tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2155424928643639952024-03-05T16:16:59.135-06:00MissStep Successstumbling and struttin' my way through being a coach's wife, a stepmom, and a baby oven. Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-86999946777253174892017-12-29T15:48:00.000-06:002017-12-29T15:58:28.649-06:00swing and a missI am one week shy of my original due date. Our sweet first baby decided to stay with Jesus back in June. If you ask my husband, the baby was never a baby at all - just God's way of telling us that the timing wasn't right. I choose to believe that Baby #1 opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Heaven - and I can't think of better way to wake up. <br />
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The reason my ultrasound measured 6 weeks instead of 9 was because I never reached 9 weeks. Not even close. I made it through weeks 1-4, and then paused at week 5. The embryonic sac floated temporarily, and then collapsed on itself. It wasn't strong enough to carry it's own weight. <span style="color: purple;">I began to miscarry the day of our first ultrasound.</span> The only photo I have of this baby was after the sac had collapsed around the embryo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08Ia-vz5076zyr_VtvLC_jSDRgy1WxCOpO6Ahfb6SsCyuvFm9wOnNh9nvBmUPqllPt1msPqzB1ngwfL7uJ5Pfvkr8fZ6gfewiX2juKyTuxjQ3IU-YSIlTtFTsKXJ8qRygtjUvnHhNr0Ye/s1600/miscarry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08Ia-vz5076zyr_VtvLC_jSDRgy1WxCOpO6Ahfb6SsCyuvFm9wOnNh9nvBmUPqllPt1msPqzB1ngwfL7uJ5Pfvkr8fZ6gfewiX2juKyTuxjQ3IU-YSIlTtFTsKXJ8qRygtjUvnHhNr0Ye/s320/miscarry.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">[the sac was very nearly gone at this point, but this was all I had to look at]</span></div>
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Miscarriages are.... odd. They elicit a lot of emotions, a lot of uncertainty, a lot of questions... And, for me, a lot of anger. Time moved in slow motion. I don't remember when I first cried about our loss. I remember looking over at my husband, who was sobbing, and wondering <em>Why is he weeping? Why am I not?</em> I remember sitting down with our 8 year old and explaining to him that sometimes babies decide to stay in heaven, and that's okay; I remember him wrapping his arms around his knees and crying. I didn't cry then either. I think the momma in me knew that I had business to take care of before I could let my feelings protrude. I took 3.5 days off from work, and that's when I did my crying. <span style="color: black;">I cried until I was certain my tear ducts had nothing left to cry, and then I cried some more.</span> I cried so hard that I wanted to go back to work so I couldn't think about something - anything - other than my <span style="color: #3d85c6;">body failing at it's one job</span>. And when I returned to work on a Friday, I remember people walking past me, avoiding eye contact, avoiding conversation. <em>Good lord, I wish someone would talk to me. Someone <strong>please</strong> talk to me. Please wake my brain up to something new. Please talk to me. </em>I thought this over and over, all morning long. At last, our market president walked up to my desk. Finally,<em> </em>human interaction. He said, "Courtney, we are glad you're back... but you can take as much time as you need. Let us know if you need anything." I wish he hadn't talked to me.<br />
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I immediately left the office. I needed silence. I needed chaos. I had no idea what I needed! Nothing was working anyway. <span style="color: #b45f06;">This went on for several days</span>. I missed more work; I was so exhausted that I somehow cut my eyeball open and had to get a patch; I wouldn't answer phone calls; I wouldn't see anyone; I drank many, many bottles of wine. And after 5 weeks, I realized I was still bleeding. <span style="color: black;">I had never stopped bleeding.</span> I started keeping track. <span style="color: #cc0000;">Out of 70 days, I'd bled for about 50 of them.</span> This was the miscarriage that would not go away.<br />
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I went back to my doctor and determined, with yet another depressing ultrasound, that all remnants of Baby were gone. But my body was confused. In the 2.5 months since my miscarriage, I had gained 20 pounds. My body still thought it was pregnant. My hormones were still raging. I just wanted this phase of my life to be done with. We moved to a new house and started a new chapter. <strong><span style="color: #134f5c;">But this page just would.not.turn</span>. </strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxB3rv5pLzVTRaWYDL8YpLoEMXwBOS-jY8b4MieAV93ivjclq_2_RXlKG7p-xH_zkvgzpGWRBHDKZP2T__96gIcUBp-c5Wgu-rtrht0GchZ3m8XxRnVmArdbxsJGMR0GWKSib-NStXHX5Q/s1600/House+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxB3rv5pLzVTRaWYDL8YpLoEMXwBOS-jY8b4MieAV93ivjclq_2_RXlKG7p-xH_zkvgzpGWRBHDKZP2T__96gIcUBp-c5Wgu-rtrht0GchZ3m8XxRnVmArdbxsJGMR0GWKSib-NStXHX5Q/s320/House+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">[Dream home. Population: less than we had planned]</span></div>
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I was put on a prescription for..... something. I don't remember what. It took another two weeks to get my uterus back in sync with the rest of me. And in late September, we were given the green light to start trying again. Even then, I felt like trying again was like cheating on Baby #1. How could I prepare for Baby #2 when Baby #1 literally just left my body? <br />
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I don't know the answers, and I don't know how we made it through. I can see how infertility can cripple a family, because our <span style="color: #741b47; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><strong>one miscarriage nearly sent my marriage down a crap chute</strong>.</span> Thankfully, my husband is a saint (a pain in the hind-quarters, but a saint, nonetheless). And in mid November, we had our big fat positive pregnancy test. <strong><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We are having a baby. </span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 8 weeks, we heard our new Baby Neal's heartbeat - a whopping 157 BPM. My due date this time around is July 27th, 2018. We will be safe to announce this pregnancy on January 12th - the end of our first trimester... and 8 days after Baby #1's due date.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Miscarriage is odd. It's sad, it's hurtful, it's scary, it's rage; it's a million different adjectives that I can't come up with in a blog. But I guess it's true that God won't let something bad happen without also providing something positive.</span> </span><br />
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Here's to our positive... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuYITKbJc9XWPiiP1y-6ysEI7UsnEwYAoTP8oP7ckz-lP9du4Rt2JDiBW1auFfrzRQZ2OEjmoL7W5fFlEJsNuUMn65p4UkySDuQEIvA8t2nBJZvMz4urqSH73gVHBYdIefZcJKqfDAGbG/s1600/Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="608" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuYITKbJc9XWPiiP1y-6ysEI7UsnEwYAoTP8oP7ckz-lP9du4Rt2JDiBW1auFfrzRQZ2OEjmoL7W5fFlEJsNuUMn65p4UkySDuQEIvA8t2nBJZvMz4urqSH73gVHBYdIefZcJKqfDAGbG/s320/Baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">[Yes... this precious alien baby looks like Eva from Wall-E]</span></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-49201729379697662582017-06-12T16:24:00.001-05:002017-06-12T16:27:49.794-05:00Week 10<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.959999084472656px; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dates: June 4 – June 10<u></u><u></u></b></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><br />How far along</b>: 10 Weeks on June 8<sup>th</sup><br /><br /><b>Size of the Baby</b>: Prune<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Baby Development</b>: Baby is about 1.5 inches long, is taking a more human shape, and getting tooth buds<br /><br /><b>Total Weight Gain/Loss</b>: 0<br /><br /><b>Maternity Clothes</b>: Give me all the stretchy pants.<br /><br /><b>Gender</b>: Unknown<br /><br /><b>Movement</b>: Apparently, we are moving BACKWARDS. More on this later…<br /><br /><b>Sleep</b>: What’s sleep?<br /><br /><b>What I Miss</b>: Fitting into my work pants. <br /><br /><b>Cravings and Aversions</b>: Nada!<br /><br /><b>Symptoms</b>: Chest is still sore and getting deep veins. My irritability is trailing off, but I’ve had some spotting (again, more on this later). <br /><br /><b>Best Moment this Week</b>: My phone call from the doctor today saying that my HCG levels are normal<b><u></u><u></u></b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Not-So-Great Moment this Wee</b>k: Our terrifying first ultrasound. <u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Looking forward to: Our follow up ultra sound next Tuesday!</b><u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">An Update….<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The first weekend in June was full of some terrifying, stressful moments. My 14 year old stepdaughter Peyton ran away, and we spent every resource we could think of trying to track her down. I went viral on Facebook (which isn’t very exciting when the reason is unpleasant), and her photo was shared over 7,000. Two counties, three police departments, and a sheriff’s office were on the lookout for her. Luckily, she was found safely after two days. Our prayer at this point is that she can find happiness and safety in her health, even though it will no longer be in our home.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That being said, I spent the majority of the weekend trying to regulate my stress and blood pressure. My stepmom support group (<i>yes</i>, those actually exist, and I am in one!) told me over and over to take care of Baby first. I tried to relax, but it’s hard to do knowing that your eldest kiddo – one whom you’ve had a rocky-at-best relationship with over the last five years and is currently hating your guts – is missing.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tuesday morning, with Peyton safe and sound, I told Chris that I had a weird feeling about our ultra sound. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but my excitement had fluttered to anxiety and uncertainty. When the time finally came to hear the heartbeat and the doctor had me all juiced up on her machine, there was silence.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We couldn’t find a heartbeat. The doctor changed machines, switching from a heartbeat monitor to a full sonogram. Still, nothing.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We moved on to a transvaginal ultrasound, where we found a teeny tiny little yolk sac measuring just 5-6 weeks in size. Except… I’m 9 weeks and 5 days. <span style="color: #ff5722; font-family: Copperplate;">That’s four weeks off.