Everyday in my house is a day filled with sibling love (except those "few" times when Little Man swipes Big Sister's prized possessions, or when Big Sis thinks it's funny to hide The Bunny...THE prized possession in the house, yeah, and about every other hour...oh, but you get the point....).
In the last 2 days I've seen the sweetest of the sweet with these munchkins (which makes me hopeful they'll remain bff's until they're old and gray...here's hoping!). Yesterday was the big doc's appointment for Little Man - his 1 year checkup. Not a pretty picture. Pain. Pain. And more pain. In the form of gigantor needles. As gut-wrenching as it is to hold your baby when doctors intentionally do painful things to them, you still, as a parent, understand the greater good. We can go ahead and mark polio and all forms of hepatitis off the list of big bad monsters. But little people? Yeah, they don't see the greater good. So as I sat in a chair holding a screaming baby making every attempt I knew of to console, here comes Big Sister. She walks over, strokes his head over and over and sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. All crying ceased. He placed his thumb in his mouth and laid his head down to listen to his sister's sweet little comforting voice. She's got the touch. So much for my mommy powers.
This morning after breakfast, I got them both out of their high chairs with only one command: Go play. I wanted to eat my oatmeal in peace at the kitchen table and read my Bible. Since I didn't give any exact directions like, "Go play with specified toy A or B", they just stood around for a while and watched me. Finally, Big Sis gave the "Come on, Buster!" charge and off they went. Since our house is the size of a small apartment I can let them frolick the entire grounds without me being on their heels. It helps that I can hear them breathing in any room from any point in the house. (No need for monitors!). Off they went to play in Big Sister's room. After my "alone" time, I followed the sound of Sister's voice and found her sitting on the edge of her bed (in a teacher's posture) "reading" her devotional book to her baby brother (as he sat on Elmo soaking in every word...seriously, how does she do it...he won't sit still for me to even change his diaper!). She was pointing to pictures and telling brother that God wants him to always tell the truth (this was the lesson she learned last night after telling 2 lies in order to get out of bed). And although her brother can't say enough words to even constitute a lie, I'm sure he learned a lot in their morning devotional. He tends to listen to her. I think I may just use her as my puppet as he gets older. She's got a way. I guess it's that sibling connection I'm not allowed into. I can see our future conversation now: "Hey, sis, your brother just told a lie. Can you go give him the 'God wants you to tell the truth' talk? And can you throw in some consequences while you're at it?" "Sure, Mom, I'm on it......BUUUSSSSTTTTEEERRRR, get your hiney over here!"
Can't wait.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The Annual Christmas Attack
By the title of this blog, one might concur that a "christmas attack" would be a negative thing. Oh contrare monfrare (or whatever that phrase is). It's quite positive. Christmas attacks for me began as a wee lass when the culmination of all things Christmas would strike and my heart & brain could no more withhold the excitement. Typically my Christmas attacks would be preceded by one of my brothers' own attacks. Witnessing an attack tends to bring one on more quickly.
What does a Christmas attack entail, you ask. Well, thanks for asking. First of all, the lightbulb goes off (figuratively, folks, not literally) and you can see the attack coming just by looking in the eyes of the attackee. All things Christmas have culminated. This means a true realization that Christmas is approaching quickly, that many presents will be received (ok, and given), that delectable food will be devoured (specifically LOTS of monkey bread and sausage balls), that families from afar will come together, that the true Christmas Spirit has come upon you. Then is begins. A little jumping. A little crazy eyes. A little loud grunting. A little arms flailing...and then look out. This is where a couch or bed comes in handy because the attack causes a person to levetate off the ground and ram oneself into the nearest cushiony environment (i.e. couch, bed). Over and over the ramming continues until sweat engulfs and oxygen levels decrease. Then, the attackee rests. The attack has subsided and normal life can continue (although it's usually followed by an attack of a witness).
Haven't had mine this year. I'm getting worried since it's already December 11th and I'm 99% finished with my shopping. Where is the attack? Why is this Christmas culmination not "clicking" yet?
I think I might go put on "It's a Wonderful Life" and sip a cup of hot cider by the light of the Christmas tree. That may speed things up.
