement items as props was bordering on unsafe (I am a super great mom). I declared a moratorium on hat tricks at our house:</div>
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Until last week. While carrying a load of laundry from one end of house to the other, I unwittingly left a trail of socks and underwear down the hall and tasked Morgan with picking them up. I didn't give Clara a second thought, primarily because she was safely strapped into her high chair and doesn't actually have any motor skills yet. As I passed through the kitchen, my poor helpless baby caught my eye. There she sat, bewildered, with a pair of Morgan's underwear perched on her tiny little head.<br />
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Morgan doesn't know this yet, but her days at the top of the food chain are numbered. Watch out, my daughter. Clara will be walking sooner rather than later. And paybacks are a bitch.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-38357077470932027882015-10-04T08:41:00.000-06:002015-10-04T08:49:53.620-06:00New Math<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Second grade has brought with it a shocking number of changes. First, my darling daughter decided to cut her hair. The decision has literally been years in the making, Every time she would inch a little closer to chopping her locks, some Disney cartoon would come out with a bunch of characters who had hair that cascaded down their backs and onto the floor. Not only were these images super realistic, they then planted these little tiny seeds of doubt with Morgan about whether she would still be as cute, funny, smart, or engaging with short hair. Despite my reassurances, it took Morgan two years to finally pull the trigger.<br />
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The change was immediate. She looks stunning, years older, and now carries herself like a young lady rather than a little girl. Except for when she's tired, or hungry, or if I've told her "no" too many times. Okay, fine. She acts the exact same way now as she did before her hair cut. Whatever. She looks cute.<br />
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A new look wasn't the only big change this school year brought. We have now officially entered the world of homework. Granted, we had homework packets in first grade, but I considered them more of a "suggestion" rather than a "requirement" - not sure the rest of the education world agreed, but it has clearly taken us a few years to gear up to this concept. The fact that David is a teacher played a large role in our lackluster approach to finishing homework. By the time he got home every day, he was done. Done being patient, done explaining every concept 47 different ways (because that's what good teachers do), and done telling 30 kids exactly when they could go to the bathroom.<br />
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We agreed that I would be the homework "liaison" this year. I like this term better than "enforcer" mostly because it's less likely to make Morgan wail at the kitchen table when I break the news to her that there is an entire set of problems on the back side of her paper. Part of Morgan's math homework also requires her to be able to talk about her solutions in different ways. This includes numerical representations, sentences, and even images. Images are by far Morgan's favorite approach, as it lets her turn her homework into its own art project.<br />
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Last week, I left Morgan at the table to finish her last problem. The problem was fairly simple: a visual representation of 7 +__= 17. She asked for colored pencils, which I gladly provided her. As is the practice in our house, Morgan let me know when she was finished, my cue to come check her work. As I quickly scanned the sheet. My eye was immediately drawn to the bottom of the page: <br />
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Yep, she drew a martini glass. Nine cups of sparkling water, rounded out with a glass of vodka and a couple of olives. If you look closely, you can see she even threw in a tooth pick. I could have been mortified, embarrassed that Morgan once again threw me under the proverbial bus. But I wasn't. After all, she could have drawn a couple of cans of beer and a bunch of red Solo cups. At least she kept it classy. Now if you'll excuse me, we're going to go make some Bloody Marys for breakfast.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-8295563423267385862015-08-30T07:30:00.000-06:002015-08-30T07:30:59.314-06:00ThisWhen the laundry is overflowing and all the dishes are dirty and the only thing left to eat in the house is peanut butter, this. This is the moment that none of that matters. This is when motherhood is grand.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EUV6dqOdnvI" width="459"></iframe>The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-7639957130622759832015-08-22T10:04:00.000-06:002015-08-22T10:52:41.307-06:00SevenSeven. I have been a mother for seven years. On August 22, 2008, Morgan joined our family, changing every fiber of my being. She came into this world after 22 hours of labor, protesting every step of the way. Nothing about her is easy. Everything about her is perfect.<br />
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I never longed to be a mother. For many years, I couldn't see how babies fit into my life. I had school to finish, a career to guide, a world to conquer. And then I met David. And then maybe, just maybe, I could see adding a little person to the equation. And so we did.<br />
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I want to write more about my daughter, but I am struggling. Since Clara's arrival, my posts have been sparse, more sweet than substance. My thoughts on having another baby are complex, often filling my mind during those few precious moments of quiet. The comparisons are inevitable, instantly taking me back to those first few days, weeks, and months as a mother. Clara is just so much <i>easier </i>than Morgan was. She sleeps better, rarely spits up, and will smile at just about anyone who throws a glance her way.<br />
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Friends have said that second babies are often just easier, born with a temperament in stark contrast to the sibling who preceded them. Others have suggested that it's not the baby, it's the parents. First babies are journeys into unknown waters, complete with heightened anxiety and too many unnecessary trips to the pediatrician "just in case."<br />
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Second babies bring with them confidence, a sense of "I got this." They bring with them less fear, more joy, more appreciation for every painful, exhausting moment. And for that I say thank you. I thank you, Morgan. For tearing open the wounds of my heart, exposing me to the vast, often lonely world of motherhood. Your first breaths brought with them strength and vulnerability, an instant connection between us. You needed me almost as much as I needed you.<br />
