tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67411027640599670622024-02-20T13:07:03.850-08:00The Ramsey ClanJenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.comBlogger206125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-50540785687068276062018-02-15T08:04:00.002-08:002018-02-15T08:04:22.952-08:00Swimming with Sharks<br />
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I’ve loved sharks since I was a
kid. JAWS was one of my favorite movies (still is) and Shark Week was second
only to Christmas on the list of most exciting annual events. Maybe it’s because
of this interest that I don’t swim in the ocean. Disclaimer: sharks live in the
ocean. Another disclaimer: sharks eat stuff. I am stuff. No thank you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Statistics say that my odds of
being attacked by a shark are 1 in 3,748,067. I am more likely to be killed by
fireworks. Statistics would tell me that the most dangerous thing I will do if
swimming in the ocean, will be driving there or, even more likely, that I’ll have
a stroke somewhere along the way. I still don’t swim in the ocean. I don’t want
to be the 1 in 3,748,067.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lots of people find it worth the
risk. They all know that sharks live in the ocean. They know there is a small,
very, very small chance that they could be attacked. They find it worth the
risk. The average risk is always there because…see above disclaimers about
where sharks live and what they eat. Sometimes, however, sharks are seen in an
area. When this happens, flags go up. These flags mean that your chances of
being attacked are higher. Fewer people go in the water. Some people still risk
it. Sometimes, when sharks are seen in an area, they put up shark nets. Have
you seen a shark net? Have you seen a shark? It’s a nice thought, it might
deter the sharks a little but it’s honestly insufficient. A net is not stronger
than a shark…at least not the type of shark that you worry about attacking
people. But people swim and they feel safer, until there’s an attack. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After an attack, the flags and the
nets are no longer seen as enough. We need to do more. We leave the flags up
and we repair the nets but now we post lifeguards to keep people out of the
water, we send out helicopters to survey for sharks and we impose swimming bans.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The odds of experiencing a school
shooting in a US high school in any given year, is 1 in 21,000. Where are the
helicopters? Where are the swimming bans? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know we are talking about it. I
know the flags are up and the nets are out. But we have had eight school
shootings, eight attacks, in 2018 so far and there is not a helicopter in
sight. Everyone is talking. “When will this stop?” “What will it take for
change to happen?” Lots of pointing fingers at one political party or another. “It’s
the guns.” “You can’t stop crazy people.” Meanwhile, seventeen people are burying
their loved ones. There are seventeen empty chairs around seventeen dinner
tables. Somewhere there is a mother, a brother, a grandfather standing in a
closet with shirts hanging neatly, shirts that will be boxed up and given away,
shirts that smell just like their child, their sister, their grandchild. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My oldest child is in high school. I’d never
be able to smell apple pie or hear the Psych theme song again. I can’t even say
that my heart would re-break because my heart would never be anything but
broken. Not in this life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t pretend to have all the
answer. Is it taking away guns? Is this just the be expected in this fallen world?
I don’t know. What I do know is that I can walk onto my high school campus, generally
unnoticed. No one questions who I am or why I’m there. There are no lifeguards.
What I do know is that I can go into the office at an elementary school and say
I’m there for lunch and they smile and give me a sticker with my name on it.
There are no helicopters. What I do know is that I go to a community college
and I walk in, right by the security desk, every day I’m on campus, carrying a
backpack and no one gives me a second glance. There is no swimming ban. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Guns are controversial and guns are
complicated. I’m not talking about guns. There are things that are not
controversial and we aren’t doing them. We can lock doors. We can have security.
We can know who is walking into our schools. We can know what is coming through
the doors. We can talk to people. We can listen to people. These are things we
can do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes, shark attacks come with little
to no warning. It’s a risk everyone takes swimming in the ocean (or the Zambizi
River). Sometimes there are no flags and no nets because there have never been
shark sightings. Sometimes, there are warning signs. We know there are sharks
nearby. Our responsibility isn’t just to try to control the shark’s behavior.
It’s to keep the shark away from swimmers. I live in a small town. My son goes
to high school with roughly 2,500 other children. His average odds of being a
victim of a school shooting are 1 in 21,000. If someone opens fire at his high
school, his odds are now 1 in 2,500. If someone opens fire in his classroom,
his odds are now 1 in 30. It’s time to station the lifeguards. It’s time to
send out the helicopter. It’s time to keep swimmers out of the water. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our kids need to learn more than “don’t
bully”. They need to learn how to communicate effectively, how to process
feelings, how to process anger. Our staff needs more than our constant barrage of
emails asking what’s being done, they need our support and our presence. Fundraisers
need to go for more than new band uniforms and better technology, they need to
go for increased security measures. Getting appropriate mental health care for
those who struggle with mental illness is going to require a level of
collaboration that is not occurring, but needs to. This goes beyond politics
and it goes beyond gun laws and it goes beyond Facebook soapboxes. It’s time to
stop calling on politicians to be lifeguards and start earning our
certification. We cannot always keep danger out but we don’t need to hold the
door open for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My heart and prayers are with the
victims of violence. My mind is on what I can do. My arms are around my
children. It’s time to get out of the water. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><a href="http://www.psychlawjournal.com/2012/12/school-shootings-what-are-odds.html?m=1">http://www.psychlawjournal.com/2012/12/school-shootings-what-are-odds.html?m=1</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><a href="http://www.thewildlifemuseum.org/exhibits/sharks/odds-of-a-shark-attack/">http://www.thewildlifemuseum.org/exhibits/sharks/odds-of-a-shark-attack/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-13129517178386385832017-12-05T07:21:00.003-08:002017-12-05T07:21:41.448-08:00The Very Best Kind of Promotional Post Friends and Family, near and far...hello. How are you? It's been forever. I have at least a dozen topics I'd love to write about but it's Christmastime yo. It's the most wonderful and also most hectic, time of the year. There are gifts to be bought, cards to be mailed, cookies to be eaten. So, in the interest of time, I will get down to business.<br />
<br />
As many of you know, my daughter's best friend, Mia, was diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia in November of 2016. This has been a long, tough year for their family and even though her overall prognosis has improved, there have been many set-backs along the way. This sweet girl has undergone very aggressive treatments, the kind I can't even type without tears flowing. And one of the unfortunate side effects of chemotherapy is that it very hard on teeth. Cavities, tooth discoloration and issues with the gum tissue are all common. I know that our sweet Mia has faced this issue related to her treatments.<br />
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It is for this reason that I am SO excited to be partnering with a dear friend of mine, Karen Robins, on a special promotion. I have known Karen for over 15 years and if she says something is awesome, I believer her...you should too...because she's awesome. Awesome is as awesome does, right? Karen introduced me to this awesome toothpaste and I was AMAZED at the results. A toothpaste that fights cavities, whitens safely, helps prevent gum disease, tastes good, is gentle on those sensitive teeth AND safe for children over 2? Yes, please! And I think the results really speak for themselves.<br />
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For the month of December, for every tube of toothpaste ordered, $2 will be donated directly to Mia's family. Just use the code SMILEFORMIA when ordering.<br />
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Karen and I are so excited to partner on this. Please feel free to share this blog post with friends and thank you for your continued love, support and prayers for Mia and her family. I know they feel them.<br />
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Happy Holidays to each of you. May your days be merry and bright and may all your smiles be white! (I'm sorry...I just couldn't resist.)Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-17424772071576945052017-07-06T20:15:00.001-07:002017-07-06T20:15:18.126-07:00Traveling with Kids: A Survivor's Guide If there is anything I have learned in Nursing School, it's this, always read the medication labels. Always. Like, AL-WAYS. It's good to know your potential side effects. For nurses, we have what's called a Black Box Warning. This warning usually says something like, "do not give this medication to a patient who has xyz because this might make them bleed a whole bunch and be not alive anymore", in so many words. So the next paragraph? That is your Black Box Warning. If you do not read anything else in this post, read that paragraph, okay? Okay.<br />
<br />
First, I rarely give parenting advice and this is why: it is almost always totally useless. 99% of what I say is not going to help you in any way, shape or form. Kids are like bacteria. They are unpredictable, highly adaptable and very strategic. If it works once, you can bet that news spreads and they will adapt and mutate and so that same method will not work again. It's evolution folks, what can I say? As long as we all understand that, this should go swimmingly. In terms of traveling with kids, these are some things that have worked (as well as anything works) for our family. Expecting these things to work for you, well, I believe I've already warned you.<br />
<br />
As another disclaimer, we are by no means a "well-traveled" family. In the last five years, we have logged roughly 50k miles and, naturally, much of that is local travel. We have, however, done a handful of ten-hour trips, as well as our car trip out west last summer and these are the things that I have found most helpful.<br />
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1. When asked, I always say that the most important thing to pack is a sense of humor. Traveling with children is not a leisure activity. It's probably going to get uncomfortably loud sometimes. It's probably going to involve at least one unplanned pit-stop. It's probably going to contain at least a small degree of calamity. Embrace the madness because that might just be what gets you through.<br />
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2. I have only flown once with kids, actually one kid, one newborn kid..and it was a two-hour flight. My flying resume is not exactly pushing me to the top of the pile BUT, this is what I will say. I sang, out loud, to my baby during takeoff and during landing and anytime we hit turbulence<br />
(I freaking hate flying and have a fear of crashing to my death). I also nursed my baby, without a cover. I also may or may not have done some deep breathing. And everyone made it off that flight in tact. Annoyed? Maybe. Alive? Absolutely. My baby didn't really cry on the trip but yours might and here's what you need to know...it's okay. Babies cry. Kids make messes. People sing out loud. Bears poop in the woods. Some things cannot be changed. Do not let yourself become paralyzed with fear every time your kid starts acting up, worried it will offend other people. You, and your child, are no more or less worthy of safe passage than anyone else. When I come home, I don't expect my cat to greet me at the door with her tail wagging and tongue panting. Don't expect your kids to sit quietly and reserved on trips. If you get dirty looks, ignore them. If you get exasperated sighs, tune them out. You're likely never going to see these people again. Keep calm because kids can smell fear.<br />
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3. The above sort of applies for car trips as well. Don't expect total silence and peace. Don't expect to be able to drive for long stretches without stopping. Don't expect them to give a crap about the activities you packed, which is actually a perfect segue into my next tip...<br />
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4. Don't pack activities your kids won't give a crap about. I guarantee you will invest far more time searching Pinterest, making a list, shopping and packing these things than you will get in return. Your kids will most likely play with them for five minutes, throw them on the floor and be done. Activities, by and large, take up space, make a mess and are not worth the effort. I also feel like it sets you, and your kid, up for frustration later. Just as you need to embrace that traveling with kids will make you want to stab yourself with a pencil, kids need to embrace the fact that traveling is sometimes boring. If you set the bar high with boxes full of stimulants, there is nowhere to go but down. Why put that sort of pressure on yourself, am I right?<br />
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5. If you have the advantages of technology, go ahead and use them. DVD players, phones, whatever it takes to get from point a to point b, ya know? Me? I love audio-books. My older kids also love audio-books. My two-year-old? She doesn't give an at's rass about audio-books. So, for the last few trips, we have only used them while she sleeps. We do have a DVD player that we use to play movies, mostly for her, which leaves my older ones ready to pull their hair out (ah, revenge can be gratifying). If you don't have gizmos, don't freak out. We do not have iPads or tablets and we have done several of our ten-hour trips without using the DVD player. We listen to music, eat fruit snacks and we all survive. So too shall you.<br />
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6. Get really comfortable going one and two in just about any uncomfortable circumstance. Side of the road? Gatorade bottle? Bathroom in a gas station where you are pretty sure at least one murder has been committed? Breathe it in. It's happening. Oh and your kid? He is going to touch everything in that bathroom. And your daughter? She won't hover. Pack some hand sanitizer, gird up your loins and head into the fray.<br />
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7. Don't ask what that smell is...just...don't.<br />
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8. If there is only one thing in this list you pay attention to, let it be this one...ice cream. In every long trip, I always plan for one, and only one, ice cream stop. It's always on the drive home and usually when we are about two or three hours from home and everyone is just D-O-N-E. I am a pretty frugal woman and I pack our food for road trips but this? This will be the best money you've ever spent. Seriously. If you are allergic to dairy...I don't know, maybe don't travel.<br />
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9. For logistical packing, keep it simple. For our most recent trip, I packed one change of clothing per day per person. Now, this can come back to bite you if your husband, say, goes playing with baby pigs and gets covered in mud and, well, you know. If you are going somewhere without an amazing sister-in-law with a washing machine, you may want to pack an extra outfit or two. Shoes are another biggie. I feel like shoes are the most frequently misplaced item so I try to keep it to one pair per person where possible. I also have found that things get lost much more easily if everyone takes their own bag so we pack everything in our master suitcase and then I take an empty Rubbermaid or a laundry basket to keep our dirty stuff. If we are traveling to a dressy event or attending church away from home, I pack our dress clothes in a small, separate suitcase. As soon as we are done, we put them back in that suitcase and that suitcase goes straight back into the van, ne'er to be touched again until we arrive home. Consolidation seems to be key for our family and, so far, it has worked pretty well for us.<br />
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10. Roll the windows down every once in a while. I don't know <i>why</i> this works but it does. When everyone is cranky and you're on a nice stretch of mild highway, take the speed down a notch and get some wind in your face, unless you are in Ohio. Don't roll down your windows in Ohio. The bugs are unholy.<br />
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At the end of the day, feel satisfied when the trip goes more smoothly than you anticipated and brush it off when it doesn't. If nothing else, you can look forward to the ice cream.<br />
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<br />Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-57267259097772705652016-12-21T10:07:00.003-08:002016-12-21T10:07:30.666-08:00An Open Letter to Myself, In Case I Fail Nursing School <div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Jenny,<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, you failed. That sucks. I mean, <i>truly</i>. Sucks. There are
very few things as devastating as putting your heart, blood, sweat and tears
(not to mention someone else’s cuz, ya know, nurse…too soon?) into something
only to end without the results you had hoped and prayed for. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But you’re no stranger to that. This isn’t the first time
that you’ve failed. This is not your first rodeo, girl. Your heart has been
broken. Your best efforts have fallen short. You have set goals and failed to
reach them. But before you berate yourself for authoring this abysmal version
of a pep-talk, let me remind you of something…you’re still here. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You’re here because failure is inevitable. Heartache and
disappointment and fear and sorrow, they are all a part of this great and
terrible, beautiful mess that is your life. The dark threads are as needed and this, this is just another dark thread in the <b>incredible</b> tapestry of this time you’ve
been granted on Earth. You, my friend, are a lucky, lucky bird. <o:p></o:p></div>
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See failure doesn’t define you as a person, neither does
success. Who you are, your value as a human being, is a gift. You didn’t earn
it, you were given it. You are a child of God and that is your inherent value.
