The Process of Bringing My Blog Archives Back To Life is NUTS!

Our Park City House, May, 2006
Our Park City House, May, 2006

Every so often I try to tackle my blog archives. I say, every so often, because tackling my archives is a complex, time sucking, and emotionally consuming (totally existential) endeavor. See, I didn’t just remove my posts from the public’s view by say setting them to “draft” in the backend of my website, I (literally) yanked my blog offline (well Dave yanked it because I asked him to). Consequently, for the past several years, my blog has existed (been stored) in a variety of database files. I know. Crazy, right? I completely agree! In truth, this creative act of duct-taping all the former pieces together is often why I find myself republishing my archives only “every so often.” And when I actually do jump into the republishing “process,” I always ask myself the same question:

Our first Christmas in the Park City House. December 2007.
Our first Christmas in the Park City House. December 2007.

“Beth, why oh why did you ever take your blog down?”

Good question. I am sure my therapist will have a much different answer than the one I present here [wink wink]. And really, my answer is always dependent on my mood, the time of the month, or what crazy emotion a specific post reignites. Recently, and after reanimating several posts, Dave and I both weighed in. We agree (yet again). I was an idiot for taking my blog offline – if only for the fact that keeping my blog online would make this whole re-publishing process easier – and it would.

Park City House in Winter
Park City House in Winter

Further, I think it is helpful to understand the process to see why it drives me nuts. First, before reposting/reanimating, I always recheck the post for bad grammar (don’t judge. I am sure I could re-edit until the cows come home and you would still find a comma splice, dangling modifier, or run-on sentence). Next, there are the images. Currently the images that are attached to the archived post only exist in file names (99% off the time). What the image issue implies is if I want the image, I need to relocate it, or find a similar image from the same time period. Ay-yi-yi! The image issue is confounded because new blog software requires me to set a post image. If I do not have a set post image, my blog posts look dumb. And because appearance is everything [wink wink], “dumb” is not acceptable. Then there are the links. In my old posts, they are often dead — not always, but often, which is almost worse. And because I am totally OCD, I search out active links that correlate with the old link. Yesterday, I searched for Tom Cruise and his couch-jumping, Oprah chewing out James Frey, and Oprah speaking about Hurricane Katrina. What I learned: late-winter-and-early-spring-of-2006 Beth loves the Oprah! The boys were also age four and six at the time. I think Oprah was a good friend to 2006-Beth.

Moving past Oprah, and the links to Oprah, there is the vanity part. I mean my vanity, which is in direct proportion to my comment total. Pushing further, you and I both know that the amount of comments one has directly correlates to how awesome one is. See, I may not be awesome now, but long ago, in a land far, far away I was, awesome, that is [wink wink]. The formula is simple. Because I am vain (and used to be awesome), I want people to see the accompanying thread. It still kills me that I have misplaced most of them like the 148 comments that accompanied one of my craziest posts. If one can be that awesome after a post like that, well then, wow! So in my search for the missing comments, just yesterday I came one step closer to finding them. They are not only in a database, they are attached to Moveable Type not WordPress. They are probably gone and I will get over it, because in truth, everyone is awesome!

Love that we always had moose in our yard. Park City, Utah
Love that we always had moose in our yard. Park City, Utah

While we’re on the topic of my comment vanity, the craziest, hardest, most exhilarating, most healing and weirdest part about re-posting old posts is falling into the emotional vortex of my past. Consequently, when I work on bringing a post back to life, I find it very difficult not to fall in. Because I did not have a crystal ball back then or have one now, I could not see. I could not see what would be important now. For instance, in my posts in the Spring of 2006, I see a woman getting caught up in a Mommy Blogger World. My posts became more about getting along with other mommy bloggers than being true to myself. I see myself getting sadder and sadder and I now see that stepping away was really smart, actually. I see how frustrated I was and how frustrating that world was. To fit in, I was starting to hide a lot of who I was. I became fearful. Ultimately, brave-Beth morphed into a very insecure lady. I had a hard time calling bullshit and often couched my frustrations in posts about truth-telling. Dude, I wrote so many posts about truth. I was mad. Why didn’t I just say it? Anyway.