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And that's how it's been for the past seven years. The two of us, leaning in. What was once a tiny, wiggling bundle is now a mess of hair and limbs. I still snuggle you, you still asked to be held. You spill off my lap, caught somewhere between being a baby and a young lady. Coos and giggles are now sass and opinions. You challenge me at every turn. To be more patient, to be more measured, to be more creative in finding ways to channel your spirit.<br />
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And yet, through all of this, I marvel. At your generosity, your thoughtfulness, the deliberate way you make every decision. And now, as this seventh year has changed us yet again, I marvel at your growth. You forgive me every day. For having to share our time with your sister, for having to meet her needs before yours, for not always remembering you're still just a baby yourself. As big as "seven" feels right now, you are still so itty bitty. But you still love me, and you love her. You love her in a way that is pure and raw, not yet clouded by the stolen toys and hurt feeling that will eventually complicate your relationship. You love her the way I love you. Unconditionally and forever.<br />
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Happiest birthday to my darling daughter. You are life. You are joy. You are love. You are, and will always be, my everything.<br />
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<br />The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-63079931160358770322015-07-23T08:41:00.000-06:002015-07-23T08:41:11.782-06:00Matched Set<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Ever since she was little, Morgan has been a keen observer of similarities and differences. She loves to talk about our ages, our heights (she's quick to remind David that I have him beat in that department), and even the fact that both she and David have deep brown eyes. Morgan favors David so much that people often refer to her as his "mini me"- it's like I did all of work bringing her into the world but get none of the credit. Unless she's being loud. Or sassy. Then suddenly she's all mine.</div>
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The arrival of her baby sister brought a new round of comparisons - people wanted to know how my pregnancies compared, my labors, and whether the girls looked like each other. What I didn't expect was Morgan's new found commitment to finding as much in common with Clara as possible. It started on Mother's Day, when Morgan asked if she and Clara could wear the same colored shirts. I did my best to find something they could each wear, especially considering Clara was six days old and I hadn't done laundry since shortly before her arrival. Given the fact you have to change a newborn's outfit 4,862 times a day, it was pretty dire. Regardless, the stage was set.</div>
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Morgan then requested matching Boppies for family room lounging:<br />
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And asked for complementary dresses for Clara's first (okay only) trip to church:<br />
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Eventually she wanted them to coordinate each time we left the house:<br />
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I finally got on board with their 4th of July outfits:<br />
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And David went full on over the top the last time he brought the girls to the office. Nailed it:<br />
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If I think back just a little, I should have known Morgan would be keen on finding ways to connect with another girl in the house. One of the first times Morgan realized she and I actually had something in common was during potty training. As all good moms do, I took her into the bathroom with me so that she could see how big girls use the potty. As we discussed bathroom logistics, her eyes grew wide. "Wait! You have a pee pee?!?!? I have a pee pee!!! WE MATCH!!!!" Yes, yes we do. Now just don't get any crazy ideas about matching tattoos.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-40199954266162690462015-06-14T11:08:00.003-06:002015-06-14T12:46:24.650-06:00Whoa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I haven't posted in six weeks. Not because I have nothing to say, but because showering has once again become a luxury. I have so many emotions about having another baby. About being the mother of two daughters. About being a family of four. But those thoughts are for another post. I'm just too damn tired to be sappy.</div>
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Clara Josephine Lorenzo joined our family on May 4, 2015 at 1:43 am. She weighed in at 7 lbs 2 oz and measured 20 inches long. After a quick and relatively easy labor, girlfriend was born screaming bloody murder, just like her big sister was six years prior. I will spare you the details of my delivery, other than to boast that I was able to bring Clara into the world without an epidural and without cursing my husband a single time. I can barely get through a Tuesday without doing that. </div>
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Needless to say, we were instantly smitten. Morgan was enamored, immediately embracing her new role as a big sister. In those first few moments, I wanted nothing more than to soak in their blossoming relationship. But it was almost 3:00 in the morning and I really needed a cheeseburger and a glass of wine. Unfortunately, I got neither of those things. By this time, the hospital kitchen was closed, and Red Robin had quit making fries hours ago. I sent our nurse on a scavenger hunt (I am pretty sure she rifled through the staff fridge), and she returned with some string cheese, an apple, and a bag of Baked Lays. Close enough.</div>
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Later that morning, Clara got her first bath. She returned pink and round and perfect. Because I had such a fast delivery, Clara's features didn't have time to become horrifyingly distorted. When Morgan was born, she looked like a prize fighter. A fighter on the losing end of the match. The hospital still made us take her home. </div>
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By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, we were all ready to be discharged. Although I have nothing but wonderful things to say about the hospital and its staff, my room was a revolving door of activity. Between the hearing screening, the nursing staff and the hospital photographer, the only time I got any rest was when I locked myself in the bathroom. Not surprisingly, that trend continued when we got home. It now takes me 27 minutes to pee. Just ask David.<br />