You can choose to use your time on Earth to strive for goodness, for success,
for joy but your worth is predetermined. You are not earning it and you are not
losing it. He loves you. And that love is not contingent upon whether you
succeed or fail. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know you’ve wanted this for a long time…a super long time.
But there has been great joy, joy beyond description, in your life. It was
there before nursing school. It will be there after. You’ve lost people you
love. There were times you felt like you’d never be able to feel happiness
again. But you did. And you will. Oh, you will. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know what you’ll decide to do. I don’t know if you’ll
keep going and graduate and become a nurse. I hope you do. But, if that’s not
what happens, if you don’t become a nurse, please remember that it’s okay.
There is happiness to be had. There is love to give and to receive. There is
work for you to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know you’re worried about your kids. You want so badly to
show them that you can accomplish your dreams and that it’s okay to follow your
own heart, even if takes you in a different direction than the masses. Please,
don’t worry about the kids. You’re showing them something just as important.
You’re showing them that it’s okay to fall down and it’s okay to mess up. You’re
teaching them that joy is a choice and that their worth is unchangeable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After all, if there’s anything you’ve learned in your life
it’s that the best boots have some mud on them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chin up, girl. You’re going to be just fine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-5966701448209847752016-05-06T11:15:00.003-07:002016-05-06T11:17:00.030-07:00The Human Fear of Average <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A few days ago, I was having a
conversation with my eleven-year-old. In their school, they have a behavior
system. Everyone starts on green and they can “clip up” for good behavior or “clip
down” for bad behavior. And every day, without fail, the first thing my
children do when they get in the car after school, is give me the clip recap of
the day. They tell me what color they ended on and then they tell me some story
about so and so who is always clipping up to red, which essentially inducts
them into the Royal Family, seventh in line to the throne I think, and then
they tell me about that one kid who ended on purple. PURPLE! And can they
please take some rotten produce to school tomorrow to hurl at all the other
kids who landed on purple? There will be a public flogging in the square during
recess. And every day (except for three days this school year), my son hangs
his head as he tells me that he stayed on green…again. And every day I tell him
about how he is such a great kid and that no clip chart can tell him his value
and all that other mom-stuff we spout to our kids. It doesn’t help. Every day
he is just as dejected and frustrated because, in spite of his efforts to be
exceptional, he ends each school day the way he started it, as an average kid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This has all made me start to
really think about how we view the average in our society, particularly with
the element of social media making our lives so public. We post when our
children make the Honor Roll. And we might even post if our child is diagnosed
with a developmental delay or a learning disability because it’s okay for your
child to be unexceptional if there is a medical reason (for the record, I think
it’s incredible that we are breaking the stigma on things like ADHD and Autism
and that we are having open, honest conversations about the way we treat
childhood development, absolutely incredible). We do not, however, typically
post that our child made mostly B’s and C’s on their report card. We share
pictures of the pan-seared tilapia with bruschetta made from our
organic-garden-grown tomatoes, and we will share pictures of the grilled cheese
and baby carrots because #survivalmode #nailedit. What we don’t do is post
pictures of the spaghetti or the oven pizza or the chicken and rice. Average is
not funny or inspiring or special. In our publicly viewed lives we are either
running for two hours a day or we are binging on Netflix, either inspiring the
masses, or making a joke out of the opposite, but we are rarely, if ever,
candid about our very average lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Why are we so scared of the
average? Why are we envious of the name-brand hand bag that cost the same as our
groceries for the month or the major steal found at a thrift store but equally
disenchanted by the JC Penney hand bag purchased at 30% off? It’s either
designer, thrifty or...what else is there?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This is especially true when it
comes to our children. It starts when they’re
babies. By show of hands, who has heard the words, “oh he is in the 95% for his
height and the 97% for his weight”, either from your own mouth or the mouth of
another mother? Yep, that’s everyone. Now how many have ever heard, “oh she’s
in the 35% for height and 40% for weight”? Bueller? Bueller? Not too many hands
there. Why? Because even how much your four-month-old weighs is now either
exceptional or not noteworthy. How many thigh rolls your precious baby has been
able to accumulate in his short life is now the measure of whether or not he’s
special or just normal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And it only gets worse from there. Every
day someone’s child:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Walked at eight months<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Knew their alphabet at one<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Read “War and Peace” in second grade…and loved
it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Was delighted with the kale and beet smoothie
they were fed (Seriously, does this really count as impressive? Yesterday my
kid ate grass and a booger so I’m not sure their palates are really that
refined.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Decided they wanted to donate all their
allowance to help the needy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Is gifted<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Is athletic<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 1.25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Is practically perfect in every way<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
Is it wrong that we
should celebrate these victories, particularly in public forums? No, I don’t
think so. Is it wrong that we should make light of the times when we totally
drop the ball as parents? No, I think that’s okay too. What worries me is that
we are so flippant about everything in between, as if it doesn’t hold any
value. What does it teach our children that we are only celebrating the extremes and not relishing in the small but significant ups and downs or day-to-day living? Our children come home feeling like sub-par people because they stayed
on green all day, forgetting about the jokes they shared with friends at
lunchtime, the awesome thing that happens to plant cells when exposed to
sunlight, the funny voices their library teacher used when she read to them.
Later they feel like failures if they don’t make straight A’s or miss a note in
their piano recital. As adults, we are all winning or failing, but never
passing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
But, in reality,
shouldn’t we be celebrating the average? Isn’t there a great sense of comradery
in sharing the middle ground? Isn’t that where most of us are? Most of us aren’t
going to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Most of our kids won’t either. In fact,
most of our kids will end up being perfectly wonderful, perfectly average human
beings. Most of our kids will be potty-trained by the age of four, able to puke
in a bucket by seven and capable of pushing a lawn mower by eleven and honestly,
ISN’T THAT VICTORY ENOUGH?!?! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
I hope I can teach
my children that there is nothing wrong with living the average life. There is
nothing shameful or boring about finishing the race somewhere in the middle. I
hope I can show them that they don’t have to be the Prince or the Pauper to be
important, that just because they aren’t the ones that everyone reads about,
doesn’t mean they aren’t part of the story. More than anything, I want them to
realize that being compassionate, forgiving, generous and genuine, filling
their lives with faith and goodness, choosing love over anger and gratitude
over jealousy, that is what will turn their ordinary lives into extraordinary
ones. That is how the average become the exceptional. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
And their mama loves them. I want them to know that most of all. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-79224669116300227462015-10-08T09:06:00.000-07:002015-10-08T09:06:12.848-07:00The Day My Rowdy Kids Taught Me Compassion<div class="MsoNormal">
My baby had a doctor’s appointment today and I woke up
dreading it. This is atypical for me. First of all, my pediatrician is the bomb
diggity. Seriously. A fellow patient once described her as being “your best
friend with a medical degree”. And it’s absolutely an accurate assessment. I
usually look forward to doctor appointments, if for no other reason than I get
to chit chat with our awesome doctor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
this is hardly my first rodeo. I have been taking babies to the doctor for a
while and though some circumstances may give way to some anxiety on behalf of
my children (Please let the nebulizer treatments help. Please let that mole be
normal. Please let it be strep throat and <i>not</i>
a stomach virus.), this anxiety wasn’t for my children. It was for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see,
I knew that in addition to the baby, I needed to take her two older brothers.
Again, taking siblings to the doctor? Not new. I’ve been dragging my gaggle
(no, y’all, I legitimately have a gaggle. A gaggle is defined as five or more.
Did you know that?) of children to appointments of varying sorts for over a
decade. It is not something that typically causes me stress. I don’t pack a bag
of books and snacks and Amazon gift cards to keep them happy. We go, we
survive, we come home. And it’s always been okay. Until the last year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost
a year ago, my sixth child became a legit toddler. By the time he hit fifteen
months, it was clear he was going to be a handful. His personality is a perfect
storm of amiable qualities (he is intelligent, focused, determined), amplified
by a thousand. If Beethoven and the Incredible Hulk had a baby and then that
baby ate a radioactive spider, the personality of that baby would likely be
similar to my son’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now
imagine, in this scenario, that there is a walking, talking catalyst, following
this brilliant, explosive little creature around ALL the time. That’s my other
son. Oil and water are not a suitable analogy. These two are more like baking
soda and vinegar. You can probably see why the idea of sticking the two in a
tiny exam room for thirty minutes, while simultaneously trying to hold a wiggly
infant, seemed somewhat comparable to a stroll through the seventh circle of
hell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
guess what? It was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
boys were unruly and loud. The baby was fussy from her shots. For the first
time in my twelve years of parenting and hundreds of appointments, no one got a
sticker. No stickers. None. This resulted in me dragging a miserable baby, two
wailing toddlers and an unsightly diaper bag through the parking lot to load
into our van covered in dog hair, cracker crumbs and more than one dirty
sweatshirt. By the time I got everyone buckled, the sleep deprivation tugging
on every nerve of my body, all I could do was sit in my van and cry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can
only imagine what the casual passerby could have thought of the sight. “That
woman is a hot mess.” And they would be right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later,
as I was cruising through social media, I noticed a post someone had made on
Facebook about her own experience in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Her
experience was not like mine. She sat with her well-mannered, eleven-year-old
son and witnessed the deplorable behavior of several younger children. Her post
scolded these parents, citing the reason for this behavior as a total lack of
discipline. Obviously, she mused, these parents didn’t understand the concept
of “the belt”. My heart broke in that moment. She was not talking about me, but
she could have been. She could have been talking about my babies. Because in
the ten minutes she spent with them in a waiting room, she thought she knew
them. She thought she knew me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To this
woman, and any who have shared her views (and I, in my shame, am among them),
may I offer a simple plea? Stop judging other parents. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have
been there. I get it. I still do it. It is as easy as breathing, to point that
finger, to say, “I would <i>never</i> let my
child act that way.” Ever been in a restaurant, an airplane or a grocery store
and thought to yourself, “Why don’t they DO something about that kid? Spoiled
brat.” I have. I have thought those things. Ever seen that kid wandering the
neighborhood kicking a mailbox and turned to your spouse to huff, “Where are
his parents? Don’t they even care where he is?” I’ve done that one too. I need
to stop. We all need to stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There
is no way that a five or twenty minute view of someone’s life can possibly
qualify us to determine what kind of parent they are, or what kind of child
they are raising. It would be like watching five minutes of a movie and trying
to write a synopsis of the plot, or walking into a hospital and wanting to
perform open heart surgery after taking BIO 101. We are not qualified to judge
each other, nor should we make it our goal to become so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We need to stop the mentality that we are only
succeeding if someone else is doing worse than we are. My failures do not make
you a better parent and your failures do not make me a better parent. We only
succeed when we love, support and encourage each other and ourselves. We need to be more patient with the children
we encounter, including our own. We need to be more patient with ourselves.