</span><u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As I am the Queen of Doom and Gloom, I mentally started preparing for the worst. However, they sent me for immediate blood work, which came back normal for 5-6 weeks. This was still progress from the blood work I had done two weeks prior. <u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The doctor thinks I ovulated late, since I had only been off birth control for 1 month and may not have been regulated yet. When I first tested positive on May 2nd, my HCG levels were at a measly 40, literally DAYS after conception. This week, they’re at over 13,000. So we are progressing at perfectly normal rate. I’ll just feel like I’m pregnant<b> <span style="color: #009688;">.f o r e v e r.</span></b><u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Alas, the Doom and Gloom struck again when I began spotting a few hours after the appointment. The on-call doctor said my T/V ultrasound may have caused the cervix to bleed, since it is ultra-sensitive at the moment. And since I’m only measuring 5-6 weeks, spotting is much more common.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’ve been spotting continuously since the appointment last Tuesday; and I still have a lot of questions. 4 weeks is a big difference in ovulation. And what about that tiny little baby bump in my 9 week photo? Is that a food baby? Bloat baby? Not a baby at all? My mind has asked these questions over and over, but we will wait until tomorrow when we have another ultrasound to check the progression of my sweet little bean sac. We are praying for progress, health, and strength. (Of course, if we’re praying for things, I might as well pray for 11 weeks instead of 6 – no one likes counting backwards!)<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I'm terrified. But we are going to keep praying and staying positive. . Keep us in your thoughts and send your good ju-ju.<u></u><u></u></span></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-70810020924923709012017-06-12T15:31:00.001-05:002017-06-12T15:32:26.206-05:00Weeks 8-9<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>DATES: MAY 21 – JUNE 2</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>How far along</b>: 8-9 Weeks<br><br><b>Size of the Baby</b>: Strawberry at 8 weeks, Olive at 9<u></u><u></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><img id="id_9bd2_8fb7_e28c_ee7a" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPuiaTpsiAWQ5ZtNSiWqVpFog6dmuXH0y7Eekgsdi54NVMHMZPOGJ9w1UE0S-wmvlDaZpwy4X6lH5e85wV0HeTpMLjsEn6D6kAou1zopFaf8qGgly9XO3SWjUftaS-145xhdHjvn7rM6P/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><br></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Baby Development</b>: Baby is about ¾ of an inch long, and developing organs, bones, and teeny tiny eyes and ears. <br><br><b>Total Weight Gain/Loss</b>: 0<br><br><b>Maternity Clothes</b>: I bought my first preggo shirt for Memorial Day, “Red, White, and DUE.” I also grabbed a few maternity work shirts that I found on sale $5.99 SCORE.<br><br><b>Gender</b>: Unknown<br><br><b>Movement</b>: Science says I’m wrong, but I’m convinced I can feel tiny little flutters. It feels similar to getting a nerve twitch; like teeny little tugs from the inside of my tummy. Laying on my stomach is becoming slightly uncomfortable due to pressure from uterus (which is now the size of a grapefruit… Yay, science!)<br><br><b>Sleep</b>: I usually have to get up to pee, and I cannot seem to get my neck and back comfortable. I’m also having some pretty wild dreams. For instance, last night we forgot to build stairs in our new house, and I have to hoist myself and Baby Neal to the 2<sup>nd</sup> floor through a chicken coop window. <br><br><b>What I Miss</b>: Nada! <br><br><b>Cravings and Aversions</b>: Last week, I had a craving for chocolate cake… I settled for cappuccino yogurt, and felt ohsogross afterward. Chips and salsa are my current go-to. And LOTS of water. Like 3 liters a day! I’m also usually a big fan of leftovers, but they are suddenly seeming a bit gross to me. <br><br><b>Symptoms</b>: My chest is finally getting sore – but still not as bad as I expected. Mostly just if I run – which, let’s face is, is a rarity. According to my husband, I’m just “really kind of bad at it.” <br><br><b>Best Moment this Week</b>: Last Wednesday, I toured the infant room at Faith Church with my momma. I also had my first OB appointment at Hillcrest, but it was mostly just blood work. And Peyton said she would like to be in the room during delivery (as long as she doesn’t have to stand by my feet – HA!) <u></u><u></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">And this super sweet conversation: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in 0.5in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#d500f9">Monday, May 22 2017<u></u><u></u></font></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in 0.5in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#d500f9">Peyton, on going into high school next Fall: “Ugh, what is my purpose in life?!”<br>Me: Girl, I’m 30 and still don’t know what my purpose is.<br>Peyton: Sure you do. It’s to be a mom.</font></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Not-So-Great Moment this Wee</b>k: Being my husband’s chauffeur. And thereby, everyone else’s chauffeur. I’m also a bit irritable, which is exhausting. <u></u><u></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><strong style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Looking forward to: </strong><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#1de9b6">Our first visit with the Doctor next Tuesday, which also means our first ultra sound!</font></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#1de9b6"><br></font></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; line-height: 18pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><i>Post script.... my work has locked down their security settings, and I wasn't able to post this when I initially wrote it. Without going into details, Peyton is no longer living with us. It is heart breaking for both me and her dad, but it's the best option for all of us. Hopefully in the future we can work to restore our relationship. </i></span></p><img id="id_5a51_d804_27f7_bd79" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMp-ecGtN44g8azUBpcoZ51de4DXP8IB7hSXoFchRfCUXqZlHrTbONHY_v5hIVB5h26rtrOp9RATBIxiNGgBr9lvScN14ko7x7_GltZx9yUM1bOeUawnXBiGa9mccjTEgJrkzcMxwPmq1e/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 235px; height: auto;"> Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-58806048764299038282017-05-19T16:46:00.001-05:002017-05-19T16:46:12.812-05:007 Weeks!
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">How far along</span></b><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">: 7 Weeks<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Size of the Baby</b>: Raspberry</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">Baby Development</span></b><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">: Baby is about ¾ of an
inch long, and developing organs, bones, and teeny tiny eyes and ears. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Total Weight Gain/Loss</b>: 0<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Maternity Clothes</b>: None needed, but
real life: I bought two pairs of maternity shorts from Target because their
stretchy fabric is perfection. <br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gender</b>: Unknown. Peyton and Noah
both think it will be a <span style="color: blue;">boy</span>; my nephew Brayden said it will be a girl, but then
later changed to boy so that he and Noah would equal. Chris goes back and forth
on what he hopes for. Grandma “Nannie” is hoping for all things <span style="color: magenta;">pink</span>. I tend to lean toward boy, but only because I already know our boy name. Up until recently, Baby had a tail, so I will officially remain on the fence for now.<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Movement</b>: Too early, but I can feel
my body changing. For instance, when I lay on my stomach, I can pin point
exactly where all the action is. It’s like a tiny little buildup of baby pressure.
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sleep</b>: I am exhausted all day, but
don’t sleep well at night – mostly because I have insane dreams!<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">What I Miss</b>: Being able to predict
my mood swings. I used to be able to warn Chris when they were coming; but
these days, LOOK OUT, Daddy! I also haven’t made it to Yoga, but that’s mostly
because youth baseball is taking over my life. <br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cravings</b>: None, but I have had some
taste bud changes. The only time I’ve actually gotten sick was after drinking
sweet tea. The only beverage that sounds good is water, or occasionally milk. I
also suddenly love Bean Dip from Taco Bueno – and I have <em>hated</em> bean dip my
entire life. I also don’t crave sweets at all, which was a total weakness before I
was pregnant!<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Symptoms</b>: I pee <span style="color: orange;">.all.the.time.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m beyond tired, and struggle to keep my
eyes open at work. And I get the craziest mood swings - the tiniest little
things can set me off! I haven’t cried very much, but I am very easily
irritated. On the bright side, no morning sickness! The only time I get nauseous is when I get too hungry. <br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Best Moment this Week</b>: Setting up
our appointment to tour the infant room at Faith Early Childhood Education! </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">Not-So-Great Moment
this Wee</span></b><span style="color: #3b2008; font-family: "Georgia Serif",serif;">k:
Learning that child care is .e x p e n s i v e. In what world can I come up
with an extra $175 a week?!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking forward to</span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">:
Our first OB appointment next week</span>! </span></strong></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-weight: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Next Thursday, when we hit 8 weeks, both kids have their last day of school, and I have my first OB appointment. I can't wait!</span></strong></div>
Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-85144425001798749962017-05-19T16:37:00.000-05:002017-05-22T09:29:14.541-05:00Leading up to the positive…<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Tuesday, April 18, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I had my usual mug of Red Diamond sweet tea for breakfast.