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The thing about newborns is that they are super misleading. They sleep so much in the beginning that they lull you into thinking that having another kid will actually be easy. As it had been more than six years since I had a newborn in the house, I very quickly fell into this trap. </div>
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As you may recall, I went back to school a few years ago. I took a class this semester, and my final was very <strike>stupidly </strike>strategically due on the same day as Clara. I was optimistic it would all fall together beautifully. Of course I was wrong. Clara was born on Monday, and my final was due on Thursday. My professor offered to give me an extension, but I knew better. Eventually, that baby was going to wake up and expect me to parent her. My days with a sleepy baby were numbered, so I might as well use that time while I had it. </div>
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So there I was, freshly discharged from the hospital, burping a newborn, typing a paper, and trying to help Morgan figure out what the hell happened to one of her Legos. Baptism by fire, check.</div>
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As we embark on this adventure, I really am trying to appreciate every fleeting moment, no matter how challenging or how exhausting. Because we are definitely, definitely not doing this again.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-31188934535682443722015-04-30T22:30:00.000-06:002015-05-01T08:10:07.631-06:00Home Stretch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We are at the 39-week mark. For the (very) few of you who have resisted the urge to ask, I am still pregnant. Pregnancy and I actually get along swimmingly, except for the occasional moment when I feel like my belly is going to literally fall of my body. A friend of mine was still running 4 miles when she was 40 weeks...I would consider that an option if someone was willing to duct tape my stomach down. Totally feasible.</div>
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In advance of our little arrival, we decided to have some family photos taken. Beginning when Morgan was a baby, we've had a tradition of getting photos done in various places around Boise. We had these taken in the foothills north of town, and they are some of my favorites. I'm not sure if I consider these the last photos of the three of us or the first photos of the four of us. Regardless, they make us all look a little better than we do in real life, which makes them perfect. </div>
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<br />The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-64972882054953606712015-04-19T09:19:00.000-06:002015-04-19T09:19:31.271-06:00CrammingIn less than three weeks (if we're lucky), we will be adding another family member to our household. As I have <a href="http://idaholorenzos.blogspot.com/2015/03/no-butts-about-it.html" target="_blank">shared</a>, we have spent months shopping, cleaning, and mentally preparing for this new chapter. As we move through our to-do lists, I have found myself putting more and more emphasis on my daily interactions with Morgan. Things that have historically been mundane are now suddenly significant. Moments that would have otherwise gone unnoticed are now permanently filed in the recesses of my mind, like little tiny flashcards.<br />
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In February, we celebrated Morgan's half-birthday with one half of a cake and one half of a song. Objectively, this day meant no more than any other day, as we've never celebrated half birthdays before. But in that moment, as she and I mixed batter and poured sprinkles, that day was everything. From the moment I started telling people that I was pregnant, they asked how old Morgan would be when her sister was born. Morgan (even now) would beam and proudly exclaim, "I will be 6 and half!" And so we celebrated, marking the last time she will blow out candles without a little sibling under foot.<br />
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In March, as we wandered the isles of the party supply store, Morgan and I spent nearly an hour among the party supplies, planning grand events and elaborate costumes. As we cackled over the increasingly ridiculous masks we found and tried on, I paused. There was no toddler there to supervise, no little hands to stop from pulling everything off the shelves. It was just the two of us, me and my little best friend. And we are friends. We plan lunch dates and manicures, strategizing on how to spend our Saturdays. We gang up on David, sharing a glance whenever he doesn't get the joke.<br />
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Although I know we'll have so many more of these moments, I couldn't help but panic just a little when I realized that we will be sharing our time with another member of our family. Or maybe, just maybe it was my own realization that with the arrival of a sister comes a new relationship that I won't necessarily be a part of. Again, the rational part of me welcomes this next chapter, but I am already mourning the loss of the status quo.<br />
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This week, Morgan had no school on Wednesday. We made it a girls' day at the movies, taking in a matinee while David was suffering through a mandatory in-service. I called my mom from the car, and mentioned in passing that this was the last movie Morgan and I would go see before her baby sister arrived. We chuckled a bit about how quickly time is passing and then hung up. And then I proceeded to sob the rest of the way to the theater. I let her sit on my lap (or what's left of it) throughout the movie and was all to happy to oblige when she asked me if we could spend $5 and visit the photo booth.<br />
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As the tiny images emerged, I couldn't help but laugh at my ridiculousness over the past several months. These photos so perfectly captured our relationship, the bond that is so solidly formed between us. And what better way to commemorate the transition from one daughter to two, from being an only child to being sisters, from being a family in flux to a complete family of four. Yeah, I think we're ready.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-31817081784045371752015-03-31T10:34:00.000-06:002015-04-04T10:39:21.399-06:00You've Got to Move It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In the highly unlikely event that you haven't noticed, I am what you might call "sturdy." In graduate school, one of my classmates referred to me as the "husky mountain girl"- offensive, but true. Plus, we both knew I could kick his ass in a heart beat. I am such a lady.</div>
