tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81513276793339210212024-03-05T02:04:19.824-06:00Life as we know it...Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.comBlogger529125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-11903024743575379222012-06-09T06:00:00.000-05:002012-06-09T06:00:01.262-05:00Six Word Saturday…<p>Click the button below to head over to Cate’s blog and see what others have to say on 6WS!</p> <p><a href="http://www.showmyface.com/"><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" title="6wsButton" alt="6wsButton" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-jyOh2VOMCCo/T9JY77GCyYI/AAAAAAAABy0/XbqEprgCKR4/6wsButton%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="137" height="122" /></a></p> <p align="center"> <br /></p> <p align="center"><strong><em><font color="#c0504d" size="4">“ Love:  ‘til death do us part…”</font></em></strong></p> <p align="center"><strong><em><font color="#c0504d"></font></em></strong> <br /><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-fet4Wn0NK0c/T9JY8_KTOII/AAAAAAAABy8/JuNpI6_m1hM/s1600-h/deathdouspart%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="deathdouspart" border="0" alt="deathdouspart" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-pf8ccDnIhcs/T9JY9jOrFTI/AAAAAAAABzE/aBFXRBBCvrQ/deathdouspart_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="585" height="400" /></a></p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-63314362685275584762012-06-06T21:50:00.001-05:002012-06-06T21:50:53.355-05:00Addictive…<p>Tattoos.  </p> <p>They are most definitely addicting.  </p> <p>A month ago, after passing my final test of nursing school, I had my seventh tattoo done.  A tattoo that was fourteen years in the making.  A tattoo that represented the end of my journey into becoming a part of the medical profession.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-bzBJL9DYKIM/T9AXA0dyP9I/AAAAAAAAByQ/tezQN29V36w/s1600-h/tattoo5.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; margin-left: auto; border-left-width: 0px; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 0px" title="tattoo" border="0" alt="tattoo" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-yRvBpFO1mWU/T9AXBjGzjDI/AAAAAAAAByY/NJG6REZliHc/tattoo_thumb3.jpg?imgmax=800" width="257" height="354" /></a></p> <p>Yesterday, I got my eighth piece done.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-egV0A8ARJ7s/T9AXCCBN1YI/AAAAAAAAByg/ha7dylR1bpc/s1600-h/threebirds%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="threebirds" border="0" alt="threebirds" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-p40Bsy2n5e8/T9AXCnHx-tI/AAAAAAAAByo/G3tS2KgRhlc/threebirds_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="252" height="342" /></a></p> <p align="left">Three little birds.  “Bird” was my nickname growing up, in fact, much of my family still calls me “Bird” even now.  However, I plan to get another much more colorful bird tattoo in honor of my childhood nickname.  </p> <p align="left">This piece is more for another reason.  Bob Marley’s song, “Three Little Birds” was played at my graduation from nursing school after the newest crop of soon to be nurses walked across the stage, and I just love it.   The song’s message?  Always apropos, “Every little thing….is gonna be alright.”  </p> <p align="left">Such a good message, and for a tattoo lover, no better reminder than inked right on my shoulder.  In life, no matter what, no matter who, no matter how…♫…don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing…is gonna be alright…♫</p> <p align="left">So, yeah…they are totally addictive, and I’m hooked.  Now if  only my family would get on board with it.  When I came home with my last one, The One Who Gets Away With Murder looked at the large reddened , freshly tatted spot on my back and with sincerity, said, “Mom…you have your nose pierced and tattoos everywhere.  I don't want you to be one of those with tattoos all over her arms and stuff.”  </p> <p align="left">I looked down at that sweet eight year old face and where the shame should’ve been, sarcasm erupted and I replied, “Awww…I’m sorry sweetheart, you don’t get to pick your parents!”  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-48763729820214264462012-05-31T08:24:00.001-05:002012-05-31T08:24:59.038-05:00To blog or not to blog…<p>I struggle with whether or not I should blog about my mom.  As I said in an earlier post, we’ve been estranged for around 10 months.  </p> <p>Is that enough said?  </p> <p>Do I owe it to her to keep my mouth shut, publicly, about what being her daughter has been like?  </p> <p>Do I owe it to <em>myself</em> to purge what being her daughter has been like?  Purge this shit out of my head, out of my heart, and hopefully rid this heavy weight I carry on my shoulders in regard to my mother.  </p> <p>I have so many mixed feelings.  </p> <p>She did the best she could, or knew how to do…as all of us mothers do…however, her faults, many times, were at my expense.  Not on me physically, no.  My mother did not give me physical scars.  She gave me emotional ones.  Psychological ones.  One is not worse than the other, but, these psychological/emotional scars have formed smoothed, raised callouses in my psyche, that have sometimes impeded the way of me becoming…well, <em>me</em>.  </p> <p>Or did they <em>cause</em> me to become me?  </p> <p>That’s what Jake says.  He says I should be grateful that she made me who I am.  I do love me some me, but…surely there was a kinder way to nurture me, for me to still be me.  No?  I don’t know.  </p> <p>I just know that I have a lot to talk about in regard to my mother, and I can’t talk to her about it.  She won’t listen to me.  She says this is all my fault that I’m too sensitive.  </p> <p>Um…do you guys know me?  Is sensitive a word you’d use to describe me?  </p> <p>Yeah…me either.  </p> <p>What is your opinion on the matter?  </p> <p>To blog, respectfully, about my mother…or <em>not</em> to blog…that is the question!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-75032798987734423852012-05-28T15:51:00.001-05:002012-05-28T15:51:10.998-05:00Doing it wrong…<p>I MUST be doing this motherhood thing all wrong.  </p> <p>Why?  </p> <p>Because THIS is my 8 year old’s favorite song…</p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; width: 507px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:99517a14-d1dc-4c60-afcc-a5874cf7ec2c" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div id="fc60d776-5334-4143-8d33-036d3b119601" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BYIEXzdnlY&ob=av2e" target="_new"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-PcZSZfDc0i4/T8PlPvMxeyI/AAAAAAAABxQ/mXMeRRZToqU/videoa22a4687b39b%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('fc60d776-5334-4143-8d33-036d3b119601'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"507\" height=\"285\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/_BYIEXzdnlY?hl=en&hd=1\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/_BYIEXzdnlY?hl=en&hd=1\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"507\" height=\"285\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div></div> <p>WTF?!?</p> <p>I love me some white rappers, but dayum, dude!  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-62367449295974117022012-05-27T19:31:00.001-05:002012-05-27T19:31:07.148-05:00How Nikki Got Her Groove Back…<p>Blog style.  </p> <p>Good news:  I’m vowing to blog again.  And yes, at this point in my absenteeism, I realize I’m likely talking to myself.  That’s kind of the point anyway.  </p> <p>Which leads me to the…</p> <p>Bad news:  The next several posts will be devoid of funny. </p> <p>You see, over the past two years, I’ve spiraled back into the chasm of depression.  How I made it through nursing school during this psychological shit storm, I have no idea.  I just know that now that the dust has settled (yes, this bitch has graduated and there is only one test in my way of the letters R and N behind my name), I look around and hardly recognize myself.  </p> <p>I take that back.  </p> <p>I do recognize myself.  And I don’t love who I see.  I am the me of seven years ago, the first time I found myself in this now familiar chasm.  It fucking sucks.  