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	<title>WIRL Project &#187; Family</title>
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	<description>What It&#039;s Really Like.</description>
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		<title>Stronger Because Of It</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/stronger-because-of-it-2/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/stronger-because-of-it-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 16 Nov 2015 12:53:06 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[M. Madamba]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[health]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Juvenile Diabetes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Type I Diabetes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=9982</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[My oldest daughter, MJ, has type I diabetes.  I don&#8217;t write about it frequently although it is very much ingrained in our daily lives, but nowadays life just rolls along without much incident as far as the disease goes. I can&#8217;t figure out how something that drives me nuts multiple times a day and has a good bit of control over some of the function of our days has become sort of ho-hum and mundane. Our journey&#8211;which sounds euphemistic, but nightmare might be a little extreme&#8211;began six years ago. MJ had been symptomatic (unbeknownst to us) for probably about a year. Hindsight is so enlightening. I&#8217;m not a worrier, and she would complain of things that were isolated and seemingly normal or had a reasonable explanation. She would come home from school with a headache, and I would assume she was tired or needed a snack. Other days she would just be moody. Occasionally she would complain about her vision, while sitting 20 feet away from the kitchen counter, chewing her dinner, and telling me she couldn&#8217;t read the microwave clock. (I tried it&#8211;it&#8217;s impossible.) Anyway, the big tell was when she started getting up to use the bathroom EVERY night. Sometimes twice. Sometimes THREE times. We refused water before bed and still she got up. I was still pretty clueless, but my husband&#8217;s spidey senses were tingling. His brother is a type I diabetic diagnosed thirty years ago at the age of four. Type I diabetes is not considered to be hereditary, so we did not immediately jump to that conclusion. And one might think that having someone in the family with it would have given us a leg-up on the recognition factor, but The Sugar is quite a bi-polar animal. Low blood sugar is a serious concern for a lot of type I diabetics and my husband remembers being told what to look for if his little brother got dizzy or looked unwell. He remembers him passing out occasionally. Back then insulin was less reliable and so much less was known about the disease. What we were unknowingly dealing with was the opposite end of the spectrum and not uncommon for undiagnosed type I&#8211;our daughter&#8217;s blood sugar was through the roof. My husband was insistent that something was wrong, but I felt that whatever it was could be dealt with at her annual well-check, scheduled a few weeks from then. I said, &#8220;If you really think there is something wrong, then you call and get her an appointment sooner.&#8221; He did. The appointment was two days away. I was annoyed because that was Trick or Treat night in our town and the appointment was for 2:00 PM, so I had to take her out of school early. We got to our family physician&#8217;s office and went over the symptoms. She asked a lot of questions, drew some blood, and took a urine sample. Then we waited and waited and waited. For about 45 minutes. I was not thrilled about the wait and was starting to get anxious. What could be taking so long? Never in a million years would I have guessed that the doctor would come back in the room and say, &#8220;I suspect your daughter has type I diabetes.&#8221; The Sugar. My immediate thought was that we were going to get a pamphlet, go home, and come back in a few days for a follow-up visit. I had no idea. I think it took some time for the shock to wear off. Neither of us started crying until we were in the car on the way to the emergency room. Driving to a big hospital and an even bigger Unkown. It was probably a blessing we found out that day. If we had taken her trick-or-treating and then let her have one or two pieces of candy&#8211;our usual MO&#8211;she could have gone into a diabetic ketoacidosis. This is a serious condition that occurs when the body breaks down fat&#8211;as opposed to glucose&#8211;for energy. This is what makes extreme low-carb diets work. Breaking down fat produces ketones which, in large amounts, are poisonous to the body. This is what makes those diets potentially dangerous. Her blood sugar had been so high for so long that there is no telling what would have pushed her over the edge from functional to something life-threatening. Normal blood sugar should range between 70 and 100. Hers was over 500. In addition to the extreme thirst and blurry vision that MJ experienced, high blood sugar (hyperglycemia), can cause mental confusion. They tested her blood glucose level several times at the emergency room because they couldn&#8217;t believe she wasn&#8217;t acting loopy or having any issues functioning relatively normally. She is pretty tall for her age but was thinner than she should have been at the time since she hadn&#8217;t put much weight on the previous year due to her body burning fat for energy. The doctors surmised that her body had learned to adjust to its prolonged hyperglycemic state. We stayed in the ER for a few hours before being admitted. One thing the hospital was pretty good about was making sure that you were comfortable with the day-to-day care before they sent you home. In other words:  we were in for a few days, at least. I think spent less time learning how to care for her when she was a newborn&#8211;when I had less experience and more to do. Right away my husband and I agreed that we wanted MJ to try giving herself the insulin injection and that we would proceed based on her willingness or ability to do so. With some practice on a teddy bear designed specifically for that purpose, she mastered it. We were hugely proud of her. If someone had told me one of my children was going to be diagnosed with an incurable disease I would not have pegged her as one to take it so well, but she did. For all this disease can take away, it seemed to give her a certain confidence she never had before. It&#8217;s basically a big numbers game, but the numbers change constantly, so you can&#8217;t just skate by at any given meal. You have to do the math every time. It&#8217;s hard to get comfortable with things when you are measuring food, researching food and administering life-saving medication to your child. And that&#8217;s not a bad thing. But somewhere along the road things do get comfortable. You learn a lot, and then you learn some more, and a lot of things start to become commonplace in your life. Carb counts, test strips, ketones, syringes. It&#8217;s been six years this fall and things are not much different. We constantly assess how she is doing; we adjust things as necessary. We see the pediatric endocrinologist every three months. It is the ho-hum and the mundane. It is simply &#8220;Life As We Know It.&#8221; I occasionally wonder if we are too relaxed about it, but the alternative is living in fear, and I don&#8217;t think that is healthy. Could serious things happen with her diabetes? Absolutely. Do I want her in a constant state of worry about every detail of every activity and every bite of food? Absolutely not. Several years ago MJ wrote an autobiographical essay for school. She wrote about her family, places she had lived, things she liked to do, what she wanted to be when she grew up. She never mentioned her diabetes. I was a little surprised, since we deal with it constantly, but then I realized: as ubiquitous as it is in her life, it does not define her. She is not it, but she is stronger because of it. &#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8211; This is a guest post from Melanie Madamba from The Not So Super Mom. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.]]></description>