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Despite my extra padding, I live an active life. I go to the gym, I try to hit my 10,000 steps each day, and I generally avoid putting foods in my body that have an ingredient list I can't pronounce (except for when I'm pregnant and Hot Tamales are involved. They call to me). As part of those efforts, I also look for opportunities to be active with Morgan. Whether it's riding bikes, swimming at the Y, or playing soccer in the backyard, we are always "doing." </div>
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Last summer, I invited Morgan to participate in her first 5k with me. It was more fun than athletic, but it was still just over 3 miles of movement among thousands of other people who were crazy enough to get up at dawn and head outside. We had a great day, and she ran like a champ. What I didn't recognize, however, was the lasting impression those few hours would make on her.</div>
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Just a few weeks ago, Morgan's teacher sent home her most recent report card. Her packet was full of work samples, including math, science and writing. As I proudly perused its contents, I encountered Morgan's most recent writing sample. Her class is working on more complex narratives, complete with illustrations. </div>
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To say I was shocked is an understatement. We ran the Color Run last summer, and it's something we rarely talk about. In fact, I had contemplated not doing it again this year. But as I read her words, I couldn't help but reconsider. In just a few short sentences, Morgan had captured everything about not only that day, but the types of memories I am trying to build with her. And it worked. With the most pure of insight, Morgan was able to reflect on being outside, being together, and being healthy. Maybe, just maybe, I am not going to completely screw this kid up after all.<br />
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The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-2925626223563725042015-03-22T10:00:00.000-06:002015-03-22T11:22:52.337-06:00No Butts About ItHaving children changes people in such weird and inexplicable ways...or at least it should. As David, Morgan, and I gear up for round two of this madness, each of us appears to be motivated into action as sort of random coping mechanism. Not surprisingly, Morgan is asking lots of questions about her place in our family. Right after we announced she was getting a baby sister, she started quizzing us with questions like, "Am I still important?" and "Will you have enough love for both of us?" You know, the superficial questions that are super easy to answer. In an attempt to secure her pecking order (as if there was any real question), Morgan's bedroom door now includes her new title:<br />
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<br />
For my part, I have been playing Dave Ramsey. We have been transitioning to a cash-only system for most of our purchases, and every time we want to splurge on something, boxes of diapers and wipes flash before my eyes. It's become "waters only" at restaurants and "only matinees" for any movies we attend. My family loves me so much right now.<br />
<br />
David, on the other hand, has become obsessed with health and wellness. He has scheduled physicals, put in more time at the gym, and is basically just consumed with gearing up for this new little person. A search of his Google history reveals phrases like "older fathers" and "becoming a dad after 40" - the baby's actually due one week before David turns 41, so I keep trying to convince him that he's over thinking all of this...then I go balance the checkbook one more time.<br />
<br />
As a show of solidarity for his health-related efforts, I entered (and won!) a poetry contest this month that focused on colonoscopies. For those of you who don't know, March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month. We don't actually have a history of colon cancer in our family (prostate cancer seems to be our genetic disease of choice around here), but colon cancer is extremely prevalent and extremely preventable. While I know the idea of a colonoscopy sounds about as much fun as being on the night shift with a newborn, it's absolutely a worthwhile torture fest. In fact, I think a free colonoscopy might just be the perfect gift to get David this spring. Just one more pain in the ass for him to tackle.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin: 7.5pt 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Twas
The Night Before My Colonoscopy</b></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 140%;">(yes, read like the Christmas poem)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Twas
the year I turned fifty, when my doctor did call</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">“Time to check polyps, both large ones and small.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">I said I’d be in, that I wanted to know </span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">But I was so scared of what the test might show.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
hemmed and I hawed, too nervous to think</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">In the pit of my stomach my feelings did sink</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">I gathered my courage and dialed the number</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Ready to face my colonoscopy slumber.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“No
food or drink, we need a clear view”</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">I emptied my guts all the way through.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">I drank and drank, staying close to my home</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Far from a bathroom I dared not to roam.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the
end it was worth it, so glad that I went</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Just one simple test; a few hours spent.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">The results could’ve been scary…6 polyps found,</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Caught and snipped before becoming cancer-bound.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 140%; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cancer
can lurk in the unlikeliest of places</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Especially your colon, full of small spaces.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">So my advice to you, as you read every line,</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 140%;">Get yourself checked, even if you feel fine!</span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 140%;"><br /></span></div>
</span></span><br />
