I Hope You Dance

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82749250853296776342024-11-08T06:56:44.402-08:00I Hope You DanceI decided just recently that I was going to really live my life (emphasis on my), which means letting go of the fear inducing, panic-attack causing, external expectations. I am focusing on what is truly important: loving, living, laughing. Welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoy :)runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-5756923347758041202011-02-14T19:33:00.000-08:002011-02-14T19:37:44.192-08:00Who Put that Gorilla on My Back?

So, I did it; I actually laced up my old running shoes (not even realizing that they didn't match - right shoe = Asics 2150 / left shoe = Asics 1160) and I went for a  excruciatingly painful hurt so bad I wanted to die run.  For those of you that read my post Fifteen Pounds Heavier, Twenty Times Happier, this probably does not come as a surprise.  I figured

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-12715886497262873092011-01-25T09:33:00.000-08:002011-01-25T09:33:16.572-08:00Fifteen Pounds Heavier, Twenty Times Happier: A Struggle with Weight and Running

Fifteen Pounds Heavier I have not lost any of the weight I gained when pregnant with Jonah, unless you can count the three pounds I lost when I birthed him.  (Twice.  I'll save that story for another day.  I'm still not ready to write about that life-altering experience.)  Fortunately, I have lost the five pounds I gained from taste testing all the cookies I baked at

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-35619411650851999952011-01-11T07:10:00.000-08:002011-01-11T07:10:28.463-08:00Red, WHAT? Oh, Wait, Red Truck!

Anyone that has ever met Noah, knows he has a love affair with trucks.  Small trucks, big trucks, white trucks, garbage trucks.  When he hears a truck outside, he runs to the window to hopefully catch a glimpse.  And when Daudey (his red-truck owning Grandpa) walks in our house, he automatically asks with such a hopeful earnestness only little kids possess, "F--k? 

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-80852181910679577522011-01-09T17:19:00.000-08:002011-01-09T17:19:42.903-08:00Sookie, Sookie, Sookie

Ok, I'm currently obsessed with another book series.  When will I learn?  I find a good series, and I literally have to drag myself away from the book.  After the first book, I have to go out and purchase/loan/steal (ok,  I don't go that far) the subsequent book to ensure when I finish the first, I can read the next, and then the next, and so on.  My

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-42511819702487309482011-01-08T17:09:00.000-08:002011-01-08T17:27:46.288-08:00A Man and a Van

I never thought I'd be attracted to a van driving man, much less one who wore a shirt proclaiming to be The Minivan Man.  Better grab those kids and hide.  I mean, come on, let's face it: men and vans don't exactly mesh, unless the guy's in his late thirties with three kids (preferably his) in tote.  Even then it's only okay if he had to borrow it from his wife

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-79290510152586680072011-01-07T10:36:00.001-08:002011-01-07T10:38:28.400-08:00You Can Do It, Yes You Can

Four Reasons Why It IS Okay to Be a Turtleneck Wearer Like Me (this is for all you anti-turtleneck wearing haters out there . . . yeah, Kristen, I'm talking to YOU) 1. Warmth. I am constantly cold (used to be constantly hot . . . what happened there?). My thermostat is broken or set to frozen (not sure which). Those turtlenecks I wear help me stay a little bit warmer when it's chilly

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-6969451129572288542011-01-06T17:37:00.000-08:002011-01-06T18:31:50.552-08:00I Have a Confession

So, I have a confession to make, I really, honestly, truly love . . . (are you ready for it?) . . . turtlenecks.  Yes, that's right.  I've said it.  I'm twenty-eight years old and I love turtlenecks.  You see - I don't just like them, but I can't wait until the winter so it's okay for me to wear them again.  I think my sister will argue with me that it is never okay to

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-83491871438699070172011-01-05T16:50:00.000-08:002011-01-11T05:15:58.467-08:00A Six Years Old's View on Healthy versus Unhealthy

We're at the dinner table enjoying what I'd consider a nice dinner.  For once, Noah's not screaming, and Jonah's not crying, and to top it off, Alina actually likes what I cooked (veggie quesadillas and a sweet potato/apple concoction).  If that didn't make feel like I was in the Twilight Zone, the conversation that ensued sure did.  Alina (she's six):  Mom, I

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-84687853015302322832011-01-04T19:34:00.001-08:002011-01-04T19:34:39.615-08:00Stopping By Boobs

Back to the BoobsOkay, okay, okay. I know I'm still talking about my boobs. I can't help it. When you spend hours of your day breastfeeding, it's really hard not to constantly think about them. Since yesterday's hub on my hubpage, I can't stop thinking about the first stanza of Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening poem: Whose woods these are I think I know / His house is in the

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-15480368508127919372011-01-04T19:32:00.000-08:002011-01-04T19:32:57.087-08:00These Aren't My Breasts

I wrote the following post originally on my hubpage.  I took it off the hubpage, as it is more appropriate here.  Whose Breasts Are These?!?These aren’t my breasts. I can’t help thinking they haven’t been for quite some time. They belong to my newborn son (and before that to my husband). They don’t even look like my breasts anymore. They crack and bleed. They ache and leak. No amount of

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8274925085329677634.post-10878613031731940172011-01-04T18:58:00.000-08:002011-01-07T05:55:39.236-08:00Welcome to My Blog! I Hope You Dance, Too :)

I figured my first blog should explain why I decided to title my blog I Hope You Dance.  I am not a dancer, unless you can count dancing at the bar when I've had a few too many drinks or goofing around with my kids to Barney (again when I've had a few too many drinks).  Just kidding about that last comment.  Basically, I chose that as my title because of my mom.  She just

runrchic1http://www.blogger.com/profile/02298539290748671759noreply@blogger.com1