Chances are, we all just need a graham cracker and a nap. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-50648215287668993182015-05-07T12:49:00.001-07:002015-05-07T12:49:17.413-07:00If You Can't Say Something Nice...As a mother of more than two children who are not at least four years apart in age, I have grown pretty accustomed to getting comments regarding my family whenever we go out in public. I've talked about this, I know. It's nothing new. And it's nothing unique. If you have three children, "you have your hands full". If you have two children who are not separated by half a decade, your hands are full. If you have four children, you obviously don't know what causes pregnancy ( It's sex, by the way, in case you have four children and you didn't know. You can stop having kids now, I've solved the mystery. Enjoy sex too much? Never fear, evidently the solution is to buy a television.).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've said this before too, most of the time these comments don't bother me. In fact it's sort of become a game. I reward myself with treats for every silly comment or question I get. I have perfected my list of comebacks for the most frequent remarks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are they all yours?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"All except the brunettes." </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Do you know what causes that?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"Lemonade."</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you having more?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>"Thanks for reminding me, I'm late to meet my husband."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I've been responding to questions about my family size, structure and planning for so long, I could probably do it in my sleep...if I ever got any.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's pretty rare for anything to surprise me or offend me. If anything, I'm just jealous that anyone would have the presence of mind to notice other people and their kids in the grocery store. The fact that they can take the time to add my children is, in and of itself, impressive. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But every once in a while, it happens. Someone says something that leaves me speechless. This happened to me the other day. I had the four youngest with me, the three boys and our new baby girl. I have had plenty of comments lately about how exciting it must be to finally have a girl. I get it. Everyone thinks that's ideal, having both genders. And I'll be honest, it <i>is </i>fun. I love having a girl. Those comments don't bug me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The other day, however, as I was walking out of the store with the three boys and baby girl in the car seat, a lady stopped me and said, "Three boys! What do you have in the car seat?" I told her it was a girl. A look of relief washed over her as she looked me right in the eyes, in front of my sons, and said, "Thank God."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the first time in a long time, I had no comeback, no witty rebuttal. I was speechless. My jaw literally fell open and I stared for a moment before simply turning and walking away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By the time I got to my van, the back of my throat was burning and tears were filling in my eyes. I wanted to go back and find her and tell her all the things going through my mind, the good, the bad, the ugly. I wanted to scold her. How <i>dare</i> she say that to me in front of my sons. Who on Earth did she think she was? I wanted to hug her and cry on her shoulder and stick a bar of Ivory soap in her mouth all at the same time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't go back to find her. I loaded up my babies and I drove home. But if I could ever sit down with her, here is what I'd want her to know, what I wish I could have told her that day:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. I do thank God, every single day. I thank Him for my precious baby girl and for her six amazing siblings on Earth, and for her big brothers in Heaven and her incredible dad. I thank Him for my family with every breath I take. I thank Him that I have the opportunity to be a mother, that I was able to conceive and bear children with my own body and that I have had the awesome privilege of creating a family with my husband. I don't give <i>extra</i> thanks for my daughters. I give extra thanks for health, for kindness and occasionally for good sleep. Sleep doesn't care about gender. Neither do I. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. My boys are not the dirt I had to dig through to get to the buried treasure. I didn't have another baby so I could "finally get to the good stuff". I got pregnant knowing (and expecting) that the baby could be a boy. Were we excited to have a girl? Of course we were. But please, please don't mistake that excitement for relief. There is nothing, I repeat, <b>nothing</b> about a healthy baby that I don't celebrate.<br />
<br />
3. Children hear you. Did you realize that? My little boys with the dirt in their hair and sandals on the wrong feet are listening. They hear you saying that they are somehow inferior because they are boys or because they were born first or because they share a gender with a majority of their siblings. You want these boys to grow into men who will respect and treasure women but you just told them they aren't special because they are boys. How can you ever demand the respect from them when you don't show it? I know you'd probably say the same things if I had three girls in a row. It wouldn't be true then either. Children are a gift and every last one of them is precious and worthy of love.<br />
<br />
4. I have had some time to calm down and collect myself. I'm not angry at you anymore. I am not upset or hurt. I do, however, now have a bar of Ivory soap hanging out in my diaper bag. Make another remark like that in front of my children and it's going straight into the upper opening of your digestive tract.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-23555247384610603102015-02-02T07:16:00.001-08:002015-02-02T07:16:56.579-08:00I bought cheap strawberries and I will NOT apologizeSocial media has done some really good things for our society .I can keep in touch with my family members who live far away, see pictures of my best friends kids on a daily basis, follow updates from my favorite authors and know who in my circle of acquaintances has the barfs so I can avoid them.<br />
All good things.<br />
<br />
Social media, however, has also turned us into a bunch of raving lunatics. Everything is going to kill us. Have you noticed? The government is going to take our guns...and kill us. The chemicals in our blue jeans are going to soak into our skin...and kill us. Vaccines, antibiotics, forward-facing car seats, standing within eighty-seven feet of a microwave? You're dead. And if you want to eat non-organic produce? Well, I just hope your life insurance policy is up-to-date.<br />
<br />
Y'all, I'm a dead woman walking.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie and say I don't have my soapbox issues, I totally do. And I have been known to voice my opinions in no uncertain terms. Actually this is one of those times. I think we need a chill pill, a big one, because even though we all mean well, we have a problem. Because we are so busy trying to save everyone with our opinions, we're driving ourselves, and everyone else, nut-bar-crazy.<br />
<br />
So, to the person who grows their own produce in their backyard, next to their corn-fed chickens, you're amazing. Seriously, you're kind of my hero. Your food is fresh, delicious and you're able to sustain yourselves. This is incredible and I am so happy for you. But the idea of having to plant and maintain a garden at this particular point in my life feels a bit like preparing for a colonoscopy.<br />
<br />
To the person who carefully and meticulously scours the labels at Whole Foods, creating perfectly balanced menus to accommodate the nutritional needs of your family, making sure to avoid things grown with anything other than sunshine and glacier water, you also are my hero. I admire and respect your quest to keep your family healthy. My hat is off, waving and singing a song to you. I mean that sincerely.<br />
<br />
To the person who had to buy the pesticide soaked strawberries at Kroger because they were two for four dollars, I get it. I know that you'd love to buy those organic strawberries or plant your own. But it's not in the budget. In fact, buying these four dollar strawberries might mean that you can't buy the cute sweater you've been eyeing since before your last birthday, or the mascara that you wouldn't have to wet-down and swish out of the tube. I understand. And guess what? You're still my hero.<br />
<br />
Advocating for healthy eating? Awesome. Posting articles about the benefits of growing your own produce, making your own organic baby food and the dangers of pesticides in farm-grown strawberries? It's okay. But sharing vague and under-researched posts about how those farm-grown strawberries are poisoning our children? Not okay. Feeding my kids cheap strawberries may not be as good as feeding them ones I grew in my backyard but I am not pouring antifreeze into their cheerios (which, by the way, are also Kroger brand). I am not poisoning my kids. I am feeding them strawberries. And I, for one, don't appreciate being told that I'm killing them by doing so.<br />
<br />
The problem with our frantic and obsessive social posting is that it could, unintentionally, lead us in the opposite direction of our goal. Maybe we should consider that some will take from our messages that nothing they do will be enough. Our health, safety and the well-being of our families is entirely impossible. Unless we can subscribe to all the guidelines posted by every article-wannabe (the accuracy of online "research-based" articles is a rant for another day) that we see in our news feed, we are doomed. So why bother trying? It's never going to be enough. Is something we post going to encourage someone to skip strawberries all together because they can't afford the organic ones from the locally-owned and operated produce market? Is a mother going to cry herself to sleep because her child refused to take a single sip of the green smoothie she slaved over and begged for a Gogurt instead? Is she a failure? Are we making others feel lazy, incapable or uncaring because they picked up Little Ceasar's on their way home one night, instead of making quinoa-stuffed bell peppers?<br />
<br />
I hope not.<br />
<br />
Maybe we can all resolve to think before we post, relax a little bit and try to enjoy this thing called life. As the old saying goes, no sense crying over non-organic strawberries!Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-83669587130400975722014-12-18T13:07:00.001-08:002014-12-18T16:10:07.302-08:00Merry Christmas to Our Teachers! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thank you for all that you do! Merry Christmas!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
From,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The Ramsey's</div>
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P.S. Make sure you click the bottom right-hand corner to make the screen full sized! :)<br />
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<br />Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-1244831898533782192014-07-04T12:42:00.001-07:002014-07-04T12:42:27.448-07:00More Lessons From Lamb's Ears: Repeating History Who here has seen the movie, 'Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure'? Please be raising your hand. You remember the time travel thing right? They have to go back in time to save Ted from being sent to military school and learn life lessons and improve their future selves, etc. Naturally they do it rocking the coolest high top sneakers you've ever seen in your life and jamming to a soundtrack that would make Brett Michaels proud. <br />
<br />
In the beginning, the heroes seem totally superficial and focused on a single goal. At the end, however, the characters have gained perspective and maturity, having been taught lessons from their future selves who went back to teach their past selves who are actually their present selves. That junk confuses the ever loving daylights out of me. I watch the movie to absorb new catch phrases to impress my friends with. I digress. My point is that they learn things from their past that change them and help them and make them stronger characters.<br />
<br />
Does that ever happen to you? Do you feel like you learn from your past in unexpected ways? If you have a phone booth that transports through time held together by a massive wad of chewed-up bubble gum and saliva of historical figures, send me a pm because I want in on that. I digress further. See what classic films of the 80's can do to a person?<br />
<br />
Sometimes I get into this habit of thinking I know everything and that I have learned everything I need to from a certain experience. <br />
<br />
A few years ago, after our first two miscarriages, I wrote a blog post. That blog post inspired an article, which I submitted to <em>Motherhood Muse</em> magazine. I remember reading the blog post as I was writing the article, remembering the heartache but thinking how lovely it was to not be in that place in my life anymore. One of those, "thank goodness <em>that</em> is over" moments. I've had a similar experience each time I have re-read that article over the years. I will admit, it hasn't been frequent. I have mostly tried not to think about that time ("the dark ages" as I like to call them). But again, anytime that I did read, I was filled with gratitude that I wasn't in that place anymore and thankful that I now had these experiences that might make me more empathetic to others. I truly, whole-heartedly believed that those particular trials were behind me. Perhaps my experiences from the past would someday be a strength to someone else, but I personally didn't need them. I was done with that. Lessons learned. Character strengthened. Check.<br />
<br />
<em>Insert mallet to the head and chirping birds circling over.</em><br />
<br />