It’s my favorite drink.<br />
I immediately threw it up.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For lunch, I sat in my car eating Taco Bueno. Actually, I
devoured the bean dip. It’s delicious. Best bean dip ever.<br />
Except that I hate bean dip of all varieties.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What is happening, taste buds?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-small;">[*Side note – I actually wrote this in the memos on my phone
because I thought it was so odd]</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Tuesday April 25, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">While waiting for Peyton at the dentist, I made a cup of
coffee. Immediately, my stomach was in my throat. It was everything in my power
to not get sick in their waiting room!</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Wednesday, Aril 26, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was supposed to start today, but nobody ever showed. I
just got off birth control on March 1, so I assume my body is still adjusting. But
I do start to wonder… </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Thursday, April 27, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Aunt Flo is still a no show! I started putting two and two together,
and decided that THIS IS IT. I drove my happy bum to Target, acquired the almighty Starbucks<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> (all praise the Caramel Macchiato with Coconut Milk!) </span>and peed on a
stick. Alas, it was negative. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At baseball practice that night, I told my fellow baseball mom Lindsay that it was
negative. She said, “You will know when you are.” This really stuck with me,
because I really THOUGHT that I was. “No, trust me – you will <em>know</em>.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Fast forward a few days…</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Monday, May 1, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Chris was in Las Vegas for work, and I</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, tried yoga rests,
counted breaths… nothing worked. I was wide awake at 3am, with a feeling in the
pit of my stomach. Lindsay was right – I would KNOW. I just didn’t have an
explanation for HOW I knew.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Tuesday, May 2<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">nd</span></sup>, 2017</strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I woke up almost an hour before my alarm (for those of you
who are counting, that’s 2 hours of sleep, and I haven’t slept soundly since!),
and immediately took a test. There is was. A double line. A faint double line,
but it was there. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I wasn’t sure I trusted my own vision, so I sent a photo to
my friend Shannon in Maine. She confirmed, which is basically the Biblical Word for me.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Peyton had another dentist appointment at 9, and my doctor
somehow got me in to see him at 9:15. One urinalysis and a blood sample later, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSY_3Q_TT_wrKTyBXWFT5hMiEqr2i21YCdDNld2F4FRfy_99IZow-psaEFeAcaQJuAj4xTui28booeNShJrk6sAYG8cscTAyGTJOpce862wv4SeZYvBVAA0cY-RHhxMegZi7UzynWHVT4/s1600/BFP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" id="id_ef72_a626_d26a_a8b9" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSY_3Q_TT_wrKTyBXWFT5hMiEqr2i21YCdDNld2F4FRfy_99IZow-psaEFeAcaQJuAj4xTui28booeNShJrk6sAYG8cscTAyGTJOpce862wv4SeZYvBVAA0cY-RHhxMegZi7UzynWHVT4/s200/BFP.jpg" style="height: auto; width: 200px;" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
[<span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: x-small;">no, that is not my actual peed upon stick. thanks internet</span>]</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’M PREGNANT.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I am 4 weeks and 5 days, give or take; and Baby Neal is the
size of a poppy seed.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Estimated Conception: ummthatsnoneofyourbusiness, but the
Easter Bunny was nearby.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Estimated Due Date: January 4, 2018</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Yay Baby Neal!</span></div>
Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-21442540334069686732017-05-19T12:11:00.003-05:002017-05-22T09:28:26.320-05:00& baby makes fiveUmmmm so I believe I might have missed a few things since 2015, yes?!<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Spoiler alert - we got married. Yaaaay matrimony!<br />
2. We sold our house, moved all 4 of us into a 2 bedroom apartment, and are one measley month away from finishing construction on our dream home. Yay American dream!<br />
3. My eggo is preggo!<br />
<br />
In the grand scheme of things, Chris and I have been together for almost 5 years. We will celebrate our 2nd wedding anniversary this September, and just found out last month that we are expecting our first baby together. <br />
<br />
<br />
We have friends and family who live as far west as Alaska, and as fear east as Maine - not to mention the sister and niece who live all the way in Iceland! I hope to document this pregnancy for those who want to feel close when the miles just won't let it happen. And of course, for my momma, who was pregnant when there weren't apps, blogs, or 3D Ultrasounds. You better believe she has the WhatToExpect app on her iPhone and she is following Baby's every step! <br />
<br />
<br />
Bear with me as I'm sure I will let fly a few curse words, many mood swings, and the occasional humble brag that I have yet to encounter much morning sickness. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-size: small;"><em><br /></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Let's go, baby!</strong></em></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #76a5af;"><br /></span></em><br />
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<br /></div>
Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-22546914868544431972015-07-01T16:09:00.000-05:002015-07-01T16:15:15.899-05:00Learning Diversity from Preschoolers<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been said that playing youth sports can lead to
benefits such as higher grades, greater self-esteem, and stronger peer and
family relationships<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[<a href="http://www.truesport.org/library/documents/about/true_sport_report/True-Sport-Report.pdf" target="_blank">1</a>]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span>.
What I learned, however, was that volunteering to coach those youth sports can
lead to just as many unexpected benefits for the adults involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my future stepson, Noah, decided to play tee-ball, I
had no idea I would end up volunteering to coach. After all, I had no
biological children on the team, and I would be the only female assisting. But
when the director of the league said that if parents didn’t volunteer there
would be no 6-and-under tee ball team, we took action. My fiancé volunteered to
be the head coach for fourteen children between ages 3 and 6; and I volunteered
to assist him. He had never coached – or really played – baseball in his life,
and it had been well over a decade since I picked up a glove. Together, we
prepped practice schedules and batting lineups, and I set out to find team
uniforms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we had our first practice, I quickly likened coaching
tee-ball to herding cats. I was suddenly in charge of fourteen kids with little
to no attention span who all came from different walks of life. There were four
girls, ten boys, one Hispanic child, one African American child, one Native
American child, one child with ADHD, one child who (by no fault of his own)
wasn’t old enough to comprehend running bases, and several children who cared
more about hugging my leg and chatting than they did playing ball. While
working with the parents, I learned we had one single dad, three sets of
divorced parents and corresponding step parents, one set of adoptive parents,
one periodically disabled parent who had recently undergone back surgery, and
one parent who had recently lost her husband; and then there was me – someone
who had no legal claim to any child on the “Glenpool Wolfpack” team, and was
suddenly in charge of helping make sense of the madness that is coaching
preschoolers. It was easily one of the most challenging and rewarding
experiences of my adult life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In an office setting, employees are consistently taught that
sensitivity to cultures and appreciating diversity is imperative to a positive
work environment. Imagine my surprise when I realized that coaching a group of
fourteen kids under age six would require the same range of sensitivity and
understanding! How I spoke to one child sometimes had to be different than how
I spoke to another child: talking about “mommy and daddy” in front of the child
who recently lost his father may be more hurtful to him, while the adopted
child hearing a teammate ask her, “how come you don’t look like your mom and
dad?” may create a potentially uncomfortable conversation. The spectrum of
sensitivity and understanding of different backgrounds and lifestyles that came
with this voluntary job was something I never expected to encounter. By the end
of the three month season, I learned that it was important to get eye-level
with this age group; and it was just as important to do the same with their
parents. I learned that some parents desperately want to help in any way they
can, while it was a challenge to ask some parents to even bring their child to
a game on time. I learned that even though I may need to cater to fourteen
different developing personalities, it was vital that I treat every child with
the same amount of respect and adoration. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every child was coached to their ability rather than a set
standard, but every child, no matter what, got a high five and a “Great job!”
from Coach Courtney. There were nights after games that I felt I was more
exhausted from trying to coach these fourteen personalities and wrangle them
into the dugout than I was after an eight-hour work day. There were days when I
had more angry phone calls and text messages from parents than I did visits
from students in my office. There were moments that I wasn’t entirely sure that
I could remember which child required which type of coaching. But there was not
a day that went by that I did not appreciate every single one of those booming
personalities and differences. Children were creating dialogues with me about
differences that I simply cannot experience in a work setting – “How come his
mom is never here?” “How come that dad is in a wheelchair?” “Why didn’t that
person’s grandma ever bring us snacks?” It was an invaluable opportunity to
talk to very young, malleable minds about the fact that not everyone is the
same. Some people have one parent, while some people have four; some dads stay
in wheelchairs, while some walk, some run, and some aren’t with us anymore.
Some people have the opportunity to buy us snacks (“<i>Isn’t that nice of them? Let’s go say thank you!”</i>), and sometimes
people aren’t in a situation to afford it (“<i>But let’s go tell her thank you for coming to watch us!”).</i> Seeing
their sweet faces process this information and realize that it’s okay that
their friends are different was something I will never forget. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time the last game rolled around, I desperately tried
not to shed tears during our last team huddle. I never would have imagined that
while coaching a six-and-under tee-ball team, I would learn more about life
than they probably did about the sport. Differences aren’t just important in
the workplace. Lifestyles unlike mine shouldn’t only be respected as an adult.
Diversity lives in every age group, not just at the office. I feel honored and
blessed that I was able to both coach and learn from a group of children who
left a mark in my heart, and helped me celebrate their individualities in a way
I didn’t know existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHug8HRmA8wDqXkTQusHfUEMuT8YSdVKIhRQCxgasFQOjpHjL6YrWWzPSREYcVg-yQYjCuQXPv4K-BgSsDDha43AJDPxbfIQsdosRymoa6LsRye5O7SLz5oFzFJQqpzHg1PIXCWfAJV9bF/s1600/WOLFPACK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHug8HRmA8wDqXkTQusHfUEMuT8YSdVKIhRQCxgasFQOjpHjL6YrWWzPSREYcVg-yQYjCuQXPv4K-BgSsDDha43AJDPxbfIQsdosRymoa6LsRye5O7SLz5oFzFJQqpzHg1PIXCWfAJV9bF/s320/WOLFPACK.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">[one player not pictured]</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_hb5b2TqCNSQ4oT3tHc7YWha46TuiGfnp8pz37G924l49erZNhZs7HpA15TEyzVhyphenhyphen7kwHeJ6AIW5hbBqNRt8J0axnX_jIl_nBdnGAgYL3wC7eb3yvxdD_jm36VEA19SOLqLekl03ZEBO/s1600/signature+left.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="41" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_hb5b2TqCNSQ4oT3tHc7YWha46TuiGfnp8pz37G924l49erZNhZs7HpA15TEyzVhyphenhyphen7kwHeJ6AIW5hbBqNRt8J0axnX_jIl_nBdnGAgYL3wC7eb3yvxdD_jm36VEA19SOLqLekl03ZEBO/s200/signature+left.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<br />
<div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[<a href="http://www.truesport.org/library/documents/about/true_sport_report/True-Sport-Report.pdf" target="_blank">1</a>]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span> “<i>True Sport: What We Stand To Lose in Our
Obsession to Win.”</i> U.S. Anti-Doping Agency; TrueSport.org; http://www.truesport.org/library/documents/about/true_sport_report/True-Sport-Report.pdf<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-19608144110669146842015-06-01T17:34:00.001-05:002015-06-01T17:38:10.346-05:00Meet the Maids Monday: Katy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://img0.etsystatic.com/028/0/5586719/il_340x270.520134126_94hk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://img0.etsystatic.com/028/0/5586719/il_340x270.520134126_94hk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