I look the same…about twenty pounds (I’m lying…actually more) overweight, full of self loathing, arguing with my husband because I’m so fucking unhappy with myself.  My mind reeling from being pulled and stretched farther than I imagined possible during school, now ten months estranged from my mother (for very good reasons…this is actually a plus, yet it still hurts like hell), with the same seven year ago sadness in my eyes and downturn of my lips.  </p> <p>Are YOU now in the chasm with me…did I depress the shit out of you?  </p> <p>No?  Good.  </p> <p>I did have to succeed and start taking the happy pills again.  In fact, I’m on two.  A “happy pill,” and because that wasn’t enough, a “happier pill.”  They’ve begun to help, but, I still have some bullshit in my brain that I need to wade through.  </p> <p>This is where you come in, r/t (that’s nursey nurse for ‘related to’") this little ole blog and the back gettingness of this groove of mine…</p> <p>I do plan to use the next several posts as a sort of therapy, and get some of this shit out of my head and into my blog.  I plan to document this go ‘round of “the crazy” so that when I’m faced with future episodes of “the crazy,” this blog will be sort of a beacon in the darkness of this chasm that I sometimes find myself in.  </p> <p>So, hang with me, or not, just know that one day soon, I will have my groove back and by God, there will be funny again!!  </p> <p>I missed this place.  I love you.  “Kiss the babies for me.” </p> <p>Nikki</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-69954807007051358332012-04-25T22:04:00.001-05:002012-04-25T22:04:11.969-05:00Shit narcissistic mothers say...When you're telling them about something good that just happened in your life...<br />
<br />
"Yeah, well, the thing is...I've decided that when bad things happen to people, it's because the devil is attacking them. But, when good things happen to people over and over, it's because the devil already has a hold of them, and there is no use for him to try to attack them any longer. He already has them in his grip." <br />
<br />
Don't ask me how I know this...<br />
<br />
Whew, it feels better to get that off my chest!Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-65345479225568142272012-01-24T14:28:00.001-06:002012-01-24T14:28:26.361-06:00Don’t tell my husband I blogged this…<p>I’m sick.  After about a month of trying everything that my nursing textbooks taught me on how to rid fluid from one’s ears, I gave in and went to the doc, yesterday.  </p> <p>I have a double ear infection.  </p> <p>And apparently, I’m a two year old.  </p> <p>Steroid shot and antibiotic shot in the ass yesterday didn’t yield an overwhelming result, and I started a round of antibiotics today, still feeling crummy, grouchy, running fever, can’t hear worth a damn, ear hurts like hell, stressed to the max about this semester, a million things to do, and not one iota of energy or gumption to do even one of them.  </p> <p>So, what is a grown ass woman who feels like shit and is alone in her home to do? </p> <p>She texts her husband and whines to him.  </p> <p><em>*It’s confirmed…I’m two years old!!*</em></p> <p>Me:  Don’t feel better, my love.  Still running fever.  Even with Tylenol all day.  I need you to nurse me back to health.  </p> <p>*<em>I even added one of those little sad face crying emoticons for effect…like this one <img style="border-bottom-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-left-style: none" class="wlEmoticon wlEmoticon-cryingface" alt="Crying face" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPZ5auUIGKgUeoiK6U53yI009hbdkYACmNAXekiBnxLYTExxya51NfDSNusIzli539pDoa08d61e33jzWO7anop3986kEVVaZQJWQT4usC_7_IUMWmG0auOrJeWJ_nZrgFt1yiDgWAlE/?imgmax=800" />*</em></p> <p>And the compassionate, caring, empathetic, Nightingale-ish husband of mine, texted me back:</p> <p>Him:  <strike>I’m on my way home now, stopping by to get dinner.  Don’t worry about that.  Get in bed, I’ll be there soon.  Would you like a shake?  Or, some ice cream?  Anything from the pharmacy?  I love you more than life itself and it almost makes me ill to know that you’re not feeling well.  I’ll give you a massage after I do the kids’ homework with them, and run you a bath.  See you in 30 minutes.</strike>  My nursing techniques are invasive as hell!  </p> <p>Men…they think that “thing” of theirs is the answer to everything!  </p> <p>And, yeah…please don’t tell my husband I blogged this!  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-28237624017306572722012-01-12T01:11:00.001-06:002012-01-12T01:11:34.269-06:00Question…<p>Who has two thumbs…and in exactly four months from today will be a graduate nurse, with one silly little test in between her and a big old “R-to the mutha-fuckin-N” behind her name?  </p> <p>Any guesses?  </p> <p>No?  </p> <p>Give up?</p> <p align="center">-----</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center">----</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center">---</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center">--</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center">-</p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"><img src="http://i234.photobucket.com/albums/ee316/nbull5/164091_1804024103085_1314340253_32032161_1981530_n.gif" /></p> <p>Somebody pinch me…I must be dreaming!!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-19350809840246754862012-01-06T14:15:00.001-06:002012-01-06T14:15:21.876-06:00DFO…<p>A quick Google search may lead you to believe I'm speaking of Dungeon Fighting Online.  </p> <p>I’m not.  </p> <p>Last night, after I dropped the girl off at karate, with an hour of solitude to myself, I drove to Walmart.  So interesting, my life is.  </p> <p>As I was cruising through the parking lot, I noticed an older lady sitting in the parking lot, against a light pole, her older husband standing next to her.  No one else was with them.  </p> <p>She was a DFO, in uncommon medical slang.  She’d “Done Fell Out.”  </p> <p>My newly instituted nursing instincts kicked right in.  Something’s wrong, this lady and gentlemen are alone…I should see if I can help.  </p> <p>I’ve avoided this type of situation previously.  Like in the MD’s office the other day when a lady began an asthmatic sounding coughing fit…I sat idly by, and let the ladies and gentleman in the scrubs take over.  Surely they were more apt to handle the situation, than I.  </p> <p>This time was different.  It was Walmart.  No one else was around.  </p> <p>I quickly parked the truck and ran over to the couple, just as an employee had come out with a manager in tow.  </p> <p>I knelt down beside the woman, and the words spilled from me, without even thinking, “Hey…I’m a nursing student, what’s going on?  How are you feeling?”</p> <p>Without waiting for a response, I reached down to grab the lady’s wrist to do what little assessment I had the tools to do, checking her pulse.  She was wet.  Clammy.  And was visibly shaking, and said, “I think my sugar’s low.  I just came from the doctor, and it was low-ish there.  I just don’t feel good.”  </p> <p>She seemed to know where she was, where she had been, and had knowledge of the situation, so her cognition and level of consciousness were in tact.  </p> <p>Damn…this nursing shit works.  I had assessed her LOC without asking her, “Can you tell me your name, DOB, why you’re here.”  Way to go college education.  </p> <p>I asked her if she was diabetic (she was) and where her glucometer was.  She didn’t have it on her…so, with the employees and her husband there to keep an eye on her, I ran in to get her some juice, and told her to stay put.  </p> <p>$2.32 later, I was back with two boxes of apple juice.  As I was opening them, I continued talking to her for further information.  “Are you dizzy?  Do you feel lightheaded?  Do you have any other issues?  Blood pressure?”  </p> <p>To which she answered, “Oh, honey…I have lots of issues.  Blood pressure, diabetes, you name it.  I just got out of the hospital.”  </p> <p>The lady began sipping on the juice I gave her as I replied, “Well, we all have issues, ma’am…I have plenty.  Do you want to hear the short list?”  </p> <p>We laughed and the lady continued to sip the juice.  I noticed dried bits of saliva at the corners of her mouth, and asked her husband to go get her a water bottle, that she may be a bit dehydrated, too.  