As I re-read my old posts I noticed that I hold onto everything personal. Meaning, if Kyle or Eli said something cute, I want more. When I mentioned a trip, I want to know where we went. Why didn’t I write down where we went? So weird. When I briefly mentioned Park City, or that we were building a house there, I wanted details. What I know now is that I wish I had been less concerned about getting a ton of comments (for instance) and more concerned about recording the cool details going on around me, details like what it was like to build a freaking house in Park City, Utah. I am so proud of Dave. I still am. The process was completely mind-blowing, hilarious, marriage-testing and totally worth it. Did I ever tell you how Dave bought our land in Park City? He literally called my bluff.
Dave was very interested in living in Park City, and had been looking at lots. I did not particularly want to live in Park City. He found a lot up in a canyon that was in the crook of a bend in the road. I said,

Our Park City House when we put it up for sale
Our Park City House when we put it up for sale

“I don’t like that lot. Now, if it were one of those lots across the street in that cozy little enclave, then I would be interested”

Those lots were not for sale. I thought I was safe. Little did I know that Dave would go to the city, see who owned the plots, approach the owner and ask if they would be interested in selling it to us. They were. Bluff called.

Did you know Dave also put a team together, and with his own two hands built a Park City mountain retreat? Our Park City neighbors were also building a house (the same ones who sold us the plot). I thought it was hilarious that the contractors let Dave and his team have at the discarded (almost new) pieces of wood they carelessly threw away each day, to the extent that at least 5% of our house was built with materials scrounged from the neighbor’s dumpster.

The guy who taught Dave everything he knows about carpentry was our college friend James. I did not think it was hilarious when James’ dog bit the neighbor (and Eli). James also went AWOL and Dave had to complete the job on his own. He rocked it. I hated that all of our tools were stolen (out of a huge lock box no less). I loved that after our tools were stolen that Aaron, one of the guys working on the house moved into the old camper on our lot. I loved Fatty the Squirrel. Phil, another builder, did not love that Fatty always ate his lunch. To help Phil save his lunch, we bought him a locking lunchbox. Fatty had it coming to him the day he was hit by a car. May he rest in peace. I loved our Moose! And yes, ask anyone, I hated living in that snowy mountain place, yet I absolutely loved that house! We miss it!

… So back in 2006 (because those are the archives I am working on now) I wish I could have seen the future. I wish that all of us could. Blogs were new. We took our cues from the Mommy-blog leaders and thought, at least I did, that we needed to write like they were writing. Trying to one-up the personal tragedy of other mommy bloggers grew old. Looking back, I wish I did not feel like I had to tailor my content to get the attention of other mommy bloggers. Now I see that before there was sponsorship sell-out, bloggers were selling out to each other (myself included). Further, publicly writing my pain on a daily basis became tiresome (and was sort of dishonest because it made people think my life was much sadder than it was). Today, the landscape has completely changed. I am not sure that is such a bad thing. I see those old blogs old-school bloggers pulling the plug on their once cherished blogs. Yet, in a full circle moment, maybe blogs of today will fund their success by returning to the very beginnings, the time before sponsorships, the time before people really cared about keeping up, the time where we were (possibly) our truest selves. Just a thought.

Our last day in  our Park City House, January 31, 2014.
Our last day in our Park City House, January 31, 2014.

Whatever the case, I am happy to be reviving my archives now.

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It was my boys who finally broke through. They were terrified. I could see it in their eyes, and as they clung to my legs somewhere inside of me I knew that we all had had enough.”

Us August 2006

That is how my post begins and I know I promised to share that post with you, and here is where my internal struggle lies: Recently I wrote something that I found hurt a family member. The second I knew I caused my family pain, I took that particular post down. I haven’t really blogged since. I thought my words were safe and warm, yet that is not how they were received. I always take responsibility for my words. That has never been the issue, and maybe that is actually the problem. I do not hide. I own what I say, yet hate causing pain, even the slightest bit of pain. I know. I can’t have both.  I must have some deeply locked in Pavlovian-nightmare that makes my insides crush every time someone tells me how sad my words make them. 