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The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-7020128522449779462015-02-15T10:29:00.001-07:002015-02-15T10:36:10.898-07:00Personal ResponsibilityThank you all for your support and jubilation regarding my last post. We are in full on overload, but look forward to sharing more about our upcoming arrival. In the interim, I am still living life as usual. This, despite the fact that none of my pants fits and I haven't had a glass of wine since late last year. The struggle is real.<br />
<br />
Morgan has also gone back to life as usual. She is totally over the fact that May continues to be several months away and is totally exasperated by the fact that her baby sister isn't here and ready to play Barbies. She has no idea just how useless this new baby is going to be.<br />
<br />
As David and I are finally starting to realize this baby is going to need a place to sleep, we have been busier than usual in cleaning and organizing (not that either of those efforts are going well). Morgan has been left to her own devices more than usual, which often results in 287 wardrobe changes and every one of my heels pulled out of the closet.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, I noticed that Morgan had been unusually quiet for an inordinate amount of time, which is always a recipe for disaster. My panic was compounded by the fact that I realized she was in the bathroom. With the door closed. And the water was running. For those of you who are parents, you know that moment. The moment when you realize that you could be walking in on an empty roll of toilet paper, a wholly squeezed tube of toothpaste, and an overflowing toilet.<br />
<br />
Just then, she opened the door. I looked in, scanning the room for any signs of impending doom. Nothing. The room was clean, the floor was dry. But she had been in there for so long, I knew something was amiss.<br />
<br />
"Morgan, what were you doing in the bathroom for so long?"<br />
<br />
<i>"Actually, I'd rather not say."</i><br />
<br />
"Is everything okay? I heard the water running."<br />
<br />
<i>"Oh yeah, it's just fine."</i> The less she discloses, the more suspicious I become. Always.<br />
<br />
"Alright kiddo, you need to tell me what you were doing in there for so long."<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Okay, I will tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone."</i><br />
<br />
"Of course." (Yes, I realize posting this makes me a liar, but she doesn't have access to the Internet yet, so I have some time before she realizes I betrayed her.)<br />
<br />
<i>"Well...(insert, long dramatic pause), I was in the bathroom and I was washing my hands, and I did something I shouldn't have. I said a grown up word."</i><br />
<br />
"What?" Mind you, I can see the beads of sweat forming on her little forehead, her legs fidgeting nervously as she shifted from one to another. This shit was serious.<br />
<br />
<i>"Well...(insert another long dramatic pause), I was washing my hands and I accidentally said the F-word."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"You did? You accidentally said the F-word? How did that happen?"<br />
<br />
<i>"I'm not really sure, Mom. But don't worry, I went ahead and washed my own mouth out with soap."</i><br />
<br />
I have never, ever, washed this child's mouth out with soap. In fact, it's not even on our list of idle threats. I am either instilling a strong sense of personal responsibility in her or have completely failed as a mother. Or both, which is the mostly likely scenario. And yeah, we're bringing another one into the world.<br />
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<br />The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-23137857207719737162015-01-25T22:01:00.001-07:002015-01-26T08:33:25.074-07:0025 Weeks25 weeks. That's how long it's taken me to figure out how to write about this. It's been a confusing and overwhelming several months, in part because I just didn't see it coming.<br />
<br />
We met with our new adoption case worker on August 6, 2014 (our previous case worker had left Health and Welfare just prior, much to our surprise). We discussed the status of our family, our ongoing interest to adopt, and whether there had been any changes to our file. She was optimistic, hopeful that it was "just a matter of time" before we found the right child. Her words, while cheerful and confident, sounded hollow not only in our ears, but in our hearts. Empty promises.<br />
<br />
She left, and we went back to waiting. That night in bed (serious conversations are always safer there), I shared with David my thoughts, my fears. It had been three years. Three years of trying to make this plan work. But it wasn't working, not the way we thought it would, not the way we thought it should. But now, now we were committed to growing our family, committed to giving Morgan a sibling, committed to setting one more place at the dinner table. "Let's just try," I said. "We can try to get pregnant for 6 months. If it doesn't work, we'll know it wasn't meant to be."<br />
<br />
On August 26, 2014, I found out I was pregnant. First try.<br />
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<br />
I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday, in the ladies' room at work (glamorous, I know). I didn't tell David until that Sunday, and we didn't tell any of our family until we were 18 weeks along. Part of me was in shock, part of me in denial. As for the rest of me, I suppose I was in mourning. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were no longer helping a child in need. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were giving up on the very system that had clearly already given up on us. It was time to move on, but our hearts were still broken. Making the choice to have another baby meant closing the door on something we'd been committed to for a really long time.<br />
<br />
But as one door closed, indeed another opened. When we finally shared the news with our family and friends, they were not just surprised, but ecstatic. When we finally shared the news with Morgan, she was over the moon. And when I finally felt the tiny flutters within me just weeks ago, I rejoiced. For our baby is healthy and strong, and she (yes, she) will make our family complete. And we will celebrate her. And Morgan will be the world's best big sister. That much I am sure of.<br />
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Look out world, there's another Lorenzo on the way.</div>
The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-84615689875443613472015-01-17T08:59:00.000-07:002015-01-17T09:45:48.712-07:00TetheredDo you remember last month, when I talked about <a href="http://idaholorenzos.blogspot.com/2014/12/cleaning-house.html" target="_blank">Morgan's struggle to clean up after herself </a>(it shouldn't be hard, I tragically only posted once in December)? Well, she took that little life lesson very seriously, maybe a little too seriously.<br />
<br />