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		</item>
		<item>
		<title>M: Memory &#8211; What It&#8217;s Really Like</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/m-memory-what-its-really-like/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/m-memory-what-its-really-like/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 21 Sep 2015 07:30:07 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Brody]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Food/Drink]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Home/Garden]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ABCs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Authentic]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Concussions]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Experience]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Food]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Grandparents]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Memory]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Prized Possessions]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Roses in December]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Senses]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Short Term Memory]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=8842</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This post is part of a series titled, “A-B-Cs – What It’s Really Like”. Each week a new letter and its word will be revealed. Each word’s explanation will illustrate significant personal meaning, application and ultimately demonstrate, What It’s Really Like…  “God gave us our memories so we might have roses in December” You would be surprised how much you can pick up while dining on a ham and cheese sandwich, three bread and butter pickles and a can of 7up. You might even be shocked what you may learn on a Friday at noon while sitting around consuming a weekly traditional Friday McDonald’s Fish Filet. You would certainly be astonished to discover what can be absorbed while sitting around the dining room table after a Sunday family dinner over coffee and a piece of pie. Most of the memories in my life are not shrines to individual occurrences but a museum of eclectic experiences that draw on meaningful connections meriting reservation deep in the vault of my mind. These collections are deeply enriched with attributes of all the senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, touch – the more of the senses that are involved with a meaningful experience, the clearer the memory. For me, emotion is the X-factor in my personal memory because in recalling a vivid memory I can likely tell you how I felt in that exact moment. Food plays an important role in memory for me personally. Most of the meaningful education that I would ever receive was not obtained in a classroom, on an athletic field, or on the job, but around the dinner table. This is where I learned to communicate, manners and respect and about my family’s heritage. It was here that I also learned the art of storytelling and to appreciate the craft of an authentic, genuine narrative. Maybe that is why I became a history teacher. Some of my most fond memories were of the chronicles, sidetracks and matter-of-facts that my grandparents would tell during and after a Sunday family dinner. Most often we would take turns exchanging material on a topic only soon to be lost in a distant memory of “who is he/she related to” and “how do we know this person so-and-so and to whom is he/she related”. This traditionally would go on for hours leaving me glued to the finish of our dining room chairs and convinced that my grandparents knew every single person on the face of the earth. Many of those stories are now lost upon me either because I could not follow the viney scaffolds and extensions of our family tree or because it has been replaced in my mind with something far less meaningful, for which I am ashamed to admit. One of my most prized possessions is my memory. One of my biggest fears is losing this possession. I often get after my wife because I believe that we do not take enough pictures of our family and experiences. A memory I will never forget is from the 6th grade. Our teacher chose to do a class service project for senior citizens in a local assisted living home. I was so excited when I learned that it was the same home that my great-grandmother was in. Each member of the class was to be assigned to one member of the home and to create a greeting card to deliver on a visit during the late fall. I made sure that my great-grandmother would be receiving my card during our class visit. My great-grandmother had been placed in assisted living because she was suffering from severe Alzheimer’s disease. Periodically, I would ride along with my grandfather to visit her. At a very young age I saw her on very good days and very bad days. I remember how scared and horrible I felt when she did not recognize my grandpa. During my excited preparation for the delivery of my greeting card to my great-grandmother, my mother cautioned me that she may not recognize me on the day of our class visit. I shrugged it off and had a strong feeling that she would be having a good day when I would stop by. On the day of our class visit the senior home I could hardly contain my excitement. I was the only one in my class who had a relative staying here and I of course let everyone know that I was going to see my great-grandmother that day. To help out, my grandpa let me tag along on a visit a few weeks before to potentially help increase the odds that she would recognize me. He never told me that, but I knew what that visit was all about.  When I arrived I spoke softly and clearly. I introduced myself and handed her my card.  After she read the card she thanked me.  I wanted to make sure she recognized me. I reintroduced myself by stating my name and that I was her great-grandson.  She replied, “Oh yes, you are Rhoda’s son.” I was elated! I couldn’t believe that she remembered!  Looking back to that visit I believe I had five good minutes with her. It was just long enough to feel confident to safely give her a hug and a kiss and introduce her to my best friends. Quickly, I would transform from family member to complete stranger. By the end of the visit she had no idea who I was. As I walked back to the school bus I did everything that I could to hold back my tears. I grew up a lot that day. Even as painful as that experience was I learned a lot from what memory can and cannot be.  Over my lifetime I have developed an innate ability to remember. I had a best friend in high school that told everyone that he didn’t need to remember anything because I would remember it for him. In high school I was a walking Rolodex, telephone book, sports encyclopedia and jukebox. I could tell you when, where, stats, lyrics and just about anyone’s telephone number (pre-cell phones, folks). I suffered several head injuries before I was the age of eighteen. With all of today’s neurological studies on the brain, most notably in contact sports, I would have likely been disallowed from playing high school football if these findings had existed then. One of the worst concussions I ever experienced was in 4th grade where a sled riding accident left me not knowing who I was for nearly 48 hours.  