Consequently, my personal struggle has always been my inability to reconcile the fact that my words will hurt.  My words are not convenient.  My story is not filled with rainbows and happy endings, my skies can get really cloudy, and from the inside my life does not look like a Martha Stewart magazine cover photo. Whose really does?

Most of our stories seem to be purposeful and filled with hope. My  story  is also a dark, awesomely fantastic, crazy, Running-With-Scissors, Lovely-Bones kind of tale. And because my story is not pretty, inside the lines, or Celestial, time and feedback have taught me that I have to keep my story far from those characters, the characters who play the most important roles. Since walking away from actively blogging (August 2006), I have often wondered if, like Augusten Burroughs, (the man who wrote Running With Scissors), I will also have to wait until those loved ones and others I will hurt die, or not tell my story at all.  

As I think about it, I have always told stories, and I have always been open. It is just how I am wired, and I am confident my wiring comes directly off of the Double Helix strands of my Grandma Koener (my mom’s mom). Veronica (that was her name and I can hear my grandpa yelling it as I type), well, Veronica was strong, short (4’11”), bold, outspoken, direct, salty, often misunderstood, and was fiercely devoted to those she loved. The only thing I didn’t get from her were her big boobs. Seriously, I could have used a little help there, Grandma!  My mom always said I was most like her, and because my grandma could be less filtered, I know some were also hurt by her words. And because I knew this, I was not always pleased with the comparison. Maybe it was that soft moment, sitting with her in a parked car outside of Wendy’s, because she was too old and frail to go inside. She wanted to hear about my boyfriends, and she wanted to make sure that before she died (because she knew it would be soon and it was) that I married a good man. “And if he is not good to you, Beth, I will come right over and box his ears.”  And maybe it was snuggled up on the pull-out sofa, watching movies together on our VCR (which she called an RCA),  laughing when she had no idea what was going on. Really. No idea. And it did not matter! And maybe it was her fearless, and open nature.  She, as the oldest daughter of twelve kids (not Mormons, farmers), left a tiny, rural Midwestern farm to go to the big city as a young girl. She left the farm, because she needed something bigger, and she left the farm because her family needed her help. She got it, and I finally got that being compared to my Grandma Koener is about the highest complement one could receive. Being compared to her open and fearless natures is something I want to get right. I miss her, and I know, wherever she is she would be ok with whatever I said, even the ugly parts. I also know she would feel the same sorrow I do if I were to hurt her loved ones.

 And as open and interested as I was, asking my mom and dad about sex at the dinner table as a nine-year-old with my dad, two brothers and three sisters sitting by my side, only made sense (I am the youngest, by the way). Telling my friends less than a week ago that I not only came home from my Mormon Mission early, but that it is was one of the greatest choices I ever made, felt empowering, and does not feel like a story I needed to hide or reconstruct. My eleventh grade Creative Writing teacher, Roman Borgerding, grabbed out of me, and gave me the courage to see that truth really is beauty (thank you Ares Poetica).  I will be forever grateful. Mr. Borgerding showed me how to write stories I already loved to tell.  He is the one who taught me the most important writing technique of all. Standing on a wobbly high school chair he would shout to the class, “Write out the garbage.” Pacing the class, he continued, like a metronome, repeating word for word, “write and write, write out the trash, and as you write, you will, you will find your truth.” He was right, and he was a gift.   I think about him a lot and I think I must find a way. Yesterday I was talking to a friend, who said, “Beth, I could never put it out there for the world to see.”  Before blogs, before the internet, before cellphones, before all of it, I loved to ask, I loved to share, I loved to tell my story.  I do not see my dark spots as shameful and embarrassing, and maybe that is why when I share the dark moments of others, I feel love and forgiveness, or better, I feel truth. I told my friend, “Friend (because that is really what I call him), you are a gifted doctor. When people are suffering they come to you.  The gift I have is my narrative. The healing I can hopefully share is through what I have to say.”  Unfortunately it is also what I see as my gift that always causes the most pain. And like an overly edited script, if I keep adjusted my words to make everyone look, smell and feel good, then what’s the point? I continued, “You know how I can go on and on and on when we talk, that is how writing is. The words always come, and they keep coming.”