Yesterday, while weeding in my garden, I found myself right back in that exact place that I was in almost seven years ago, pulling up those very same lamb's ears, crying those very same tears, mourning yet another baby who should be with me and is not. <br />
<br />
I wanted to hop in my Bill & Ted style travel machine and go straight to the future, the space where I know everything again and I don't need any strengthening or fortifying or humbling. That space where I am not filled with longing and sadness. Then I'd like to go back and give my present self a hug and tell myself that it's going to be okay. It's going to get better. There will be better days and peaceful nights.<br />
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I don't have that time machine, but I have hope that history can repeat itself in all ways, the bad, the good and the redemptive. I have to believe that my lamb's ears and my heart can heal and become better and stronger and more tender...again. <br />
<br />
<br />
If you are interested in reading my original blog post, you can view it here:<br />
<a href="http://www.allthemramseys.blogspot.com/2008/07/lessons-from-lambs-ears.html" target="_blank">http://www.allthemramseys.blogspot.com/2008/07/lessons-from-lambs-ears.html</a><br />
<br />
If you are interested in reading the article that was published in <em>Motherhood Muse, </em>I am posting it below. <br />
<br />
Lastly, if you know someone who is going through a miscarriage, a stillbirth or infertility, would you consider giving them a lamb's ear plant and sending them the link to this post? We are not alone in this. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a village to mourn one. <br />
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<br />
Lessons from Lamb's Ears<br /><br />"Why couldn't I have been born with that infamous green thumb?" I wondered to myself. After all, it was certainly a family trait. Virtually everyone on my mother's side of the family was a gardening guru. I wondered why this knowledge had not been implanted in my brain at birth. While weeding in my garden I had noticed that my lamb's ears (which are my absolute favorite of all plants) were starting to brown and wither at the bottoms. I had marveled all summer at how much they had grown, now almost as tall as my azalea bushes. I had never seen lamb's ears grow that large, they were amazing! It surprised me to see that they seemed to be struggling as tall and glorious as they were.<br /><br />I consulted a gardening friend who suggested to me that the plant might be getting too big for its root system to support. The only solution was to cut back the long stalks and remove some of the base plant. I am sure the look on my face expressed my feelings adequately. I'm sorry, perhaps you didn't hear me?! They are as tall as azaleas! They are amazing and beautiful, how could I ever cut them back?! "Um, okay." Gulp.<br />
After delaying a bit I decided it was time to trim them back, knowing that it was the only way that I would save my lamb's ears, which were becoming increasingly brown and withered by the day. It was a sad sight, all those beautiful stalks laying in a pile on the ground, huge sections of lamb's ear up-rooted and removed. What was once so beautiful now looked so pitiful. Ugh, what a mess. For a moment I contemplated reaching down and ripping up the whole plant, roots and all and just calling it quits. After all, the poor thing would probably die now anyway, might as well make it quick. I clenched my fists in frustration at the wreck that had once been my beautiful plant and then sighed. I turned and trudged into my house with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes. So much for Mother Nature knowing best. It seemed all that she did was pick and choose what could live and what would die and there was nothing that I, or anyone, could do about it. My interference certainly had done the plant no good; at least, that was how it appeared at the time.<br />
<br /> My demolished flower bed seemed a perfect metaphor for the past year of my life. Like the lamb's ears, I too had been cut and pulled and left alone. My lamb's ears and I were now only shadows of our former selves. For about the eight hundredth time that year I wondered, "why"?<br /><br /> As I sat on the floor in my bedroom, still donning my pair of gardening gloves, the memories of the past year came galloping back at me, uncontrolled, wild and in full stampede mode.<br /><br /> It had only been a few weeks before last Christmas when I had made that first trip to the hospital. I had already take notice of the fact that my five-month-pregnant belly was not as large as I would have expected, my appetite was no where to be found and I had not felt so much as a nudge from my little belly dweller. It wasn't unheard of but for my fourth pregnancy, it was strange. When the bleeding started I knew, still I don't think I'll ever forget the fear I felt as the nurse struggled to find my babies missing heart beat.<br />
The ultrasound confirmed that our baby had died a few weeks earlier. I was sent to the hospital to deliver. I decided that I didn't want to see the baby afterwards. I didn't want to hold it. I didn't want to know the gender. I didn't want to know the weight or the time of---, time of what? Birth? Death? Delivery? It didn't matter. I felt like knowing those things would only cause more pain.<br /><br />It was almost four in the morning when my theory was confirmed. The medication I had received after the delivery had helped me to sleep soundly and I awoke to an empty hospital room. Everyone had gone home. There was not a nurse in sight. Down the hall I could hear the sweet sounds of newborn babies crying out to their mothers. I desperately wanted to rip the IV from my arm and run full speed down the halls and out the doors, miles away from that room and from the pain. As I sat on the bed crying I noticed a small table covered with the flowers, cards and candy that my friends had left for me. Next to one of the vases was an unfamiliar yellow box, with a flower on the top. I wondered which of my friends had left that for me. I went over and opened it, only to find the unwanted answers to all my questions. I curled the tiny hospital bracelet around my fingers, trying to be angry at the nurse who had left that box, after I had made my wishes not to know anything about the baby clearly known. Instead of anger all I felt was overwhelming sadness.<br /><br />As I left the hospital delivery room later that day I remember thinking, "this just isn't fair. I should leave with an empty belly or empty arms; I shouldn't have to leave with both." All that came home with me was my little yellow box with that tiny hospital bracelet and a little blue card, "Baby Boy Ramsey, delivered December 10th."<br />
<br />What followed was six long months of trying: trying to heal, trying to be normal, trying to get pregnant again and finally succeeding. The first seven weeks of my pregnancy were flawless, maybe a little too flawless. I felt absolutely perfect, normal, as if I wasn't pregnant at all. Then the bleeding started again, the same way it had last time<br /><br />Again, I found myself on that drive to the hospital. I will never forget sitting at one particular stoplight. It was red, of course, another small delay on my seemingly endless drive, and truly the longest ten minutes I have ever spent. My stereo, as if feeling my surge of emotion, seemed to be speaking to me. All the sudden the lyrics of a favorite song, one I had heard a million times, were written for me, for this moment in my life: "I'm not okay. I'm not okay." How very appropriate I mused. I allowed a small and strained chuckle to escape at just how true those words were. I was most definitely not okay. By the time I finally reached the doctor's office I felt so dizzy I could hardly see. My entire mental energy was innately focused on keeping the room from spinning. I could hear the nurse but it sounded as if she was talking to me under water. "I'm so sorry dear, there is no heartbeat." No heartbeat. No heartbeat. Would I still have one when this was all over? Could I actually die from a broken heart?<br /><br />I tried not to look at my husband, though I would not have been able to see him through the tears even if I did. This could not be happening, not again. This had to be a dream. I hoped it was a dream.<br /><br />After all of this how could I possibly be back at this awful hospital, getting ready to go home with no baby? This time there would not even be a box; there would be nothing to have of my little precious baby except the emptiness I would feel without it. How much could my one little heart really take? How were we going to tell our other sweet children at home that the baby that they were so excited for was not coming after all? Why was this happening?<br /><br /> The two miscarriages were one day shy of seven months apart. For everyone around me, these two days would be entirely opposite in every way. For me, however, these days were marked with the same overwhelming sadness.<br /><br /> For weeks after the second loss I tried to focus on the good things. I had a wonderful husband and three beautiful, bright children. I had been assured, re-assured and overly assured that there was nothing wrong with me, that I was, by all accounts, normal and healthy. I had been given every pearl of wisdom ever collected and stored for these very circumstances: "you are so blessed to have the children you have." "you are so young, there is plenty of time for you to have more babies." ,"there is a time and season for everything", "mother nature knows best". These words, spoken with love and concern, and being quite true, still they did not console my aching heart. Truly what could they have said? Nothing short of, "oh I am so sorry, there has been a terrible mistake, your baby is just fine" was going to ease the sorrow. Reminders stared me in the face from the cover of every magazine, every advertisement on the television, every novel and every film. Had there always been this many pregnant women roaming through the grocery store? I cringed at the image of times I had walked through the isles with my cart full of my fidgeting children, my pregnant belly a shining beacon in the eyes of some poor woman who had suffered a miscarriage, some aching heart that I wasnât even aware of. The onslaught of emotions was overwhelming, not only sadness to cope with but also anger, frustration, envy and guilt. I was angry for feeling so sad. How could the sadness of losing two babies that I never even met be so overwhelming that it clouded the happiness of raising the three healthy ones who were right there with me? At times, the emotions felt entirely overwhelming, like trying to swim with all of your clothes on, seemingly impossible and yet somehow doable.<br />
<br />My mind was constantly engaged with questions that appeared to have no answers. What would happen now? Would I be able to get pregnant again and did I even want to? Would it just be followed by another devastating miscarriage?<br /><br />Now, sitting alone on my bedroom floor, tears streaming down my face I mourned my babies and my lamb's ears, two broken things that I could never put back together. I looked at my gloves, covered in dirt and thought of the baby that had been ripped away from me, the way I had just ripped away part of my lamb's ears. My stomach twisted and the back of my throat ached trying to contain the sobs from escaping my chest. I wondered if I would ever understand why these things happened.<br /><br /> It was not until a week or so later that I received an answer to that question. One day as I passed by my garden I started to notice the change in my lamb's ears. They were gaining back their beautiful color; the leaves were reaching up and out, strong, vibrant and full. More startling still was what I found in the middle sections where whole parts of the plant had been removed. Little tiny buds were sprouting and reaching up for the sun. New life was forming in spite of what I had seen as insurmountable challenges. I had thought that removing part of the plant would mean the ultimate demise of its entire being. I was wrong. My lamb's ear did not just decide it was not worth the effort and wither away. It did not turn away from the sun and stop absorbing water. It did what it was intended to do. It kept on growing, changing, becoming better. I had removed so much from it and yet, ultimately, it had to lose a part of itself in order to thrive and reach its full potential.<br /><br />I too now felt prepared to overcome my personal tragedy. I found myself smiling again and recognizing things that I had learned. The loss I had suffered had given me new compassion and empathy for others, tender and soft like a new budding lambâs ear. The tears I had shed helped build my root system and reminded me of what I treasured most. When I finally let go of that painful part of my life, I was able to fill that space with something new and wonderful. In the end, my beautiful lamb's ears grew even stronger than before, and so did I.Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-26897293416193467702014-05-25T10:54:00.002-07:002014-05-25T10:54:37.439-07:00They Deserve Better: Why Our Kids Need to Know About AbortionOn any given day, any single one of my six children will ask me upwards of fifty questions. Chase can't even talk and he asks me questions. He points, screams, widens his blue eyes to the size of teacup saucers, sheds tears and flails his arms. This is roughly translated as, "Mother Dearest, may I please have some raisins?" <br />
<br />
One of the greatest weapons in any parent's arsenal is that of deflection. Of the fifty times six (no, I will not do the math and you can't make me) questions that I get asked daily, I manage to avoid at least seventy-five percent merely by changing the subject. "Oh you want to know why caterpillars don't wear diapers? Well, would you like some chocolate chips?", "Do seagulls prefer salmon or tuna? Hey, look, there's a ball over there!" It works people. I'm telling you. Then I manage to dodge another five percent by stalling. "Um, you'll have to ask your dad.", "We should look that up...later."<br />
<br />
Those methods are great for some questions and honestly, unless you want to spend your E-N-T-I-R-E life describing in grotesque detail, the eating habits of the Red Throated Pipit, I highly suggest you use them whenever appropriate.<br />
<br />