Several other minor sports related concussions would follow. Around the time I was a sophomore in college I started to notice that I was losing my short term memory at a very rapid rate. I was not sharp and I grew increasingly frustrated that I had become extremely forgetful virtually overnight. I feared that the consequences of too many concussions had caught up with me. I was scared to see a doctor, flashing back to thoughts of my great-grandmother and what a life without memory was like. I decided that rather than seek medical attention that I would try to retrain myself to remember day-to-day activities. I bought myself a bunch of post-its and began to write down various to-do lists for tasks that I had coming up that day, week, the following week and the month. Each day I reviewed the post-its (some days several times) and soon I retrained myself to remember short-term. Still do this day I have to write things down. I am convinced it is not because I need it, but simply good sound organizational practice to be thorough and reliable. My biggest fear is that at some point in my life I will have absorbed so much meaningless information that it will begin prioritizing space in my brain; much like a computer hard drive or the dwindling memory of a base model iPhone. What to store and what to delete? Do I/Will I have control over that? In education, we teach students that the brain is a muscle that must be exercised or it will atrophy. If you do not use your brain power you will lose it. How can you possibly exercise the brain enough to possibly maintain all that it possesses? My brother gifted all of the groomsmen in his wedding with a leather bound journal with each member’s name engraved on the clasp. He requested that we use the journal to record out greatest life experiences. Although I do not write in the journal daily, I have committed myself to recording my greatest experiences in order to answer the question I posed at the end of the previous paragraph. Hopefully this will allow me to take back my cognitive capacity, rid myself of the cobwebs and render myself less of a victim when it comes to degenerating memories. It is my hope that I can always remember the lessons I learned over lunch with my grandparents so that I can share them with my own grandchildren. Even the lesson on how to shoot the paper off of the straw while sitting at the table (thanks, GMa!). After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste. “Nothing is a waste that makes a memory”]]></description>
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		</item>
		<item>
		<title>There&#8217;s No Place Like Home</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/theres-no-place-like-home/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/theres-no-place-like-home/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Aug 2015 09:00:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Kassidy Everard]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Home]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[New York]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[No Place Like Home]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[North Carolina]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[travel]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=8241</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[As my time to leave New York quickly approaches, I prepare for the tears and overwhelming emotions that I know are about to take control of my mind and flow silently into my heart. Each year I am blessed to have a family who supports me in most of my decisions, who encourages me to be successful, and who loves me unconditionally. There are truly some people I could never go without thanking enough for giving me a path to follow that is all mine. Being in New York with my family is an entirely different experience every year. I go different places, I see new things, and most of all I appreciate what I have around me more. I spend time with those I love, who I know love me just the same. I build a new foundation every summer. A new place to call home. But at the end of every summer my &#8220;home&#8221; is broken down, as I am sent back dragging myself along to North Carolina. Although NC is where I have been raised since I was 7 months old, I can&#8217;t help but think that it&#8217;ll never be my home. The constant downpour of love and support comes from a very few bunch of people, but it&#8217;s those people that allow me to grow as a person without worry or struggle. It&#8217;s the time I spend here that shows me what makes a house into a home. Money doesn&#8217;t matter. If someone is struggling, you probably won&#8217;t ever know. Family is family, and they help when and if they can. The beautiful scenery and the fresh air remind me all too well of a place I&#8217;ve made up in my head called home. For a foundation like this I owe thanks to my mother. Had it not been for her moving me away from NY I wouldn&#8217;t have a foundation this solid in this beautiful state. Instead it would&#8217;ve been like everyone else here that see each other day in and day out. Eventually I would get in a routine and that routine would turn into a habit and that habit would eventually grow old. NC is a habit that has grown old. Somewhat of a disease I can&#8217;t get rid of. Had I grown up in NY, I would see a whole different disease right at my finger tips&#8230;. the addiction of a warm heart. Never once have I experienced multiple people excited to see me and welcome me into their home&#8230; not worried and unquestioning about anything in my past. In any family there are ones who try to bring you down, but the ones that lift me up are irreplaceable and rarely found. If this wasn&#8217;t home to me and this wasn&#8217;t my Utopia, then I&#8217;d probably never visit at all. NY may not be London,  Paris,  Mexico, Brazil, or Italy, but it doesn&#8217;t have to be big and fancy to make me feel like this is where I belong. Leaving a select few in this family is one of the hardest, most heart breaking things I face each year. In the few days before I leave I wake up hoping time stood still throughout the night just to make my time last longer. The biggest problem with all of this is that this isn&#8217;t where I will end up. The even bigger problem is that this isn&#8217;t where I&#8217;ll have my children grow up and as cheesey as it may sound, I have followed the yellow brick road each year and it has never failed to lead me home. A piece of my heart is left behind but that piece is meant to stay. This is my home&#8230;.. and sadly I let myself leave each year, telling myself I&#8217;ll be fine without it all&#8230;. but I never am. I wait all year for this&#8230;..  and my heart is split in places my arms just cannot stretch. So as I say goodbye to my life in NY, I remember that good things can&#8217;t all come at once&#8230;.. and that one day, the place I am meant to be will drag me to it. And if the tears don&#8217;t flow when I leave, I know I haven&#8217;t left a piece of my heart, letting me know it isn&#8217;t home&#8230;. &#38; that I need a new place to start. After all, there is no place like home.]]></description>
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		</item>
		<item>
		<title>F: Faith &#8211; What It&#8217;s Really Like</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/f-faith-what-its-really-like/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/f-faith-what-its-really-like/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 27 Jul 2015 14:00:01 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Brody]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ABCs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Belief]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Brother]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Cancer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Differences]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Faith]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Faith is Funny]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Inward]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Mother]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Outward]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Personal Faith]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Prayer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Siblings]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=7895</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This