tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88700005620320423412024-03-05T16:11:11.429-08:00Life...without bumper padsJill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-21952406969153863122012-04-30T10:11:00.000-07:002012-04-30T10:11:48.560-07:00I've received a number of emails from readers lately. First, let me issue my gratitude for your readership and feedback! I truly enjoy hearing from you and make it a priority to respond to each of you.<br />
<br />
This week, my heart is a little heavy. I received a message from a reader who is going through what could be the toughest part of her journey. She's a dedicated mother, and she's in the midst of a pivotal struggle. I cried as I read her message: I cried for her pain, I cried for her child and I cried with gratitude that she had shared her story with me. My prayers and thoughts will stay with her. Lady - you know who you are. Peace and happiness to you!<br />
<br />
So, <i>thank you</i>. Thank you all for being part of my journey, and letting me be a part of yours.<br />
<br />
<3<br />
<br />
J<br />
<br />
<a href="mailto:jillhartadams@yahoo.com" target="_blank">Email me</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-32607123030575286382012-03-17T10:33:00.001-07:002012-04-30T10:13:28.097-07:00I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who has been a loyal reader of my column.<br />
<br />
I love hearing from you, so if you'd like to get in touch with me, please feel free to <a href="mailto:jillhartadams@yahoo.com" target="_blank">email</a> me.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-39200142013495524022012-02-23T09:43:00.001-08:002012-02-23T09:43:48.134-08:00New mom's breasts have an expiration date?Yesterday, I had a conversation with a dear friend whose daughter-in-law was having a tough time with breastfeeding. What was the difficulty you may wonder? Not milk supply (supply seems fine). Not her baby's growth (gaining beautifully). Not her baby's hunger level (she seems to be satisfied). The issue: that the lactation consultant told her that she was "too old" to breastfeed. Sent home with the dismal prediction that her baby would be on formula in a matter of weeks, this new mom (age 42) was made to feel she was failing. Now she's not enjoying the process, which in turn is making it uncomfortable, which in turn will become one of the factors that will discourage her from nursing.<br />
<br />
I'm beyond frustrated.<br />
<br />
I've had 3 babies, and breastfed them all. Is it super-fun at first? No, I wouldn't describe it as a trip to Disneyland. But is it worth it? So much YES!!! I don't judge anyone who doesn't do it. It's hard. But I wish there were more people out there in breastfeeding support roles that could help new moms feel empowered by this miraculous gift to both nourish and bond with their baby.<br />
<br />
And to you, Ms. Terrible Lactation Coach: shame on you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-70235152307514753102012-02-22T11:25:00.001-08:002012-02-23T10:02:17.811-08:00A Novel Idea<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">M</span>y father was one of the smartest
men I’ve ever known. Oddly, he very rarely read. Being an avid reader myself, I
never fully understood his aversion to the activity. So one day, I asked him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Once you have kids, you just don’t
have the time,” he responded with a shrug.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I couldn’t wrap my
literature-addicted mind around his statement. What would life be like without
Charlotte Bronte, Louisa May Alcott and Nathaniel Hawthorne?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Twenty-five years later, I found
out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Honestly, I don’t even know how it
happened. I got married, had kids, and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t even
stay awake long enough to get through an Us Weekly. This tidbit came to my
attention on a recent library outing with my kids. I looked up from the Curious
George book I was reading to my son, and suddenly had a renewed awareness of
the stacks of big-people books. On impulse, I grabbed a novel with a
captivating cover, and before I knew it, the book was in a pile with Max &
Ruby DVDs and a collection of Clifford stories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That night, excited about reuniting