'ello lovelies! I haven't written in awhile because, well, life. School is out for summer (for the kids anyway - <i>blast you, higher education!</i>), Peyton and Chris flew to Washington DC and back, my brother's wife <span style="color: blue;">had baby boy #2</span> (omgomgomg I'll show you his precious little chubbiness soon), Chris and I are working on cleaning out the storage so we can have a garage sale, and we've been binge-watching <span style="color: #666666;"><b>Game of Thrones</b></span> like the mad king himself is forcing it upon us and threatening death. No really, it's serious business.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
SO. That being said, all those fabulous adventures should really be documented, mostly so that my <strike>feeble</strike> <strike>aging</strike> busy mind won't forget them. Our wedding is nearing the double digit countdown, and what better way to document my adventures in nuptialing (hey, it could be a word) than to start<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Meet the Maids Monday</span>?!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Katy</span><br />
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[matron of honor]</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Katy and I have been friends since, well, birth, essentially. We first met in preschool - yes, you read that right: preschool - and have been adventuring together ever since. We've remained friends through two school districts, <span style="color: #cc0000;">178 different hair colors, </span>failed mutual friendships, many (many) failed relationships, trips to the lake, trips to the hospital, nights we may never remember, others we wish would die a painful death, and everything else that 24 years of friendship might entail. We cried at Disney World when we saw Cinderella's castle, and <span style="color: #6aa84f;"><b>we set Bob Marley's bar on fire in Jamaica</b></span>. We've been inside a car when it rolled upside down, and we've sat together in silence trying to get our lives <b>right side up</b>. She is a strong, fierce woman who has taken charge of her life and deserves every.<i>single.</i>positive thing that comes her way. Three years ago, I had the privilege of standing next to her while she said "I do" to her husband Jace <span style="color: #20124d;">[my future hubs was also in attendance, of course, but admired me from afar because he had a date - ha!]</span>, and 3 short months from now she will stand next to me while I agree to love Chris forever. There isn't a single person on this planet who knows my heart the way that Katy does; we've said for years - we are soul mates. Those guys we love are just lucky to come in second!</span></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-23816000195640737082015-03-23T18:02:00.001-05:002015-03-24T11:04:00.327-05:00Pee Wee's Big AdventureThere have been <strike>a couple</strike> <strike>some</strike> several moments during my two and a half years as a Step-Whats-It when I have questioned my thoughts and feelings. Typically, this happens during negative times. When I am feeling discouraged or my tank is empty or I just down right don't like what is happening right then, I find myself asking, "Is that how parents are supposed to feel? Is it normal to just want the day to end and everyone to go to sleep so you can start fresh tomorrow? Am I allowed to feel defeated? Am I doing this right?" I'm sure I already <i><span style="color: blue;">know </span></i>the answers to all of those questions, even if I never really <b><span style="color: #351c75;">feel</span></b> they are validated.<br />
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Still, on more than one occasion, I've found myself questioning my ability to parent, constantly searching for that daggum validation.<br />
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Today, I found it. Or rather, it found me.<br />
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At this point in my Step-Whats-It-dom, I am on a first-name basis with the school counselor. We used to share emails and phone calls rather often (<i>toooo often!!</i> I told myself). But over the last few months, they have lessened.<br />
That is, until this morning - the first day back to school after spring break... at 11am... when the direct line to my office phone rang. I know that number. I know who that is. I can feel my face getting hot already. Hello anxiety. Hello school counselor. There is nervous laughter on the other end of the phone as she tells me that P's English teacher is in her office, and they haven't talked with me in awhile. What does that mean? How have we not chatted often enough this year already? Then she says, "Courtney... Are you sitting down?"<br />
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I literally rolled across my office in my desk chair and prepared to grab my inhaler for whatever startling detail about my step-kiddo she was about to tell me. I stop when she says, "It's good. It's <i>great</i>. P entered one of her essays into a national competition - and she <b><span style="color: magenta;">WON</span></b>. Courtney, she won the <span style="font-size: large;">grand prize.</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>P is going to Washington, D.C.!</i></span>"<br />
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I wanted to say a million positive things. I wanted to say how proud I was and that I knew she could do it. I wanted to tell her I loved her and I was so happy to be involved in this moment. I wanted to tell her something. Anything! But the words didn't come to me. Heck, oxygen wasn't even coming to me at that point. And suddenly, I realized I was sobbing at my desk. <span style="color: #990000; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Huge, can't-hide-behind-them, grasping-for-breath, kid-like, gargantuan bucket of tears </span>because I am .so.very.proud. I know this child didn't come from my body, and I didn't carry her for 9 months. I don't know every story, and I sure don't know every wound. But I know in that moment I didn't feel like a Step-Whats-It.<b> </b><span style="color: purple;"><b>I felt like a mom.</b> I'm so proud of her. I'm proud of this girl. I'm proud of who she is, and I'm proud of what she's done, and there aren't enough cells in my worldly human body to be able to express the magnitude of that feeling. </span><br />
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And the thing that gets me the most... The thing that still has me choking on my own breath is that she is being recognized for something she created, all on her own; for an ability nobody on this planet has but her. Even with missing huge chunks of her childhood and experiencing things no little girl should ever have to witness or feel, she was able to create a magical piece of work that not only impressed the people who love her, but a group of strangers who saw so much potential in her that they want to fly her to our Nation's Capital and shower her with additional knowledge and encouragement. She is going to gain an experience so few people have the opportunity to do.<br />
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<b>She deserves it. And that is the validation. </b><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[And she's beautiful to boot]</span></div>
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-54283146289217020712014-12-23T15:09:00.006-06:002014-12-23T15:21:06.798-06:00If You Give A Guy A Flauta....It is rather well-known that raising a child is expensive. Raising two is even more expensive. Raising two while also planning a wedding, running out of room in your current home, and finding a way to pay off $20,000 in student loan debt is really freaking frustrating. And expensive.<br />
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Still, Chris and I find a way to save at least a little bit of cash so that we can treat ourselves to dinner one night a month. I think it's very important to find the time and resources to celebrate our successes, our lessons, and our wild adventures together.<br />
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Yesterday, I took off work to finish my Christmas shopping (and no, I did not finish it - <i><span style="color: red; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">shopping fail</span></i>), so Chris and I met for lunch at Cafe Agave for one of our monthly outings. We've been trying new places lately, and this was a spur of the moment stop. We had .so.much.food. that we had a lot of leftovers. I sent him back to the office, and then off on my merry way I went!<br />
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I found myself parked (<span style="color: blue;"><b>for-ev-errrr</b></span>) at a busy stoplight near the mall. I made eye contact with a discheveled man on the corner, holding a sign that read, "Disabled Vet. Anything Helps." For whatever reason, I found myself compelled to do something. I started digging around for change or cash or<i> anything resembling money,</i> but lo and behold, I had absolutely zero cash or coin on me. Not a cent. The only thing I could find in my sweet little fleet vehicle was a Styrofoam box with two leftover flautas from lunch. I laughed aloud, thinking, <span style="color: #741b47;"><i>Good lord, Courtney, no man, no matter how desperate, is going to want your luke-warm man-handled leftovers.</i></span><br />
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At this point, I know the light is getting ready to turn. The man is still looking at me. I still have no money. I start to have one of those weird, panic-y, "oh my God, I have to do something, he's watching" attacks. So I rolled my window down (all the way, which is totally against the rule that my mom taught me when I was a teenager). I told him I had no money, but I had some left over food; then held my box up to the window like some sort of desperate-for-validation orphaned cartoon child. I expected him to laugh. I expected him to say no thanks. I expected him to do a million different things other than what he did.<br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[Yep, this was me.]</span></div>
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He said thank you. He wished me a Merry Christmas. And he took his sign and the Styrofoam box to the sidewalk - well away from the corner and from traffic. He sat the sign behind him so that no one saw it. He limped and crouched his way to a sitting position - and he ate my luke-warm man-handled leftovers with such delicacy, it was as if he wanted to remember every single detail. </div>
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It was then that I realized he only had one shoe. The other foot had a sole-less shoe top on it; made to look like a shoe, only there wasn't really a bottom. I turned to face forward, and my light changed. </div>
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Yes, both literal and proverbial lights changed.</div>
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I was so happy that he ate my leftovers, I cried my way down the road to the mall.</div>
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I'm not saying you should go give your leftovers to a stranger on the corner in order to validate a good feeling or the spirit of giving.<span style="color: #666666; font-size: xx-small;">**</span> I'm saying that<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="color: #274e13;">I was so worried about whether or not my gift was good <i>enough</i>, that I failed to realize my gift was <b>good</b>.</span></span></div>
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We should all stop wondering whether Aunt Bea will like her scarf. Whether Grandpa will like his popcorn. Whether your significant other will like that sweater. Whether you will like all of the gifts that you will receive this season.</div>
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The important thing to remember is that you like each other enough to give <i><span style="color: #990000;">something</span></i>. Anything. It doesn't matter if it's a scarf or a Lego or a leftover flauta. It doesn't matter whether the gift is good enough. <b>It matters that you love them enough to give.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>It matters that you do good.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">**Footnote: Really, I think this would be awesome - if you can pay for the person's Starbucks drink behind you, can't you take a sandwich to guy a street corner?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;">Merry Christmas</span><span style="color: #38761d;">, from my family to yours</span> <span style="color: red;"><3</span></b></span></div>
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-49189545654611118962014-11-19T12:16:00.002-06:002014-11-19T12:16:26.053-06:00Save The DateSo as it turns out, planning a wedding is both happily exhilarating and horribly frustrating. The latter is mostly because I don't have a million dollars, AND it's hard to tour venues, talk to florists, and research photographers when you have a 6 year old who needs your help studying books every night so he can be the best reader in kindergarten (<span style="color: blue;">FYI - he is</span>) and an almost-12 year old wanting to know why on God's green earth she isn't allowed to have a cell phone that we aren't allowed to creep through to make sure she isn't planning to exonerate the entire female population of the 6th grade (<span style="color: magenta;">FYI - she is</span>).<br />