He took the scooter that the manager had brought, inside to do so, while I, and the employees sat with her.  Watching her finish off one juice box, and start on another.  </p> <p>She was talking a bit more.  Sitting up a bit straighter, and we began to chit chat about what she was doing there.  She was picking up prescriptions.  </p> <p>“So, your sugar was ‘low-ish’ at the office…did you eat when you left there?”  To which she replied, “No.”  “Do you have a snack in your purse?”  Again, “No.”  Without thought or planning, I began to teach.  “I know it can be a hassle sometimes, and seem unnecessary, but, it might be a good idea to keep a snack in your purse, and carry your glucometer with you.  Might make you feel more comfortable to manage this while out and about.”</p> <p>She nodded (I’ll take that as a “patient physically expressed understanding as a response to my intervention” and put that on my care plan!), not breaking strides in sips of her juice.  </p> <p>I let silence ensue while she finished the second box, and it hit me.  I was just a nurse.  I totally nailed it.  I looked for nonverbal and physical signs of what was going on (clammy skin, shaking, dry saliva at the corners of her mouth) for possibilities of what was going on…and followed up with appropriate questions to further assess the situation.  </p> <p>It felt good.  Knowing for that moment…that I had successfully assessed and intervened on this woman’s behalf, and it was working.  </p> <p>Then, as if the heavens were acknowledging my thoughts feeding my now inflated ego…it hit me again.  This time quite literally.  On the back of my hand as I reached for hers to reassess her clamminess.  </p> <p>Bird shit.  Right on the back of my hand.  </p> <p>For the first time in my life…I was shit on by a bird.  </p> <p>Fine.  Fine, universe…I get it.  I’m not a doctor, I’m not a savior…hell, I’m not even a nurse yet.  I hear ya.  </p> <p>In response to the universe’s sign from above, I said, “Ma’am, why don’t you call your doctor back right now since you just left there, and tell him what’s going on, just to be safe.  I’ll feel much better if you do.”</p> <p>She nodded, said that she was feeling better, and we (all four of us) hoisted her into her scooter so that she could pick up her scripts.  </p> <p>Dually noted, universe…I’ll keep my ego in check while I practice from now on, thankyouverymuch…please don’t send anymore falling defecate to remind me.  I get it.  </p> <p>On second thought…maybe it was a different message from the universe.  Maybe it was the old “no good deed goes unpunished,” that the universe was trying to send.  </p> <p>Either way…consider it heard!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-25274022984365664232012-01-05T12:28:00.001-06:002012-01-05T12:28:52.852-06:00Up…<p>The kids are growing up…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-6k-ot27ImJI/TwXr4aoJGJI/AAAAAAAABw4/_UhPWUCU4Ag/s1600-h/402584_2881992051610_1314340253_33064668_302098247_n%25255B10%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="402584_2881992051610_1314340253_33064668_302098247_n" border="0" alt="402584_2881992051610_1314340253_33064668_302098247_n" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-5Eby_h4jAiA/TwXr43bI5aI/AAAAAAAABxA/54QdLriexZk/402584_2881992051610_1314340253_33064668_302098247_n_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="584" height="399" /></a></p> <p>The One Who Knows Everything still does and if he could just convince his teachers that he knows everything…everything would be perfect in his world.  It’s nice being able to reason with him a bit more these days, and we’re carefully embarking upon the beginnings of the teenage years.    </p> <p>The One Who Doesn’t Say Much…well, she needs a name change around here, because that little thing has come completely out of her shell, and while she is still our most level headed, even keeled child…she’s definitely not speechless anymore.  </p> <p>And last, but not least…The One Who Gets Away With Murder…yeah, he’s still the spoiled baby of the bunch with the most tender heart, and we’ve learned to celebrate the little (or not so in this case) victories with this child.  We’re just happy that we haven’t lost or broken him in his eight short years with us!  </p> <p>It’s so amazing to me how different they are from one another.  We’re learning as parents of older (than babies) children to respect their differences, and parent them differently accordingly.  </p> <p>I was discussing this with an older couple we’re friends with (childless, I should add), recently, commenting just how differently I have to parent each of our children, and how tough it is, sometimes, to be different parents (the parents they need) to each of them.  </p> <p>His childless self, with his grand, romantic, bulletproof  ideas of parenthood said, “What?!?  That’s awful that you treat them differently.  You should be the same parent to each of them.  That’s going to be tough for them.”  </p> <p>Not faulting him for his ignorance and inexperience on this particular subject, I replied, “No, I can’t talk to Jack the way I talk to Avery…he would crumble and cry.  I can’t treat Avery like I treat Lily…he would take the inch and go ten miles.  I can’t treat Lily the way I treat Jack because she needs so much more emotionally than he does and so much less, physically.  I treat them individually, based on their needs.  If they’re worse for that, then sobeit, we will just have to see.”</p> <p>I used to stress so much more about how they were going to turn out…now, surprisingly, my husband does all that worrying.  I’m fine to sit back, roll the dice with them, see what happens, as long as everyone is happy and healthy at the end of the day…then, by God, let’s just have a good time.  </p> <p>And I just hope that I don’t have to change their names to “The One Who Thought He Knew Everything, Pissed of the Wrong Person, and was Beaten Mercilessly,” “The One Who Wouldn’t Shut Up, So Now She’s the Lonely Weird Cat Lady Who Lives Down the Street and Talks to Herself,” and “The One Who Actually Did Get Away With Murder, is Now on the Lam, Missing from Our Holiday Gatherings.”  </p> <p>Meh…if I do have to change their names to those above…I just hope they’re happy!  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-67462917937507944662012-01-04T09:44:00.001-06:002012-01-04T12:03:41.169-06:00Waxing nostalgic…<p>Last semester, we did our Pediatric/Obstetrics/Newborn/Neonatal Intensive Care rotation for clinicals.  It was the moment in this journey of mine, that I had most anticipated and simultaneously, most dreaded.  </p> <p>My <a href="http://bullockpartyof5.blogspot.com/2008/12/eleven-years-ago-today.html" target="_blank">complicated pregnancy</a>, my first born’s emergency delivery, his six week stay in the NICU, and several subsequent stays in PICUs during medical crises and his transplant surgery…right up to my boy’s <a href="http://bullockpartyof5.blogspot.com/2008/11/10-years-ago-today-i-changed-forever.html" target="_blank">death</a>…all centered around hospitals.  I revisited all of these settings during my third semester of nursing school.   </p> <p>It was as difficult as I’d feared it’d be…but, it was more. </p> <p>My rotation through the Neonatal Intensive Care began, and the twangs of pain were barely there.  I was in RN mode and I’m learning to play that part quite well (yes, after three semesters it still feels like a part I play, rather than a part of who I am…I wonder when that will change).  The nurse I was working with, impressed with my comfort level in the NICU and knowledge of the equipment, asked if I’d been in a NICU before.  I shared Joey’s story and after the usual “I’m sorrys,” that follow, she said, “Hey, there is a gastroschisis (the birth defect my boy was born with) baby in that room right there.  His nurse is great…I’m sure she’d let you work with him today.”  </p> <p>She introduced me, and I followed the nurse into the gastro baby’s room.  His bed was filled with toys, stuffed animals, and balloons were tied to the ends of his bed.  Pictures of his mom and brothers hung from one of the sides.  It looked much like Joey’s bed did.  When you spend so much time in a hospital, you start to make it look like home.  