post is part of a series titled, “A-B-Cs – What It’s Really Like”. Each week a new letter and its word will be revealed. Each word’s explanation will illustrate significant personal meaning, application and ultimately demonstrate, What It’s Really Like…  Faith is funny. It is presumed that all of us believe in something bigger than ourselves. Peace, love, religion, science, etc. Harmony for all humans, love will prevail/conquer all, trust in the power of the supernatural or higher being, or simply having faith that the sun will come up tomorrow. Out of all the words that I have chosen for this project Faith may be the most difficult to “own”. Maybe it is because I am still learning how to take ownership of it. It has been nearly one month since my mother was diagnosed with Stage-4 Lymphatic cancer. Unofficially to date, this will be her third major encounter with the disease. I learned of the diagnosis late on a Friday night. She would immediately begin an intensive 6-month round of chemotherapy the following Tuesday. Our family’s world, just as in 2005, would be rocked again. In the fall of 2005 my parents would reveal to my brother and I that my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The announcement came only a short time before she would undergo a major surgical procedure to help combat her condition. Fortunately my brother and I were attending the same college just 35 miles from our home. We would be there to do whatever possible to ensure the health and healing for our mother during this time. Either out of frustration or fear both of us became angry with my parents after the initial numbness of the announcement subsided. Why did they wait so long to tell us? What good could have come out of holding this news close to the vest? Why were we not included in the updates while the testing process was playing out? We wanted to know why we were being protected like children and not treated as the adults we were. As the elder brother, I became the spokesperson to vent our grievances toward my parents for not disclosing this news beforehand and the virtual blindside of the situation. My father calmly explained that they wanted to be absolutely sure before letting us know (a wise order of operations that I would not understand until many years later with all of the tests and close calls we have endured over the last decade). At the time I felt the explanation was unacceptable and I made both of my parents to swear that they would never withhold any critical information from us again. I finished my proclamation by scolding my mother pleading, “Why wouldn’t you tell us? Don’t you think people may want to pray for you?” Faith is something that I keep very personal. I recall asking my mom when I was a teenager why we discontinued attending church. She said that our involvement in sports and other activities during the week (often on Sundays) made it difficult to stay on top of tasks around the house and attend church regularly. While she acknowledged that it was a poor excuse, our regular attendance would dwindle to part-time to eventually not at all. I also asked her if our absenteeism bothered her. She told me something that I will never forget. She said that even though it bothered her that we no longer attended church, it did not change her relationship with God. “Everyone is different.  Everyone has a different measure of faith.  As long as you have a chat with him (God) once in a while and know that he is always there, I think that is what matters most.” At closer look, much of my faith is deeply internalized likely due to this lesson from my mother. Many readers may have already clicked to another page because they assumed I would continue plugging religion, making for an uncomfortable read. I understand and I am no different. I get extremely uncomfortable when I see continuous expression from individuals on subjects of politics or religion. I believe you are entitled to your opinion, but prefer you keep most of it to yourself. I internalize most of my opinions on these subjects out of respect for others. So much so that it wasn’t until over the course of the past year that I have become comfortable praying in front of my wife. Faith is one element that I have never allowed to become outward and public. Fast forward to 2015 less than 24 hours after learning my mother’s diagnosis… During a break from yard work I began a rare, aimless flip through Facebook to discover that a well-connected colleague of my brother’s had announced my mother’s diagnosis and asked for prayers via a status update. While I appreciated the sentiment of the announcement, I quickly began to boil over in anger. I waited about a 30 minutes before shooting off a text message to my brother, hoping that he would acknowledge what I believed to be a mistake. My thoughts: To this point, I have not heard directly from my parents. My brother filled me in on the diagnosis the night before. Surely they had not notified the family yet. How awful would it be for a family member to learn of my mother’s condition via Facebook? I explained in the text to my brother that while I appreciated the gesture, I did not think the timing was appropriate. In the 15 minutes I waited for a response I convinced myself that my brother would apologize for the mistake and call my mother right away to set it straight. What I would receive in a reply was completely the opposite. For nearly an hour my brother and I went back and forth via text messages about our positions regarding this serious announcement. I claimed that it was a private issue that should be shared with the family and that mom could decide whether or not the information should be shared with the public. My brother countered with chastising me for not giving more credit toward those who were trying to call on faith and the power of prayer to help lift up my mother during this time. We stopped the exchange after we discovered that we were at a complete impasse. During our conversation I challenged my brother to reach out to our mom to guarantee that it was appropriate for this information to be made public without her approval. Once again, I was shocked find what followed. At just a few minutes before midnight, 24 hours after I learned of the diagnosis, an email hit my inbox just as I was getting into bed. It was from my mother to the rest of my immediate family. In the email she apologized for the relay of information and explained why she authorized it to be delivered this way. She cited a moment back in 2005 recalling when her young son Brody said, “Don&#8217;t you think people may want to pray for you?!” I nearly dropped my phone when I read the sentence. Up until that point I did not recall saying those words. The same action I had demanded in the past had been granted to me and I did not like the results. Almost instantaneously I realized that it was not my call and I was in the wrong. This was about her. She went on to parallel some of my brother’s statements from our text message fight: a prayer army is better than a prayer group. I have not publicly shared about my mother’s condition until now. My brother and others have shared her situation with others on social media asking for prayers of hope, strength and faith. After thousands of likes and hundreds of comments I am beginning to realize that this is something I can’t take on in my own small group. Faith is funny. It can be inward or outward. I prefer to be inward. Together it can be extremely powerful. You may ask &#8211; if you are so inward, why are you sharing all of this personal information? The answer is that I am still learning to own my faith beyond something bigger than myself. WORRY STOPS WHERE FAITH BEGINS. – GMa’s Journal &#160;]]></description>