But every once in a while, there come<em> those</em> questions, the ones that break your heart, the ones that make you question whether you are really cut out for raising children at all, the ones you wish with all your hear that you could avoid. These are also typically the ones that you know in your heart that you cannot. Oh the devilish irony of it all.<br />
<br />
I got one of those questions today. <br />
<br />
We had just come home from church. My kids had already gotten their play clothes on before I'd even gotten my shoes off...in fact, they are still on, that's how important this post is to me. I knew I needed to write it down NOW. I digress. I was chopping up some cucumbers for lunch when my nine-year-old walked in and casually asked if we could watch "The Prince of Egypt" after lunch. I replied that it would be fine. He then said that they had learned about the story of Moses in his primary class that day. I told him that was nice and kept chopping cucumbers. Then he said something that shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces.<br />
<br />
<em>"Mom, it's so sad that the pharaoh had all those babies killed. I am so glad that those things can't happen anymore."</em> <br />
<br />
And this was that moment. That moment that I had to make a grown up choice. I had to decide whether or not I should tell my child the truth. I could easily have avoided it. I could have smiled, chopped my cucumbers, told him to go turn on the movie and I could have spared him any additional sadness. Because how do you tell your child that that does, indeed, still happen? I chose my words carefully. <br />
<br />
"Well buddy, unfortunately, those things have happened throughout history and sometimes still happen today."<br />
<br />
His brow pulled together a little but his precious heart was still intact. <br />
<br />
<em>"Well, in like Egypt and stuff maybe, but never in the United States, right?"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
My heart broke all over again. Because I knew we had to have the conversation that I wish I never had to have with my children, the conversation about abortion. <br />
<br />
I will not even attempt to convey the heartache felt on both sides of the conversation save to tell you that when you physically and emotionally witness a precious, innocent part of your child being changed, even when you know that change is necessary, it is something you will not easily forget.<br />
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But what happens if we don't do it? What happens if we ignore the issue? What if we don't tell our children about Moses, about the holocaust, about war, about famine, about the thousands of babies who are killed every day, all over the world, in our country, right down the street? If we don't talk to our children, what will ever change?<br />
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I am reminded of a scene in "Pride and Prejudice" where the heroine is mourning over an unfortunate situation where her younger sister is deceived by a cunning young man. She laments that it all may have been avoided, if she had only been honest with her sisters. <br />
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How much of the evil in this world could be avoided if we would merely be honest with our children? If we sweep everything under the rug, is the floor ever really clean?<br />
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I am not saying that we all need to rally our kids around the dinner table and start talking about abortion. I am, however, suggesting that we prayerfully and thoughtfully consider how to approach this topic with each of our children, individually. Not just our children, but our siblings, our neighbors, our co-workers.<br />
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A popular Dr. Seuss quote, which also happens to be one of my favorites, says: "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing's going to get better. It's not."<br />
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So this is me saying, I care. I care wholly and awfully and deeply. I want to see a better future for my children. I want to believe that if we have these conversations with our children, maybe they won't have to have them with theirs. I want them to learn from our mistakes and to fill the world with their goodness and their compassionate hearts. <br />
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I care.<br />
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-3558794179373482062014-04-27T17:16:00.004-07:002014-04-27T17:16:43.448-07:00My Own Beautiful Heartbreak I have this thing about being cryptic on the internet. This stems from me being nosy. The way I see it you have two choices, you can either be a private person, or you can be active on social media. If you're going to say something on the internet, you need to be clear because otherwise people sit there wondering what is going on...nosy people...like me. <br />
<br />
So my general rule of thumb is that, if I don't want people to know something, I just don't say anything at all about it on the internet. Period.<br />
<br />
I broke that rule about two weeks ago. And I feel badly about that. I know a lot of people have been concerned and confused and so, first of all I'd like to apologize and secondly I'd like to explain.<br />
<br />
Around Valentine's Day, we found out that we were expecting a baby. Whenever I announce that I'm pregnant, one of the first questions I get is, "was this planned"? I avoid answering that question for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that I feel it's a very personal question. I will say that we had in fact thought we were done having children (as those of you who read this blog may know from a previous post) but I will also say that we were thrilled and delighted to be adding to our family. If there's anything I've learned from parenting it's that things rarely go the way you think they will. In fact, making plans is the surest way to make the opposite happen. Plans are for sitcoms and novels. <br />
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This pregnancy was challenging. While I have had pretty extreme morning sickness with all of my babies, I was particularly sick this go around. It was very difficult to keep down enough fluids to stay hydrated. It was nearly impossible to take care of my children. My saint of a husband was burning the candle at both ends and in the middle and all the way around. My children were pretty much putting themselves on the bus every morning. It was a rough few months for all of us. But with the first trimester behind us, we were starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and looking forward to the better days of pregnancy.<br />
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About two weeks ago, I went into the doctor and discovered our sweet baby had passed. We had heard the heartbeat in the ER only two days before and it was very difficult to wrap our minds around how quickly everything had gone from being okay to being not okay. After some discussion and prayer, we decided to have a procedure done to remove the baby. <br />
<br />
This is what has inspired some of my cryptic Facebook messages. I promise I wasn't trying to confuse everyone. The truth is, I had not made a public announcement via social media regarding our pregnancy so I felt a little strange posting about the loss of our baby. Isn't the point of not telling people so that you don't have to tell everyone if something goes wrong? But when something did go wrong, I wanted, no, I needed to share my emotion. I needed the love and the prayers and the many, many outpourings of faith and hope from my friends far and near. I want to sincerely thank you all for those prayers and for that love. I have felt them and they have been a buoy for me at this time.<br />
<br />
This is our fourth miscarriage. And there are some things I have learned about this particular type of loss. First, they don't get easier. Ever. Whether it's your first child or your twentieth, the pain is real. That's because, from the second you learn you are pregnant your life has changed. The sight of those two pink lines on the pregnancy test (if you use the kind I like...I'm a pee stick snob, but I digress) are life changing. Whether the pregnancy was expected or unexpected, longed for or frightening, your life is never the same. You may feel an overwhelming connection to your baby immediately or it may come later...much later. You may be terrified, excited, exhausted, overwhelmed, humbled, thankful, all this and more in the window of approximately six seconds. No matter the circumstances and no matter the person, becoming pregnant changes your life. It changes you.<br />
<br />
Like life, death changes us. Whether that person was in our life for thirty years or thirteen weeks, their death impacts us in ways we cannot predict and sometimes in ways we cannot understand. For me, it is often hard for me to understand how the death of someone I have never met, someone who has no name and whose eyes I have never looked into, can be so consuming and devastating. But it is. Because that person has changed my life. That small, sweet, precious person is a part of me. I don't know their name. I don't know what color hair they have (though let's be honest, it's a Ramsey so hair is probably wishful thinking period). I don't know whether they would like reading or playing soccer or whether they would like or hate bananas (it's a 50/50 split in our family). But in every way that counts, this baby was mine and I loved him or her in a way that I can only describe as all-encompassing. <br />
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The last two weeks have been full of tears and of joy, sorrow and gratitude, anger and humility. When these things happen, I am always filled with a profound appreciation for my Heavenly Father and His willingness to allow ultimate wisdom and compassion to dictate our mortal life. If I were in charge, I imagine I would spare everyone from any pain, sorrow, loss or struggle. I feel quite certain that, under my charge, no child would grow up without a parent, no parent would feel the pain of losing a child, no one would suffer illness or affliction. And I am sure that I would have ended the suffering of our Savior in the garden, thus eliminating the Atonement and condemning mankind to life without redemption. Truly, the Lord's plan is not one I can understand but it is one that I know, with all of my heart, is a plan of mercy and a plan of eternal joy. That joy and that peace may or may not come for us in totality in this life but this life is brief and beautiful and painful and did I mention brief? So yes, right now this Cinderella is locked up in the attic but the happily ever after will come and I can only hope that my sweet angel babies will be waiting for me. <br />
<br />
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-56386078834788903462014-03-21T12:11:00.002-07:002014-03-21T12:11:24.043-07:00Roasting Marshmallows Instead of Being Beaten<div class="MsoNormal">
In recent years, the blogging world has exploded. Thanks in
large part to social media, posts are written, shared, copied, pasted, tweeted,
liked and sometimes the really lucky ones end up on news sites. They may even get
their very own meme.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the most common types of blog posts that I have come
across, are the “What Not to Say” posts. There must be hundreds because I feel
like I see one every day. They are virtually the same layout, “What Not to Say
to (fill in the blank with random sub-category of the human family)”. The post
then contains a list of five to twenty things you should NE-VER say to the aforementioned
sub-category. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve learned from these posts. Thanks to these incredibly
insightful articles, I now know all the things I shouldn’t say to people who
own dogs, people who hate dogs, people who are gay, people who are pregnant,
people without kids, people with lots of kids, people who adopted kids, people
who gave birth to kids, people with depression, people who’ve lost loved ones
and people who eat shrimp…to name a few.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of the knowledge I’ve gained, I feel much more
capable of interacting with my fellow man. I have learned that:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> 1. </span><!--[endif]-->If you should happen to meet someone with
depression, please don’t tell them it will be okay. Also don’t tell them to get
over it. Don’t talk to them at all actually, but be there for them. They just
want to know you care, just don’t express it vocally. But call them sometimes,
just to talk.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> 2. </span><!--[endif]-->If a mother with a lot of kids is walking in the
grocery store, you should acknowledge her but don’t ask any questions, compliment
her children, give “disapproving looks” (make sure you don’t get anything in
your contact lens when you’re around a mother with multiple children), smile at
her, frown at her or tell her that her hands are full. I mean really, what kind
of animal are you?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> 3. </span><!--[endif]-->If you encounter a pregnant woman, don’t speak.
At all. Period. And for the love of Pete, don’t notice that she’s pregnant.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a short sampling of the knowledge I’ve gained.
Anyone else noticing the issue here? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing. We all want to be accepted. We all want to
be shown respect. That’s not unreasonable. I won’t lie, I’ve had to bite the
inside of my cheek more than once when people have made comments about how many
kids I have or how young I am, or my crazy religion. I get it. I really do. We
all have feelings, young Mormon moms included.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what if we’ve got this whole thing backwards? Is it
possible that we are being a teeeeeeeensy bit too sensitive here? Do you think
that maybe, just maybe, we need to chill out a little?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe that woman her turned her face away from you and your
two small children, looking disgusted, has been struggling with infertility.
Maybe she just lost her child. Maybe it’s not that she is disgusted by your
children, maybe it just hurts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That friend who told you to “get over” your depression?