What does a Christmas attack entail, you ask. Well, thanks for asking. First of all, the lightbulb goes off (figuratively, folks, not literally) and you can see the attack coming just by looking in the eyes of the attackee. All things Christmas have culminated. This means a true realization that Christmas is approaching quickly, that many presents will be received (ok, and given), that delectable food will be devoured (specifically LOTS of monkey bread and sausage balls), that families from afar will come together, that the true Christmas Spirit has come upon you. Then is begins. A little jumping. A little crazy eyes. A little loud grunting. A little arms flailing...and then look out. This is where a couch or bed comes in handy because the attack causes a person to levetate off the ground and ram oneself into the nearest cushiony environment (i.e. couch, bed). Over and over the ramming continues until sweat engulfs and oxygen levels decrease. Then, the attackee rests. The attack has subsided and normal life can continue (although it's usually followed by an attack of a witness).
Haven't had mine this year. I'm getting worried since it's already December 11th and I'm 99% finished with my shopping. Where is the attack? Why is this Christmas culmination not "clicking" yet?
I think I might go put on "It's a Wonderful Life" and sip a cup of hot cider by the light of the Christmas tree. That may speed things up.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Dave for President!
Most who know me also know that I am a Dave Ramsey follower and/or junkie and/or devotee and/or aficionada and/or disciple and/or pupil and/or what have you (see www.daveramsey.com for further details). I earned my doctorate and graduated Summa Cum Laude from Financial Peace University where Dave is the prez. Ok, maybe not, but I did "graduate" from FPU (a 13-week course) and if there had been a doctorate program or Summa Cum Laude grads...I would so be there.
In FPU, I learned some very common-sense strategies for bargaining. I have always considered myself pretty street smart with a healthy dose of common sense, but I really never believed that bargaining was 1) allowed in this country (all I knew was that Jamaica was good at it) or 2) that it could actually work. I'm a buckler. I buckle under pressure...or I should say I used to. Now I bring the pressure on and force the bucklage from the other player. Oh, it's beautiful. And all those thoughts I had of "Well if I ask for less, then their company or their commission (thus their dinner on the table that night) will suffer, etc etc." are NO MORE! America is overpriced and I'm going to do all I can to reduce the cost when at all possible (obviously I don't do this at the grocery store or the gas station).
The number one strategy emphasized is the "Walk away" strategy. If seller doesn't reduce to your asking price, walk away. Don't "buy" the item in your heart or mind because it will be written all over your face and you will lose the bargain battle. Remain neutral. Never buckle.
Our first opportunity to try this out was with our car. We spotted one that met our needs, kept an eye on it for a few weeks, noticed it wasn't selling, and walked in. Johnny CarSalesman showed us the price, we drove it around, never showed attachment and when he went for the Lets Make a Deal handshake, we said "That price there, sir. Yeah, not good enough." He says ok, let's talk, what can you afford? No sir. Not allowed to ask that. We simply stuck with, "See that price on the sticker? Not good enough." He got nervous, said a new price. "Not good enough". I believe he was dumbfounded. Came down again. Nope, not good enough. Says he can't come down anymore and we walk away. He chases us, begs. Nope, not good enough. We then show the cash (green bills make Johnny CarSalesman swoon) of about $3k less than lowest price he'd said. SOLD!! A beautiful transition.
Today's case in point: Bought a Christmas gift for $30 at "Store" where there is a strict no-return policy. Found a better gift at Target for nearly same price. Purchased. Went back to "Store" to attempt a return. She says "Sorry, it's store policy." (Note: I have both kids with me, currently well behaved and dressed identically: thus, much cuteness). Let the bargaining begin (and with much respect I must say). Without too much detail of what I said, $30 came right back over the counter to me. A beautiful transition. She was good folk. Maybe it's the Christmas season, or maybe it's the FPU education. Either way, I'm a happy camper who's $30 richer.
In FPU, I learned some very common-sense strategies for bargaining. I have always considered myself pretty street smart with a healthy dose of common sense, but I really never believed that bargaining was 1) allowed in this country (all I knew was that Jamaica was good at it) or 2) that it could actually work. I'm a buckler. I buckle under pressure...or I should say I used to. Now I bring the pressure on and force the bucklage from the other player. Oh, it's beautiful. And all those thoughts I had of "Well if I ask for less, then their company or their commission (thus their dinner on the table that night) will suffer, etc etc." are NO MORE! America is overpriced and I'm going to do all I can to reduce the cost when at all possible (obviously I don't do this at the grocery store or the gas station).
