Shaken and Stirred: Five Years of Parenting Imperfect

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That was over ten years ago. I knew from that day on things would never be the same. So just like the town of The Rooster, Rob and I convened and changed what defined us. We finally stretched out and found shade under an almond tree, taking road trips to nowhere that blurred our boundary lines. Feeling welcome and happy. Finding joy with two towels and a sandy car. Or come see us at The Happier House and we can share these stories with you in person. I love libraries, the feeling of walking through the stacks looking for a book, checking out the new releases in the front, or just chatting with another book lover.

I remember being confused by the program, and a librarian came over to help, as did others sitting around me. It meant a lot back then and still does now. Costa Rica does not have many libraries. It was one thing that disappointed me when moving here.

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I could be that weird gringo in the corner reading a Spanish version of Dr. Seuss, but that was never going to happen. I was not the weird gringo in the corner because there was already some strange guy back there, all by himself, who never looked up. I stayed clear of him, confident he was not reading Green Eggs and Ham. Libraries are on my mind today because Dawn Beviano, my hometown librarian, contacted me. She is featuring my books for a week since she considers me a notable Lindenite. When my husband and I dated, he drove me through his hometown Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

He stopped by his high school and said Tony Danza was also a past graduate.

Interchurch Families as Domestic Church: More Real Than Imperfect?

A picture honoring him hung in the hallowed halls. Everyone loves Tony Danza. My husband actually sounds like Tony Danza. Of course, he does, they had the same English teacher. The high school ultimately closed. Linden Library emailed me questions to answer, but I thought it would be fun to ask Dawn some of my own. That was back when everyone used The Dewey Decimal System, which I have since learned from a not too exhausting Google search, is named after a real guy, Melvil Dewey.

Melvil was smart, demanding, and known to have made powerful enemies. This is ironic since he made powerful enemies out of every kid who found his classification system difficult to understand.

Although Melvil was intelligent, he was also a misogynist who demanded that women applying for a library position include pictures of themselves. But do you know what I can do? Write about how much of a jerk you were to those ladies.

The social worker is out to get me….

Polish that pumpkin, pal. Who knew a guy named Melvil could be such a creepo. You, sir, are no Tony Danza. No more cards in the pockets, with the date stamps. When I tell my children that we used to have to thumb through index cards by author, title, or subject matter to find what we were looking for, their eyes glaze over.

Now patrons go to a computer and search for what they want.

We are in the process of having our microfilm collection digitized. The film has begun to deteriorate over time, and we want to preserve those newspapers from the early s. It will be a long process that will take several years. I was surprised to learn that the Linden Library offers so much more to the community than they did many years ago.

Most libraries have a non-profit organization called The Friends of insert library name.


Ebooks are pretty much standard now as are online audio books. From Lego club, chess club, game nights, movies, S. M, Girls who C. They are downloaded with educational games and programs. I asked Dawn if people still get excited over reading.

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Thank you, Dawn, and to all your colleagues for sharing my books and including me on your notable list. She says librarians love it when patrons do that. Take a look at the cool Linden Library! Click here to check out my bed and breakfast , The Happier House. I would love to host more people from my hometown! But here I am, wanting to write, again, to all of you.

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I wanted to tell you about these crazy swirly sunsets. I loved finger painting as a kid, and we rarely got to do it in art class because we eventually finger painted all over ourselves— and our friends— by the end of the hour. I think nothing makes kids happier than that kind of freedom. Dipping their fingers in random colors and creating something so unique. When you watch these Costa Rican sunsets unravel, your body relaxes and your mind stops racing.

You start to believe in all sorts of things. You swear that you can be a nicer person, more patient and loving. And you believe that you can forgive others, even the ones that hurt you the most. But most importantly, you believe the thing you want to do more than anything else in life is possible. Costa Rica changed my life.

Little hitchhikers of laughter that I carry and drop off, before taking on more passengers.

Setting Boundaries With Your Adult Children -- Allison Bottke

And all of you, those who have read my books or just follow us on social media, have been important pieces of happiness in my life. Thank you for making my dream of becoming a writer come true, and for years of supporting this whacky journey my husband and I are on. There are many types of potholes in life, and my head was full of them at that old job. But Rob knew. He always knew. He started building our castle the moment we met.

The sun is finally coming up; it casts a rosy glow across the mountaintops and a pink-hued blanket of light across my home. Hoping people will read them. Amazon Kindle.

Interchurch Families as Domestic Church: MOre Real Than Imperfect?

Did you ever feel like you missed a left turn in your life? While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to the mare as arose out of her private topics of uneasiness.

They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road. What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.

Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger—with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt—nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of business.

The rattle of the harness was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger and it was not a little that he knew about them , opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them. But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night.

He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave. Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state.

Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre:. The answers to this question were various and contradictory.

It would kill me if I saw her too soon. I don't understand. After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig—now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands—to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust.

The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek. Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within.

The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again. Dig—dig—dig—until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave.

The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life—when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.