with a beloved pastime, I settled happily into bed to begin my new book. As I perused the first few pages, I
smiled contentedly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Forty-five minutes later, I woke up
with my glasses under my chin and the book lying haphazardly next to me. I
picked it up and placed it fondly on the nightstand. I realized this reading
gig might be a lengthier process than it used to be. But unwilling to part with
it again, I decided I would take it one sleepy night at a time. </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-12305181370591919232012-02-22T11:24:00.001-08:002012-02-23T10:02:23.673-08:00Wax on<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">W</span>hen you have numerous small
children, mornings can be somewhat hectic. As the entire family bustles around
trying to eat breakfast, manage morning hair and match socks, I often find
myself right in the center of the chaos. The result is often that my morning
primp time usually ends up being a prototype of mutli-tasking. Sometimes I’m
successful. Sometimes I’m not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, this morning was a
“not.” I turned on the curling iron, ran downstairs to locate clean laundry,
and then ran back up with a bowl of cereal in one hand and a pair of snow boots
in the other. I made my way down the hallway, completing a mental checklist
along the way, and finally arrived back to the bathroom. I grabbed the curling
iron and quickly ran it through my hair in spots strategically chosen to make
it appear as if I had really had time to do my hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At first, I didn’t notice the
stickiness. I didn’t notice that my hair appeared unusually crispy after I
curled it. And I didn’t notice the candle that had been sitting next to the
curling iron as it had heated. But as I finished the job and ran my hands
through my curls, I absolutely did notice something was very, very wrong. My
hair looked like something out of Madame Tussauds. As I looked at the iron and
then at the candle, I finally put it together. I had just waxed my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A quick look at the clock told me I
had a real problem. Desperate, I leaned my head over in the sink and tried to
wash out the waxiest parts. Fifteen minutes and one painful combing process
later, my hair was still a little stiff—but passable. As I ran downstairs, my oldest son looked at me with
furrowed brows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Mom, why is your hair so...?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Don’t ask,” I muttered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I added “Buy a new curling
iron” to my list of things to do. </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-90708635052735028062012-02-22T11:23:00.002-08:002012-02-23T10:02:30.604-08:00Holiday Happiness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">L</span>ast year, my family had a strange holiday season. We all
got the flu. Our oven broke on Thanksgiving. We didn’t go Christmas shopping
until a few days before the holiday, and then spent late nights trying to pull
everything together at the last minute. By January 1, my husband and I were
physically and emotionally exhausted, and almost grateful the whole thing was
behind us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a parent, it was difficult to accept that the time of
year that was supposed to be so magical was not, in fact, all that special for
our family. My husband and I promised each other that next year would be
better. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, the year flew by. As November rolled in, memories of
last year’s Griswold-esque holidays started to flash through my mind. I am now
a woman determined to give my kids the best season yet. In a spurt of activity
fueled by a refusal to repeat last year’s mistakes, my husband and I managed to
plan for Thanksgiving, complete all the Christmas shopping, and schedule
numerous family events by mid-month. We made a list of all the fun activities
we can attend in the next six weeks, and just like Santa himself, I’ll be
keeping it close and checking it often. I have to admit, I’m pretty excited. I
have a feeling all our hard work will pay off, and that this will be a fantastic
holiday season. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But just to be on the safe side, I think we’ll cook the