The number one strategy emphasized is the "Walk away" strategy. If seller doesn't reduce to your asking price, walk away. Don't "buy" the item in your heart or mind because it will be written all over your face and you will lose the bargain battle. Remain neutral. Never buckle.
Our first opportunity to try this out was with our car. We spotted one that met our needs, kept an eye on it for a few weeks, noticed it wasn't selling, and walked in. Johnny CarSalesman showed us the price, we drove it around, never showed attachment and when he went for the Lets Make a Deal handshake, we said "That price there, sir. Yeah, not good enough." He says ok, let's talk, what can you afford? No sir. Not allowed to ask that. We simply stuck with, "See that price on the sticker? Not good enough." He got nervous, said a new price. "Not good enough". I believe he was dumbfounded. Came down again. Nope, not good enough. Says he can't come down anymore and we walk away. He chases us, begs. Nope, not good enough. We then show the cash (green bills make Johnny CarSalesman swoon) of about $3k less than lowest price he'd said. SOLD!! A beautiful transition.
Today's case in point: Bought a Christmas gift for $30 at "Store" where there is a strict no-return policy. Found a better gift at Target for nearly same price. Purchased. Went back to "Store" to attempt a return. She says "Sorry, it's store policy." (Note: I have both kids with me, currently well behaved and dressed identically: thus, much cuteness). Let the bargaining begin (and with much respect I must say). Without too much detail of what I said, $30 came right back over the counter to me. A beautiful transition. She was good folk. Maybe it's the Christmas season, or maybe it's the FPU education. Either way, I'm a happy camper who's $30 richer.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Hide-n-What?
It happened again. I thought I could put this childhood nightmare behind me, but it came right back and bit me in the butt.
Today was a gorgeous morning, so Sister and I headed out to the backyard to play (and by the way, we were both in shorts and yes, it's November...ahhh, South Georgia). She opted for a game of hide-n-seek which has become quite competitive between the two of us. A couple of rounds of hiding and seeking and it once again became my turn to hide. I needed a good spot. It's hard to find in our near-barren backyard. I'd done the usuals - under the slide, behind the adirondack chair, beside the trash can. This one needed to be unique - a never before trodded upon hiding spot (and no, I do not find the 27 year age difference to be a concern in my need to compete, although the Husb begs to differ).
As I heard the counting approach number 10, I made a mad dash for the side of the house and found a perfect little alcove that I scrunched down into. I wiggled into the fetal position as I anxiously awaited the "Ready or not, here I come!" charge. And of course, as soon as I heard the charge, I realized my bladder was near explosion. Ugh. That ALWAYS happens at the most inopportune times. I was NOT giving up that easily. I'd found the perfect spot and by golly, I was staying until the mad dash for "base" became available. Since I couldn't see around the corner, I could only rely on hearing the crunch of sticks and hard breathing to know that Sister was nearby. I waited. Then I waited some more. I decided against the mad dash for base because any quick movements would not have been good for the bladder at that moment. I got a little more comfortable leaning against the house to take some pressure off and waited some more. Then I thought I'd throw out some hints. "Pssssst!" Nothing. PSSSSSST!" Nothing. I managed to get up into a standing position (very carefully) and peeked around the corner. That's when I saw it. My childhood nightmare had come back to haunt me again. Sister the Seeker was not on a mad search for me. She had filled a bucket with water and was "painting" (with a stick) Mr. Biggles, our beloved cat-dog. She had given up. I was hiding and there was no seeking. When I showed myself, I did not get so much as a nod or any type of acknowlegement for that matter. The "painting" was too exciting. I hung my head in shame, then made a mad dash for the bathroom.
Hiding with no seeking will just flat ruin your day. It always did when I was a kid. I'd have the greatest hiding spot in the world. I'd have a full bladder. And I would sit and wait...and wait...and wait...until finally I'd come out with the white flag only to realize the Seeker(s) had QUIT! Who invented that sorry game anyway? Blasted hide-n-seek.