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Aside from that, wedding planning is exciting and fun and surprisingly easy. We have our venue, I have my dress (<i><span style="color: purple;">Maggie Sottero is the queen of everything</span></i>), the bridal party has been selected, the food has been planned, and everything else seems to be falling into place. It makes it much easier that I have a groom who reads me very well. He knows precisely when to freak out with me and when to tell me it will all randomly work out. It also helps that we can both remain the same level of calm throughout venue tour, only to let out the same squeal or gasp as soon as the doors shut behind us.<br />
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But hey, check out this fancy place that we are getting hitched!<br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[Oaks Country Club]</span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large;"><span style="color: orange;">9.19.15</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[I cannot wait to marry this guy.]</span></span></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-72246574331929553952014-10-28T17:26:00.000-05:002014-10-28T17:26:42.372-05:00We're Getting Married!Extra! Extra!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">WE ARE GETTING MARRIED!</span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[My fiance (eeeep!) and me in Ocho Rios, Jamaica]</span></div>
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Months ago, Chris asked to plan a special 2 year anniversary trip. I was ecstatic! But then he began telling me all the details of a <strike>horrifying</strike> adventurous Hog Hunting trip in the woods of Arkansas. Sounds awfully romantic, right? Ugh. Boys.<br />
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But this guy was keeping secrets the whole time. He renewed his passport, booked our flights, had secret chats with my dad and my brother, and whisked me off to Jamaica for a full week of romance and adventure. We went sailing, paddle boating, knee-boarding, had a couples massage on the ocean, danced under the stars, and he proposed on the private Drift Away beach area. His proposal reminded me very much of the time he first told me he loved me.<br />
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<i>Look, Courtney, I love you. Ok? You hear me? Alright, now let's finish painting this kitchen.</i></blockquote>
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<i>Courtney Nicole... Will you marry me?</i></blockquote>
It was very much "us." Sweet, simple, to the point.<br />
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We are planning for an October wedding, since it is the anniversary of all our major moments: first met, first date, first kiss, first crisis, first anniversary, first everything. We could technically have our wedding on our dating anniversary, if we want to go bold with a Halloween Wedding. <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Is that even a real thing?</span> The kids would require a costume contest. I can't say I'd mind have a Ninja Turtle at my wedding....<br />
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I plan on blogging my wedding planning adventures here, and I'm <span style="color: #cc0000;">so excited</span> to be able to document everything. Hooray for the wonders of the inter-webs!<br />
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-60909464670530684442014-09-09T15:08:00.002-05:002014-09-09T15:11:07.325-05:00#WhyIStayed #WhyILeftI'm going to get serious for a minute about all this Ray Rice woman-beater news. Need a refresher? Take a look:<br />
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<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/09/08/us/ray-rice-new-video/" target="_blank">http://www.cnn.com/2014/09/08/us/ray-rice-new-video/</a></div>
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I keep hearing people say "Well, she lunged at him!" and "She was going to hit him first!" "She <i>did </i>hit him!" "She shouldn't have been heading toward him!"<br />
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Let me tell you something: I don't give a shit.<br />
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Two men in my life - whom I <u>love and respect dearly</u> - have been victims of domestic abuse. Yes, MALE victims of abusive females. And you know how many of those females they hit back?<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>NONE.</b></span></div>
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Here are a few of the incidents.<br />
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<span style="color: #990000;">Male knocked out cold by a skillet. </span><span style="color: #666666;"><i>Male kneed in the groin until he can no longer stand.</i> </span><span style="color: #741b47;">Male kicked in the head so hard - while driving his young daughter in a vehicle on a highway - he almost fell unconscious.</span> <i>Male hit with a steel pole.</i> <span style="color: #38761d;">Male cussed at, spit on, and slapped in the face repeatedly.</span> <i><span style="color: #351c75;">Male pushed down the stairs and then kicked in the stomach.</span></i></blockquote>
Not a single time after any of these instances did either male raise a hand. In fact, both males, on more than one occasion, were threatened with lawsuits and further physical altercation after moving out of the way to avoid contact or holding up their arms to shield themselves. Both males were football players. Neither female weighed more than 140 pounds. And NEVER did they strike back. <b>Not. One. Time.</b><br />
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You know how long these attacks went on? <i>Years</i>. You know how long the males stayed with the females? <i>Years</i>.<br />
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<b>Male 1:</b> #whyhestayed - she convinced him that nobody would ever love him as much as she would, and that he wasn't a man unless he took her back; <b>it was all he'd ever known.</b><br />
#whyheleft - he learned what it meant to be a man. He discovered who he could be, what he could do. And he knew that his baby sister wouldn't put up with that woman treating him like that for too long.<br />
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<b>Male 2:</b> #whyhestayed - he loved his babies and was scared to raise them alone; he didn't think any female could ever love him after that; he thought all women would be the same; he thought it might get better; he felt numb to it;<b> it was all he'd ever known</b>.<br />
#whyheleft - he loved the babies too much to risk their safety.<br />
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Let's not forget that the hashtags for #WhyIStayed and #WhyILeft are not gender specific. Men are also victims of domestic violence. And they can be victims without EVER responding violently or deserving it.<br />
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All that being said.....<br />
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I love Male1 and Male2 more than words could say. They are the <i>best men</i> & the<b> best daddies</b> that I have ever seen, and I could not possibly have more <b>. </b><span style="color: blue;"><b>r e s p e c t . </b></span>for them.<br />
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Also, I think Ray Rice is a punk bitch and I have no doubt that someone in prison will remind him of that some day.<br />
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-71396247180036015252014-05-28T18:02:00.000-05:002014-05-28T18:05:52.489-05:00just hold on.When I was four, I thought the rodeo and the radio were the same word. I was certain that the rodeo was this giant concert you went to, and country artists just sang and sang and sang, all through the night, and the dj's aired everything live on the radio. I distinctly remember standing in the kitchen around that age and saying, "Momma, when I grow up I wanna tour with Reba on the rodeo." Okay, child.<br />
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From 7 through 19, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I even went to an Ag college and took pre-vet classes. They were fantastic until I discovered that I just wanted to cuddle animals, not perform surgery on them.<br />
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Then I became absolutely certain that I would join a sorority, study abroad, become a writer, and settle down in a little house in the country with years worth of stories to tell, and a country-grown husband and 2.5 children to listen to them. But guess what?<br />
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<b><span style="color: blue;">.LIFE DOESN'T HAPPEN THE WAY YOU THINK IT SHOULD.</span></b></div>
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It hurts. It stings. It throws curve balls when you didn't even know you were in the game. Sometimes, life is just plain mean. But sometimes it turns out even <u>better</u> than you had planned. God has plans for you that you haven't even fathomed. And although I believe this wholeheartedly, if you had told me 2 years ago, 5 years ago, 10 years ago that I would be where I am today, I still would have scoffed and cried and thrown a fit. <i>But think of the travel! Think of the stories! Think of all the things you're missing out on! Think of how hurt you've been and how much you deserve this!</i> past me would yell at present me. <span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">[Past me was a bit dramatic, to say the least.]</span><br />
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I often see articles where people think of all the things they want to tell their former self. I've thought about this a lot. Probably more than a normal person should, but <b>HEY</b>, if Brad Paisley can write a song about it, then I can let me sweet little mind wander. Not that it does any good, seeing as how each time I ponder it, I can only come up with <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">one.single.thing</span> that I would say to me:<br />
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<i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Just hold on.</b></span></i></blockquote>
And I don't think there's anything wrong with that. It doesn't take away from the lessons of my past experiences, and it doesn't steal the joy in all the .<span style="font-size: large;">beautiful. </span>things that have happened to me since the Courtney Crash of 2010.<br />
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Someone I love very dearly is having a rough time juggling the never ending downpour of "<i>This isn't where I thought I would be.</i>" To that, I say <span style="color: #cc0000;">darling, just hold on</span>. There are wonderful, mesmerizing, unforgettably fantastic things ahead of you. We simply have to reignite the flame that was alive when we were young. The flame that says<i> I can do anything. I can be anything. And if you think otherwise, then by God, I'm going to prove you wrong.</i><br />
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I took a quiz today - one of those super fancy Buzz Feed quizzes that makes you wonder if someone is secretly telling the editor's secrets about you. This particular one was, "What career should you really have?"<br />
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<span style="color: #838383; font-family: ProximaNovaRegular, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 28px;">"You should be a writer: you have a skill for language, your imagination is vast and you are artistic and creative. Your brain is just overflowing with ideas, and all you have to do is get a piece of paper and share it with the world. You were born to turn words into magical stories."</span></blockquote>
Ah, so perhaps my fate isn't decided just yet. The wonderful thing about your life not being quite where you thought it would be? <span style="font-size: large;">You can still direct where it's going.</span><br />
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-81848776148133623572014-05-08T16:52:00.004-05:002014-05-08T16:54:31.337-05:00How do you know?<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: #666666;">I love skimming through the Facebook page for "<a href="https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork" target="_blank">Humans of New York</a>." It's a pretty fabulous idea, really. A man with a camera walks around the streets of New York City and asks people to tell them a little bit about themselves. Sometimes they are funny...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"I've taken over five thousand portraits of people in New York, and I find out a little bit about everyone I photograph..."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"Well, you're not finding out a thing about me!"</span></blockquote>
Sometimes they are sad...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"I was never once afraid to fight. I was a brawler. A bull. I even fought in Madison Square Garden. But it knocked me out for a whole year when my mom died."</span></blockquote>
Today, one had me really thinking.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"I remember the first time that I knew I loved him and I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. We were driving down some back road in Utah, and we stopped at a light in front of an old water park, and he looked to the left to ma</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">ke a turn. And at that moment, I knew. And that night he kissed me for the first time."<br />"But you said he looked left. Weren't you sitting on his right?"<br />"Yeah, I was looking at the back of his head. Not quite as romantic, is it?"</span></blockquote>
