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Cramping More Than My Style

I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf and get back in shape, and I thought the best way to accomplish that would be to do some sort of physical exercise that was fun to me. So without any expense or any time commitment, I turned on my iPod, cranked up the volume and started dancing my butt off. Hopefully literally.

This song came up on rotation and holy sheebie, did I bust a move! I mean to tell you, I got JIGGY with it! If my daughter had been present, I would have embarrassed her! It was quite a scene, let me tell you.

And now?? I am sore in places I forgot I had, and my butt doesn’t seem to have changed at all.

Crap.

Meet Carly

I should be working on the schedule this morning, but instead I am cuddling my very sick little girl (who loves when she gets to be in Momma’s cozy bed, even if it means she’s sick) and entertaining myself by reading blogs. I’m confident I will meet the schedule deadline later this week, but right now my baby needs me. And I needed this:

One of my favorite blogs, Pacing The Panic Room, just posted this piece about a young girl named Carly Fleischmann from Canada, and I was instantly charmed by her.

One of my dearest friends has a 15 year old son, Caleb, with autism. I have always admired her strength and determination when it comes to caring for him and finding new ways to connect with him. I know that it is easier to assume that there is nothing beyond what is visible to the eye, that there is no cognitive awareness behind the flapping arms and the incomprehensible squeals. But maybe, just maybe, there is a functioning spirit trapped in that poorly functioning body. A person who cannot make their body communicate in the way they want to. I cannot imagine a more terrible thing than being a prisoner inside your own body.

I think it’s time we started to become more aware of those who suffer from this horrible condition. For Carly and Caleb, and all the others like them.

Carly’s Blog

Follow Carly on Twitter

Be a Fan of Carly on Facebook

Today’s Meditation

I have been reading and re-reading this version of St. Teresa’s Prayer almost constantly over the last week. This prayer, combined with my daughter’s juicy kisses and a fair bit of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, has definitely calmed my soul.  I am aware that there are those who are suffering much more than I am right now.  If that describes you, I hope it brings you as much peace as it has brought me.

May there be peace within.

May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.

May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content with yourself just the way you are.

Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of us.”

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Healing

I know I left everyone hanging for days after the last post, and I’m truly sorry. I was absolutely shocked by the turn of events, and I needed several days to wrap my brain around it. But now I am doing so much better that I think it’s time to fill all of you in on the details.

A few weeks ago, a dialogue opened between Tyler and I that had a very familiar refrain. It went something like: “When do you think you’ll be moving here?” and “Honey, it takes time!” and “But it’s been three years!” and “I know you need me there, but you’re just going to have to be patient a little longer.” We’ve been down that bumpy road before, and it always ended with Tyler reassuring me that he loved me, that he very much wanted to live here in Utah with me, and that he would be here before I knew it. And every other time before, I curled up and purred under the soothing stroke of his hand and waited to see what the future would bring. But this time, I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that it wasn’t true. A nagging voice in the back of my head that wouldn’t allow me to believe him. So I told him so. I very calmly told him that I didn’t believe that he had any intention of coming to Utah, now or ever.

He was silent.

This is how Tyler works. When confronted with something he cannot (or doesn’t yet know how to) argue, he clams up. Nothing. Not a peep. And that’s when I knew I had struck on the truth.

Two days later, he finally found his words and told me that he would not be moving here. Ever. He realized that it meant that our relationship was over and he was very sorry if that hurt me. He was quiet and solemn. No tears, no emotion. Cut and dry. When I pressed him to understand why, the best he could tell me is that he didn’t want to see his daughter less frequently than he sees her now. He said, “She would be fine, I know that… but I wouldn’t be. I would miss her too much.” And that, my friends, is an argument I will not win.

I love his daughter and miss her terribly. I know she misses us too (especially her dog, Sam) and I am saddened that Tyler chose this path that ended up affecting not just the two of us, but our girls as well. We knew years ago that in order to be together, one of us would have to sacrifice more than was comfortable, but that it would be worth it to have the life that we wanted – the family that we created together. I sacrificed as much as I could (legally), and it was up to Tyler to do the rest. In the end, he decided that the sacrifices outweighed the benefits. I can’t argue with that decision.

When the reality sank in and I began to understand that I would never see him again, I grieved mightily. I loved and still love this man with all my heart. He was, if there ever was a definition of the word, my soul mate. I know I will never find anyone as suited for me as him. That said, I believe that love isn’t enough.

I tried to hold myself together by the fragile wispy strands of sanity that remained, and I moved about my life with my head held high and only the red rims of my eyes to give away my inner turmoil. I found myself crying less about Tyler and more about the enormous outpouring of love and support from my friends. After the last post (and a quickie status update on Facebook about the stupid clerk at the grocery store commenting on the amount of ice cream in my cart), I received DOZENS of comments, emails, phone calls and texts – even a very thoughtful gift basket of ice cream toppings! Every one of those friends were saying the same thing: “We love you. We are here for you. You are beautiful and you are strong and you are loved.”

I am loved.

