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She is eating so well and enjoys her food. She chews it so carefully, and I get lots of kisses. We are weaning her off the powdered goat milk. We are making progress at a rapid pace.
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She is eating so well and enjoys her food. She chews it so carefully, and I get lots of kisses. We are weaning her off the powdered goat milk. We are making progress at a rapid pace.

She is eight weeks and one day old today. Four of her siblings died. The foster mom sent us this picture. Isn’t she cute? Then again all puppies are.

In the U.S. and Mexico, Austria and Australia, Switzerland and Pakistan, and in many other countries, in small apartments and suburban villas, on farms, houseboats, and huts, today, on May 10th, many countries celebrate mothers who are doing their jobs.

I married an Irish man—an American whose ancestors came from Ireland. We even have the ship records when his ancestors arrived, but with a last name that’s not so rare, no telling if we have the right records, and nobody really cares. He is Irish, red cheeks and all.

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I wish you all could have seen my face and my smile when I opened your cards. The days before Christmas, when the mail arrived, were extra special, and I can’t thank you all enough.

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My husband passed his stress test and got the cardio clearance for his DOT card, the permission to drive commercial trucks, which he sometimes needs to do when a driver calls off in the morning.

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That’s the only principle I live by, to be unapologetic myself. To be me and to allow myself to be me, even if it makes me feel uncomfortable at times.

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Looking at me, with his white ‘paint mark’ that turned out to be a scar. He was not even three months old when he was left behind in a sink in a maintenance room at an apartment complex.

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“There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.”
Virginia Woolf