 A couple of weeks ago when talking about writing and what I could actually do with a career I had pursued, loved, and studied in college, another family member suggested I should only write when I have the complete permission of anyone that I want to write about. Those words haunt me. I know that is not what my family intended.  Really, what is the point? Where is the joy? I love my family, and respect what they say. I hear them, and their words carry way to much weight. I started this post, a post about blogging, thinking that I could avoid hurting my family altogether, only to be reminded that whatever I write, I will always cause someone else pain or discomfort. My hands are tied, my stomach is in knots, and I do not know how to move forward, make peace, and tell the stories about blogging, my family and all the stories I love to tell. I know.  I sound like a pussy. You want to tell me to forgive myself, don’t be so afraid, and to maybe attend a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Group, right? My Fourth Grade Teacher suggested the same things [wink wink]. Really, you should see the only comment she wrote on my report card? “Beth, next year do not be so afraid of your teacher.”  

Regarding the post I promised you, at last count I was up to 4311 words. Holy Cow, Batman! My gut doesn’t lie.  I am having a difficult time putting those 4311 words out there. Maybe it is because of what my family said. A lot of it is.  Maybe it is because writing about my former life as a blogger forced me to open a door that I had locked, shut and moved away from long ago.  As I go back and forth trying to decide what is best for all involved, and like I have articulated every which way here, I see that it will be impossible to make everyone involved feel good. Actually, that was kind of the point of writing the post.  As cheesy or perhaps self-serving as it sounds, I was searching for healing, and thought maybe if everyone knew my side, that things would change.  

It is true. I said I would let you know the “whole” story of what “really” happened that one time, the year was 2006, the month was August, when I abruptly stopped blogging. For days I’ve worked on this post. I’ve read it over and over again. I am grateful for Dave’s support. I love that Dave, with his badass editing skills, read and edited my post. I love that after reading he said, “Beth, this is some of your very best writing. The tone is perfect.” His words mean the world, and even with his most positive critique, I did not feel resolved. I only hoped that I would.

 All week long I continued to write.  I called an editor friend seeking advice, and ran my thoughts past her. I kept writing, working those words through. While I continued to knead and adjust my words, pounding out every angle and explanation, it was pretty easy to see that I can’t.  I tried to write it differently. I tried to lessen the sting, and then my post started to morph into something I did not recognize. That wasn’t right either. I had a decision to make, and no, I do not think the outcome is necessarily fair. And because I know better, and because I know what it is like to be on the other end of someone’s hurt-filled words and actions, I am not sure I am ok with that.  I am no saint.  I also know that the pain I could cause would most definitely make me feel terrible, only distracting me from the actual pain I have worked to heal.

 I continued to write, hoping I would write out enough hurt, shame, anger, love, and sorrow that I would eventually find a way.  Rationalizations weren’t cutting it, and saying it was for the greater good only made me think, “whose greater good?” It came down to this: Even though I know my intent is hopeful and right, I cannot take away the truth that my words will most likely sting. I am not a complete idiot (remind me to tell you the story about two-year-old Eli’s favorite word, “eighty-eight” sometime). I also see the opportunity. It is the stories that sting that are often the most compelling, and it is an added bonus when one of the characters is very well known. And because I realize upfront that drama sells, I have to question my intent. Do I make any sense?

Finally, I am afraid. To honestly write about what I experienced back then makes me want to puke. To write, I must slice open that beautifully healed scar, and relive those very same horrific, embarrassing, very painful feelings I felt back then. This week that is exactly what I did. I do not like that part. I hate it.  The words bled through my fingers, and flew onto the keyboard as I felt the fear and PTSD I felt back then. No fun! Each day I was grateful when it is time to pick up the boys. I arrived at their school, they hopped in the car where I saw their faces, asked them about their day, we laughed, talked about girls, homework, and tomorrow’s Math. Each day as we sat in the car together I would breathe, and as I did, I saw my life now. I felt strong. I would sit and think, “why would I want to bring that horror back into my world?”  We are happy. As we drove home, I knew that past trauma is something I can let go. I already have.