This little one had been in the NICU since birth, and he was over 2 months old.</p> <p>I chit chatted with his nurse as she fed him…a feeding of the same formula that Joey used to take.  A gentle formula, easy for babies with gut issues to digest.  The little guy with the same exaggerated round cheeks that my boy had, and same short, stocky body (all side effects of the IV feedings that sustain these little guys while their bowels rest after surgery) was a bit fussy after his feeding and his nurse had work to do, so I offered to sit with him for a bit.  </p> <p>I knew it was dangerous, and tried to brace myself for it…but, I had no idea what I was about to get myself into.  </p> <p>She handed him off to me, left the room, and I was alone with the little guy…my arms in my lap, my hands cradling his head, so I could look at him, and talk to him.  </p> <p>Exactly like we’d held our boy so many times…on the cold hard plastic chair that was provided for weary parents to bond with their babies…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-QbMLAtjixw8/TwRz3F9HNRI/AAAAAAAABwo/Elaf_3a85JU/s1600-h/76990_1682632228364_1314340253_31783701_1871904_n%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; margin-left: auto; border-left-width: 0px; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 0px" title="76990_1682632228364_1314340253_31783701_1871904_n (1)" border="0" alt="76990_1682632228364_1314340253_31783701_1871904_n (1)" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-KPA3si8JCNo/TwRz3Z2dSeI/AAAAAAAABww/lViDgBVyREU/76990_1682632228364_1314340253_31783701_1871904_n%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="352" height="270" /></a></p> <p>Now that he was close to me, the smell hit me.  So funny how a smell can bring back memories so quickly…much like a song.  It was the perfect mixture of Neocate formula, hospital tape and tubing, and that fresh baby smell that catapulted me instantly back almost fourteen years.  </p> <p>He smelled EXACTLY like my boy.  </p> <p>In my mind’s eye, his dark skin began to fade a bit, and for a moment, he began to look like my boy.  I soaked it up…I let myself go there.  I had to go there to see if I have what it takes to make it in this field with this painful past.  I felt myself spiraling, spinning…out of control almost, to another time.  A time that until this moment, was a faint and fading memory.  </p> <p>A smile spread across my face…and I felt myself become lost in this moment.  It was comfortable…it was warm…I didn’t want it to end.  I closed my eyes and bathed in the memory of my boy, enhanced by my surroundings.  </p> <p>It was sublime.  </p> <p>As my eyes began to burn and I felt the tears welling up, I was brought swiftly back to reality.  I thought about putting the baby down, and running.  Running to the parking lot, letting the swell of emotion go in a big old ugly cry, calling my nursing director and telling her that I couldn’t do it, and heading home, confident that I’d given it a good old college try.  </p> <p>But…I didn’t.  I couldn’t let my past paralyze me…I had to keep moving forward.  </p> <p>“Swimming, swimming…just keep swimming…”</p> <p>I inhaled one last time, put the baby down, settled him into his swing, and walked out of the room.  </p> <p>No tears fell, my shoulders were back, my chin was up…I had work to do.  Patients to care for.  Parents to support and teach.  Things to learn from my nurse.  Paperwork to do.  </p> <p>I moved on from that moment that I would’ve loved to have remained lost in forever…confident that I’m going to make one helluva nurse!  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-67755558823755639502012-01-03T23:48:00.000-06:002012-01-03T23:48:25.876-06:00Breaking the ice...You know how it is when you have that family member that you haven't talked to in forever? When you've been meaning to call them, but, life just keeps getting in the way. And that phone call keeps getting put off until tomorrow. And tomorrows turn into days. And those days, to weeks. Then, you start feeling guilty because you haven't called in soooo long, so you put the call off even longer. The weeks? They quickly turn to months. And before you know it, you haven't called that family member in forever, and you feel like the biggest dirtbag. "<i>And Kevin, if you feel like a dirtbag...it's probably 'cuz...YOU'RE A DIRTBAG. Just say it...'I. Am. A. Dirtbag!' Own it.</i>"<br />
<br />
Well, friends, I'm a dirtbag blogger. <br />
<br />
Consider this my phone call to break the ice, and end the silence. <br />
<br />
"I'm good...how have YOU been?"Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-52403700635342451002011-10-27T16:02:00.001-05:002011-10-27T16:02:02.768-05:00Everyday he’s shuffling…<p align="left">On Monday, he’s shuffling.  Tuesday?  He shuffles.  Even on Wednesday…he shuffled…</p> <p align="center">♫ wiggle – wiggle – wiggle – wiggle – wiggle… ♫</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-9msGWMh9Q80/TqnGxWXF6YI/AAAAAAAABpo/11nVawN_6s4/s1600-h/IMG_8643%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_8643" border="0" alt="IMG_8643" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-kfGqrMAwsZI/TqnGxiNKsBI/AAAAAAAABpw/JPoijnzwwXY/IMG_8643_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="341" height="524" /></a></p> <p align="center">♫ YEAH! ♫</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-4p1FZBU6cUA/TqnGyF2l5dI/AAAAAAAABp4/VDu5xWGKbeg/s1600-h/IMG_8651%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_8651" border="0" alt="IMG_8651" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-1nvIP2Q3EsQ/TqnGyuGpOEI/AAAAAAAABqA/hQrB2YOBIMk/IMG_8651_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="392" height="598" /></a></p> <p>Every gosh darn day…the boy’s shuffling!</p> <p>Halloween is going to be a blast this year!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-24814976394796134362011-10-20T10:45:00.001-05:002011-10-20T10:45:23.095-05:00It’s been 2 months and 7 days since my last post…<p>And I’ve just fallen off the wagon.  I could go on and on with all the things I was doing, rather than blogging…but,…well…on second thought.  That’s exactly what I’ll do.  But, I’ll do it in pictures, so as not to bore with you a ridiculous diatribe about how crazy busy we’ve been.  Deal?  </p> <p>We’ve been crazy busy…I know I said I wouldn’t bore you with that…but, it’s the truth.  Cold hard truth.  We’re busier than we’ve been.  Things are going as smoothly as they’ve ever been.  People in the house seem as happy as they’ve ever been.  Well, strike that…MOST of the people in the house.  Actually all the little people in the house are happy.  Us big people are stressing the fuck out.  Jake’s arms ache from stretching things so much to make ends meet, and Tuesday, I almost committed homicide.  My clinical professor pissed me off so badly that all I could do was cry.  I had to release the anger inside, and since murdering your clinical instructor is frowned upon in the nursing program…I had to cry to let it all out.  Like a little bitch.  For four hours.  AT CLINICAL!!!!  Oh well, at least the bitch is still alive.  Unless she was struck down by lightning during that storm the other night…which I swear I didn’t pray to God for.  I still don’t pray.  If I did, I may have prayed for lightning to strike her a little bit.  Just a little…just enough to singe the hair right off her head, and maybe fry some of the bitch out of her.  </p> <p>Dude…I digress…sorry….</p> <p>On with the pictures!!!  This is what’s been happening for the last two months and seven days…</p> <p align="center">We’re finding cheap ways to entertain the family…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-ihM_wuXu63M/TqBB77_hWYI/AAAAAAAABnI/2sj7a1J9eWo/s1600-h/283265_2234815432599_1314340253_32596223_3764196_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="" border="0" alt="283265_2234815432599_1314340253_32596223_3764196_n" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-TQyqnHr9xFg/TqBB8QV8AoI/AAAAAAAABnQ/_WkHX2dACvA/283265_2234815432599_1314340253_32596223_3764196_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="561" height="383" /></a> <br /></p> <p align="center">Our biggest boy broke his arm.  At a skate park.  <br />He doesn’t know how to skateboard…hence the broken arm!  </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-HiB8p3u9mW8/TqBB848hM7I/AAAAAAAABnY/TsNzql7WMXI/s1600-h/291282_2287690034431_1314340253_32669864_5275059_o%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="291282_2287690034431_1314340253_32669864_5275059_o" border="0" alt="291282_2287690034431_1314340253_32669864_5275059_o" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/--QV9oi2OZJk/TqBB9HnbpBI/AAAAAAAABng/9uYvkoY4V2E/291282_2287690034431_1314340253_32669864_5275059_o_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="559" height="324" /></a></p> <p align="center">All the monkeys started school…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-v4HxE1iUjRI/TqBB9l8RQ4I/AAAAAAAABno/MK9twd7FMm4/s1600-h/319160_2325499659648_1314340253_32722959_290869_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="319160_2325499659648_1314340253_32722959_290869_n" border="0" alt="319160_2325499659648_1314340253_32722959_290869_n" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOPA2sRlyYZ1Zdz6fRi9SyE2jfvu6gQLH_ZNgL8gqkQp1u0BweqXblrYUbpkGvd0AxmhasIT3hmbGJC6yexiGaeKx6eOt0Bav3lGoKMUAHCppvLxRA_oPVpirlx60CwmGOOHTOfayqFY/?imgmax=800" width="389" height="601" /></a></p> <p align="center">Including me…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-_OsF17U_cZ0/TqBB-UpzdfI/AAAAAAAABn4/D5KBMs38zy0/s1600-h/305740_2350906294798_1314340253_32758045_3399248_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="305740_2350906294798_1314340253_32758045_3399248_n" border="0" alt="305740_2350906294798_1314340253_32758045_3399248_n" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-dlR0_nIvPVU/TqBB-qN4NMI/AAAAAAAABoA/9RYHCfXX1sw/305740_2350906294798_1314340253_32758045_3399248_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="346" height="528" /></a></p> <p>By the way, did I tell you that I almost murdered my clinical instructor, but, instead cried like a bitch?  If I could change one thing about myself, instead of crying like a bitch when I’m angry, I would be instantly given the most perfect recipe of wit, and snark, and truth without cutdowns, delivered to my brain then my tongue to unleash on the object of my anger.  Instead…tears, puffy eyes, red nose, sniffling…yeah…that just SCREAMS, “You’re a shitty instructor, and one day I’ll be your boss and fire YOU’RE sorry ass!”</p> <p>Again with the digression…</p> <p align="center">This one kicks ass on the football field with his BFF.  We call them “Shake and Bake!”</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/--Lgc6wVrBi4/TqBB_KTOaoI/AAAAAAAABoI/YxFqBceLmgQ/s1600-h/311489_2416978706567_1314340253_32810538_307252688_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="311489_2416978706567_1314340253_32810538_307252688_n" border="0" alt="311489_2416978706567_1314340253_32810538_307252688_n" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-JkStAc5EPUI/TqBB_RPAUxI/AAAAAAAABoQ/gCYa1v10mP8/311489_2416978706567_1314340253_32810538_307252688_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="341" height="520" /></a></p> <p align="center">This one plays a mean trumpet.  We call him Dizzy…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-gw-Sx1QbzAY/TqBCAA0bENI/AAAAAAAABoY/CLUiNYyuOGI/s1600-h/292000_2350905254772_1314340253_32758040_4944827_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="292000_2350905254772_1314340253_32758040_4944827_n" border="0" alt="292000_2350905254772_1314340253_32758040_4944827_n" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-ST4D_oJOUcw/TqBCAc-Ei-I/AAAAAAAABoc/m-bn447WX24/292000_2350905254772_1314340253_32758040_4944827_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="555" height="379" /></a></p> <p align="center">These guys are all a year older…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-6JPUdhZMfiM/TqBCA4XqpQI/AAAAAAAABoo/WsDjTMvmsW4/s1600-h/313035_2492572556366_1314340253_32870115_1943405631_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="313035_2492572556366_1314340253_32870115_1943405631_n" border="0" alt="313035_2492572556366_1314340253_32870115_1943405631_n" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-9XQ-dLuscO4/TqBCBEIzUmI/AAAAAAAABos/VfWwa7EEkU0/313035_2492572556366_1314340253_32870115_1943405631_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="535" height="366" /></a></p> <p align="center">Us girls are going for our black belts.  Lily in Tae Kwon Do, me, in Nursing…</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-ADQRJ9GqSLw/TqBCBiDqb8I/AAAAAAAABo4/fT9x8Ywba2k/s1600-h/313637_2350906014791_1314340253_32758044_7350986_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="313637_2350906014791_1314340253_32758044_7350986_n" border="0" alt="313637_2350906014791_1314340253_32758044_7350986_n" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Z1a5z-W5NRI/TqBCCN0yelI/AAAAAAAABpA/9G-z49EySVg/313637_2350906014791_1314340253_32758044_7350986_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="510" height="348" /></a></p> <p align="center">This one is playing fall baseball…</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_C-5ieFMh40/TqBCC_cXh2I/AAAAAAAABpI/hma7mHRxOxE/s1600-h/300918_2464217767514_1314340253_32847893_1158726606_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="300918_2464217767514_1314340253_32847893_1158726606_n" border="0" alt="300918_2464217767514_1314340253_32847893_1158726606_n" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-mEUfD6Xj0A0/TqBCDSGPuxI/AAAAAAAABpQ/2N7nINwb4tk/300918_2464217767514_1314340253_32847893_1158726606_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="558" height="381" /></a></p> <p align="center">And this one spent a night in the hospital.  He developed a nasty infection from a bug bite that he’s allergic to, and he had major swelling to his family jewels.  The docs were worried about his boys, so they kept him overnight.  His boys are fine now, and my boy is back to his old self!</p> <p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSEGSmo64FwT_9Xvb9n4cQNwjgSJPV9AeT0fbqSsddqSZwpzDQ6_rNxkMeKRW3X_En3BaDsVM5rGhG302N6pthYwvW_CT-ZxiFuEpYntGfbzW2qwHPyqvW_9nzHS-J2PR-MVGEowxWbE/s1600-h/339740_2458394101926_1314340253_32844088_595097471_o%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="339740_2458394101926_1314340253_32844088_595097471_o" border="0" alt="339740_2458394101926_1314340253_32844088_595097471_o" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-CBoMgGkDSSM/TqBCEWXulJI/AAAAAAAABpg/PYx2saq2Wfc/339740_2458394101926_1314340253_32844088_595097471_o_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="549" height="318" /></a></p> <p>That’s about it…we should be caught up.  </p> <p>I’ve missed this place.  </p> <p>Happy Friday’s Eve!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-72127961005627681472011-08-13T11:52:00.002-05:002011-08-13T12:00:45.715-05:00Six Word Saturday…<a href="http://www.showmyface.com/search/label/6WS"><img alt="6wsButton" border="0" height="140" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-AdMkUVK23TE/Tkary2Eh6-I/AAAAAAAABlM/0Y3eNp1HE9I/6wsButton%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="6wsButton" width="160" /></a><br />