Maybe she just doesn’t know what to say anymore. Maybe she loves you so much
that it hurts her to see you unhappy and she’s angry with herself for not being
able to help you. Maybe she is trying as hard as you are. Maybe harder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That person who asked you if your religion worships a
magical lizard (yes, I have been asked this question) is desperately wanting to
find God. Maybe they just want to feel something, anything, and they just don’t
know how to ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grocery store worker who asked you if you’re having
twins or “about to pop”, maybe she remembers those days and is thinking of her
grandbaby who lives on the other side of the country, the one she is so
desperate to see that she is working forty hours a week ringing up groceries just
so she can afford the plane ticket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bully at school who mocked you for being gay, maybe his
parents wouldn’t understand his secret. Maybe he wakes up every day wishing he
could make it just go away. Maybe he is jealous because your friends still love
you, a love that he fears no one will ever feel for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What about the homeless man on the street? I wonder if he
would be grateful if someone would just speak to him at all, just acknowledge
that he’s a living soul, a person, someone’s child. God’s child.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People are going to say things. Sometimes those things will
hurt. Sometimes they will irritate. But is it possible that instead of worrying
about what they’ve said, how they looked at us, or didn’t look at us, we could
just simply choose to <i>not</i> worry about
it? I’m not saying it won’t hurt a little. It might hurt. Words can hurt. Looks
can hurt. But by dwelling on it, fussing about it on facebook or twitter,
blogging about it, etc. aren’t we just keeping our finger in the piranha tank? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we could all try a little harder to assume the best,
hope for the best and choose to let it go when we get offended. Chances are, we’ve
been on the other end of things at one time or another. Come one, tell me you've never put your foot in your mouth before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speak softly and use that big stick for something
productive, like roasting a big fat marshmallow.</div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-65259350013232138382014-01-21T08:02:00.001-08:002014-01-21T08:02:15.639-08:00My Friday Night Letter After battling a week of sleepless nights, upper respiratory purgatory, trips to the emergency room, trips to the doctor and did I mention the sleepless nights? I did. Well, they are worth mentioning twice. After all of that, I thought that nothing else could evoke much thought or emotion from me this morning. And then my husband told me about "Friday Night Tykes". <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This show, part of the Esquire Network lineup, is supposed to be a glimpse into the "reality" of youth football in Texas. After listening to my husband describe some of the scenes in the show, I could feel my blood pressure rising. Those of you who know my husband know that he is a very athletic, very competitive person. He loves sports and has spent many years coaching our kids various teams. He's also not what you'd call the "emotional, sensitive" type. He had to turn the show off because it was too upsetting. He said that his first thought was, "it's a good thing Jen isn't watching this." And I believe he was right. I can only imagine how I would feel if I had witnessed these things myself rather than hearing about them second-hand.</div>
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Still, I haven't been able to stop thinking about this. I haven't been able to peel my mind and heart away from the feelings that this show, this<i> concept</i>, is invoking in me. But what I have to say isn't for the producers or the coaches, or even the parents (though trust me when I say, I have plenty of ideas for conversation topics should I ever encounter them in person). My words are for the kids. The eight and nine year old <i>children</i> who find themselves involved in this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dear Friday Night Tykes,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sorry that the adults in your life have failed you. I'm sorry that, as a society, we have forgotten that raising children is more than feeding and clothing and teaching you to keep up in a competitive society, it's also teaching you to accept your imperfections and realize that they don't make you less worthy of love and respect. I'm sorry that there were no adults there to stand at your side and defend you. I'm sorry that the same people who speak out about the anti-bullying movement are the ones who are humiliating you and bullying you and sending you the message that it's okay to be cruel because "it builds character". We, the adults, have failed you. That includes me. I wasn't there. I didn't step in and stand between you and the abuse. I'm sorry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sorry that your humiliation was recorded and displayed for entertainment, that our society is more concerned with ratings and publicity than with humanity. I'm sorry that the world sat back and watched on while you were forced to run until you vomited and then forced to run some more. I'm sorry that we sat on our couches and watched as the grown ups who should be setting the example for you, got in your face and spoke to you as if you weren't a human being, as if you don't matter. You do matter. You are important. You are loved.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sorry that our culture is full of flawed philosophies and that some people believe that whether or not everyone on your football team gets a trophy will have a substantial impact on who you are and what you can do. It's not true ya know. Those things don't really matter. That trophy doesn't define you. It doesn't define your teammates. Recognizing your efforts doesn't make you entitled. In fact, nothing that YOU do will do that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sorry that our society is raising you to think that you have to know all your shapes by the time you're two and read when you're three and that education is all about competing in the job market and not about experiencing this life that you've been given. I'm sorry that you've been taught that what you have is more important than what you give and that what you have is never enough because someone else always has more. Because that's not true either. You have enough and you are enough and you can accomplish greatness because you are great.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I want you to know that these experiences are not going to be your life story. This time is going to pass and you can choose to let these experiences stay in the past. You can move forward and embrace the unique and beautiful qualities that make you who you are. You can treat others with respect. You can help those who need help. You can be a light. You are light.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Please don't let these experiences tear you down. You are stronger than that. You deserve better than what you have been given but you can create happiness and fulfillment. It's like a superpower. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Please forgive us, all the adults who have failed you. We aren't perfect and many of us have forgotten about that superpower. We think that happiness and fulfillment come from societal acceptance, material possessions and public recognition. We don't remember what is really important. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Will you remind us? Will you show us how to be better? Will you teach your children and never let them forget how powerful and amazing they are? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope that you will. I also hope that the next time your coach gets in your face and yells at you, or the next time your parent tells you to quit crying and get back out there...that you kick them right in the knee. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sincerely,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A Stupid Grown-Up</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-80199479088294670262013-12-01T07:11:00.001-08:002013-12-01T07:11:52.115-08:00How to Talk to Parents: A Toddler's Guide to Communication<br />
Ten Laws of Parent Communication:<br />
<br />
1. What you have to say is infinitely more important than whatever is happening. Period.<br />
<br />
2. The BEST time to express your deepest fears, hopes, desires and views on life, is when your mother is on the phone.<br />
<br />
3. When you are asked to talk, e.g. for a family video, a program at church/pre-school, or to demonstrate your vocabulary for a doctor, you MUST remain silent for a period of time. Only respond to their requests once they have offered you sufficient rewards for your efforts. Remember your worth. Do not settle for a sticker when you can get ice cream.<br />
<br />
4. The middle of the night provides the perfect opportunity for one-on-one communication with your parents. Please note that results may vary. If your mental faculties are not entirely present, simply crying or whining will usually get results. Remember, above all, you must be consistent in order to see the best results.<br />
<br />
5. Find new and interesting ways to pronounce words. You may get exciting results. For example, if you want a strawberry, make you sure you alter the pronunciation enough to elicit guesses. At some point they may ask you if you want, say, a cookie. If you just came out and asked for a cookie, they would likely say, "no". But if they have to guess for long enough, they will be so excited to have (supposedly) discovered the answer, they will more often than not, give you the cookie. This is known as up-selling.<br />
<br />
6. When words fail you, throw yourself on the ground, thrash and scream.<br />
<br />
7. Change your mind rapidly and without warning and expect your parents to keep up. If they incorrectly assume that you still want what you said you wanted ten seconds prior, please implement the method discussed in number six.<br />
<br />
8. It might seem difficult, at times, to get your point across. They are only adults after all. But you will have greater success when you utilize these tried and tested methods: volume and repetition. If you feel your point is not getting across, try repeating yourself while increasing volume until you elicit the desired response. For example, if you want your mother's attention and she is on the phone, you would start by saying, "mama" in your normal voice. She will probably ignore you. Try not to lose your patience. Remember, she is still learning. So use a little more volume and repeat, "<span style="font-size: large;">mama</span>". If she still does not respond, then you need to implement the aforementioned technique, ie. "<span style="font-size: x-large;">MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! MAAAAAAMAAAAA!</span>"<br />
<br />
** This method does not have conclusive results with dads. They have a highly-developed ability to block out the sound of your voice. The louder you get, the less they hear. For best results with dads, turn off the television or simply hit them with a hard object. We recommend the remote control for added emphasis, though be warned, your point will likely be lost on them.<br />
<br />
9. If they express frustration with your communication techniques, carefully project the lower lip and shed two to three small tears (do not over-do it). Make as little noise as possible. This will guarantee you snuggles and kisses.<br />
<br />
10. If you are still struggling to communicate effectively with your parents, try writing your feelings down. We suggest a wall, an important document or high-quality bedding. Permanent markers are the preferred medium but work with what is accessible. Don't feel limited. Crayons, pens and makeup are all perfectly acceptable substitutes.<br />
<br />
<br />Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-47376136775925485042013-09-27T18:05:00.000-07:002013-09-27T18:05:18.299-07:00What Just Happened?I remember back when I was on the horse scene. We used to all talk about the cushy life that a racehorse lives. Seriously. Have you met a racehorse? Spoiled bunch of punks. They eat better than I do. They have servants, people who come in and brush their hair, clean up after them, clip their toenails, bring them snacks. They work really hard for about one to two years, usually leading up to one big huge event and then, after that event, they retire. They get to keep the servants. Like I said...punks.<br />
<br />
But something happened today, something that makes me think I may have been a little too judgmental about the racehorses. Today, I sold my baby clothes...all of them. I've sold baby clothes before but it was different, it wasn't the last of my baby clothes. I kept my favorites, ya know, for the next baby. I never really thought about what would happen when there was no next baby. When I was done. When life, as I knew it, packed up in a big Rubbermaid container and high-tailed it into the back of some stranger's crossover and drove away. But I've thought about it now. And now I want to apologize to the racehorses. Because I wonder if this is how they felt when their last race was over.<br />
<br />
Did they go back to their stall and think, "what do I do now?" I mean, they knew it would come eventually. You can't race forever. There has to be a last race and that race has to come to an end inevitably. But still, did they really <em>know</em> that?<br />
<br />
I didn't. I mean, I knew but I didn't <em>know</em>, ya know?<br />
<br />
No one can have babies for forever. I knew that. I may not have set a certain number that I wanted to have or not have, but I knew that, at some point in my life, I would have to stop getting pregnant and having children. What I didn't know what how I would feel about that. That, I was completely unprepared for.<br />
<br />
I used to laugh a little at the moms who used to say that "lost themselves" when they had children. They forgot about their spouses, their interests, their careers and ambitions. They were so silly. They obviously didn't have a good grip on who they were. They clearly just weren't good at keeping it all in check. So silly.<br />
<br />
Today, when I came home and deleted my craigslist post for that last batch of baby clothes, it hit me. I have no idea who I am. Okay, that's not totally true. I know who I am right this moment. I know who I've been for the last ten years. What I don't know is who to be going forward. I don't know how to prepare myself for never buying another pregnancy test, never going to another ultrasound, never packing that hospital bag, never listening to my husband's voice counting during a contraction, never have that first smell of newborn baby skin, never experience that first kiss between those sweet eyes. I don't know how to not be having babies. Because for my entire adult life, I have been in the business of having babies. That's been everything. My planning for the future was centered on when we'd have the next baby. My day-to-day living was focused on how to raise my children while simultaneously nursing or lugging around thirty extra pounds of belly. I know how to do that. It's what I've been doing every day. I've trained. This was my race.<br />
<br />
And now the race is over. And it's good. I get that it's good. I know that I've run my best. I know that the time has come for me to focus on other things, like raising this pack of crazies and teaching them to be productive human beings. There are good things ahead. And I'm excited about them. But still, I feel a little like a racehorse who has been stuck in the stall. No more races. No more roses. And where in the heck are <em>my</em> servants?<br />
<br />