Us Today

 To tell my story is important. It has a place, I just do not know where. I also think I most definitely picked the short straw in all of this. For now I have put my post on pause. I’ve saved it, and maybe someday posting it will be right.  Selfishly I am grateful that this past week I walked through a long-ago horror. I wrote down word for word what happened, what was said to me, and ouch!  I can tell that long ago I walked through a nightmare, and for now, that’s about all I can say. I can also tell you that I am grateful I wrote out the exact words, because maybe now I won’t be so afraid of monsters. I hope not.       

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New Mexico: Blogging and Our Ten Year Anniversary


Us. Sante Fe, NM, 2008


The Process that took me to now  . . .  June 18, 2008

I am sitting here on the airplane. Dave and I are flying back to Salt Lake City from New Mexico. We were in Santa Fe and Taos celebrating our ten year wedding anniversary. We were both sick. I loved being away, and I am glad to be going home. I don’t know if the person behind me can read what I am writing. Does it matter?  I was typing with one hand until now.  I finished my drink, motioned to Dave and dumped my ice cubes in his glass, careful to slide my cup underneath his.  We are flying home from New Mexico on the end of our ten year anniversary trip. Dave is looking out the windows.  He is trying to get my attention. He grabs my arm as he says, “Lake Powell.” He points out the window. I look.  The lake is so huge, even from way up in the sky.  I concentrate on my music. iPods are great for flying. Staralur by Sigur Ros (an Icelandic Band) is playing. The melody is beautiful and as the music crescendo’s my heart fills.  I can breathe. Today I am afraid of flying. The music lifts me away.  I take my headphone out of my left ear, lean over and ask Dave how to spell “crescendo.” I have spelled it so miserably that Spell Check could not find the word. “C r e s,” he says. “What?”  The plane is loud and my Icelandic music even louder. “C r e s c e n d o.”  He spells it for me twice.  I wonder why I did not take the headphone out of my right ear. It is the ear closest to Dave. I probably could hear him better.


I see Dave fiddling with his GPS.  I look at him.

“I want to find out where we are.” He says.
“What?” I say.
“We are definitely flying over Colorado right now.” he responds.

I see the man in the aisle in from of me. He is watching “Band of Brothers.” I would rather be watching a movie. I am a writer and it has been hard for me to write. I took my website, down in August 2006. Since that time, except for tiny little bits here and there, I have avoided this method of expression (blogging). I always have something better to do than write. Always.  Damian Rice is playing, I love this song,

“I look to my Eskimo friend . . . when I am down, down, down.”

I wish you could hear the music play. It is helping. I can feel the rumblings of the plane beneath me. I listen more intently.

“Harder now with higher speed . . .”

And the Crescendo. Thank God for Crescendos. If you are afraid of flying, may I suggest listening to music with lots of Crescendos. The plane is rumbling harder.  I am nervous.  My stomach jumps.  The song is has reached its loud, opera-like part, and I am trying, trying to forget the rumbles.

There is a pause in the music.  Dave is talking to me about soccer and I want to stop and fast-forward. I want to hear music. I need music.

…My life has taken me to a better place. In this moment, I do not miss my blog. I thought I would. I know for quite a while I tossed around the idea of blogging again. I like to write. I do not like the dramatic energy bloggers draw to themselves– myself included. As I write the word, “Blogger,” I keep thinking how odd the word is. Ten years ago or a little more than ten years ago, the blogging medium really did not exist. Now blogging is on the forefront of global communication. Many people make a living from the words and information they release into the world on a daily basis.