I found myself cuddling my daughter more, feeling her sweet breath on my neck as she curled up next to me and knowing that on this planet, no one soothes her better than me. I am her Mom. I gave her life. I nurtured her inside my body and fed her from my breast and no one on earth loves me in the same way that she does.

I found myself opening up my emotions more to my friends and finding that instead of cringing away from that, they opened up themselves to me in return. I have been held and comforted by women who have proven their love for me in ways I will never forget.

I have realized that even though most of the people who read my words have never met me, they care about me and consider me a part of their lives. The generous comments on the last post (and the phone number that I have yet to use) have made me realize that my circle of friends is larger than I ever imagined.

So here is what I know:

  • I am loved.
  • I am beautiful, inside and out.
  • I am intelligent and kind and funny and a total catch for anyone who is smart enough to realize that.
  • I am capable of taking care of myself and my daughter without anyone’s help.
  • I am happy. And I sincerely hope he can say the same.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. You are by far the greatest group of people I have ever known, and I love each and every one of you.

Now. Let’s get on with life, shall we?

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Stats

Number of times I have replayed last night’s conversation in my head: 100

Number of items of Tyler’s that I have collected in a large garbage bag because I don’t want to see them: 8

Number of times I have told myself that if he doesn’t want to be with me, I’m better off without him: 1000

Number of times I have cried on a good friend’s shoulder: 1

Not bad, considering that I just lost my best friend. Anyone up for some ice cream?

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It’s true when they say “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

The first fourteen years of my life were spent in a tiny town of only 500 people. Wikipedia now says it’s over 800, so they’ve apparently had a population boom in the past 28 years. I lived in a small house with a huge lot on a tree-lined street, and spent my days roaming the entire town, which was no bigger than my current neighborhood. In the summer, my Dad assembled the pop-up tent in the backyard and we spent our days playing Barbies in it, or when that became boring, riding our bikes all over the surrounding countryside. We didn’t come home until it was dark and my Mom was okay with that. We never locked our doors and we slept with the windows open. I fell asleep to the sound of crickets with a cool summer breeze blowing over the bunk bed that my sister and I shared. We didn’t consider ourselves to be missing out on anything by living in such a small town. Our little grocery store pretty much had everything we needed, and if it didn’t, the “big city” was less than a half an hour away.

When I was fourteen, my Dad took a job an hour and a half away in a much larger town. We delighted over the fact that fast food restaurants and a movie theater were now just minutes from our house. Instead of living in the city proper, my parents found a hundred-year-old farmhouse just outside of the city limits on a narrow country road. It was in that house that I spent my teenage years, full of angst and hormones. I spent hours lying in the grass in the backyard, listening to the wind rustling through the corn field at the edge of our yard. I loved the quiet and the solitude there. We had neighbors close by, but it seemed as if we were all alone, surrounded on all sides by corn and soybean fields. We still slept with the windows open, although the pig farm a mile away made that relatively unpleasant at times. That house was quaint with its narrow stairs and painted-shut windows, and it’s still a frequent destination in my dreams. Last night, in fact, I dreamed that I lived there again, and was watching my daughter run down the grassy lane next to the corn field while I swung lazily in the hammock in the backyard.

When I graduated from high school, however, I couldn’t wait to move to The Big City. It was there that I learned how to navigate traffic and hang out at a mall. As my career blossomed, I found opportunities in even larger cities, and before I knew it, the rural life was far behind me. I liked living in the suburbs of a big city and didn’t miss the country at all. Or so I thought.

But nine years ago, when I built this home with my then-husband – the home that I still live in today, and the only home my Lauren has ever known – it was imperative that we get as far out of the city as possible. Because of my job, I couldn’t move far enough away to be in the country, but we went as far as we could. Our neighborhood is nestled in the crook of the mountains on the southwest side of the valley. My commute to work is 45 minutes each way, but it’s worth it to be in such a quiet area.

And yet, it’s not the country. I miss sleeping with the windows open and listening to the crickets chirping. I miss the fields of corn and the tranquility. I wish my daughter knew what that life was like. And because the country runs so deep in my soul, I try as hard as I can to make our home a tranquil place. My daughter knows the feeling of cool grass between her toes and the scent of lilacs in the spring. She knows that the best place to star gaze is lying on your back in the middle of the yard. She knows how fresh the house becomes when the windows are opened and a cool breeze runs through it. She is as country as a city girl can be.

And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

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So get this: the other day, I was talking to my Mom on the phone. I’ve mentioned her before. She is suffering from kidney failure and while she waits for an available kidney to be transplanted into her body, she has to go to dialysis three times a week. Usually my Dad drives her, but it’s taking a toll on him. He works night shifts and sometimes doesn’t get more than an hour or two of sleep because he has to take her to and from the dialysis center, which is 20 minutes from their home. It used to be an hour from their home, so this is an improvement. But it was still rather difficult, so my Mom started researching different options. She discovered a local transportation service that assists the disabled and elderly in getting to their appointments. The name of this service? Seneca Commission on Aging Transportation.

They call it the SCAT bus.