Today was a gorgeous morning, so Sister and I headed out to the backyard to play (and by the way, we were both in shorts and yes, it's November...ahhh, South Georgia). She opted for a game of hide-n-seek which has become quite competitive between the two of us. A couple of rounds of hiding and seeking and it once again became my turn to hide. I needed a good spot. It's hard to find in our near-barren backyard. I'd done the usuals - under the slide, behind the adirondack chair, beside the trash can. This one needed to be unique - a never before trodded upon hiding spot (and no, I do not find the 27 year age difference to be a concern in my need to compete, although the Husb begs to differ).
As I heard the counting approach number 10, I made a mad dash for the side of the house and found a perfect little alcove that I scrunched down into. I wiggled into the fetal position as I anxiously awaited the "Ready or not, here I come!" charge. And of course, as soon as I heard the charge, I realized my bladder was near explosion. Ugh. That ALWAYS happens at the most inopportune times. I was NOT giving up that easily. I'd found the perfect spot and by golly, I was staying until the mad dash for "base" became available. Since I couldn't see around the corner, I could only rely on hearing the crunch of sticks and hard breathing to know that Sister was nearby. I waited. Then I waited some more. I decided against the mad dash for base because any quick movements would not have been good for the bladder at that moment. I got a little more comfortable leaning against the house to take some pressure off and waited some more. Then I thought I'd throw out some hints. "Pssssst!" Nothing. PSSSSSST!" Nothing. I managed to get up into a standing position (very carefully) and peeked around the corner. That's when I saw it. My childhood nightmare had come back to haunt me again. Sister the Seeker was not on a mad search for me. She had filled a bucket with water and was "painting" (with a stick) Mr. Biggles, our beloved cat-dog. She had given up. I was hiding and there was no seeking. When I showed myself, I did not get so much as a nod or any type of acknowlegement for that matter. The "painting" was too exciting. I hung my head in shame, then made a mad dash for the bathroom.
Hiding with no seeking will just flat ruin your day. It always did when I was a kid. I'd have the greatest hiding spot in the world. I'd have a full bladder. And I would sit and wait...and wait...and wait...until finally I'd come out with the white flag only to realize the Seeker(s) had QUIT! Who invented that sorry game anyway? Blasted hide-n-seek.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Time Warp
At times, life halts for people. Almost as if it stops, but that would mean death and I don't mean it like that...maybe just a short (or sometimes long) hiatus...especially of the day to day normalcies. I learned this best when Little Man was in the hospital - first when he was born and felt the need to stay a week to strengthen those weak white-boy lungs and get rid of the pneumonia. Then life halted 2 months later when we did it all over again with RSV. The hospital was one of the loneliest places I've been in a long time. Especially because I couldn't leave - not even to get a Coke down the hall. I guess I could have, but taking the time to get a nurse to babysit while I left (and then feeling comfortable about it) seemed too much trouble. So I sat. I listened to ceaseless beeping of monitors. I looked at words on pages and tried to read books. I crawled up in Little Man's man-sized crib. I prayed. I brushed my teeth about 12 times a day because somehow that hospital air (or scrumptious hospital food) made my teeth feel like they had sweaters on. I stared at the door and tried to will visitors in. It wasn't necessarily that this was an overly traumatic circumstance (scary, yes. worrisome, yes. traumatic, nah...not in the grand scheme of things). It's just that life halted. But only for me (and my Little Man). Everything and everyone else continued along, just as they had the day before. It was such a weird feeling to know the world was going along just as before, while Little Man and I were holed up in a hospital room in the pursuit of clean lungs. Going nowhere.
These times were a great learning experience for me. I'm thankful that I can relate to others who are holed up in hospital rooms with their sick babies. I know how to pray for them. I understand how meaningful a visit can be. And I will never throw out the proverbial "Yeah we'll be praying for you" without actually doing it (yes I'm guilty of throwing that lingo around and not doing a darn thing about it...stinks...but true).
I use this as just one example of a life-halting situation. And I guess it's so fresh for me because I have some close friends who are halted right now. Death of a loved one, hospital stays, and even a positive life-halting situation (congrats on your engagement, Alicia!). All of which make you stop, look around, and wonder how everyone's life around you can be going along as always while yours is taking a break. Especially when noticing the petty stuff that people complain of day-to-day (traffic, attitudes, busyness, children, etc etc etc), when you're able to look at what really matters. When life halts, you can't help but re-prioritize EVERYTHING. And ultimately, you're changed by whatever situation that is, whether it was a negative or positive one.