I know people always say "When you know, you know!" when they feed you icky cliche quotes dripping with cheese about destiny and fate and timing. But you know what? <span style="color: #bf9000;"><b>I like cheese.</b></span> And there really is no other way to put it, other than <i><span style="color: #cc0000;">when you know, you really freaking know.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The beginning of our relationship was laden with crap that should have sent us running (and to be honest, <span style="color: purple;">one of us did try to run...</span> But I convinced him not to). After knowing who he was since I was in grade school, we finally met in a bar while I was gulping whiskey, and still neither of us remember the details of the first few times that we hung out. It was supposed to be easy breezy and no strings attached. But after knowing each other for just over two weeks, on what was probably one of the worst nights of his life, he asked me to be his girlfriend. It was Halloween, and his kids were not brought home on time. In fact, they weren't brought home for another 20 days. He was miserable. He was erratic. He was a parent who didn't know where his babies were. I understood that he was probably only asking me to be his girlfriend because he was vulnerable, he was sad, and it was about to be the longest night in his entire life. So I stayed with him that night. And the next night. And the next night...<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, and still no kids. It was also my 26th birthday. I was living in a tiny apartment in the ghetto (no really - g h e t t o!), and he decided he was tired of staying at his house without them there. He came over carrying a toothbrush and a 12 pack of Busch beer. He'd been in meetings with lawyers all day, and he looked like he'd aged about ten years in just thirteen days. By the end of the night, he was finally pissed off. He punched pillows on my bed until the frame shook, and I remember thinking to myself <i>Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?</i><br />
<br />
And I immediately answered my own question: <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">love</span><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In that horrible second, I knew there was nowhere else I'd rather be. After knowing him for exactly 30 days, I knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him... while he was punching pillows, cursing the entire world, and having the most miserable, taxing, gut-wrenching moment of his life. </span>That Human of New York was absolutely right. Falling in love is not always so romantic. Sometimes it's messy. Sometimes it's really hard. But it is always worth it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nine days later, after his kids were home and safe, he said it was time for us to call it quits. He said I deserved someone who didn't have messy situations, and he would be okay with just him and the kids. But I am a <span style="color: blue;">horribly stubborn woman</span> so I didn't go anywhere. Three months later, we were painting the kitchen when he said, "Hey. I love you, too. You hear me?" I'm not sure how long he'd known it, but I figure it was somewhere between the whiskey on day 1 and not leaving him on day 39, even after he told me to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's day 572. Every night we sleep on the pillows that he beat to a pulp, and every night I am reminded that when you know, you know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-30448856546039134532014-04-23T21:07:00.000-05:002014-04-23T21:19:27.618-05:00Vertical Living - Look Up.This morning, my boss and I trekked across the great state of the O-K-L-A for a 3 day Financial Aid conference. Per our usual routine, we spent the morning talking about what we did the night before. We usually talk about the kids and their crazy antics, our significant others "acting like guys," all the things we didn't get done, and how much we love our families in spite of their flaws. And far too often, I am ashamed to say, the conversation ends up looking like this: <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>flaw. flaw. flaw.</b> I love them to pieces, but oh my gosh that flaw!</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
I'm human. And sometimes I err. And sometimes that err is aloud.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This morning, I told my boss that I was ready to give up on a situation. More specifically, a person. I was tired of feeling guilty, I was tired of feeling like a bad person, I was tired of feeling inadequate, and I was tired of putting forth effort with little to no results. I was done with one step forward two steps back.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Enter Robin Marsh.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Robin was the keynote speaker at our Financial Aid conference. She is friends with Miss America, she is a news anchor on Channel 9 in Oklahoma City, and she has nothing to do with financial aid. My boss and I looked at each with the same thought:<i> <span style="color: red;">this is pointless - what is she even doing here?</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Enter Robin Marsh.</div>
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<br /></div>
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She gave the most moving speech I have ever in my life had the pleasure of hearing. She said, "When you verbalize gratitude, you foster peace. You foster positivity. I call it a vertical living, because you look up, and you give thanks to God... <b>Don't let flesh make you look out</b>. Look up. If you compare, you foster instant disaster. <span style="font-size: large;">Look up</span>."<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
She asked us what we are thankful for. Family, friends, health, life, faith. These answers were repeated throughout the room. My immediate thought was that I was thankful for Chris and the kids. But then a voice appeared in the back of my human, erroneous mind and said, <i>Nope! Remember? We're done with effort with one of those individuals! No mas from this girl! Dunzo!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Enter Robin Marsh.<br />
<br />
She spoke right to me when she gave the following message: young girls need us.<span style="color: purple;"> <b>There's a young girl that needs you</b>.</span> A girl can look in a magazine and in just 90 seconds, she will feel worse about herself.<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;"> [Robin then snapped her fingers, counting the 90 seconds; the room was silent.]</span> Dare to compare? Let's dare NOT to. Let's be role models to the girls who need us. Let's not allow one burr in our boot keep us from making a difference in one person's life. That person needs you.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There in the middle of conference room with 200+ people, in the front row of tables, with my boss and peers and a news anchor in front of me, I had tears falling down my cheeks. Robin said she had something for us. She and Miss America 2007, Lauren Nelson, had written a book. "God, Girls, and Getting Connected: Spiritual Apps for a Teen's Life." I thought to myself <i>I want that for P, but I don't have any money.</i></div>
<div>
Without skipping a beat, Robin looked my direction and said, "If you can't afford, I will give you one. You need it that much."<br />
<br />
Enter God.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm sure Robin was talking to every person in that room. But she was seeking me. I felt it. I felt her message. And for the first time in a long time, <span style="color: blue;">I felt God.</span> I felt Him within me, I felt Him as me, I felt Him in her words and in my heart. </div>
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<br /></div>
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At this time, she quoted Romans 12:15. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #f1c232; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><b>Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.</b></span></blockquote>
She said the rules are simple. If you are happy, let me celebrate with you. If you are going through a hard time, then let me cry with you. But always be grateful for the storm, because there is joy there. Think of what could come of it. Think of what you could do for that young girl.<br />
<br />
I don't often like to share my religious beliefs or spiritual feelings with people, let alone social media. But I tell you this: I was completely enveloped in the love of Christ today. I absolutely cannot wait to get home, hug the individual that I vow here and now to<b> never ever ever give up on</b>, and hand her the book that Robin Marsh signed for her; wrote for her; worked on with God for the betterment of her life.<br />
<br />
And mine.<br />
<br />
Funny how a conference meant for financial aid professionals can have a profound effect on my heart; how a book meant for a pre-teen can change my relationship with God; and how one speech can change the rest of my life.<br />
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-39452806874560367482014-03-05T12:04:00.000-06:002014-04-23T20:21:31.462-05:00Showing LoveSpeaking of appreciation....<br />
<br />
<br />
When I get mad at Chris for whatever crazy reason I come up with, 4 things usually happen.<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>I wasp around, pretending not to be mad until I finally explode.</li>
<li>I explain in various ways why I'm mad, usually not getting the real reason to roll off my tongue until much later in the <strike>argument</strike> conversation; he then gets frustrated that I'm even mad about it in the first place.</li>
<li>We are silent for a short period of time, we continue to kiss and say I love you and try our hardest to pretend not to be mad, until we finally AREN'T mad anymore (<span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-small;">being mad is no fun, it doesn't solve problems, and <i>not </i>kissing and loving on him just does not fit into my schedule</span>).</li>
<li>We talk about it. </li>
</ol>
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The last argument we had, I literally had steam coming out of my ears. The culmination of many things led me to burst (<i>see number 1, above</i>). The next day, he went to work while the kids and I had a snow day. I cleaned the bedroom, vacuumed the house, folded sheets, washed dishes, climbed through 3 loads of his laundry, had dinner waiting on the table for him when he got home, and offered up a foot rub immediately afterward.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I was ticked off. Why did I do all those things for him?</div>
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<br />
<b><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: large;">Being angry does not justify not showing love.</span></b> He still worked hard all day, he still provided for our family, he still deserves to come home to a woman who loves him with all her heart - even if her mind is still slightly full of steam instead of paper hearts. </div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-32107284218669468702014-03-05T12:01:00.003-06:002014-04-23T20:23:46.259-05:00appreciation station.Life throws curve balls. Sometimes, they're just regular boring slightly curved balls. Sometimes, they're curve balls that shoot a million miles an hour out of one of those machines and it gets stuck and keeps shooting them before you've even had time to swing at the last one and pretty soon you just stand at home plate, ducking every now and then, staring at all the damn balls at your feet.<br />
<br />
That's how February has been in our household. It's okay though, because it means all 4 of us have learned how to <u>communicate</u> more effectively (though we don't always choose to do so); it means that we have spent a lot more time together as a <i>family </i>than we had originally planned; it means that we are all learning to give <b>respect </b>if we want to get it; and it means we are adapting every day to being a<span style="color: red;"><b> home</b></span>.<br />
<br />
March is a happy happy month: it will mark my mother's <strike>60th</strike> 30th Again birthday, and it marks the first signs of spring.<br />
<br />
Ah, I love spring. Flowers and grasses that you thought were dead all winter suddenly come back to life, and front yards look like the fields in Oz, rather than the icky hay-swamps of Nowhere, Midwest <span style="color: #666666;">[what? that could be a real thing]</span>. You start seeing baby animals every where you go, all your friends accidentally get preggo from being cooped up all winter, your skin begins to glow from the sun instead of the increasing paleness brought on from wind and lack of Vitamin D. It's a glorious time of year. It's a sign of new beginnings. Better things to come. It's the time of every year when I begin to really look forward to everything that's in store.<br />
<br />
It also makes me incredibly thankful for everything that I already have.<br />
<br />
I want to make sure that this spring (and every season thereafter), I take the time to show my loved ones how much I truly appreciate them. Not just in words, but also in action. Appreciation comes in many forms, and I do not want to stick to just one. I want to express it in every way possible. I want appreciation to be flowing out of my ears in little pink hearts so everyone can see it, feel it, know it, and share it.<br />
<br />
Ah, yes. I love spring.<br />
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<br />Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-14902534750799896452014-01-24T16:56:00.002-06:002014-01-24T16:57:39.384-06:00Parenting is a verb.I've written about 3 blog entries on my phone that I have yet to post. Yes, yes, I'm slacking. <br />
<br />
I'm also behind on my daily devotional book. And my healthy cooking. And my leisure reading. And my workouts.<br />
<br />
But I am completely caught up on surviving the flu, taking the kids to the aquarium, cheering my mom through knee surgery, and figuring out how to calm a sweet little boy with strep throat [hint: it's singing crazy African beats]. <br />
<br />
Until I am able to post the rest of my updates, I will leave you with today's Facebook post where I shamelessly blasted my current frustration. I am so incredibly lucky to have such an amazing support system.<br />