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<div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">♫♫ <em>Sittin’ on the docka the bay… ♫♫</em></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em></div><div align="left"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-taD-jbRPWHk/TkarzsjoyKI/AAAAAAAABlQ/yIdzYpkx8NE/s1600-h/1006%25255B13%25255D.jpg"><img alt="1006" border="0" height="412" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-HSxf-P1JwVA/Tkarz59nbVI/AAAAAAAABlU/Go1IPYJSyRY/1006_thumb%25255B10%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="1006" width="549" /></a></div><div align="center">♫♫…<em>wastin’ tiiiiiime</em>… ♫♫</div>Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-6426076322674600852011-08-11T22:04:00.001-05:002011-08-11T22:04:59.745-05:00A letter…<p><a href="http://womenshealthtopics.wordpress.com/2009/11/24/pap-smear-not-so-near/"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="pap-smear" border="0" alt="pap-smear" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-PuaVlpHOCHk/TkSYWn7s9rI/AAAAAAAABlI/x2RFBTyJuvE/pap-smear%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a></p> <p>Dear Medical Assistant at my Doc’s office: </p> <p>I got your message.  Thanks for letting me know my test results.  Since I’m getting <strike>old</strike> older, I was actually a bit worried about this last scraping of my cervix.  Well, the scraping of the half of a cervix that was left after my poor, tired, uterus was removed.  The remaining half that was too mangled and twisted and wrapped around my bladder to be removed.  That old thing.  </p> <p><em>Side note:  I bet my uterus looked rad.  It was probably all graffiti’ed up, there were probably bean bag chairs in the corner of it, Christmas lights strung throughout it.  That’s what I bet the inside of that puppy looked like.  Hendrix and Marley posters lined the walls of it.  I just described my first dorm room, insinuating I gave birth to pot smoking college kids.</em>  </p> <p>Anywho…your message…</p> <p>Yeah, this is what you said, and I quote, <em>“Yes, this is So-and-So from Dr. So-and-So’s office, with your pap smear results.  They initially came back abnormal, so we sent them for further testing, and they came back normal.  So, we’ll see you next year.  Thanks and have a good afternoon.”</em></p> <p>So, bottom line, my mangled mess left over from my baby maker is normal.  Normal, right?  Couldn’t you just have left it at that?  I’m getting <strike> old</strike> older.  I don’t need to hear shit like my shit was abnormal.  Hearing shit like that, scares the shit outta me.  </p> <p>You made my ears start ringing and my head start pounding…and MY FUCKING HEART JUMPED UP INTO MY FUCKING THROAT FOR A SPLIT SECOND!  Was it really necessary to deliver the new that way?  </p> <p>That was rhetorical.  No.  No, So, and So, it wasn’t.  Next time, a simple, “Your test results came back normal,” will be fine, alright?  Ya dig?</p> <p>Thanks again, and I hope YOU have a great afternoon.  You know, unless a medical assistant tells YOU that YOUR shit is abnormal!  </p> <p>Until next year, when I hop back in the stirrups again, </p> <p>Nikki</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-24154483127969660102011-08-10T10:04:00.001-05:002011-08-10T10:05:10.937-05:00Old and drunk...You know you're the former when this song is blaring on the way home from the bar..<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and you know you're the latter, when you're screaming the chorus, windows down, flinging your arms, directing the line, "IT'S NONE OF YO BIZNESS," at a deer, literally, in headlights in your driveway! </div><br />
I had a damn good night out on the town in their small town in MD with my brother and sister-in-law, for my birthday; old, drunk, and all! Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-64514156997455585052011-08-07T21:58:00.001-05:002011-08-07T21:58:31.238-05:00My lobster…<p align="center">♫ Joy (pump it up, pump it up)…and Pain  ♫</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-LEDMLQ_wTx8/Tj9Qz1McoWI/AAAAAAAABk0/aDXGqNahe6I/s1600-h/mylove%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="mylove" border="0" alt="mylove" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/--cFUneLzuHU/Tj9Q0X3N05I/AAAAAAAABk4/ZsKMMZ_8HOc/mylove_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="563" height="385" /></a></p> <p align="center">♫ Like sunshine (what else, what else), and Rain ♫</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-nhHvl3wNb2E/Tj9Q1FxMjII/AAAAAAAABk8/sXCvMxtT8FM/s1600-h/ellaellaella%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="ellaellaella" border="0" alt="ellaellaella" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-ht2z3zWHutk/Tj9Q1uaVgeI/AAAAAAAABlA/-EA1_xkz6Ew/ellaellaella_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="564" height="421" /></a></p> <p>We’ve seen it all in our marriage, and I can easily say that I love him so much more today than I did 13 years ago, when I said “I do,” in that tiny little chapel on Las Vegas Blvd.  I can’t take all the credit for breezing through the past 15 years with this man.  Rob Base sang it best (again) when he sang…</p> <p align="center">♫ It takes two to make a thing go right…It takes two to make it outta sight… ♫</p> <p align="left">Man that rapper knows a thing or two about love!  </p> <p align="left">Happy Anniversary to my lobster!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-35234065227361866142011-07-26T15:54:00.001-05:002011-07-26T15:54:28.665-05:00End of the summer…<p>It’s the end of The One Who Knows Everything’s summer.  He know a lot, but, he didn’t know that it’s not a good idea to climb the tallest skate ramp, and attempt to skate down it, when you’re not an amateur or professional skateboarder.  Especially so, when you’re hardly considered a skateboarder of any kind, or at all.  </p> <p>He broke his arm (a buckle fracture on the distal end of his right radius, about an inch from the epiphyseal plate…to be exact and use my big, fancy nursing terms!), a cast was placed, and his fun in the water has come to an end.  </p> <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VeV6sUZ0KkVtYdP1rxSMfDq26KrX9i886A0IbAKcZ8FwQT5oM8XvlMqglehmpDp2bylKIZpc3Zko2hBY6TfBplStB39b5lU2BMiK06WHoxUmixLMhBJuhkB_cXJcZouw83Dv68aaNJo/s1600-h/IMG_2665%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: left; margin-left: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_2665" border="0" alt="IMG_2665" align="left" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZjyfmP1jFjlnvG8zFEsr7JS79oXMG6WfvKnt9R49gO9YzDm0uijUJ8gTdZSKMG3N8Z36steTN-8YFkOWFxAKpgxqJuGWVOb9dKNYd4OEob1eHPoAM1vz1GSEAh1G_cLkzA5mNbzP_DM/?imgmax=800" width="274" height="418" /></a><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-YJlJudM-DnI/Ti8pgpwcKVI/AAAAAAAABkM/0ED419h2Ojg/s1600-h/IMG_2667%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: right; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_2667" border="0" alt="IMG_2667" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-I01f7-L4OPI/Ti8phAdeBnI/AAAAAAAABkQ/N362lAijAHE/IMG_2667_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="275" height="419" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p>His broken arm did not, however, put an end to his monkeying around, as evidenced by this little gem…</p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; width: 466px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:fb4e3bf5-f567-471a-9bf9-fda336df2bc2" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div><embed width="466" height="280" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowFullscreen="true" allowNetworking="all" wmode="transparent" src="http://static.photobucket.com/player.swf" flashvars="file=http%3A%2F%2Fvid234.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fee316%2Fnbull5%2FVIDEO0055.mp4"></div><div style="width:466px;clear:both;font-size:.8em">Not the sharpest tool in the shed…</div></div> <p>It’s actually amazing that this is the first broken arm in our household!  </p> <p>Boys!!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-58978115347806211272011-07-20T18:49:00.001-05:002011-07-20T18:49:12.806-05:00Soaking it up…<p>Been busy soaking up time with these guys, before this glorious summer break ends…</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-D-E062g9dS0/TidpdsHNC6I/AAAAAAAABj8/frmFjNztj1I/s1600-h/IMG_0314%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="IMG_0314" border="0" alt="IMG_0314" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-dka44gWMEZU/TidpeOSOL_I/AAAAAAAABkA/tHZK-nMcpjw/IMG_0314_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="574" height="392" /></a></p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-21075078546289007622011-07-13T15:38:00.001-05:002011-07-13T15:38:54.360-05:00Damn it feels good…<p>to be a planksta!</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-lcHTxhFnpPM/Th4CS5qY0WI/AAAAAAAABjU/G64zGk--NOU/s1600-h/264260_2206361281263_1314340253_32563511_6623239_n%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="264260_2206361281263_1314340253_32563511_6623239_n" border="0" alt="264260_2206361281263_1314340253_32563511_6623239_n" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-16ceszADPVQ/Th4CTVmMxSI/AAAAAAAABjY/BYH_62l_MT4/264260_2206361281263_1314340253_32563511_6623239_n_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="467" height="319" /></a></p> <p>Are you a planksta?