I guess this is just a glimpse of those I've been praying for a lot lately: my friends who are halted. Their halts remind me to look at life differently than I did yesterday.
These times were a great learning experience for me. I'm thankful that I can relate to others who are holed up in hospital rooms with their sick babies. I know how to pray for them. I understand how meaningful a visit can be. And I will never throw out the proverbial "Yeah we'll be praying for you" without actually doing it (yes I'm guilty of throwing that lingo around and not doing a darn thing about it...stinks...but true).
I use this as just one example of a life-halting situation. And I guess it's so fresh for me because I have some close friends who are halted right now. Death of a loved one, hospital stays, and even a positive life-halting situation (congrats on your engagement, Alicia!). All of which make you stop, look around, and wonder how everyone's life around you can be going along as always while yours is taking a break. Especially when noticing the petty stuff that people complain of day-to-day (traffic, attitudes, busyness, children, etc etc etc), when you're able to look at what really matters. When life halts, you can't help but re-prioritize EVERYTHING. And ultimately, you're changed by whatever situation that is, whether it was a negative or positive one.
I guess this is just a glimpse of those I've been praying for a lot lately: my friends who are halted. Their halts remind me to look at life differently than I did yesterday.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Ode to Being Old
In honor of Kara's 29th Birthday.
I've always heard other (older) people talk about the time(s) when they really started noticing they were aging. I have never been able to relate as I have been ageless. Until now. Well, really it's been inching up in the last few years. Around age 26 I noticed I was unable to eat everything under the sun without it showing up somewhere in my hips. I finally had to stop eating Grands biscuits for breakfast and dinner daily (yes, daily) so I wouldn't gain 200 lbs. Up until that point I had enjoyed food with no worries as I had a metabolism that could challenge an elephant. I held the record of the most amount of garlic rolls eaten at Provino's while still finishing my meal (13. Yes, 13. And I still weighed 120 lbs when I left. Amazing.). Yeah, not so much anymore. And to top off the slowing metabolism, the aches and pains of oldness are creeping in. I had major back "issues" the other night and in commiserating with Alicia over email, realized she was dealing with back "issues" as well. Who has back pain? OLD PEOPLE. We would have never spoken of our ailing joints while in college. But now, 10 years later, that's our conversation: "How's your back?" "Well, not so good. I'm thinking about taking some Metamucil, watching Golden Girls, and doing some cross-stitching. Maybe that will help."
Really. If this is 30, what in the world is 50 going to look like?
Maybe I'll start the Botox now so I can look as good as Joan Rivers or Bruce Jenner at their respective ages. Would be an honor to look so...so ageless.
I've always heard other (older) people talk about the time(s) when they really started noticing they were aging. I have never been able to relate as I have been ageless. Until now. Well, really it's been inching up in the last few years. Around age 26 I noticed I was unable to eat everything under the sun without it showing up somewhere in my hips. I finally had to stop eating Grands biscuits for breakfast and dinner daily (yes, daily) so I wouldn't gain 200 lbs. Up until that point I had enjoyed food with no worries as I had a metabolism that could challenge an elephant. I held the record of the most amount of garlic rolls eaten at Provino's while still finishing my meal (13. Yes, 13. And I still weighed 120 lbs when I left. Amazing.). Yeah, not so much anymore. And to top off the slowing metabolism, the aches and pains of oldness are creeping in. I had major back "issues" the other night and in commiserating with Alicia over email, realized she was dealing with back "issues" as well. Who has back pain? OLD PEOPLE. We would have never spoken of our ailing joints while in college. But now, 10 years later, that's our conversation: "How's your back?" "Well, not so good. I'm thinking about taking some Metamucil, watching Golden Girls, and doing some cross-stitching. Maybe that will help."
Really. If this is 30, what in the world is 50 going to look like?
