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February 2014

It has become a ritual of mine to take photos of the cemetery here on Fort Leavenworth at various times of day, in different seasons, on holidays, and under certain weather conditions. There’s something about the pristine uniformity of this military cemetery that makes it so beautiful to me. And never is that more true than when the grounds are covered in a blanket of clean, undisturbed snow.

Blanket of Freedom

I look at the innumerable headstones and remember that each one represents a living soul:  a man, woman or (in some cases) teenager who was willing to take an oath to defend our nation against our enemies.

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This post is not as much for the entertainment of my loyal readers as it is solid evidence for JJ to produce when his future therapist asks the question, “So when exactly did the nightmares begin?”

JJ will pull up his shirt sleeve to reveal the smartphone imbedded on his forearm. He’ll say, “Siri, show me the photo.”

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With all the hustle and bustle of my parents’ visit, I didn’t have time to get Brian a Valentine’s Day card last week. I broke the cardinal rule of romance:  ALWAYS get a card. The little-known, second rule of romance is this:  ALWAYS fill the card with enough cash to offset the cringe-worthy sappiness of the card.

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In Case You Don't Hear from Me for a While

In an effort to evade the freezing rain in Atlanta, my parents came to town on Monday evening—two days before the day we all planned for them to arrive. Two days before the day the house would have been clean. Two days before the day the furniture would have been dusted. Two days before the day I would have had meals planned, prepared and frozen.

I know. Even I didn’t believe that last one.  

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averi

Sometimes I’m able to capture my children in a way that—despite my photographic ineptitude—will forever stick in my mind. This is one of those instances.

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Snow Daze

Well, we had our first snowstorm of the season this week, and I can’t even begin to tell you how excited we’ve all been about it. So, I’ll show you in a photo:

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Depression, Drugs & a Different Diagnosis

If you hang around this blog for more than a minute, you’re bound to stumble on a post (or 70) about my ongoing struggle with depression. I have remained very transparent about my love-hate relationship with medications because I know that so many of my friends, family and readers have a similar story to tell. Our culture, our physicians, the entire field of psychology, and even the church (!!!) have fully embraced the idea that depression is something that we can—or should—medicate with psychotrophic (mind-altering) drugs.

  • When I was pregnant for the first time and burst into tears in his office, my OB/GYN put me on Zoloft.
  • When I went to a secular psychologist who didn’t know what to do with my anger and resentment toward my husband, he diagnosed me with mild Bi-Polar Disorder and put me on LOTS of Zoloft.
  • When I got pregnant again and had no energy, a different OB/GYN put me on Zoloft.
  • When I was grieving what I believed was the loss of my marriage, a third OB/GYN put me on Zoloft.
  • When I was in the depths of despair last January after losing a baby, my general practitioner put me on Zoloft.
  • And when I went last fall to try to understand why—despite a period of great fulfillment and joy in my life—I was so lethargic, my general practitioner again put me on Zoloft.

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The Itch

I’m not gonna lie; it was difficult for me to leave PetSmart on Sunday without a bearded dragon (last time it was a fancy rat). I’ve got the itch again, y’all. The itch for another living thing that requires constant care and nurturing. Brian thinks I should quit entertaining this reptilian fantasy and just have another baby already. I don’t know. Bearded dragons sound so much less terrifying than toddlers. And they’re way better at peekaboo.

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