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		<title>D: Dreams &#8211; What It&#8217;s Really Like</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/d-dreams-what-its-really-like/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/d-dreams-what-its-really-like/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 13 Jul 2015 07:30:58 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Brody]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[News/Sports]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Work/Money]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ABCs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Big Shot]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[dreams]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Game Winner]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Goals]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Hero]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[My Team]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Personal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[WE WIN]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=7551</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This post is part of a series titled, “A-B-Cs – What It’s Really Like”. Each week a new letter and its word will be revealed. Each word’s explanation will illustrate significant personal meaning, application and ultimately demonstrate, What It’s Really Like…  “Most of us spend a lot of time dreaming of the future, never realizing a little arrives each day.” We’ve all played out the hero scenario in the driveway, at the gym, or in the office cubicle: You’re down one with the ball in your hand. The countdown begins…3…step back…2…turn…1…fire…BUZZER…bottom of the cylinder…GAME WINNER. When I was growing up, I played out this exact same scenario well over 10,000 times shooting hoops in my driveway or at a plastic hoop hanging off of my bedroom door. Multiply that by the countless number of times I fictitiously led a game-winning drive with 2:00 minutes to go in a football game or hit a walk-off homerun with a full-count and two outs in the bottom of the 9th inning.  Back in those days dreams were big and confidence was immeasurable. In those pressure packed situations I was undefeated and always the hero. Earlier this year I hit a milestone birthday. For the life of me, I cannot remember the last time I hit a wastebasket jumper to win the game. Athletics has not been the central focus of my life for some time. After high school, sports quickly evolved into “desk sports” (sports fandom, fantasy leagues and wastebasket hoops). Eventually even these acts become downgraded priorities to other responsibilities. Soon you begin losing track of your dreams and the last time you took a big shot. Did time run out? Did I pass? Did I just stop shooting? Or on the flip-side, did all of my dreams come true? One difficulty in life is dealing with and realizing when dreams change. An extremely difficult lesson for me to learn as a boyfriend turned newlywed was dealing with changing dreams. Instead of individually striving and stopping at nothing to achieve personal life goals I had to learn how to help lift up my wife to reach hers. I will admit that both of our independent mindsets drove us apart a few times before we were married. What took me so long to realize was that my family was my new team.  When we dream together WE WIN. We root for each other. We support each other. We live through each other. When you fall asleep at night, where do you go? Where does your mind take you? Are you alone or are you with your team? I’m at home, surrounded by my family and friends in a familiar environment. I am free of the burdens of finances, geographical distance and work. My team is smiling and I am happy. When I take a moment to think about how my dreams have changed I do not believe that I have stopped shooting, I am just letting some of my other teammates take a few of the final shots.]]></description>
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		<title>Thoughts on &#8220;The Scissors&#8221;</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/thoughts-on-the-scissors/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/thoughts-on-the-scissors/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 09 Jul 2015 17:00:08 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Alessandra Macaluso]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Big Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[boy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Children]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Complete]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Complete Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Crazy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fun]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Girl]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kids]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Mistake]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Multiples]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Pregnant]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scissors]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Second Child]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Snip]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Surgery]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Vasectomy]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=7567</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[It wasn&#8217;t until I was in my twenties, that I learned I was a mistake. I was sitting at my parent&#8217;s dinner table. We were just chit-chatting about life, school, and other, you know, normal, non-life-altering conversations that could make you re-think your entire being, when it casually came out. &#8220;A mistake?&#8221; I said. My dad looked at me like I had ten heads. Then, in his thick Italian accent, and very matter-of-factly, he said: &#8220;Well, we had-a four boys. Then, we finally had your sister &#8211; our girl!&#8221; He paused, put his hand on mine, looked right into my eyes and said: &#8220;Why de fack would we want another one?!&#8221; I stared at him blankly, wide-eyed and slow-blinking. My mother piped up, in her strong New York accent: &#8220;But we&#8217;re so glad you&#8217;re HEA!&#8221; Umm, what &#8220;de fack&#8221; just happened?! Anyway, I&#8217;m thinking of this a lot today because I am 18 weeks pregnant, and yesterday was the day we found out what&#8217;s cooking. Turns out, it&#8217;s a BOY!! One of the first things people have said to us over the last 24 hours after hearing the news is &#8220;Yay, now Greg can go get snipped!!!&#8221; I think this is funny, and totally get why people say that &#8211; it makes sense that someone would want a boy and a girl. Maybe we never looked at it like that because I am the youngest of six children; 4 boys, then my sister, then me. My husband is one of four children; an older brother, a twin brother, and a younger sister. So I guess our parents kind of took the concept of a &#8220;complete&#8221; family and ran with it. And this extends beyond our parents; one aunt and uncle had six kids, and another had four. There were so many first cousins running around on any given family party that I don&#8217;t even know how anyone kept track. Our families didn&#8217;t have babies, they had litters. In our case, our choice to have another baby was not a mistake; we knew we were ready to grow our family. Truth be told, Greg actually wanted another girl, and we both really were convinced that a girl it would be. It&#8217;s not that he has anything against boys, it&#8217;s just that he is a little worried about what kind of boy he would produce. Him and his brothers were off the walls growing up, so he is a bit terrified. But it doesn&#8217;t matter &#8211; we&#8217;re having a boy! A little boy!! So yes, one and one. For now. Because we never even talked about, you know, the snipping. I mean, what if we&#8217;re not done yet? What if, after another year or two, I&#8217;m not ready to hang up the &#8216;CLOSED&#8217; sign? What if our upbringings get the best of us and one day, after I finally begin to feel like myself again, and the two miraculously are sleeping and eating and on manageable schedules, I drink too much cheap wine, go bat-shit crazy and decide I still want to birth a litter under the stairs? THESE ARE THE THINGS I JUST DON&#8217;T KNOW YET. I have no idea if that will be the case, or if it would even be possible. Maybe two is our magic number. I do know that, after having Penelope, as much as I love her, there were moments where I couldn&#8217;t even imagine entertaining the idea of having a second child in the first place because WHAT WAS I TAKING CRAZY PILLS?! I thought of women who had multiples and was in awe. I still am. Because babies are a lot of work. I mean, I knew it, but you don&#8217;t reeeeeeally know the ins and outs, the messy, tired, repetitive, taxing parts of it until your little one is here. Of course, you made the decision to have a child. Of course, you are going to do your best to take care of this tiny human with a fierce kind of love and determination you never had before, the kind that trumps getting poop on your finger, spit-up in your hair, and makes you constantly second-guess if you are even doing this right, for crying out loud. My mother had all six children within eight years. That&#8217;s not a typo. Let&#8217;s just say it &#8211; she is a special kind of crazy. I often ask her, &#8220;What were you thinking?