I think I forgot or better, could not grasp, when I was blogging that my words were getting out there to. I hurt my friends. I hurt my family. As hard as I tried not to, I hurt my mother.  I wanted desperately not to hurt anyone. I tried to be responsible, yet I also hastily vomited words out to the world, words that sometimes did hurt, embarrass, sting.

I wanted recognition for my writing. I did not want to hurt anyone and I did. I can reconcile the fact that I cannot have it both ways: public writing with no hurting.

A few months after taking my website down, I was sitting with a very good friend at the building site of our new home.  He and I talked about my blog. He told my how it hurt. He looked at me and said,

“Beth, we have been friends for more than ten years. We are good friends. You and I would go out to lunch, have a great time.  A few days later I would read your website, this piece of information that was out there for the world to read. It was through your blog that I would find out how sad you really are. It did not make sense. I am your friend. Why didn’t you tell me you were sad? That is what hurt. I am glad you took your website down.”

His words broke my heart. I stumbled. I paused. I looked him and the eye and I apologized.

“I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

As much as I was hurting at the time and I was.  I had to listen. I had to be responsible for the words I put out there.

I do not miss that. I do not miss the self-censorship. I do not miss the-hiding-behind-your-keyboard-yet-offensively-putting-it-all-out-there aspect of blogging. As I became more popular as a blogger, I did not enjoy navigating the rules and etiquette of blogging. I did not enjoy my on-screen-off-camera relationships. I would have to say that most of my friendships formed around, through and in association with blogging have all gone away. Once I logged off, there really was no reason for people to connect with me. To my surprise, I actually did not mind. It was a relief.  Wait. Hold up. Blogging was not all bad [wink wink]. I enjoyed exchanging emails. I enjoyed feeling as though my words had a positive impact on others. I even enjoyed the horrifically painful and bad experiences. Ok, maybe I did not enjoy those. They actually sucked. Let’s just say that I am finding my namaste regarding them.

The plane is slowing down. The wheels or something is jiggling. The plane is still slowing down and things are getting bumpy. My palms are sweaty, (of course). My stomach is in knots.  My poor man’s Valium has worn off (Benadryl). It feels like we are riding a roller coaster in the sky. The guy in front of me, who came drunk on the plane, is awake. He is more frightened than I am. Security offered to escort him off the plane before we left the gate. He assured everyone he would just fall asleep. Now he is awake. He is quiet and looking out the window.

“Please do not freak out.” I whisper under my breath.

This drunk and frightened airplane passenger actually brings reminds me of something. When I blogged every single day, I realized that I was constantly an observer. I was safely disconnecting from my world, simply observing every aspect of every day, carefully plotting out my stories. How would they end?  Could I kick the scared, drunk airplane passenger in front of me?  Could I startle him to improve my story?  The outcome would be much more interesting if I did?  Think of the story I could tell?  Could I tweak it just a little? How could I provoke?  I read bloggers thoughts on depression, horrible lives as parents, bad marriages, crazy kids and wondered if it was all really that bad?  Perspective? Tweaked or even not tweaked? Was it really that bad?  I had to get out.  You know what I mean?  I do need to provoke the man in front of me. I do not need to pay attention to him. He is not my story. He is an observation.

It is much more painful to be present.

That being said, now that I am reconnecting with my tangible world, I feel much more joy.

The plane has settled. I can talk about the blog again.  It is so weird. I cannot help myself. I am thinking about posting this. Is it good enough to post? And just seconds ago I was saying how I did not miss blogging. Funny how moods shift. What a stupid question!  Am I an addict?  Maybe that is why I stopped. Maybe that is why I have stayed away. I am wondering how this will all be perceived. Maybe Dave’s response will be enough. I hope it will. Dave, here is the part where you need to lean over and tell me how great my words are and how much they meant to you — even if you are lying.

Maybe that is why I blogged. Maybe I was not feeling fulfilled enough in my own life and was desperately searching for something to fill it.  Maybe I just am freaked out and getting all end-of-life like sitting in this very bumpy plane. Words and feelings I may forget once the wheels touch the ground.

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No, I have not started another blog somewhere else.