After returning to school following Christmas break, Morgan's class spent some time working on their New Year's resolutions. Morgan crafted three resolutions, one of which included a commitment to "quit blurting out in class so much" - good luck with that one, kiddo. I have been working on that for more than 30 years. When I was in the 4th grade, Mrs. Robinson made me go sit in the hall under the drinking fountain because I wouldn't stop volunteering for acts in the talent show. And when I was in the 5th grade, Mrs. Brady wrote in my report card, "Amy needs to learn to sit quietly." Still haven't mastered that one.<br />
<br />
As I thumbed through the rest of Morgan's list of resolutions, this little guy caught my eye:<br />
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It would appear that my child actually took to heart that cleaning her room is her responsibility. But as we all know, New Year's resolutions are easily broken. There is a reason I can't find parking at the gym in January but have my pick of the lot by mid-March.<br />
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Despite my skepticism, I sent Morgan to her room last weekend to get her toys picked up and organized. I was immersed in my own housekeeping endeavors and quickly lost track in time. When I finally realized I hadn't heard a peep from her, I called out her name. No response. I called a little louder. Still nothing. I decided to investigate.<br />
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I cracked open her bedroom door, where I immediately encountered this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevChGzFeEOw49ouMPtBWvPkCP66HmOrRBWtzZFnQ04QOh7xb_aC19etpBWyq3GzXO2s0DAinx-GawHYbhyphenhyphenAtPnuEdaFIHJs-Ad_mxLyBgHzgy3gmxYxSqH1Hvx8LKfq0jmA1uP4SH_Qdy/s1600/IMG_20141231_114459_786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevChGzFeEOw49ouMPtBWvPkCP66HmOrRBWtzZFnQ04QOh7xb_aC19etpBWyq3GzXO2s0DAinx-GawHYbhyphenhyphenAtPnuEdaFIHJs-Ad_mxLyBgHzgy3gmxYxSqH1Hvx8LKfq0jmA1uP4SH_Qdy/s1600/IMG_20141231_114459_786.jpg" height="640" width="479" /></a></div>
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Not sure what you're staring at? Look closely, My daughter has turned her jump rope into a leash, literally tethering herself to her stool by the ankle.<br />
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"So, uh, whatcha got going on in here?"<br />
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<i>"I'm just cleaning my room, Mom." </i>Total blank stare, as if she actually didn't know what I was asking.<br />
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"No, what's the situation with your jump rope?" I pointed casually to the slightly disturbing and bizarre scene before me.<br />
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<i>"Oh, that? I was having a really hard time staying focused so I decided to just tie myself to my stool. That way, every time I want to go play, I can't. I have to stay right here until I finish."</i><br />
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They say kids learn by example, but Morgan conjured this up <i>all </i>on her own. However, it did indeed work like a charm. So much so that I am considering tying David to his work bench.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-6767146252327421482014-12-14T09:37:00.001-07:002014-12-14T10:04:29.906-07:00Cleaning House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When it comes to parenting, I am (and probably always will be) a bit of a hard ass. I like to think of it as holding my daughter accountable; Morgan, on the other hand, likes to think of it as me RUINING HER LIFE. Yes, I understand the implications of this dynamic and I am fully aware that this means she may always like David better than me. He's also the one who puts chocolate chips in her lunch and has promised her 5,693 ponies. But we all know I will be the shoulder she cries on when none of those damn ponies show up.</div>
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In the midst of our holiday decorating, much of our daily housekeeping went by the wayside, including most of Morgan's toys and crafts. I will spare you any photos of the chaos, as they may be deemed too graphic for children. In summary, our family room looked like we had been ransacked by a herd of buffalo or the victims of a rare indoor tornado. It was time for clean up.</div>
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I announced to Morgan play time was over and that it was time to put our house back together. I gave her the standard 5 minute warning to wrap up what she was doing and told her I would be in to check her progress. I went back to my own housework, less than confident in her ability to meet my deadline. When I returned 5 minutes later, I found Morgan laying on the floor, surrounded by a sea of Barbie carcasses. "It's just too much!" she wailed. I calmly (yes, calmly) explained that she made the mess and she needed to clean it up. This is not a new revelation for my child, but one that she has a really hard time accepting. </div>
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I gave my daughter two choices: either she cleaned up her mess, or Mom does it for her. And if Mom got involved, clean up was going to consist of garbage bags and toys that would be banished to the garage...or the landfill. My stubborn, stubborn daughter then decided to call my bluff. Thanks to some help from Hefty, the joke was sadly on her. I went to work, gathering up everything from Cabbage Patch Dolls to bits of crayon. Nothing was spared. In mere minutes, the family room was immaculate, its beauty only slightly compromised by the profuse sobbing that filled our house. I was also having none of that. Off to her room she went, with the strict instructions that she could not emerge until she was done crying. In terms of her toys, those could only be earned back if she cleaned her bedroom the way she <i>should </i>have cleaned the family room. My terms were clear and non-negotiable. </div>
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Within a few minutes, the house fell silent. I quietly peeked into her room, only to see Morgan hunched on the floor, scribbling furiously. I crept back to the kitchen, mostly just enjoying the quiet. As I began loading the dishwasher, I heard her door open, her feet shuffling down the hall. I turned to greet her, only to see this note on the floor next to me:</div>
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I went back to my dishes, only for the same scene to repeat itself several times over the next 20 minutes. Note Number 2:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa2CStRcBZW2320vcz6fvm1c95RRsLPF8tlrQ6Q9S3am9fzY3LWfkQpFVACvypsnANas4RldPnQLagZp1jxv38Fvx1IvDY6au3m7ebMZ0lBEqR6yfbfVE5L5fZ2t7z0jHUiWrr3HV-MNB/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpa2CStRcBZW2320vcz6fvm1c95RRsLPF8tlrQ6Q9S3am9fzY3LWfkQpFVACvypsnANas4RldPnQLagZp1jxv38Fvx1IvDY6au3m7ebMZ0lBEqR6yfbfVE5L5fZ2t7z0jHUiWrr3HV-MNB/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Note Number 3, written only after not getting a response to note Number 2:</div>