&#8221; and each time, she shrugs her shoulders and her response is always the same: &#8220;I wasn&#8217;t!&#8221; When I ask her how the heck she handled all of us, she just says that she still has no idea, and that you just do it, you don&#8217;t have time to think about it. My aunt Angela had an entirely different response than the norm when I shared the news. Instead of reaching for the scissors, she said: &#8220;Yay! Then next time, whatever it is will be a sibling of the same for him or her!&#8221; Wait &#8211; what? Next time?! &#8220;We&#8217;ll see how two goes first,&#8221; I said, &#8220;I don&#8217;t know how you guys did it!&#8221; But she gave me the best response. She said: &#8220;All I can say is, if you like it, it works, no matter how many there are. Don&#8217;t think of it as work, it was a lot fun. Nothing is like a house full of little kiddies. I would have had two more.&#8221; At this point, I&#8217;m just thankful for happy and healthy. I feel so content with Penelope, and all I can think about is watching this tough little cookie give her little brother a run for his money. This, to me, right now, feels complete, but we will see what the future holds. My point in this little rant in which we run to put the scissors away, is this: a &#8220;complete&#8221; family is exactly what that is &#8211; to you. Maybe it&#8217;s a boy and a girl. Maybe it&#8217;s two little girls, or two little boys. Maybe it&#8217;s one child. Maybe it&#8217;s ten. Maybe it&#8217;s none. Maybe it&#8217;s you and your husband, maybe it&#8217;s you, your wife, and two dogs; maybe it&#8217;s you and your non-wedded partner for life; maybe it&#8217;s the two of you, your pet iguana named Fred, and a boat. Maybe it&#8217;s simply, beautifully, YOU, living your life to its fullest and doing just fine, thankyouverymuch. &#8220;I would have had two more. Don&#8217;t think of it as work, it was a lot of fun.&#8221; I&#8217;m raising my non-alcoholic beverage to you, putting the scissors in the drawer, and saying that, no matter what your situation, let&#8217;s make it fun. &#160; This post was originally published by Alessandra Macaluso on Punkwife.com. ]]></description>
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		<title>I Chose to Love</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/i-chose-to-love/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/i-chose-to-love/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 30 Jun 2015 08:00:20 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Heather]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Confess]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[constitution]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Friends]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gay]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gay Marriage]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Homosexual]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Marriage]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Rights]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Same-Sex Marriage]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Secret]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Supreme Court]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=7290</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This past Friday was a huge day. In case you&#8217;ve been without any sort of contact to the outside world, on June 25, 2015, the Supreme Court ruled that the constitution guarantees a right to same-sex marriage. “No longer may this liberty be denied,” Justice Anthony M. Kennedy wrote for the majority in the historic decision. “No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were.” Marriage is a “keystone of our social order,” Justice Kennedy said, adding that the plaintiffs in the case were seeking “equal dignity in the eyes of the law.” I have to admit, when I woke up on Friday in my hotel room in Detroit (I was away for a Direct Sales event) I immediately had tears streaming down my face when I read the news. FINALLY!  Friday&#8217;s ruling made my heart happy. Why? That&#8217;s easy, because I choose love. I chose to love when I was in college and a close friend opened up and told me that she was in a relationship with another female. She was the first person that I knew personally that was out. I remember the look in her eyes, the fear that I would turn my back on her when she announced her secret. I remember her telling me how it hurt when she heard other friends talk about gays. I remember her telling me &#8220;I didn&#8217;t fall in love with a gender, I fell in love with a person, with someone&#8217;s heart. Love does not have a gender&#8221; Wow. I knew from that day, that I was an ally, an advocate of love. Straight love. Homosexual love. Genderless love. Just Love.  I chose to love when I sat with another friend while she came out to her parents. I held her hair back when she was so worried about what the conversation was going to be like that she physically made herself sick worrying about it. I remember closing my eyes and wishing that I wasn&#8217;t hearing the words correctly that were coming out of her parents&#8217; mouths. The words of disapproval, ignorance, and hate. I held her as she broke down after the conversation and we spent the night watching Super Troopers and Napoleon Dynamite hoping that laughter would help erase the previous hours. I chose to love when another friend came out and after a year of harassment and hate couldn&#8217;t take it anymore and took his own life. He was only 22 and the words and actions of others over something they thought he &#8220;decided to become&#8221; could not be pushed out of his mind. I chose to love when a friend from my hometown expressed how much he needed to move to a town with more acceptance. So he packed up everything that he owned and with a close friend moved west, where he felt more free to be who he was. I chose to love when a relative brought his boyfriend to Christmas dinner this year and quietly introduced him as &#8220;a friend&#8221;, it was his quiet way of coming out to those of us that picked up on it. After a late night Facebook conversation with me assuring him that it did not change my opinion of him, he admitted how fearful he was that it would change how others in the family looked at him. It broke my heart that night&#8230; not because a relative was gay, but because he was so afraid that those that love him would change their minds once they found out who he loved.  