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This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.

[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]

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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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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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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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photobomb

I got a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law last Tuesday that cut right to my heart. Now, a two-sentence e-mail from me would mean that 1) I am sad/disappointed/angry about something or 2) I am sending the message while simultaneously wiping urine off our bathroom wall and my face (true story). However, a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law means something else entirely. It means that he is reaching out without wanting to seem intrusive. It means that he took time out of his work-filled schedule to let me know that he’s thinking about me. It means that I had better get back to blogging.

So, when I read, “How are you? Haven’t talked to you lately,” I knew exactly what he was trying to say.

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Chicken Tortilla Soup

Well, it’s that time of year again. The time when the weather FINALLY drops into the 70’s, and I get to sit in front of the fireplace and eat Chicken Tortilla Soup while I listen to Christmas music.

“It’s the moooooost wonderful tiiiiiiiiiiiiiime…of the yeaaaaaaaaar!”

I have zero patience. I want to go from Labor Day swimming pool closures to ice skating rinks. Except I hate to ice skate. So, scratch that.

I want to go from shopping for bathing suits…never mind.

Basically, I want to curl up on my sofa wearing my leg warmers while I eat a steaming bowl of Chicken Tortilla Soup and talk about my feelings over the faint sounds of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas on constant loop.

I’m basically every man’s worst nightmare. 

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I Need a Vacation

There are few things that my husband hates more than packing to go on a trip. He is one of those who would willingly take two screaming toddlers to Walmart on Saturday morning to buy feminine products if he knew it would make me smile. But, when it comes to packing his own suitcase, Brian becomes a bit less super-husband and a bit more…screaming toddler.

“I HAAAAAATE this! Will YOU do it for me? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?”

I know this tantrum well since it’s the same one I give him when I’m faced with a pile of dirty dishes. So, Brian has naturally become our resident Dish Fairy. And I’m our resident Packing Fairy.

We’re perfect for each other.

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roadtrip

I bet if neurologists did even the most cursory study of my brain functionality—specifically my long- and short-term memory—they would find that I’m only slightly better off than Ozzy Osbourne.

Though, probably for different reasons.

I blame my dad’s genes for my awful memory. But I’m not so sure that Ozzy even remembers who or what he should blame for his.

Sadly, most of my childhood memories are lost to me now. They’re piled behind stupid movie quotes, annoying children’s songs and completely random facts that I never wanted to remember. Like the hierarchy of biological classification:  kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Y’all, I didn’t even have to Google that. It pushed it’s way right up to the front of my memory. In that prime real-estate where my grocery list and social security number should be.

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gardenofweedin

Guyyyyyyyys, WHERE have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!

[Huh? Wait a minute…SHE'S the one who didn't post anything for a week! So, why is she looking for us?]

I’m confused. Have you been looking for me?

[Why does she keep having these stupid conversations with herself?]

Have y’all seen my medication lately?

Kid-ding.

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