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Note Number 4 (at this point I was pretty sure she was trying to tell me her room was clean):<br />
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And finally, note Number 5, the meat of the matter:<br />
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I waited a few minutes, trying to suppress the grin that kept creeping onto my face. This was a serious parenting moment, not to be undone by my daughter's keen negotiating tactics. I knocked on her door and swung it open, only to be greeted by a tear-stained face and one spotless bedroom. She looked at me expectantly, trying to read my reaction.<br />
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I walked around her room, noticing her bed was made, her stuffed animals were carefully arranged, and her dirty laundry actually in the hamper. With a silent nod, I signed off on her efforts. Morgan squealed and immediately recruited Dad (who again stepped in as her personal hero) to retrieve the garbage bag from the garage. We unpacked it together, Morgan careful to place each toy in its proper spot.<br />
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It's been two weeks, and the family room remains relatively clean. I'd like to think she learned a little life lesson from this experience, but I am pretty sure she's only putting away her toys because I very subtly left the garbage bag sitting next to the TV.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-19588737966912505642014-11-27T10:29:00.001-07:002014-11-27T10:45:55.387-07:00Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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In lieu of a family gift exchange this year, we are sponsoring a family in need. I don't know why it took us so long to have this epiphany, as I am pretty sure the same chenille throw has been re-gifted among households for the last five years. As we talked about our plan with Morgan, I tried to explain that we have much to be thankful for this year, and that some families are just not as fortunate. I shared several stories of people I know, people who work hard every day just to make it from one paycheck to the next. These are rarely the people who ask for help; rather, they struggle quietly, never sharing the intimate details of daily hunger or the fear that comes each month when the rent is due.</div>
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As she often does when we talk about hard things, Morgan sat in silence for a few moments.</div>
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<i>"Mom, can I talk to you in private for a minute?"</i> (Morgan likes to ask me this when she feels uncertain or uncomfortable with something she's processing.)</div>
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"Sure, punkin." we stepped into the hall and she began breathlessly whispering into my ear.</div>
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<i>"I just don't think it's fair."</i></div>
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"You don't think what's fair?"</div>
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<i>"Well, if people are working just as hard as you and Dad, why do we have more than them?"</i></div>
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"That's a good question, one that I don't have the answer to. And it's not fair, because there are lots of families who will be cold and hungry this year, and there will be some kids who don't get anything for Christmas. But that is why we are going to try to help make Christmas a little better for one family."</div>
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<i>"Maybe, Mom, maybe we could help more families. Maybe we could give them some of my clothes or my toys. Do you think that would help?"</i></div>
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I nodded. And then my heart burst. Because life is complicated and messy. And the older she gets, the more she understands that. And the more she wants to help. And that makes me want to be a better mother, a better wife, a better friend. Because we are all in this together. </div>
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To those of you fortunate enough to share today with people you love and cherish, relish these moments. To those of you tortured by the prospect of having to pass potatoes and cut turkey, be grateful you have potatoes to pass and a turkey to cut. And to those of you who are alone today, either by choice or circumstance, know that we are thinking of you. And we are doing our small part to make the holidays just a little brighter. Because, indeed, we <i>are </i>all in this together. </div>
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The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-24930241265179652202014-11-16T10:40:00.000-07:002014-11-17T13:55:59.861-07:00Strong Like Bull<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Morgan recently had her annual well check. In scheduling her appointment, I had a brief argument with the doctor's office as to whether Morgan was eligible for her visit. Like most insurance companies, we can only schedule well checks every 12 months. After several moments of haggling, I was able to convince the scheduler that Morgan hadn't actually been in for almost 2 years, not the 11 months she was suggesting. This little nugget of information was actually quite significant, as I knew it meant my kiddo was healthy enough that we hadn't checked in with our pediatrician in nearly 24 months, which is practically unheard of in the land of small children, where ear infections and runny noses often reign supreme.<br />
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Morgan was much less impressed with this victory, as she knew that this visit was also going to include a flu shot. We talked about it a lot on the way over there (I am not much for the bait and switch) and I tried to assure her that, at the very most, she would feel a slight pinch. She wasn't convinced.<br />
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When we arrived, the nurse was great. She showed Morgan all of the equipment they would be using, even giving her a paper gown to allow for the most legitimate medical experience. Not surprisingly, my child was not buying any of it. She can be a real tough sell.<br />
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I, on the other hand, thought this was the perfect time to stage a quick photo session. Despite her anxiety, she looked adorable, and like such a big kid. I reflected on how much time we had spent on that table when she was an infant, the insane number of calls I made to the pediatrician every time my daughter had a hair out of place. </div>