Salt Lake City, Utah -- Copyright
Salt Lake City, Utah — Copyright

My sister called me this weekend wondering why I haven’t posted lately and then asked if I had a secret blog somewhere else. I don’t. Life has just been crazy weird.

If you are still stopping by to check on CrazyUs, thank you! I am getting Kyle off to school and then I can write some more. I promise.

I have also received your emails over the last weeks and I am working on responding. Thank you for your wonderful words of comfort and for your crazy questions. The world is filled with so many cool people. Thank you for being patient with me.

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Finally able to form complete sentences

Messing with our kids while they sleep.
Messing with our kids while they sleep.

Every time I tried posting this past week, my brain literally stalled out. It has been extremely hard translating the thoughts in my head onto these pages. I have tried many times over the last several days, but each time, I had to stop because my brain hurt.

Alas, I am feeling better. Nine days later, my head still hurts and if you give me your hand I will let you feel the indentation on my skull. Ask Kat, Alan, Dave and my mom (they all felt it) and yes, the depression in my skull is a kind of disconcerting, but what’s a little skull depression now that I am back (I think).

I have missed writing. I have missed reading. I have missed talking in complete and eloquent paragraphs. I pray I have a greater appreciation for neurological conditions. I hope there are no long-lasting affects of my concussion. There were moments when I felt truly sorry for myself and moments when I convinced myself that my concussion was not real, but all in my head [wink]. I am amazed at how much a bump to the noggin can humble a person. I have spent this past week feeling as though I was looking through someone else’s glasses (a little unerving I might add). Because I have two little boys who depend on me, I pushed myself into forming the words and laughing past the millions of times I unintentionally blended every word that came out of my mouth.

“I know I meant to say Urban Outfitters, but isn’t Burbonitters much cuter sounding than Urban Outfitters? Hey, and I bet Bourbon-Knitters would totally serve you booze while you knit, you think?”

Scary stuff.

Thank you everyone for your awesome birthday wishes. You made my year. For your compassionate thoughts regarding my brain trauma, I will always be grateful. I have so much to say and I will say it. I always feel badly when I promise you a story and then I don’t deliver, but I will. Tonight, because I am able to finally write, however, I simply needed to say how glad I am for my brain, how glad I am to be alright and how grateful I am for all of the support I have received. Thank You!

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Happy Birthday, Beth!

Copyright -- Easy E and I Mission Beach, San Diego, CA
Copyright — Easy E and I Mission Beach, San Diego, CA

Isn’t she the greatest mom, ever?

Welcome to the 2006 edition of the Sappiest Tradition Ever (TM), wherein I hijack Beth’s blog to say how great she is. Well, I can’t let this year pass me by, as Beth’s in kind of a rough patch, with her concussion and all. I’ll admit that I’m not the kindliest nursemaid, by any stretch, and she has a tendency to try to tough out her illnesses and injuries and soldier on with her motherly duties, which usually leads me to forget that anything’s wrong. (As for me, I’m a baby, and just refuse to get out of bed when I’m feeling poorly).

What you see up there in that picture isn’t just a rare Kodak moment; it’s an everyday occasion. That look of absolute joy in Eli’s face, and the spark of fun and mischief in Beth’s: that’s just the way it is around here. Kyle and Eli are the luckiest boys in the world.

I just wanted to say how grateful I am for Beth’s devotion to her family, and especially for her understanding and support when it comes to my crazy projects. When I go out and spend $10,000 on power tools and proceed to build a house, spending every weekday, from sunup to sundown up the mountain (something that would send most wives into fits), she supports me 100% (or at least 99). She encourages me to follow my dreams, and does everything in her power to make them come true.

And she’s not only an excellent friend to me, and to the boys, but to so many other people as well. She’s empathetic and giving to a fault, and people are lucky to know her. Happy birthday, sweetie. May there be many more, and I hope I’m with you through them all.

[Please wish Beth Happy Birthday on the Post Below. If I opened comments on this post, they would go to me.]

Copyright - The Boys for my Birthday!
Copyright – The Boys for my Birthday!
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