</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-0ixCg5AfrOg/Th4CTp35H5I/AAAAAAAABjc/CwKtdv3zD0I/s1600-h/264805_2206361641272_1314340253_32563512_4020860_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="264805_2206361641272_1314340253_32563512_4020860_n" border="0" alt="264805_2206361641272_1314340253_32563512_4020860_n" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-4OtQOrxz4sg/Th4CT9wvIUI/AAAAAAAABjg/B7YlKnT5EdQ/264805_2206361641272_1314340253_32563512_4020860_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="451" height="295" /></a></p> <p>They come in all shapes and sizes…</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-y99igOG3bj0/Th4CUQTOAXI/AAAAAAAABjk/iMu0ix3VPbM/s1600-h/263125_2206362041282_1314340253_32563514_5249999_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="263125_2206362041282_1314340253_32563514_5249999_n" border="0" alt="263125_2206362041282_1314340253_32563514_5249999_n" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1Z1OflX0l00LmqbQSViL8yhyIAjuodJtSmF9vm9fHsjengltV5RFW7WQIAWhiTrz7iLXQpVTWAzdGKh-fenygOuclAG5VHbj9nyUorGIpZvNlp7aMKuSx5Pc9z6_NP-AGxe50RP-T9k/?imgmax=800" width="443" height="303" /></a></p> <p>There are even wannabe, gonnabe, plankstas…</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-QsDub2tQBlE/Th4CVjhIqNI/AAAAAAAABjs/icS4QK-yRuo/s1600-h/265110_2206362361290_1314340253_32563515_3443524_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="265110_2206362361290_1314340253_32563515_3443524_n" border="0" alt="265110_2206362361290_1314340253_32563515_3443524_n" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-QmJ1P2jq0bc/Th4CWNd9ZXI/AAAAAAAABjw/CeLL8BGCaCE/265110_2206362361290_1314340253_32563515_3443524_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="438" height="299" /></a></p> <p>But, there’s nothing like a true hard hitting O-G planksta, like this one…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-djKrQSmba10/Th4CWRscC0I/AAAAAAAABj0/r6F38gnPzos/s1600-h/263495_2206361841277_1314340253_32563513_4337880_n%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="263495_2206361841277_1314340253_32563513_4337880_n" border="0" alt="263495_2206361841277_1314340253_32563513_4337880_n" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-twVQ2kcAAlo/Th4CXVBmTCI/AAAAAAAABj4/f1CyvvPLrNs/263495_2206361841277_1314340253_32563513_4337880_n_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="439" height="300" /></a></p> <p>So, are you?  Are you a planksta?  If so, I wanna see how planksta you really are.  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-82887969729704988812011-07-11T23:12:00.001-05:002011-07-11T23:12:21.284-05:00A first…<p>We haven’t had a first around our house in a long time.  </p> <p>Well, I did have Crown Royal for the first time the other day, and was subsequently more intoxicated than I’ve ever been in my life, but, I’m not talking about me.  </p> <p>I’m talking about the kiddos.  FirstS are few and seriously far between these days.  Haven’t been hit with anything new in a long while.  </p> <p>Until today.  </p> <p>It caught my eye in my peripheral vision of The One Who Knows Everything’s profile as we watched TV this afternoon.  I grabbed his chin, squished his cheeks and pulled his face to me for closer inspection.  </p> <p>“Is that a zit?” I said.  </p> <p>His brother and sister were no where within earshot, but, I could still see a bit of embarrassment on his face.  </p> <p>“NO!” he shouted as he pulled his face away from me and covered the pimple on his chin with one hand, as his face reddened.  </p> <p>“YES IT IS!” I shouted back, and said excitedly, “Let me see it.  Awwww…you’re growing up, Dude.  I need to call Dad.  Oooh…let me take a picture of it and send it to Dad.”</p> <p>With that request, he jumped up off the couch and ran from me, swinging his arms with no regard for his brother, who happened to walk into the room at just the wrong time, and who happened to get knocked to the floor.  The One Who Gets Away With Murder fell to the floor in a dramatic heap, wailing, as the bigger one slammed the bathroom door.  </p> <p>This was enough activity to pique the girl’s curiosity, and she came out of her room and nonchalantly said, “What is going on?”  </p> <p>I quickly comforted Jack and coaxed Avery out of the bathroom.  I sat him down on the couch, and tried to explain, “You’re growing up, kid.  This is the first of many zits you’ll have.  And I’m your mother, and you’re sorely mistaken if you think that between now and the time that you’ve navigated safely through your teens, that I won’t tease you once, twice, or two thousand times.  That’s just how I am.  Besides, it’s just a zit.”</p> <p>Having calmed himself down and having just heard the tail end of my monologue, Jack added insult to injury (his brother’s, not his own), busting into the room, yelling, “I KNEW IT!  I KNEW IT WAS A ZIT.  I KNEW IT.  I TOLD HIM LAST NIGHT HE HAD A ZIT, AND…AND…HE KEPT SAYING, ‘No…it’s just a blemish,’ OR WHATEVER.  BUT, I KNEW IT.  AVERY HAS A ZI-IT, AVERY HAS A ZI-IT.  AVERY HAS A ZI-,” but, he was interrupted by a hard shove, and Jack hit the ground before he could finish the word zit!</p> <p>Ave stormed off again, slammed another door, and the little one was in another dramatic heap on the floor.  Wailing.  Again.  </p> <p>Just as nonchalantly, never letting the chaos of our house get under her skin, Lily said, “Really?  This is all about a zit?”  </p> <p>I tried to calm Avery down, apologizing for teasing him, but, encouraging him to grow some thicker skin rather quick like.  I warned him of the numerous zits he’d have and the hair that would begin to emerge soon, and all the fun stuff that puberty would bring, and that a little ole zit and his mother’s excitement over it, was nothing to get upset about.  </p> <p>I promised to be more sensitive to his feelings, he promised to stop slamming doors, and use his words, instead, and Jack promised to punch Avery in the face if was shoved to the ground one more time.  </p> <p>It was my prepubescent boy’s first zit.  Although he wouldn’t let me take a picture of it, it looked exactly like this…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-T7fGX0XAcvk/ThvJopfuXbI/AAAAAAAABjM/OKzgfLyXpps/s1600-h/zits%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="Pimple" border="0" alt="Pimple" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-XJ4kJIBAOKE/ThvJpBcBL4I/AAAAAAAABjQ/NMqRUMZJB1E/zits_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="313" height="214" /></a></p> <p align="center"><font size="1">photo from <a href="http://teengirlnow.com/?p=13">HERE</a></font></p> <font size="1"></font> <p align="left"> <br />Not that you’ve never seen one before.  But, I have never seen on before on the face of one of my children.  Another milestone for the books.  </p> <p align="left">A first.  </p> <p align="left">I sure as hell hope both of us handle the next one a little better!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-12810538164715073892011-07-10T22:34:00.001-05:002011-07-10T22:34:32.261-05:00A night to remember…<p>As we stirred this <strike>morning</strike> afternoon from a few hours of slumber, to The One, I said, “Oh, man…I had fun last night.  I think I was a little tipsy.”</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Bn8EpypmPlI/ThpvQokduCI/AAAAAAAABi4/glkRfzbaaSQ/s1600-h/2000%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2000" border="0" alt="2000" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-bM0j4K_VRUc/ThpvRJwYgoI/AAAAAAAABi8/_y6zxVue1zs/2000_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="383" height="262" /></a></p> <p>The One replied, sarcastically, “Uh…do you <em>have</em> a new tattoo this morning?”</p> <p>This image flashed into my head…</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-aNR1P1IegYc/ThpvRtR0gxI/AAAAAAAABjA/I0bLbyTE3PM/s1600-h/2001%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2001" border="0" alt="2001" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-MYtWRada0cA/ThpvR7HdSeI/AAAAAAAABjE/D8qMvvHhvsI/2001_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="379" height="259" /></a></p> <p>and I looked down at the small tingly place on my right thigh. </p> <p>I said, “Why, yes.  Yes, I do have a fresh one.”</p> <p>The One responded, “Then, yes.  