So yeah, today was an emotional day. The baby clothes are gone. I did what any reasonable woman would do in my situation...I ate four chocolate chip cookies and went to Sweet Frog. When the crib goes, I'm going to the Bahamas. <br />
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-11973506275895422612013-07-30T12:16:00.002-07:002013-07-30T12:16:59.045-07:00So Long, Farewell...I remember almost a year ago, I was sitting on my bed crying (when I say crying, I really mean sobbing huge snot-sorting sobs) because I was scared to move to Florida.<br />
<br />
"What if the people there don't like me?" I wailed.<br />
<br />
My sweet, ever-patient husband sat next to me, rubbing my back.<br />
<br />
"They will. You can't help but make friends wherever you go."<br />
<br />
I think I probably wiped my face on his shirt sleeve and cried a little more and then convinced him to go get me some ice cream to make me feel better. But my fears remained in tact. What if I <i>couldn't </i>make friends in Florida? <br />
<br />
We have been in Florida for seven months and I can say that my fears were totally unfounded. The people here have been so welcoming and amazing. As soon as we got here, we had phone calls, visits, people bringing us dinners, helping with our children and inviting us to birthday parties.<br />
<br />
In the short time that we have lived here, I've been blessed to make some wonderful friends. Friends who have impacted my life in amazing ways.<br />
<br />
Which is why moving again is really hard.<br />
<br />
Yes. The Ramsey Clan is moving...again. We are heading back to Richmond in a couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
Part of me is elated. I am a Virginia girl. I am so excited to go home. I am excited to be back with my friends and family, back to familiar doctors and schools and the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains.<br />
<br />
Then there is the other part of me, the part that didn't exist until seven months ago, that is so terribly sad to leave Florida. More specifically, I am sad to leave our friends here.<br />
<br />
I truly do believe that Heavenly Father has a plan for my family, one that I don't always understand (okay, I rarely understand it) and important work for us to do in this world. I don't know when or where He will want us, but I can only pray that, wherever we go, we will be blessed with friends like the ones we have found here in Florida.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-89363316554219430652013-06-19T11:30:00.001-07:002013-06-19T11:39:03.618-07:00From the Mom With All Those KidsDear Person Asking Me Why I Have So Many Children,<br />
<br />
The truth is, I don't know. I didn't sit down with my husband when we first got married and set a number goal. I mean, we talked about it. We would fantasize about having two girls and two boys and oh how perfect that would be, etc. We talked about names we liked. We talked about names we didn't like. But we also talked about the giant heated, stone, in-ground bathtub we were going to build in our dream home in Ireland. <br />
<br />
Likewise, we didn't sit down before each child and make a detailed budget sheet. We didn't examine our finances. We didn't look at assets and the stock market. We didn't calculate the cost of college tuition and dance lessons or how inflation would factor into Friday night pizza delivery charges. I guess that's irresponsible. But the bottom line is, it wouldn't change anything.<br />
<br />
I still think it's a little funny when people comment on how many children I have. I don't feel like I have a big family...except when we have to take potty breaks on road trips, and then? Oh boy do I feel it. But just the every day thrills and spills? It just doesn't feel like a huge number of people. Okay, maybe that's not totally true. Sometimes it feels like a huge number. When everyone is crying and the laundry is up to the sky and dishes are overflowing and I haven't slept in four months, then yes, it feels overwhelming. But right now? In this moment? It doesn't. And actually, there are probably more of these moments than I even acknowledge.<br />
<br />
As for how we afford it, well, I don't really know. We just kind of do. We buy what we can afford and we don't buy what we can't. There's a lot of stuff that falls into the can't category. There are a lot of gadgets we don't have, a lot of trips we can't take, a lot of things my children have to do without. I'm not sure if that's fair. I was an only child and I had pretty much whatever I wanted. It was great. I had a good childhood. But that nice car I drove my senior year? It got totaled. And that JCrew sweater that I just had to have doesn't sit next to me at the Thanksgiving table and tell funny stories about the time we got into trouble sneaking out of the house. Those things were wonderful and I am thankful that my parents worked hard to give me the things I wanted. But they are just things. I know there will probably be times when my kids feel the sting of having less money than their friends. Maybe they'll resent me. Maybe they won't. I hope, though, that one day they will sit with their siblings and tell stories about the time they painted the walls with finger paints the night before an open-house. Or the summer they spent running through the sprinkler and catching frogs and eating popsicles for lunch. In those moments, I hope they'll realize that some things are better than money.<br />
<br />
I don't have a magic answer for "how I do it". We get up in the morning. We go to bed at night. Most everything else just sort of happens in between. It's not always fun and it's not always tidy. We can't afford it. We can't organize it. It's tiring and it pushes me to my limits. Honestly, I have no clue what I'm doing. The more kids I have, the less I know about parenting, and life in general.<br />
<br />
But ya know what? It's pretty amazing. I see miracles every day. I am challenged every day. I am humbled every day. I'm the villain, the hero and the bystander every day. I say things I never thought I'd say. I feel things I never thought I'd feel. It's not perfect but it's good, really good.<br />
<br />
Your Friend,<br />
<br />
The Crazy Mom With All Those KidsJenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-37572777390070858842013-06-14T14:08:00.001-07:002013-06-14T14:08:46.228-07:00Mom TiredWhen you're pregnant, <strong>everyone</strong> tells you that their best advice is to sleep when your baby sleeps. When you have a new baby, the <strong>first</strong> thing they ask is how he or she is sleeping at night. With babies, it's just assumed that you're going to be tired. What no one tells you is that it's actually not about babies. It's about motherhood. Yes, it begins with pregnancy and no, it never ends. Moms are tired. All the time. Forever.<br />
<br />
I've decided there are levels of tired. There's "<u>dog tired</u>", which I imagine is just a step above plain tired. Then comes "<u>bone tired</u>", meaning you've yawned more than once in an hour. After "bone tired" comes "<u>exhausted</u>". This is somewhere around the vicinity of a car that is getting low on gas and starting to sputter. Then there's "<u>dead tired</u>". At "dead tired" the average human being requires sleep or, ya know, they die. But it keeps going. Below "dead tired" you have the "<u>walking zombie tired</u>". This is where I spend a majority of my life. I'm alive, I'm moving, but there is very little reasoning going on in my brain. And unlike normal zombies, sleep zombies don't crave brains...they crave pillows. And just a tiiiiiiny bit below "walking zombie tired" is "<u>mom tired</u>". "Mom tired" is when you have been "walking zombie tired" for so long that you don't care if the world itself stops turning, you have GOT to have a nap.<br />
<br />
Today, I was "mom tired". I wanted that nap. I <em>needed</em> that nap. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it wasn't going to happen but sometimes you just can't help but dream...oh wait, dreaming requires sleep. <br />
<br />
But then, miraculously, it looked like a nap might be in the realm of possibility. Child 5 was napping. Children 2, 3 and 4 were outside playing (in the back yard that is fully enclosed by a six foot privacy fence and pad locked on the outside), Child 1 was playing the Wii and Child 6 was ready to snuggle up and nap with Mama on the couch. This is going to happen! I'm going to do it! I'm going to NAP!<br />
<br />
I get comfy on the couch. Child 6 falls asleep. It's peaceful and pretty quiet. Life is good. Until...<br />
<br />
The alarm goes off. Not the fire alarm. The child alarm, the one they all have inside of them that goes off when their mother is trying to rest (or pee alone). <br />
<br />
All of the sudden, the children who were outside come running inside (loudly) demanding a container for a frog. "What? No! Put the frog back where you found it!" Discontented sighs, a few "but mom"s, heavy footsteps.<br />
<br />
It's quiet again...for about twenty seconds.<br />
<br />
Then the children come back in and run up the stairs, loudly. This wakes Child 5. Child 5 then comes down and demands everything. A snack, a binky, a rag, a spatula, a walrus, a private jet...oh, and his Mickey Mouse cup. This cup is like a stray dog. It turns up everywhere. It follows us on walks and then waits at our front door. I think I've tried to throw it away like thirteen times but it just keeps finding it's way into my cupboard. And the thing is, Child 5 isn't even attached to this cup. He doesn't even use a sippy cup, we have to take the lid off. But today? Today, right now in fact, he wants the "Mee Mows" cup. JUST the "Mee Mows" cup. And where is the "Mee Mows" cup? Your guess is as good as mine. Under normal circumstances, Child 5 would just accept another cup. But his alarm has gone off. He knows that mom wants a nap. This must.not.happen.<br />
<br />
After placating him with a green cup and a popsicle, every other child needs a snack, a drink, and answers to every question that they've ever had in their entire lives. I think they keep a list stored in a compartment in their brains reserved for when I'm "mom tired".<br />
<br />
After meeting their requests, Child 4 starts doing the potty dance and completely forgets that he actually knows how to walk the whole five steps to the bathroom alone. <br />
<br />
I manage to close my eyes again, just long enough for Child 5 to rip a pancake to shreds on the living room carpet and Child 4 to feed part of a banana chocolate chip bar to the dog because "him love it". Great, now I can plan how to console them tomorrow. <br />
<br />
At this point everyone was loud and playing this game where they stack themselves on each other and roll down the stairs or something like that. I was actually afraid to go look.<br />
<br />
I finally gave up. I'd say I'll try again tomorrow but I'll probably be busy burying the dog.<br />
<br />
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This is how we started out. This is how things should look.<br />
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This is how things<em> actually</em> looked. See that nice Jenny-shaped spot on the couch? That's where I should be. Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-91473355573136824802013-06-05T10:12:00.000-07:002013-06-05T10:12:21.516-07:00Do or Do Not, There is NO Try...Whoever told men that it was acceptable to pee while standing up should be taken and beaten with a large plank of wood covered in barbed wire. The wood is to smack some sense into them. The barbed wire is to poke holes so the stupid can drain out.<br />
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They all think they can do it. Little boys think they can do it. Older kids think they can do it. Grown men think they can do it.<br />
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As a mother of five boys, a wife to a grown man and having had the pleasure of cleaning the men's bathroom at Church a few times let me tell you something...THEY CANNOT DO IT!<br />
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That is all I have to say right now.Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-34370894644386615082013-06-03T16:25:00.002-07:002013-06-03T16:41:30.561-07:00Turning ThirtyThis weekend I turned thirty. Thirty is a big number. I mean, think about it. How many things do you honestly need thirty of? If I came home from the grocery store with thirty eggs, my husband would think I'd gone crazy. If I put thirty tic tacs in my mouth at once, I would probably choke to death. My point is, thirty is a big number.<br />
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As a surprise for my big 3-0, my friends in Richmond orchestrated a birthday weekend getaway for me. They got me a plane ticket, hosted a dinner, a brunch and an open house. They housed me and fed me and drove me around. It was all pretty fantastic. I imagine this must be how Reese Witherspoon feels on her birthday. My friend and hostess extraordinaire, Carol, even got me a custom cake. It had the state of Virginia on it. Well, we're going to pretend it was the state of Virginia. It was definitely <strong>not</strong> a big hill with the words "Over the Hill" above it. No, definitely not that. If it were, Carol would have some explaining to do.<br />
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The weekend started out with the one negative aspect of my trip...an airplane. I do not like flying. Not at all. AT ALL. I withheld this information from my friends for two reasons: 1. I really, really, really, REALLY wanted to go home. 2. I sometimes like to pretend that I'm a grown up who doesn't freak out over things like air travel. But in real life? I freak out over things like air travel. Every time I tell someone that I don't like to fly they tell me things to try to make me feel better, except their advice is stupid. They say things like, "more people die in cars than airplanes". First of all, now I am freaking out about the drive to the airport. Thanks guys. And secondly, let me just explain the difference between a car and an airplane. Cars are on the ground. Planes, if you haven't noticed, are 38,000 feet IN THE AIR. People also tell me about how people fly all the time, blah blah blah. People also voluntarily stick needles through their body parts. People eat raw fish and pay money for it. People cannot be trusted to make wise choices. I think I scared the girl sitting next to me, who happened to be a 2nd year medical student. The good news? She's well prepared for her rounds in the psych ward.<br />
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Once my plane landed I spent a good hour lying on my friend Elisabeth's floor, trying not to die. It worked. I didn't die. Are you impressed? I am.<br />
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After hanging around with some friends, we headed to dinner at my favorite restaurant, Baker's Crust. Perhaps Florida's greatest downfall is its lack of Baker's Crust. Well, that and the pants-loving cockroaches. <br />
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Let's talk about Baker's Crust. It's actually really about the mushroom and brie soup and the crepes diabolitin. That's what I get every single time I go and I could stick my face in the plate, swim around for a bit and then slurp it up until ne'er a trace is found. I usually have people with me so I try to eat like a human so I don't embarrass them. I'm not cool enough to find new friends. I'm darn lucky to have the old ones and they, for some odd reason, are okay with being seen with me in public. I'm not messing that up. But it's tempting sometimes because those crepes and that soup? Manna from Heaven.<br />
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Dinner was great but the company was better. I had good friends from Richmond, a friend who drove up from Charlottesville and my beloved Pediatrician. Yes, my kid's doctor came to my birthday dinner and gave me the most fantastic book (it's like she knows me, which is weird. I mean, it's not like I'm a hypochondriac with six kids or anything strange like that.) and even brought her stethoscope to listen to a wheezy baby Chase. Don't you wish your doctor was as cool as mine?<br />