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My goodness. I'm going to cry the happy tears, and then run home to hug my precious little family.</div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-3426365846145552282014-01-03T17:01:00.002-06:002014-04-24T20:46:59.674-05:00The Apology GiftI'm a woman. A scorpio woman. Do you have any idea what this means?<br />
<br />
I'm stubborn. I'm a bad apologizer. And if I'm losing an argument, I will start to pick fights on topics I might have a slight advantage at just to make myself feel like I'm not losing. It goes something like this:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red;">"I'm not mad. I just hate watching this team. They're not even good..."</span> </blockquote>
[This team was playing great. I was mad because my team lost to them when we weren't playing great]<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red;">"Watching this game with you and so-and-so is so annoying, you're not a real sportscaster, stop acting like it..."</span></blockquote>
[He played college football... he knows his shit. He's basically a college football genius. And he holds Division III records. How hot is that?!]<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red;">"You're being a jerk. Why didn't you hug me when I walked in the door?"</span></blockquote>
[He did. And really, I'm not that needy.]<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red;"> "You promised to have dinner with me, why'd you eat ahead of time?"</span></blockquote>
[I was late getting home from work so his wonderful momma cooked for us to be nice.]<br />
<br />
I then complained about no alone time, doing dishes, not being taken seriously, the stress of moving out of my apartment, why everyone hates my dog, the whole house is mean to me, blah blah BLAH oh my GOSH Courtney shut up. Seriously, sometimes I'm just a brat for the sake of being a brat. Or for the sake of PMS and I really can't help that. Yanno what I was really mad about? Probably just holding a grudge over <strike>stupid</strike> <strike> overrated </strike> OU Sooners because they beat my Cowboys during the annual Pokey Chokey at Bedlam this year. <em>Really, Mike Gundy?!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Thankfully, my sweets knows me well enough to know not to argue with me when I get like this (don't worry - I never ever call him "sweets" to his face). He hugs me, tells me I'm pretty, and goes to bed. Occasionally I get mad that he won't argue.<br />
<br />
And theeeeen I spend the entire following day trying to come up with new ways to apologize. Today, I doodled apology graffiti and sent him artsy fartsy pictures of them. He has also received apology sandals, apology dinners, and apology fishies for the salt-water tank. At this point, he probably gets excited whenever I argue with him because it means he's going to get something <em>really stinking cool</em> the next day. <br />
<br />
Tonight, we are going to a fancy shmancy dinner to celebrate all the wonderful starts to our 2014<br />
<br />
His best friend got hired on at his office.<br />
My best friend turned 27 today. (Remember, they are married so it isn't weird that we asked them to dinner together).<br />
Most importantly, <strong><span style="color: blue;">we are celebrating the union of our.... stuff</span></strong>.<br />
<br />
I am moving all of my junk into his house this weekend, and I could not be more excited! Once we get decorated, I'll give a tour of all our new DIY projects (we have a lot going at once... It excites my little DIY heart, and it satisfies his ADD needs).<br />
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Eeeeeep. So many exciting things coming up this year, and I cannot wait to share them!<br />
<br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">[[ On a side note.... It has been a year since my Papa passed. Part of my heart is with him every day. ]]</span></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-43158020154197805052013-12-13T14:27:00.001-06:002013-12-13T14:40:38.479-06:00In Good CompanyWhen I was about 8, I was in my brother's room playing with his toys (like so many other evenings, his GI Joes and Army Men were infinitely cooler when they hung out with my Barbies). My mom came into the room asking weird questions about dinner and softball practice and can we give her so-and-so's phone number so she knew what the regulations were for Cameron's Cub Scouts derby racecar. It was then that I decided to tune it all out, and I distinctly remember thinking,<em> Okay Mom, Mr. GI is about to ask Skipper on a date, let's get moving. </em><br />
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This is easily one of the biggest regrets of my childhood conversations (another is that I once told my brother I hated him, and then I felt bad and apologized for 2 hours; my fits of anger never last long). Immediately after deciding to ignore her, she cried and asked if we thought she was a bad mother. I actually laughed because I was certain there was NO way she was actually being serious. <br />
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But she was.<br />
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Now, let me tell you something about my mother. She has an infectious laugh and the biggest heart I've ever witnessed on the face of this planet. She was also a really, really <span style="color: #cc0000;">outstanding</span> parent. We lived about 20 miles outside of the town where we actually went to school, and on any given evening, her schedule looked like this:<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><em>5:30</em> Pick up kids from daycare because she worked a full time job and my dad didn't live at home</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><em>5:30-6:30</em> Dinner and homework at McDonalds because we didn't have time to drive the 30 minutes home and back. Depending on the season, Cameron's football practice conincided with this hour, so my mom and I ate in the car by ourselves</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><em>6:30-7:30</em> Courtney's softball practice and/or cheerleading practice and/or campfire meetings (and sometimes all 3)</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><em>6:30-8</em> Cameron's Cub Scout meetings or baseball practice.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><em>30 minute drive home</em>.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">And then bathe both children, pick out their clothes for tomorrow, read their bedtime stories, organize their backpacks, talk to them about their day, learn every detail about every friend in every class, sew costumes for school plays, help put together tri-board science projects, clean the house (<em>oh my god, how was our house so clean?!)</em> and somehow find time to take care of our three dogs, our two cats, a fresh-water fish tank, and then shower and take care of herself.</span><br />
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Wait. And she's asking me if she's a bad mother?!?!<br />
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Seriously guys, my mom is cray. She is a fabulous mother and I have never seen one better.<br />
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But I do think I finally understand why she cried and asked that crazy question in the first place. Being a step-whatsit is one of the few things in my life I feel pure passion for (aside from my family, my dog and my smokin' hot boyfriend). I absolutely love the cheer practice, the laundry piles, the sight of their sparkling clean rooms [even if I have to clean them myself], the way Noah smells after he's had a bath, every second of Peyton being clingy and snuggly, and then trying to learn details about their day without sounding like I'm doing some kind of prison-camp interrogation. Still, at the end of some days I find myself screaming, "<em>Good lord! There's no way I'm doing this right!!!!"</em> followed by<em> "I will never be as amazing to them as my mom was to me because I haven't been with them from the start..."</em><br />
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After looking back on that terrifying conversation with my mom, I finally realized I don't need to have all the answers. I don't need to know every detail about their past. I don't always need to have it all together. What parent does, be it biological, step, or adoptive? None of us are going to know what we're doing every. single. day. We're not always going to know that we're doing it right - or that someone else could've done it better. <span style="color: #351c75;">Chris always says to me, "Just love them as best as you can. Be there for them. And when they're old enough to understand and realize it, they'll know you were their parent all along." <em>Hold just a moment while my heart melts</em>.</span> He really is the best partner I've ever had in my life. We make a great team, and I love every second of it. </div>
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I wouldn't know the first thing about being a parent or a partner if it weren't for my amazing mother. Knowing that she had the same, <em>"Am I doing this right??"</em> moments that I have.... Well, that makes me feel like I just might be.</div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-5888278321182212862013-11-11T18:10:00.002-06:002013-11-11T18:18:32.288-06:00Oncology, Party of (K) 9.I never thought I'd be googling reviews for Veterinary Oncologists. But here I am, frantically searching for any kind of inkling for one who is both magical and inexpensive. So far, my vet has referred me to two: one is less expensive, but can't see my furbaby for another 10 days; the other is comparable in price, but has less than stellar reviews regarding her personality. <em>Neither of these options seem magical.</em><br />
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For those that know me, you very well know that pre-smokin' hot boyfriend and pre-sorta-step-kids, there was really only one love in my life: an 8 pound Chihuahua Beagle mix named Cooper. I have known for a long time that days like this are possible, but I thought I made a deal with Jesus so that my little guy would never leave me.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">[My goodness. How cute is he?]</span></div>
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A couple of weeks ago, Cooper (who has never weighed more than 8.5 pounds soaking wet) started gaining weight in his belly. Over a week's time, he swelled up like he'd just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner. I took him to see my dad, who was an animal husbandry major at OSU. No, he's not a vet. But he knows enough about pigs and cattle that I thought he would at least give me a decent, free guess as to whether I should be worried. We decided the little turkey was just eating too much people food. <span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">[Side note: totally guilty. He usually gets scraps from every meal I eat in front of him.]</span></div>
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3 days later, his legs were so swollen he couldn't walk straight. I gave him a warm bath thinking it might help with any soreness, and felt some kind of mass in his belly. </div>
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Total. Meltdown.</div>
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He got into his vet first thing in the morning<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="color: #444444;">(Tulsans, please go see Dr. Robards at </span></span><a href="http://southernhillsvet.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">Southern Hills Vet Hospital.</span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"> He is amazing, and his staff will call you multiple times a day to calm your fears and check on you).</span> Dr. Robards drained a full liter of fluid from his tiny little body, and within an hour he was a full two pounds lighter. Rejoice! Yay! Hallelujah!</div>
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Not so fast. His fluid was building up because he has crystallized particles throughout his body, and his immune system was trying to flush them out. Unfortunately, he has an immune disorder; instead of flushing out the particles, he leaked fluids through his capillaries. </div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;">[On a side note, we discovered through X-Rays that his previous GARBAGE OF A HUMAN BEING owner broke several of his ribs, let them heal back without medical care, and then kicked him to the streets. I should send you a thank you card, because you sent my little boy right into my arms. I should also punch you in the dome because Coop now has shards of bone floating around in his ribcage. You're a real winner!]</span></div>
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Anyway... an ungodly amount of money later, we got Cooper on antibiotics, steroids, and a diuretic. These are supposed to increase his appetite and thirst, flush those nasty little crystallized particles out of his teeny tiny system, and cure what ails him. However, he is now dehydrated, unable to jump onto the couch without falling, and refuses to play. He just wants to be in my lap on the floor and snuggle. I told myself, <em>"It's okay! His body is just tired from healing itself!!"</em></div>
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And then I remind myself that his little body isn't so great at doing that. Today when the vet tech called me for an update on my baby. She and Dr. Robards <span style="color: #351c75;"><strong>immediately referred me to a Veterinary Oncologist.</strong></span> Wait. A what?? Yes. A Veterinary Oncologist. We are now worried that my little Coop-a-Loop has cancer. So.... we have an appointment in 10 days to get his sweet little senior-citizen puppy tummy an ultra sound. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Cancer is scary.</span> There's no doubt about that. But my little guy is tough. When the wind blows just right, his ears raise up so that he looks like a little tri-colored Yoda. He's had a shattered rib cage and an ID number tattooed on his belly and he once got in a fight with a yellow lab and won. He might as well be the leader of a small prison gang. </div>