turkey the day before Thanksgiving this year…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-57615515554080011952012-02-22T11:23:00.000-08:002012-02-22T11:23:02.891-08:00Winter Beauty<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I</span> glanced outside, and it was
snowing. I had to stop and think about what I was looking at; after all, wasn’t
it yesterday that I was riding my bike through the neighborhood on a warm
summer evening? The time had gone too fast, and I was not ready to face what
was quickly approaching: winter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I gazed out the window, my kids
ran up and put their little noses and hands against the glass. I looked down at
them and saw their eyes light up, eager with anticipation for the coming
season. Of course, to them, snow is a good thing. It is a harbinger of
Christmas, the beginnings of a new outdoor playground and, on occasion, even a
handy way to be able to skip a day of school. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But for me, it’s a totally
different animal. The first things that came to my mind were slippery roads,
heavy traffic and mandatory shoveling duty. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom, isn’t it beautiful?” my oldest son asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXR10HqSQNjlFPFZ-gwKENU_AqAVFm7K5Zfo0GLruMQMZH1oO0hDn51CalJYZFElyEoGs2-UFQTLL2OmxJNAJSmEo2B0hexdBCXw-Tc3mmtO_ZXHoZZQtVLzdyBPhAt6e3IqeSV8e0s9y-/s1600/IMG_3373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXR10HqSQNjlFPFZ-gwKENU_AqAVFm7K5Zfo0GLruMQMZH1oO0hDn51CalJYZFElyEoGs2-UFQTLL2OmxJNAJSmEo2B0hexdBCXw-Tc3mmtO_ZXHoZZQtVLzdyBPhAt6e3IqeSV8e0s9y-/s320/IMG_3373.JPG" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I looked over at him, and suddenly,
I was seven again. I remembered feeling exactly the way he felt at that moment,
and found myself wondering how I had let the magic of snow escape me. Sure,
there were some unpleasant duties associated with it. But there was also
something quite stunning about a world blanketed in white. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It sure is,” I responded. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ten minutes later, the snow stopped
and the sun returned for an encore. It had just been a tease of winter, and at
that moment, I was grateful that was all it had been. But I couldn’t help but
notice that the kid inside of me was actually kind of excited for our first
real snow...as long as it doesn’t show up for a few more weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-46642213804434018922012-02-22T11:16:00.000-08:002012-02-22T11:16:30.861-08:00Wait - did I just let you see me like that?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I</span> remember making myself a
little promise about 20 years ago. I vowed that I would always be one of those
wives who kept some mystery about herself. You know, that woman who always
looks “done,” even when she’s…<i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I
decided that when I got married, I would never let my husband see me unkempt,
or know what processes took place behind the scenes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT_l9ewyU7Kod34JHWYms2ir4DDPATuuicGEXpLtI3Ol7MKz6GIoNC2YS90Rkstj0x4ni-YSL-4G1MwYkOShq3thq5Tmnhtqkg047QMgHJkmNsPqHt0va7gIN0MZcYi3SA7c7WFXCiP9Qm/s1600/weddingrings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT_l9ewyU7Kod34JHWYms2ir4DDPATuuicGEXpLtI3Ol7MKz6GIoNC2YS90Rkstj0x4ni-YSL-4G1MwYkOShq3thq5Tmnhtqkg047QMgHJkmNsPqHt0va7gIN0MZcYi3SA7c7WFXCiP9Qm/s320/weddingrings.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fast forward to today. My
husband walked in to our bedroom one night, and there I was: hair scrunched up
on top of my head, enough products piled on me to pickle myself (hey, I’m at
the stage of life where both wrinkles and blemishes need attention), wearing my
oldest pair of sweatpants and an equally aged t-shirt. Now, obviously my
husband has seen me in good times and bad - I’ve had 3 children with the man
and he was with me for every step of the way. But suddenly, the state of my
appearance seemed so...<i>wrong</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I couldn’t
help but feel a little embarrassed. My husband being the good guys that he is,
he didn’t say a word. When he left the room, I felt as if I had let down a
veil. Had I somehow become </span><i>too </i></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">comfortable?