Yes, I’d say you were a bit tipsy.  At least.”  </p> <p>They are so totally addictive!  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-38565729232862689332011-07-08T12:00:00.001-05:002011-07-08T12:00:59.409-05:00Addict…<p>I get lost on this website for hours.  Literally…hours!  </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-QopcJe5gR3g/Thc3xo5BnRI/AAAAAAAABio/zmI7ens10aQ/s1600-h/pinterest%25255B4%25255D.png"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="pinterest" border="0" alt="pinterest" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-1877Qeq6lRA/Thc3yrEGJ_I/AAAAAAAABis/4hb4mOQLviE/pinterest_thumb%25255B2%25255D.png?imgmax=800" width="580" height="336" /></a></p> <p>And I’m eagerly awaiting the release of it’s app for Droid, much like a crackhead might wait for a text back from his pusher.  Not that I know what a crackhead feels like, per se…but, you know.  What I <em>imagine</em> he might feel like.  </p> <p>Anyway…alls I was trying to say is that I love <a href="http://pinterest.com/">Pinterest</a>.  </p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8151327679333921021.post-85409199215127909802011-07-05T12:39:00.001-05:002011-07-05T12:39:43.630-05:00Small town, USA…<p>I love our little town.  </p> <p>In spite of my deep longing to be an Austinite, to be a part of the the downtown, city life, I have to acknowledge  my love for our sleepy little village on the outskirts of the suburbs.  </p> <p>I especially love it on weekends like this one.  </p> <p>When we visited a nearby, family run firework stand/used car lot/family farm.  It’s run by a good ole boy, his little lady, and their teenaged boys who know everything about every single firework they sell.  A knowledge that completely impressed my teenage wannabe boys.   </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-6a50o2QqxEg/ThNMEo3cmtI/AAAAAAAABg8/cUYKJD5Dbr0/s1600-h/2017%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2017" border="0" alt="2017" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-AZbYLfLuERQ/ThNMEx844nI/AAAAAAAABhA/EG25rzAjoxk/2017_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="407" height="280" /></a></p> <p>I pass by this little stand/car lot regularly.  Sometimes several times a day.  That kind of regularly.  I love looking at this sculpture that sits near the road, although, I’ve never known what it is, exactly.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-v9SZidklg1U/ThNMFrb9JXI/AAAAAAAABhE/lr-kZ8x_DTo/s1600-h/2016%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2016" border="0" alt="2016" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-2ZNZO1rehy8/ThNMF8XovrI/AAAAAAAABhI/d1MNOyfhE-Q/2016_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="277" height="422" /></a></p> <p>It looks to be old, and maybe like it’s missing some spokes, but, it’s always piqued my interest.  During the school year, we pass by this place daily taking the kids to and from practices, and as we passed by all those evenings the sculpture never stood out.  </p> <p>However, this week, I guess I passed by it for the first time, in the evening, in the months of late June, early July.  And this week, I finally realized what the thing actually was…</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-rcxINTfRBII/ThNMGXJlLoI/AAAAAAAABhM/HAvUOiwzz1w/s1600-h/2012%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2012" border="0" alt="2012" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-eIqbiqfYfhI/ThNMG1p_KtI/AAAAAAAABhQ/YPs2yo_CpLA/2012_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="265" height="404" /></a></p> <p>It’s a metal and fiber-optic sculpture of a firework, exploding in the sky.  I talked to the owner when I asked if I could take pictures, and she commented, “You should’ve seen it when we first got it…it was gorgeous.  The wind’s done a number on it.  It’s seen better days, but we’re proud of it.”  </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-6veB8a8kWIg/ThNMHert_SI/AAAAAAAABhU/ay2GwrG_2NE/s1600-h/2002%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2002" border="0" alt="2002" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-pcdMOUjgfWk/ThNMHvCQ19I/AAAAAAAABhY/6VclLWSbaxs/2002_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="486" height="332" /></a></p> <p>Picnic tables lined the property and locals sat and chatted with each other and with the owners.  Kids popped firecrackers on a slab of cement…</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-7UaMjqgFmug/ThNMIfpgp7I/AAAAAAAABhc/P8Za8LbcAv8/s1600-h/1001%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="1001" border="0" alt="1001" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-FpBHy9ZqpN4/ThNMIq41gdI/AAAAAAAABhg/lq3DT7lHUZI/1001_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="314" height="479" /></a></p> <p>the smell of sulfur filled the air, the sky was illuminated with flashes of color…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fxks6LL9fI0/ThNMJ8KJn6I/AAAAAAAABhk/E6bgK9hvYtk/s1600-h/1004%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="1004" border="0" alt="1004" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-b5pjWs2kwpw/ThNMLXvlJVI/AAAAAAAABho/_sSrjdUU59c/1004_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="456" height="316" /></a></p> <p>mosquitos and moths buzzed overhead…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-HbFM4TMxKxw/ThNMLxNZ6vI/AAAAAAAABhs/MGCovuEQGiA/s1600-h/2004%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2004" border="0" alt="2004" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-g50vKxoi69E/ThNMMWuNitI/AAAAAAAABhw/Sq5t4-GgyX8/2004_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="324" height="465" /></a><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-El-sg1fNxxI/ThNMRF2MFfI/AAAAAAAABh0/2WwrgxBvnNc/s1600-h/2008%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2008" border="0" alt="2008" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-ywMQ2ZsH-GI/ThNMRWIhHDI/AAAAAAAABh4/YHVIdzbByxE/2008_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="431" height="316" /></a></p> <p>and the air was heavy with heat and humidity.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-Tg7SzZjm6iE/ThNMRxeVanI/AAAAAAAABh8/iyqCuGSiSas/s1600-h/2001%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2001" border="0" alt="2001" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-VKC9CHNzqvc/ThNMSiIX5kI/AAAAAAAABiA/XaxVHnMFEwI/2001_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="317" height="509" /></a></p> <p>That night was the very definition of summer…</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-NrcSJ3M2O64/ThNMTBL8taI/AAAAAAAABiE/n3XPWmbglzA/s1600-h/2009%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2009" border="0" alt="2009" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Jt2DmL7tXBw/ThNMTrJd8tI/AAAAAAAABiI/HZycHsQZTSw/2009_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="452" height="309" /></a></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-ELvW5ct8Kj4/ThNMUe_q-TI/AAAAAAAABiM/fh-mZY5t2z4/s1600-h/2007%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2007" border="0" alt="2007" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-2RhbfiJA6ZE/ThNMU3eyKtI/AAAAAAAABiQ/8xwNtXZDH9A/2007_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="446" height="305" /></a></p> <p>The very definition of America…</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-GIi1MefGHy4/ThNMWP5bKhI/AAAAAAAABiU/vtPGklggS8s/s1600-h/2010%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2010" border="0" alt="2010" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-FeDn3yyWJwE/ThNMWsrV0YI/AAAAAAAABiY/4FwUUEbqDDc/2010_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="439" height="304" /></a><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-fFZGg3sN10U/ThNMXOkDYoI/AAAAAAAABic/nIuACqdk1hs/s1600-h/2006%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="2006" border="0" alt="2006" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-VtsPQYsCIsE/ThNMXvmI0pI/AAAAAAAABig/ZF97jboTWPE/2006_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="324" height="498" /></a></p> <p>I love our little town.  </p> <p>Happy Independence Day!</p> Nikki B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10675195844565556480noreply@blogger.com3