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And here we were, 6 years later. Morgan is strong and healthy, smart enough to speak for herself when her doctor started asking questions about how many fruits and vegetables she eats and whether she plays outside regularly. And when it came time for her shot, she was a champ. Not only did she not shed a tear, she watched the needle the entire time, proudly announcing that she was now braver than any of the kids in her class. Not even a little bit true, but I let her have her moment.</div>
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I left the office that day feeling grateful. I called David, giving him the same glowing report I had received. We complimented each other on our good genes and went about our day. Our kid was healthy as a horse. Until early Wednesday morning, when I was abruptly awakened by desperate yelling coming from her room. "Mom!!! Hurry!!!"<br />
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I flung the door open and switched on the light, only to be greeted by the sight (and smell) of Tuesday night's dinner. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't make it," she said, so matter of fact. There were no tears, no panic, just the annoyance that she was going to have to get out of bed. Even that was short lived as soon as she realized she got to set up camp on the couch and start watching cartoons in the middle of the night.<br />
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Fortunately, she was only sick for two days. David generously stayed home with her, using that time to both nurse her fever and map out potential hunting spots. By Friday, she was back to herself and ready for school, only to have the good fortune of this year's first snow day. It was a win all around.<br />
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As Morgan heads off to school tomorrow, I will never again take for granted my healthy child. Unfortunately, I may also never again be able to eat hot dogs. I will spare you the details, but if you've ever had a sick kiddo, I know you feel my pain.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-81970750548339945512014-10-30T07:30:00.000-06:002014-11-02T08:28:15.573-07:00House Rules<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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David and I were raised on coffee. He used to have a cup each morning before school to wash down his multivitamins (no wonder he's only 5'6") and my grandma used to set me up at her farmhouse kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the bowl of sugar, and a stack of ginger snap cookies (no wonder I've been chubby my whole life). </div>
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The sight, smell, and taste of coffee are now ingrained in who we are. Not to mention, David has a tendency to grunt and walk around in circles until he's had his first cup of day. As a result, coffee cups are often littered throughout our house. David will often mindlessly set them down as he goes about his morning, only to make a panicked yell for everyone to stop what they're doing and go find his mug. I have found mugs in the laundry room, Morgan's room, and even the bathroom. No place is safe. </div>
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I recently went in to Morgan's room one morning to wake her for school, carrying my own cup of coffee with me. As Morgan rolled over, she slowly opened one eye, wincing at the day ahead. Suddenly, she shot straight up, eyes wide.<br />
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<i>"Mom, I have to tell you something."</i><br />
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"What?" (Those words always make me nervous, as it usually means she has broken something and hidden the evidence.)<i> </i><br />
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<i>Remember how we got new carpet in my room last year?"</i> (It was two months ago, but children clearly have their own sense of time.)<br />
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<i>"Well, I've made a new rule. There is no coffee allowed in my room now. I'm gonna need you to take that back to the kitchen."</i><br />
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"Fair enough." I walked my mug back to the counter and returned to her room.<br />
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<i>"Now hold out your hands."</i><br />
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"I'm sorry, what?"<br />
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<i>"I need you to show me that you actually put it down."</i><br />
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I held them out for her to assess, chuckling not only at her new rules, but at her commitment to enforcing them. The rules <i>I</i> write - a jumping off point for negotiation. The rules <i>she </i>writes - the law of the land. Her future college roommates are going to love her <i>so </i>much.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2551142607164212173.post-30458836719834815422014-10-18T22:38:00.003-06:002014-10-19T10:22:14.643-06:00'Merica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am pleased to report my daughter knows every syllable of the Pledge of Allegiance. Listening to her recite it warms my heart, bringing me back to my own elementary school days, when we began each morning with a unified chorus resonating down the halls.<br />
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Alas, despite her true patriotism, Morgan is struggling a bit in her U.S. history. Her first grade class recently finished a unit on the Statue of Liberty. Morgan not only brought home her own hand made flag (don't count the number of stars, she may have cherry picked the states that align with our family's political views), but also a silhouette of the one and only Lady Liberty. She was beaming; they've been on our fridge for weeks.<br />
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It was only when David shared with me what happened in class that I began to question our daughter's commitment to our country. </div>
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You see, Morgan's class was having lengthy discussion about the history surrounding the Statue of Liberty and how she came to be such a central figure in America. One of the key parts of the story is how the U.S. acquired the statue. Morgan's teacher asked if anyone knew where we got the Statue of Liberty. Hands shot up, and Morgan's was no exception. She waved her hand wildly, confident in her answer. </div>
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When she was finally called on, she took a deep breath before exuberantly exclaiming, "Vegas! We got the Statue of Liberty from Las Vegas!!!!" France, Vegas, whatever. Maybe she's right; maybe not everything that happens in Vegas stays there after all.The Lorenzoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11858220287818963969noreply@blogger.com0