I started laughing hysterically, and my poor Mom was a little surprised by my reaction. Confused, she asked me what I found so funny. I know there are other definitions for this word, but the first thing that popped in my head wasn’t jazz. Don’t organizations think about their inevitable acronyms when they come up with names? I mean, Van Halen knew what “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge” would end up being called. This isn’t rocket science, people. Do you know why the people in Fresno decided to call their local transportation Fresno Area Express, or FAX?? It’s because Fresno Area Rapid Transit would have been just plain wrong!! Nobody wants to ride the FART bus, any more than anyone wants to ride the SCAT bus.

And yet, the SCAT bus is helping my Mom. So she’ll giggle every time she gets on it, and I will sleep at night knowing that I corrupted my mom’s innocent brain just a little more.

If you want to have a good laugh, read this (quite serious) article about the SCAT buses. And don’t blame me if you pee your pants a little bit.

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So last weekend, CCB, Lauren and I went on the Parade of Homes tour. It’s a bunch of model homes that are furnished real fancy-like and for a marginal fee, open to every Tom, Dick and Harry to traipse through them. I’m sure 90% of the people who go will never ever live in homes like these, with his-and-hers closets and actual theaters in the basement. I know I never will, but it’s fun to go and pretend you’re rich enough to live in one of these joints. I do end up taking away a few key ideas, however. This year, my take-away was how awesome homes can be when you’re lazy like me. There were intercoms so you could call your kids for dinner without walking all the way to the foot of the stairs and hollering up at them. There were ceiling fans with remote controls so you wouldn’t have to haul your sorry butt out of the bed to turn it off if you got cold in the middle of the night. And my personal favorite: the tiny door that led into the pantry from the garage so you could shove your grocery bags in there instead of walking up the four steps to the kitchen.

I might never get to live in a mansion, I realize this. But by golly, someday I will have a Tiny Grocery Bag Door. CCB promised!

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For this month’s Daring Cooks Challenge, we traveled to Spain and made a delicious rice dish from Jose Andres. The original recipe called for cuttlefish, which is a relative of octopus and squid. Although I distinctly remember Lauren as a baby gnawing on squid tentacles as we ate calamari one night, I doubt she would go for it now. So I decided to replace the cuttlefish with chicken, and SCORE!!! For the first time in forever, Lauren actually cleaned her plate and asked for seconds!! I will be making this dish again and again and again!

Rice with Mushrooms, Artichokes and Chicken
Cooking time: 1 hour 45 minutes
Ingredients (serves 4):

* 4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
* 5 big red ripe tomatoes, chopped
* 2 small onions, chopped
* 1 green pepper, chopped
* 4 or 5 garlic cloves, chopped
* 2 cup mushrooms, chopped (divided) – I used button because I was trying to hide them, but any kind is fine.
* 3 Bay leaves, divided
* Salt
* Pinch of ground cumin
* Pinch of dried oregano
* 1 can artichoke hearts (not marinated)
* 4 cups chicken broth
* 1 pound chicken, cut into cubes
* 2 cups Short grain rice (I used Arborio)

Directions:

1. Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large stockpot. Add tomatoes, onions, green pepper, garlic, 1 cup of mushrooms and 1 bay leaf. Season with salt, cumin and oregano. Simmer for 1 hour until vegetables are tender. Set aside.

2. Cut the chicken into cubes. I seasoned mine with a little salt and pepper and a bit of Penzey’s Salsa Salad Seasoning.

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3. Add remaining 2 tablespoon of olive oil in a frying pan and put the chicken in the pan. Cook until it begins to brown.
4. Add artichokes, remaining 1 cup of mushrooms and remaining 2 bay leaves. Sauté until artichokes begin to turn golden.
5. Stir in 1 cup of chicken broth, making sure to scrape up all the yummy bits on the bottom of the pan.
6. Add about 1 cup of tomato mixture and stir to make sure the chicken and vegetables are coated in the mixture.

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7. Add the rest of the chicken broth all at once and bring it to boil.
8. Add all the rice. Let boil for about 5 minutes on high heat.
9. Turn to low heat and boil for another 8 minutes (or until rice is a little softer than “al dente”)
10. Remove from heat and let the rice stand a couple of minutes.

I froze the leftover tomato mixture to use the next time I make this recipe (which will be very soon, I can tell you that much!) Doesn’t this look divine?? And hey, if my kid will eat it, it’s worth the effort!

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Home Sweet NEW Home!

Well, if all the tinkering I have done has worked (and I think it has), if you clicked through to my blog you should have been redirected to my NEW domain, http://athousandmiles.net. Welcome! (It looks pretty much just like the old blog, doesn’t it??) I decided it was time to get all professional-like and play with the big boys on WordPress.org. Only problem is, I’m definitely NOT a computer nerd and it took a LOT of help from Tyler to get it done. And I still don’t entirely know if I’ve done it right!! I may have to fix a few glitches, but for now, I’m pretty satisfied with the setup.

While I’m playing around on the new site, entertain yourselves with this little tidbit: In the very near future, you just might be able to read Yours Truly on websites other than this’n. My writing (simple as it may be) has been recognized not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES in the past week. Details are in the works, so stay tuned!

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