REMOVED DUE TO TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES (Please see above post.)

The above rationale needed to be passed on to those few people who read me, and not . Please do the same, if you feel the thinking is valid. I certainly do.

The contest for the eco-friendly, fair-trade bags is over. I will be announcing the winners on tomorrow’s blog, and request locations for the bags to be sent to.

See you then!

I have a paranoid personality (no Mom, it is not entirely your fault, though I am sure you helped develop it). Sometimes when I am lying in bed with the morning light filtering in the window, baby warm at my side, husband snoring to my right, and daughter safely tucked into bed in the room down the hall, I think about dying.

I wonder if my children would feel loved and cared for if I were to die tomorrow. I fight off the huge weight of sorrow that presses down on me at the thought of not seeing them grow up, and I wonder how I can better share my love with them while I am here.

So I have started memory scrapping. It’s not a memory book, cause I suck at keeping track of the exact moment my child ate his or her first peach. It’s not a scrap book, cause it needs to be more than pictures and saved memorabilia. It’s a book of notes and letters, with a few pictures and pieces of memorabilia stuck in.

I have been writing letters to my children when the urge to do so has struck. Some of them contain stories of the things they have done, some simply contain sentiment, and some express my hopes and dreams for their futures.

I purchased some good 12 x 12 scrapbooks and some attractive paper. I stuck the letters in the books. I am leaving plenty of room for more letters. I have post cards, cards, handwritten letters, typed letters, photos, and more.

Marlena has already begun to read some of hers, and she loves to open the book, pick a page, and pluck a letter off of it, to hear some story of her past. She loves reading about the things she did, and loves the nature of the notes.

It is my hope that these letters will tell my children exactly how loved they are, no matter what happens to me.

So there I am, snuggled on the couch nursing the baby, sipping my coffee, watching a little ER, when Oliver sits up and starts to play his baby games.

He is smiling and looking around, playing coy with me and being generally cute. He begins to jump up and down a little, and that is when I hear it.

slish slosh

What is that noise? I look at my son, who smiles at me and begins jumping around in my arms again.

slish slosh

Oh my, is that your tummy?

I place my head closer to his bouncing body, aiming my ear at his tum tum.

slish slosh

Is that milk sloshing around in there?
He smiles at me, bounces again.

slish slosh

It is your tummy! I can hear the milk sloshing around in your little balloon belly! I was so surprised I had to laugh, which of course made him laugh.

Slish slosh, giggle giggle