Or was this just the product of being married to someone I proudly call my best
friend? I started thinking...how do we keep our husbands from simply being our
co-parents?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-19944610588358936532012-02-22T11:13:00.001-08:002012-02-22T11:14:20.696-08:00Mamas Don't Get Sick Days<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I </span>woke up yesterday feeling
like I might have a little cold. It felt pretty minor, so I wasn’t too
concerned. I assumed it would pass and carried on with life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVkNnr-KifKbtxvM2itWszHevYj6EDOXsYHBwFYg5Jwn7Hw5RF-mCP0l23XP4bqooyaClYIUjPj-UjsAw-wxHXPl6ezMJsBJ4BVbNriQ_nDeTEW1zDHfGsmhyphenhyphen8BjyjELhIuksLWBt_cN2h/s1600/sickpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVkNnr-KifKbtxvM2itWszHevYj6EDOXsYHBwFYg5Jwn7Hw5RF-mCP0l23XP4bqooyaClYIUjPj-UjsAw-wxHXPl6ezMJsBJ4BVbNriQ_nDeTEW1zDHfGsmhyphenhyphen8BjyjELhIuksLWBt_cN2h/s320/sickpic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But this morning - WHAM!!! My
head is apparently filled with bricks (no saracsm necessary here), I’m walking
around with a roll of toilet paper (of course we’re out of kleenex right now)
and my hands are on the verge of cracking from washing them 1,000 times. I’m
daydreaming of lying in bed with some kind of spicy soup, watching cheesy
movies and dozing in and out of sleep. It feels like one good day of rest would
squash this cold and get me back on my feet...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alas, that’s not how it works
in mommyland. You don’t get sick days at this job, and there are little ones
who need breakfast/diaper changes/outfits/teeth brushed/play
time/lunch/diapers/play time, etc., etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, I’m going to get my hot
tea, stuff some toilet paper in my back pocket, and carry on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And maybe be just a little bit tempted to bump bedtime up an
hour tonight...</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
<script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script></div>Jill Adamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17320368093018413671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8870000562032042341.post-76296986568730632222012-02-22T11:12:00.001-08:002012-02-22T11:12:59.934-08:00Sugar Free<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A</span>bout
this time every year, I find the motivation to challenge myself. Last year, it
was carving out time to work out. That one simple change in life has done
wonders. Yes, you may still find me with matted hair and in sweatpants 3 hours
after my workout (on the days when my kids forbid an immediate shower), but I
have found it fruitful anyway. More energy, less stress, and a sense of
accomplishment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
what’s this year’s challenge? Though my heart is sinking a little as I write
this, I’ve decided that the sugar has to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sigh.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
have a terrible sweet tooth. And there is something cathartic about a cookie on
an especially stressful day. That nice sugar rush seems to make all problems
disappear. Or, at least delayed. Or, at least manageable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But,
the common sense in me tells me that sugar just isn’t good. And sometimes you
get an instinct about what you need, and what you really don’t. It’s not going
to be easy to make this change. But then, what change ever is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
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<b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">M</span>y mind is always going in
1,000 places at once. (“Are the kids hungry?” “Whose diaper needs to be
changed?” “When am I going to have time to work?” “How can this house be <i>SO</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> messy again?!”) So, I’ll openly admit that the
sometimes (obnoxiously) loud noise my boys can make grates my nerves ever so
slightly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was just such an afternoon
when I began to hear my son beating on my husband’s drum kit. I was in the
midst of feeding two babies, talking to someone on the phone about a bill, and
trying to unload the dishwasher; I was on overload. And all I could hear was
BOOM, BOOM, BA-BOOM, BOOM, CRASH!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, long story short, the drums
got packed up that night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next day, I turned on the
TV while folding the laundry (a guilty pleasure I allow myself in order to view
the laundry as something other than the bane of my existence) and saw a
commercial about a little boy playing drums. He reminded me so much of my son
that I was transfixed. As I watched, I saw that the spot was to advertise a special
about Justin Bieber (and no, I didn’t know who he was before that), and how he
had taught himself to play and had subsequently become something of a phenom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I stopped folding and sat down.
What had I done? Here was my little boy, and he loved those drums. Yes, they
were loud. But I had taken something away that might just be a natural born
talent. I mean, he might turn out to be an accountant, I don’t know. But I’m
not going to be the one who decided it for him because I couldn’t handle some
noise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The drums are coming back out. And in the meantime, I think
I’ll look into the electronic sets - with volume controls.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="https://twitter.com/JillHartAdams" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @JillHartAdams</a>
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