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He's strong. He's going to be okay. I'm making the right decision by getting him looked at. I have every reason to hope that he will live many more years of his sweet little life, peeing on my patio and sniffing eyelashes and growling at small children. </div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-54638841777434892102013-09-25T17:05:00.003-05:002013-09-25T17:05:55.767-05:00slightly humorous girl?I just wanted to stop by quickly and let everyone know that I showed my last post "<a href="http://missstepsuccess.blogspot.com/2013/09/today-we-get-fun-little-factoid-feature_24.html">Funny Girl</a>" to the best friend.<br />
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Best friend's reaction:<br />
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"OMG I'M READING YOUR BLOG AND LAUGHING SO HARD I'M CRYING. You are HILARIOUS. Also -- you inspired me to blog."<br />
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I win! Hands down! Funniest girl alive award goes to me! I excitedly tell boyfriend about my success.<br />
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Boyfriend's reaction:<br />
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Hmph. Okay. Still not funny. But I'll get there.</div>
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Also, I have no idea who the person in that picture is, but I'm pretty sure he's Christopher's long lost twin. With a receding hair line. And bigger ears. And less style. </div>
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Okay, equal style. </div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-91456464553312924992013-09-24T17:08:00.004-05:002013-09-24T17:50:38.642-05:00funny girlToday, we get a fun little factoid feature a la Courtney Nicole. <br />
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Recently, while reading other blogs (<a href="http://notkathy.blogspot.com/">http://notkathy.blogspot.com/</a> and <a href="http://recentlyroached.blogspot.com/">http://recentlyroached.blogspot.com/</a><span style="color: #666666;">), I thought to myself, <em>GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN. These women are funny! And not just lady-funny, but actually funny in a sorta-vulgar-no-boundaries-TMI kind of way! And they still love Jesus!</em></span><br />
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This sent me on a very strange, very unnecessary inner-self rampage. <span style="color: #3d85c6;"><em>Why am I not funny?</em> <strong>How come they get to be moms and employees and crafty-crafters and DIYers and still have sex with their husbands AND still be funny?!</strong> <span style="font-size: large;">This isn't fair!! </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I want to be funny, too!!</span></span><br />
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Spoiler alert: Sometimes I'm whiny, but rarely am I funny on purpose. I just can't do it all.<br />
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Take, for instance, two of my favorite people in the world: the bestie and the boyfriend. Bestie thinks I'm funny <strong>all. the. time.</strong> No really. I'm pretty sure she'd carry me around in her pocket and let me narrate her life, if I was both pocket-sized and carrying the lungs of James Earl Jones. Alas, I have neither of those things.<br />
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We've known each other since we were 4, and often like to joke that we were separated at birth. We also secretly believe it, since I once had a student tell me that <strong>I'm left handed because I ate my embryonic twin while I was still in the womb</strong>.... Anyway. When great things happen to the best friend, I'm all, "<em>Yay! Good for you! You are so beautiful! Life is rainbows!!!</em>" accompanied by a million emoticons and a snapchat of my smiling face. She loves it, I'm sure. But when she has a bad day, I'm the first one to recant whatever crazy thing happened in my life (usually starting with the sentence, "so this shit just happened...."), or a very fitting picture for whatever less-than-appealing situation she has just been in. Usually something along these lines:<br />
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Stop judging. We like owls and they make us happy. Moral of the story is that she thinks I'm a hoot. (See what I did there?) When I someday kick the bucket or escape from the nursing home or find myself in a 100+ year-old somewhat-vegetative state of dementia, she is going to look back fondly on us as the <span style="color: #351c75;">funniest ladies <span style="font-size: large;">aliiiiiive</span>.</span><span style="color: #666666;"> It's the general foundation of our friendship. It cannot be helped. Perception is reality (and all that stuff), so it doesn't matter if we are the only two people who think we're funny.</span></div>
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<strong>Which may very well be the case.</strong> </div>
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Her husband and Chris have been friends for years. In fact, while I was off galavanting with her through the hallways of Pre-K, her future husband and my future boyfriend were probably together setting off firecrackers in mailboxes or something. </div>
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We all go way back, or whatever the kids call it these days. I even circled boyfriend's "Have a good summer... Stay Cool..." message in my yearbook in 6th grade, and then covered it in ever-so-classy hearts. He had absolutely no idea who I was back then. He was a sexy quarterback and I was the secretary of student council. But that's right folks -<span style="font-size: large;"> <strong>I batted my eyelashes, flipped my hair, and *boom* fifteen years later, he is </strong><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>MINE. </strong><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Dorks unite. There is hope.</span></span></span><br />
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So why, after all the years of crazy (and I mean LOONEY TOON) exes and horrible first dates and even worse second dates, did best friend and her husband never freaking introduce us?!</div>
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The most logical theory: best friend thinks I'm funny. Boyfriend does not.</div>
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If you were to ask dear, sweet boyfriend if I am funny, he would probably laugh, give you the crazy eyes, and do a swift, sassy-lady "<em>oh heeeeeeeeyll nah</em>" hand gesture. <strong><span style="color: #741b47;">Boyfriend.does.NOT.think.I.am.funny</span></strong>. (It's okay, pick your jaws up off the floor.) I'm not sure that I've ever made even one joke that he has genuinely laughed at. I usually get a cute, "<em>d'awwww</em>" face, followed by a sweet pat on the head. I feel like Cindy Lou Who when the Grinch sends her off to bed with her cup.</div>
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What's even better: when I accidentally say or do something that<u> isn't even meant to be funny</u>, he will sprint across the room at lightning speeds to high five me because he thinks I've finally moved up to what he calls a "Level II" comedic line. </div>
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I haven't.<br />
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But I got to thinking. No matter how funny I think other bloggers are (and trust me, I get the giggle fits), boyfriend makes me feel certain that their husbands probably do not think they are funny. They probably find blogging weird. And they probably give sympathy laughs at their wive's jokes because they know if they don't, they will have to fake an apology after three awkward days of icy silent treatment. Boyfriend is super "lucky" because I don't believe in the wasp-y silent treatment. (Yes, I made up the word waspy.) I let all that garbage out. Please refer to the earlier "WHY CAN'T I JUST BE FUNNY?!" rant.</div>
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It's okay though, because at the end of the day, boyfriend hugs me, tells me he loves me, and says "You are funny. Thanks for being my best friend." Even if he's lying through his teeth, he still wins.</div>
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I'm also fairly certain that just before he wifes me up, he will send best friend a thank you letter for NOT introducing us when we were young. God intervened when the time was right. </div>
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And I imagine she will probably respond with something along the lines of:</div>
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PS. Please trust that I am in the midst of a million step-adventures. Even as I type this, one is sick, one is on a rebellious-10-year-old-parent-enforced house arrest, and both have taken to very literal slaps to the face when they get mad at each other. *<strong>beware the step-meltdown</strong>* I'll save that blog for a day that both my funny-girl ego and blood pressure are up to the challenge.<br />
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215542492864363995.post-13911049405483397952013-08-23T16:31:00.001-05:002013-09-16T13:56:30.289-05:00The Trust LanguageRespect is a funny thing. We often don't realize how much we crave it until we aren't getting any. In the same way, <strike>we</strike> I often don't realize I'm being disrespectful until after the words have left my lips or the actions have been completed. <br />
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Have you ever read The Five Love Languages? If not, <strong>stop reading this</strong>. <em>Go buy it now</em>. <u>Read it cover to cover.</u> <br />
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I am Words of Affirmation, while Chris is a pretty equal combination of Acts of Service and Quality Time. More than anything, I need Chris to tell me that he loves me - and he does, <strong>every single day</strong>. Even when he is angry with me, he makes sure to tell me that he still loves me no matter what. <br />
He needs, on the other hand, for me to show him through acts and time. Lately, this means doing the dishes whenever I can help, picking up P from cheer practice, and helping him clean up the house. His bilingual love language is tricky for me, though - because I try to find ways to do these services while still ending my day with one-on-one time with him after the kids go to bed. I've recently failed at the latter. I spend so much time making sure I bond with the kiddos and help around the house, I neglect his need for quality time. Essentially, I need to do a better job at being a good parent <em>and</em> a good girlfriend. The two things are related, but require very different attention. The daddy in him needs me to speak in Acts of Service, but the man in him needs me to speak in Quality Time. <br />
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Why is this important? Because even though he and I are fantastic at speaking the other person's language to them for the purpose of showing love, <span style="color: #741b47;">I still tend to show respect in my own love language</span>, rather than his...<br />
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Instead of showing him that I respect him through acts of service, I tend to verbally express my respect. For example... when I made the colossal mistake of invading the ever-sacred privacy of his phone (<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">ladies: <em>big no-no</em></span></span>!!), I decided that telling him about it was the best way to show respect. In my mind, I was sure that being honest was the right thing to do - one respectful action cancels out a disrespectful action right? Wrong. Even our 4 year old knows that. And since Chris is an acts-of-service-kinda-guy, he would have preferred me to show respect by not looking in the phone in the first place. <br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">[Side note: In hindsight, I agree.<strong> </strong>I trust him completely and there is nothing in his phone or Internet history or school record or grocery list or any other crazy thing that my nosey little eyes need to be a part of!]</span> <br />
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I am now working my way through learning to respect in different languages - especially if it saves us an argument and the back-pedaling-hogwash of asking for an apology rather than permission. Our different languages were very apparent - and at the same time, completely irrelevant - to me after the apologies had been shared and I sent him this cutesy-ooey-gooey picture: <br />
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His response: <br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><strong>"love is trust."</strong></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: black;">Brain, I beg you: Please etch this in stone somewhere and repeat it daily.</span></strong> Perhaps love languages don't always take precedent. Maybe respect doesn't necessarily have a language. Or maybe Chris said something even truer than true - if love is trust, then the languages we speak to each other are<em><span style="color: #674ea7;"> trust languages</span></em>. The only reason you even learn the other person's language in the first place is because you love them enough to be faithful, respect them enough to make an effort, and because you trust that they will do the same. Your love language is the very core of your trust in the other person.</div>
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<u>Love is trust.</u></div>
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<em>love is trust.</em> </div>
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<strong>l o v e. is .t r u s t</strong></div>
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Courtney Nealhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214733088497924875noreply@blogger.com0