I chose to love when I watched the documentary &#8220;Bridegroom&#8221; and bawled during 95% of it. (It&#8217;s on Netflix if you haven&#8217;t watched it.) I cannot imagine having to fight to see my husband in the hospital or to not be able to have a say in his funeral if something happened. I cannot imagine not having basic rights as a spouse. I do not expect everyone to believe the same things that I do. However, I do expect others to understand that everyone should have the same rights. September 10, 2011 (yes, 9/10/11) was an amazing day. It was the day that my husband and I got married. We were able to stand in front of our friends and our family and declare our love. We didn&#8217;t have to worry if our marriage wouldn&#8217;t be accepted or honored if we left the state. For the longest time, I couldn&#8217;t imagine my friends and family not having that same right to share their love with those that they care most about. And now, because our country chose to love&#8230; I don&#8217;t have to imagine that anymore. &#160;]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Should Coulda Woulda</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/should-coulda-woulda/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/should-coulda-woulda/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 19 Jun 2015 08:30:22 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Anne Bardsley]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life/Leisure]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[AIDS]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Brother]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Death]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Die]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Friend]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Friendship]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Heaven]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Hell]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Journey]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Life]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Pray]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sign]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Spirit]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=7123</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[“Dr. Mort, report to emergency. Dr. Mort, report to emergency STAT.” The operator’s nasal voice roared in my head as the odor of disinfectants crawled up my nostrils. It was suffocating. The “Bing” of the elevator was a welcome relief from the chaos in the hall and in my mind. One by one, floor by floor, they crammed me further into to the back. An intern with huge, dark circles under his eyes, played with his stethoscope to avoid my eyes. No words were meant to be spoken in this sterile place. The arrow pointed up to heaven, as we approached the fifteenth floor, yet my heart knew we were headed toward hell. I adjusted my sunglasses to shield my eyes and especially my heart. The heavy metal doors screeched open. My wobbly knee headed toward room 1512. The bright linoleum corridor ran the length of a football field.  At the twenty yard line, I passed a young man gripping his side rails of his bed. An older woman spoon fed him as tears streamed down her face. At the forty yard line, a man stared into space, hooked up to bottles that drip..drip…dripped life into his veins. His dark, glazed eyes stared past me. At the sixty yard line my heart sympathized with a running back. I couldn’t catch my breath. My clammy fingers reached for the already damp tissues in my pocket. I closed my eyes refusing to believe that my friend Tom’s room was approaching at the eighty yard line. There would be no touchdown today. I’d blocked out the four letters, AIDS. I prayed this was just a nightmare. Any minute I’d wake up and my friend would be his old self. Surely the blood test was mistaken. The doctors were wrong! Even now as the wall supported me, my heart tried to follow this path of denial. I pushed my sunglasses back into place and blinked my eyes toward the ceiling to keep the tears at bay. I met Tom five years prior to him getting sick. He was a business associate and we quickly became friends. My husband and I were very fond of him. I used to joke that if I could pick a brother, I would pick him. He would make a perfect uncle for our kids. His job as a sales rep was to convince us to sell more products. He did so by complaining that if we didn’t increase our sales, he’d be forced to replace his blazing red BMW with an olive green, used truck for his sales calls.  He would grimace and tug on the collar of his Polo shirt looking like a forlorn kid. “Come on, Anne. Please, I can’t drive a truck” he stuttered, like truck was a dirty word. My husband, Scott, suggested he get mag wheels. “You’d be great driving a nice truck.” Tom broke into one of his award winning laughs.  He was twenty- five then. He had it all: charm, a great sense of humor, self- confidence. He was tall with sun bleached streaks in his brown hair, tan and had the world in his hands. &#160; As I reached room 1512, I lifted my sunglasses, but closed my eyes and prayed. “Dear God, don’t let this be true.” Gently I pushed the door open. His eyes were so sunken that his eyebrows looked like caterpillars. He was sound asleep. His once trim body was a bag of bones. Little sticks poked out of the covers making his feet look gigantic in comparison. A thunder storm raged in my chest. I gulped for air. He opened his eyes and smiled. “Hey stranger,” he said softly as we hugged hello. And then the damn burst without warning. Tears rolled down my face. “It’s alright,” he lied to me, patting my back.  His backbones felt so fragile, I was afraid I’d squeeze him to death. “You’re my only visitor,” he said quietly. His family lived states away. His eyes, once full of spark, were dull and tired as he stared out the window. “I’m going home to my parent’s house. My mom is going to keep my dog. He’ll have a good home. But who will drive my beamer?” he grinned. He gulped when he asked, “Who will watch over my mom after I’m gone? I’m her favorite.” My heart was so heavy that he would be leaving this world so soon. I told him, “Tom, if I could ever choose a brother, I would pick you. I can’t imagine a better brother for me.” He laughed. Already I was missing my “pick a brother” choice. Hours later, we hugged farewell and we vowed to keep in touch. I promised to write him funny letters to cheer him up. Emotions and words were circling in my head. My heart was breaking. I wanted to ask him to send me a sign that he’d made it to heaven. Just the thought brought a sting to my eyes and the firing range blasted my heart. “No tears, No tears,” he insisted, raising his skinny arms in protest. His haggard face turned toward away to avoid my eyes.  He rubbed his chin nervously. Without tears, I couldn’t say, “I’m going to miss you. You are a kindred spirit and I’m glad our paths crossed. I wish you a sweet and painless journey. I hope the angels escort you on gentle wing, so swift that it feels smoother than a ride in your BMW&#8230;Only the best for you!” The words lodged in my throat. I wanted to tell him. I really did, but I put on my darkest shades and walked out the door.]]></description>
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		<title>The A-B-Cs &#8211; What It&#8217;s Really Like</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/the-a-b-cs-what-its-really-like/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/the-a-b-cs-what-its-really-like/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 15 Jun 2015 08:30:22 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Brody]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[Personal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Show and Tell Series]]></category>