Maybe I'll start the Botox now so I can look as good as Joan Rivers or Bruce Jenner at their respective ages. Would be an honor to look so...so ageless.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Aversions
Am I even spelling that correctly? Aversions. Maybe I should use something easier, like repugnance. Either way, I have some serious loathings. I was reminded of what they were while flipping through the Walmart weekly ad mag. 3 of my biggest aversions lay on the same page. While Walmart itself is an unspoken aversion of mine (hello? TARGET!), it tends to carry large plastic toys (Aversion #1) - and lots of them. I'm not sure when this particular aversion began, but it wells up feelings in me I haven't experienced before. It must have begun when we moved (downsized) into our "cottage" - or "house" as it is formally called. Since it is hard enough to squeeze humans into this humble abode, the thought of large plastic accessories makes my skin crawl. We've had 3 sets of acquaintances drop off some hand-me-down LPA (large plastic accessories) while we weren't home on our doorstep. Meanness. Kitchens, ovens, refrigerators, you name it. And since they are labeled "tot size", one must not think the amount of room they take up seems much. However, the Akins cottage cannot hold em. I move them from our doorstep directly into the trunk and take them to Goodwill where they belong. I think maybe when we "upsize" to our next home, we'll build a loft filled to the brim with LPA for all the kiddies to enjoy. Just because we can. Until then...
Aversion #2: Clowns. I share this with my sister-in-law. Mom tried to start me a clown collection and all it did was give me nightmares that "It" from Stephen King was going to come after me in my sleep. So thank you, Walmart, for showing off your clown costumes. Only scary Chesters would want to buy them anyway.
And finally, the biggest of them all, Aversion #3: Feet. I don't even like writing the word. I'm serious. If there were medical things hooked to my heart and brain right now, they would be beeping out of control. This might require medication. And thanks to Walmart, I can see how Ashuanda's (store clerk) feet look in the open-toe slippers for $7.99. The closest I've come to a legitimate anxiety attack came on an airplane as a result of this aversion. No, the airplane wasn't experiencing turbulence. No, the oxygen levels remained in tact. No, the smell was manageable. It was Peter Passenger sitting right smack next to me. He was clothed in a t-shirt (acceptable), jeans (acceptable), and some stank nasty brown leather sandals with his toes crawling out the top. Did he keep his toes hidden under Polly Passenger's seat the whole time? Negative. He was a tall man who couldn't get comfortable and thought crossing his legs would help. It was a scene straight out of Planes, Trains and Automobiles and his "dogs" were in my direct line of sight. I already have to use the complimentary vomit bag on most flight occasions, but this one gave me no choice. I was hopeless. I did not get sick; however, some of the preemptive vomity coughs I made after downing a Ginger Ale sat him up a little straighter and leaning over to his other friendly neighbor. Hey, whatever works.
So, for Christmas, I think I'm going to ask for a life-sized plastic clown who's not wearing any shoes. Or maybe some sedatives in case that actually did happen.
Aversion #2: Clowns. I share this with my sister-in-law. Mom tried to start me a clown collection and all it did was give me nightmares that "It" from Stephen King was going to come after me in my sleep. So thank you, Walmart, for showing off your clown costumes. Only scary Chesters would want to buy them anyway.
And finally, the biggest of them all, Aversion #3: Feet. I don't even like writing the word. I'm serious. If there were medical things hooked to my heart and brain right now, they would be beeping out of control. This might require medication. And thanks to Walmart, I can see how Ashuanda's (store clerk) feet look in the open-toe slippers for $7.99. The closest I've come to a legitimate anxiety attack came on an airplane as a result of this aversion. No, the airplane wasn't experiencing turbulence. No, the oxygen levels remained in tact. No, the smell was manageable. It was Peter Passenger sitting right smack next to me. He was clothed in a t-shirt (acceptable), jeans (acceptable), and some stank nasty brown leather sandals with his toes crawling out the top. Did he keep his toes hidden under Polly Passenger's seat the whole time? Negative. He was a tall man who couldn't get comfortable and thought crossing his legs would help. It was a scene straight out of Planes, Trains and Automobiles and his "dogs" were in my direct line of sight. I already have to use the complimentary vomit bag on most flight occasions, but this one gave me no choice. I was hopeless. I did not get sick; however, some of the preemptive vomity coughs I made after downing a Ginger Ale sat him up a little straighter and leaning over to his other friendly neighbor. Hey, whatever works.
So, for Christmas, I think I'm going to ask for a life-sized plastic clown who's not wearing any shoes. Or maybe some sedatives in case that actually did happen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)