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After dinner we weren't quite done, so we went back to my friend's place and stayed up late doing what we do best...telling hilarious stories and acting like idiots. <br />
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The next morning we had breakfast with a few more fantastic ladies and went to Target. No birthday is complete without a trip to Target. <br />
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After an afternoon of hanging and watching "Duck Dynasty", which I am now hooked on, thank you Elisabeth, I went to dinner with my "best and dearest and oldest" friend. This friend is days away from delivering her baby girl. We were hoping to coax her out with a nice dinner and our monthly Godiva chocolate but alas, she was not interested. I remember what it was like not wanting to be seen out with your parents. It's okay Mary, I get it. <br />
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On Sunday baby Chase and I ventured to Church to see some peeps and then had an afternoon cake party. I like to pretend this weekend was for me. Let's be honest, it was not about me. It was about baby Chase. It's okay, I'm just glad I have mammary glands and therefore get to be his automatic plus one.<br />
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After staying up way too late and sleeping through my alarm, I managed to make it onto my plane and again, not die. And now I'm back home with my family.<br />
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I've had a lot of birthdays. Remember how 30 is a big number? But this one, well, it was pretty awesome. A huge thank you to every single one of my friends and family members who made this birthday so great! <br />
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<br />Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-54476498895007936602013-05-23T15:03:00.000-07:002013-05-23T15:03:35.814-07:00Can We Pretend that Paper Airplanes in the Night Sky...My kids are really into paper right now. In my last post I made my feelings about massive paper usage known. Before you go giving me props for my environmental conscientiousness, don't. It has nothing to do with my concern for trees and everything to do with my concern for the $3.73 per 500 sheets. You might think that 500 sheets is a lot of paper, and in the normal world of household paper usage you would be right. But in this house? 500 sheets of paper is child's play...literally.<br />
Usually I get all fussy and hide my paper or lock my bedroom door or tell the kids that they get 3 sheets of paper each, etc. It sometimes works, but usually it doesn't. But lately my kids have figured out that if they use the paper to make "gifts", it makes it harder for me to say no. Kids are sneaky little things and they manipulate in such ways.<br />
So I have been getting a lot of paper "gifts" in recent weeks. So has everyone who steps foot in my house. Child 1 got a Star Wars Origami book from the library (I am seriously considering sending them a bill for $3.73 to compensate me.) so his paper gifts look like this...<br />
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Allow me to introduce "Fortune Wookiee", "Han Foldo", "Origami Yoda" and "Darth Paper". <br />
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Child 2 is all about paper aviation. So he has been making lots (and I do mean LOTS) of these...<br />
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That's a model C189Turbo and it flies quite nicely...all around the house...all the time...including into my face while I breastfeed a baby.</div>
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Child 3 likes to cool down the family with one, or fifteen, of these...<br />
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We keep getting bulk requests from China. The design is patent pending.</div>
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Child 4 and Child 5 want to play with paper too. They are perhaps my biggest mass producers of paper "gifts". They watch their siblings color and fold, so OF COURSE they want to color and fold too. So we get plenty of these...</div>
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If you have any requests, send them on over. Ramsey paper gifts a plenty in this house. Please send $3.73 per 500 paper "gifts". Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-59763638883730358072013-05-03T09:09:00.000-07:002013-05-03T09:09:00.441-07:00A Typical DayThe internet is a deceptive little twit sometimes. Someone recently made a comment to me about blogging and how do I ever manage to find time to blog with six children? It must look like I just sit around blogging all day. It made me think. How <em>do</em> I have time to blog? I suppose it's a little like having to pee on a road trip. Sometimes you pull over and take a legit potty break. You time it out and you stop and you go. Sometimes you are in a hurry so you just have to hold it until you have some time. Of course, once you have children sometimes something happens, you sneeze or cough or laugh and it just happens. In other words, sometimes you know you need to hold it but you just can't hold it. <br />
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That's what blogging is for me. Sometimes I try to schedule time to do it. Sometimes I have to wait until time comes. And sometimes it just happens in spite of efforts to stave it off a little longer.<br />
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The only hard part about blogging is finding something "blog worthy" to write about. Sometimes my kids do something insane and the words pretty much write themselves. But most days are pretty typical. Which is, ironically, what inspired this post. This post is about my typical day.<br />
It usually starts with conversations. Conversations with myself and my husband and my children. They usually go like this:<br />
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Myself: Sooooooooo tired...<br />
Husband: Do you need to get a shower before I leave?<br />
Me: Yes<br />
Myself: No<br />
Husband: Okay, well I have to leave in little bit...<br />
Me: Okay<br />
Myself: So if he needs to leave in a little bit, then I can divide that little bit into halves and shower with one half and sleep with the other.<br />
Me: Mmhmmmmmm...zzzzzzzzzzz...<br />
Husband: I have to go.<br />
Me: (sleepily) Uh-huh<br />
Kids 1-3: Mom, we don't have anything to pack for lunch.<br />
Me: I'm coming.<br />
Myself: Funny how they can find a piece of candy hidden in your sock drawer under three layers of foot coverings but they can't find <em>anything </em>to pack for lunch in the entire pantry and refrigerator. <br />
Kids 1-3: Mom, we can't find any clothes to wear.<br />
Me: I'm coming.<br />
Myself: They could always try the closet, okay fine, the laundry basket...OKAY...the dryer.<br />
Baby: WAAAAAHHHHHHHH!<br />
Me: Good morning sweet baby.<br />
Myself: It's a good thing you're cute you little creature of the night.<br />
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Then I feed the baby, change and dress the baby, change the Nugget, drag kid #4 to the potty while he screams that he doesn't need to go, give a nebulizer treatment or two, drill the kids on whether they have eaten, packed lunches, packed a snack, gotten dressed, brushed teeth, etc.<br />
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We typically leave 10 minutes after we should. We then hit every single one of the ELEVEN stoplights between our house and the school. So then I go in and sign the kids in at the office and make some lame joke about us being late all the time. No one laughs at it and I vow that tomorrow I will not make a lame joke about us being late.<br />
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On the way home I start mentally preparing my to-do list and my internal monologue starts up again:<br />
Me: I need to take a shower, get the boys ready, eat some breakfast and then I can nurse the baby, throw in a load of laundry, unload the dishwasher, run to Target, stop at Home Depot, blow my husband a kiss as I drive by his office...<br />
Myself: Sure, you <em>could</em> do that but...<br />
Me: But what?<br />
Myself then gives me a list of alternative things to do...like sit and not do anything. Myself includes lots of great excuses and rationalizations. If we tear a paper towel into pieces we don't really <em>have</em> to have toilet paper right now. We can send husband later. Myself is very convincing. <br />
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I usually get home from dropping the kids off at school at about 8:50 am. We walk in the door and the little boys instantly start crying about how hungry they are. I panic for a second wondering if I fed them this morning...or yesterday at all...or ever. Oh my gosh, I haven't fed my kids! Oh wait...they ate cereal this morning with their siblings, a whole 45 minutes ago. I hand them fruit snacks so they will stop yelling at me.<br />
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From 9am to 1pm the boys wrestle. Wrestle. Cry. Laugh. Repeat. <br />
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They occasionally interrupt their wrestling if I leave the room to do something. Then they follow me. Have you ever been to a dr. and they have someone following them around with a clipboard taking notes? They call it "shadowing". Do you know how these people learned how to shadow? By being children. If I go to the bathroom, they come too. If I go sit on the bed to nurse the baby, they come too. If I decide it's one of those days where I absolutely have to shower, I put baby in the bouncy seat so that I don't have to listen to him scream. (He likes the sound of the water. I may or may not leave the water running while I get dressed just to keep him happy. I admit to nothing.) While he sits in his bouncy Nugget plays his favorite game where he puts his hand on the shower door and waits for me to put my hand there too. It is super cute...until I need to use my hand for something like, oh say, bathing. Then my hand is busy washing and can't play. Then Nugget gets angry and bangs and yells until I play the game. <br />
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Usually at some point in the day I beg my children to watch television. Ya know those moms who have to turn the television off and drag their kids away to be productive beings? I am not one of them. Also, I'm jealous of them. <br />
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We eat lunch.<br />
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Then Nugget naps. During his nap #4 likes to color. I remember in high school, I had a friend with a little sister who was about ten years younger than we were. She loved to color too. It used to bug him that she would use so much paper. One time he said something to his mom about how she shouldn't let his little sister waste all that paper. His mom told a story about how, when she was little, she used to have to color along the edges of a newspaper because they didn't buy drawing paper and how she wanted her kids to have all the paper they wanted. I remember thinking that I wanted to be just like that. Let my children explore their creativity and scribble to their hearts content. Now I have to buy the paper so I hide it under my bed and ration it like it's Elf bread and I'm going to Mordor. Kid #4 draws a bunch of pictures and asks me to draw the characters of "Peter and the Wolf" about 13 times. Oh and snakes..."Draw a snake for me mommy. Now a biiiiiig snake. Now a tiiiiny snake. Now a baby snake. Now a fluffy snake." So we draw while Nugget naps.<br />
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Then we go to pick up the kids from school. I answer 17,002 questions on the way home. "What would win, a cheetah or a bear?" "What is for dinner?" "Guess what I saw outside the window at 10:24 am today?" "Do you know what 18 x 84 is?" "Can I have a snack when I get home?"<br />
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Then we get home and the big kids evaporate into snack and wii land. They have figured out the glorious mind-sucking powers of television and video games. It's a beautiful thing.<br />
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The evenings hold a little more variation than the daytime. Soccer practice, football practice, cub scouts, boy scouts, family night, dinner, prayers, baths, pajamas, bed...<br />
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Throw in a couple dozen tantrums, a few bloody lips and lots of baby rocking and that's it. That's my typical day. <br />
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I was recently talking to a friend about how, before you have children, you know that it's going to be hard but that it will be worth it. What you don't know is the ratio of hard to good. You think it will be like 75% good and 25% crappy. Maybe even 50/50. But we were saying it is probably more like 98% hard/crappy stuff and like 2% amazing/awesome/worth every bit of it. But we both agreed that there is something about that 2% that overrides the other stuff. I can't explain it mathematically. I mean, in no other scenario does this work. Think about it. If you have a gallon of milk and 98% of it is sour but 2% is good, you don't drink the milk. If you look at a house and you only like 2% of it, you don't buy the house. But there is something about that amazing 2% of parenting that honestly and sincerely overrides the 98% hard stuff. That 2% really is <strong>that</strong> good.<br />
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And the proof is in the pudding, so they say. Here are a few 2% pictures...<br />
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Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-7407853203140524882013-04-30T17:35:00.000-07:002013-04-30T17:35:11.735-07:00It's Raining, It's Pouring...and PouringYa know how sometimes people say things and you think they are full of it? Or at the very least, they are seriously exaggerating the situation?<br />
For example, if someone says, "my kids scream all day long", obviously their kids don't literally scream all day every day, else they would not be standing upright.<br />
Or if they say, "all I ever eat is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches"...okay, that's kinda true for me. But you get the point.<br />
So before I moved to Florida someone told me that they hoped I liked rain because it rains a lot in Florida. I did that awkward thing where you smile and open your mouth just a little bit but you don't actually say anything. Please. It's the SUNSHINE state. Rain. Pft. <br />
When we got here (in December) it didn't rain much. In fact, it rained less than in Virginia. Ha. <br />
But I started to hear rumors...rain rumors. People, actual Floridians, started telling me about how in the spring and summer it rains every day. EVERY day. Every.single.day. <br />
And I thought they were exhibiting those extreme exaggeration techniques we were discussing earlier. <br />
They were not.<br />
It rains every day.EVERY day. Every.single.day.<br />
Not just rain like, "oh look it's raining." This is more like "batten the hatches, get to higher ground, someone round up two of each animal, we're going to need a bigger boat" type of rain.<br />
It is insane you guys. <br />
So I'm going to go eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while my house floats away. Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741102764059967062.post-64958643146926469882013-04-25T07:59:00.001-07:002013-04-25T07:59:24.807-07:00Some Days...So far today my day has looked like this...<br />
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If this trend is holding true for the eldest Ramseys, I feel for their teachers. Actually, I lied, I'm just happy it's not me.</div>
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If you need me, I'll be hiding under a bed with what's left of my bag of mint Milanos (thanks Kelli). </div>
Jenny Ramseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02122078244782077004noreply@blogger.com1