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		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=6906</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This is the introduction of a series of posts titled, &#8220;A-B-Cs &#8211; What It&#8217;s Really Like&#8221;.  Each week a new word will be revealed. Each word&#8217;s explanation will illustrate significant personal meaning, application and ultimately demonstrate, What It&#8217;s Really Like&#8230;   This week at preschool &#8216;T&#8217; was the letter of the week. Each Friday my son is asked to bring an object from home for show-and-tell that begins with the letter of the week. After about six weeks of this process little B has taken over full responsibility of this task. My wife and I are thankful for this because we usually remember to grab the object on Friday morning right when we are walking out of the door. This week my son chose one of his trains to represent the letter &#8216;T&#8217;. Friday afternoon while he was wildly explaining his full day at summer preschool, I wondered what I would have chosen for show-and-tell. It quickly dawned on me that I had seen something like this before and then I remembered a book my grandmother had purchased for me several years ago. The book is titled, &#8220;Beyond Basketball&#8221; written by Hall of Fame college basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski. The book, which is only 171 pages in length, is 40 short essays centered on an important keyword and illustrated with anecdotes from his personal experiences. Coach K chooses a keyword or several keywords from each letter in the alphabet. Each word is then defined through a personal experience (on and off the court) and its application is described. Recalling this book made me realize that this was the adult version of show-and-tell. Beyond that, it gave me an idea for a contribution to the WIRL Project. &#8220;Everyone should be able to write a book like this, illustrating the words that are important to who we are using stories from our own lives.&#8221; &#8211; Coach Mike Krzyzewski, Beyond Basketball Over the next 20+ weeks I plan on choosing one word for each letter in the alphabet to essentially &#8220;show-and-tell&#8221; the meaning of each word and illustrate its function in my life. My hope is through doing this you will also join me in reflecting and sharing your own words that apply to your life to show What It&#8217;s Really Like.]]></description>
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		<title>What It&#8217;s Really Like to Meet and Marry a Single Parent</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/what-its-really-like-to-meet-and-marry-a-single-parent/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/what-its-really-like-to-meet-and-marry-a-single-parent/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 11 Jun 2015 18:00:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Heather]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Love/Relationships]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Biological]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Bloodline]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Dad]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Daughter]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Father]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Mom]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Mother]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Parent]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[parenting]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[single]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Single Parent]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=6817</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I was around 10 when I learned that when it comes to family, bloodlines don&#8217;t mean everything, and in some cases, it doesn&#8217;t mean ANYTHING. According to the dictionary, &#8220;Family&#8221; can be defined as: a. A fundamental social group in society typically consisting of one or two parents and their children. b. Two or more people who share goals and values, have long-term commitments to one another, and reside usually in the same dwelling place. Nowhere in these definitions does it state anything about blood or biology. In today&#8217;s society it is not uncommon for a child to grow up without knowing one (or both) of their parent&#8217;s. In fact, it&#8217;s almost becoming abnormal if you ARE raised by both parents. I was around 10 when I found out that my dad, who had been raising me, wasn&#8217;t my biological father. My biological father was out of the picture by the time I was two, around the same time my mom met my dad. I was definitely hurt and confused by everything when I found out. I remember asking myself, &#8220;What is so wrong with me that my own father doesn&#8217;t want to be part of my life?&#8221; It was difficult, especially at a time where you&#8217;re already confused about the changes going on in your life. Even at ten, I never questioned who my DAD was. A father is someone who helps give you life, a dad is someone who helps makes you who you are and is PART of your life. My dad is the one who taught me how to play softball. He almost never missed a softball, basketball, volleyball game, or a track meet. He woke my brother and I up every Christmas morning by yelling &#8220;Ho Ho Ho Merrrrrry Christmas&#8221; with my mom. He helped me move more times that I can count. He taught me what to look for in a guy by giving me the greatest example of what a man could be. Then he walked me down the aisle when I found that guy. I always remember asking myself, &#8220;How could someone just take me in and raise me like I was their own, without thinking twice?&#8221; and then came Dave and Devon. Devon was six when Dave and I met, and had just turned seven by the time that I met her. Dave and I wanted to make sure that we were serious before I met Devon and had the chance to get attached with her and for her to get attached to me. You see, Devon has a very similar situation as I do and her birth mother has never been in her life. Dave was a single father for six years. Most people don&#8217;t even know that Devon and I don&#8217;t share blood. She looks like me&#8230;. A LOT! (A sign that we were meant to be a family, if you ask me.) We hit it off from day one, and I can honestly say that I fell in love with her before I fell in love with Dave. We could not get along any better (even now that Devon is heading into her Freshman year of High School). There were definitely some things that we had to figure out and work through as a family. When Dave, Devon and I started spending time together it was very&#8230; tricky&#8230; trying to find my place in the family. I wanted to build a friendship with Devon, but I also needed her to see me a mother figure. I had to learn when and how to step in and be a parent without feeling like I was overstepping my boundaries. I needed to spend one-on-one time with Devon to get to know her and for her to get to know me. Dave and I both knew that if things did not work with Devon and I then they wouldn&#8217;t work with Dave and I. We didn&#8217;t want to form a family where all three of us would be miserable because Devon and I did not get along. I&#8217;m very lucky that I met Devon when she was seven. Knowing her strong personality, it would have been MUCH more difficult to become a family if we met now instead of 7 years ago. Do I wish that I had met Dave and Devon sooner? Absolutely! But I am thankful that I&#8217;ve already been in Devon&#8217;s life for more than half of her life. (Which she made note of on her 14th birthday &#8211; that she had officially had me for half of her life.) When people do find out that I&#8217;m not Devon&#8217;s birth mother they always comment on how lucky Devon is to have me in her life. What they don&#8217;t understand is that she has been just as good for me. Although Devon doesn&#8217;t share my blood, she is my heart. It is from loving her that I understand how and why my dad could accept me and love me as his own. There is no doubt in my mind that Devon was meant to be my daughter (like I said, the resemblance is almost freaky) and there is no doubt that my dad was meant to be my dad. Some of the best parents that I know are not biological parents. They are people who stepped in and loved children for no other reason but to simply LOVE them and not because they felt like they had to.]]></description>
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