<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711</id><updated>2011-04-22T00:52:36.409+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Trapping Angels in my Rearviewmirror</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>20</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-8677253602053932882</id><published>2009-05-14T10:00:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2009-05-14T10:07:41.151+02:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't want to talk about it....</title><content type='html'>I am a bit stuck on Everything but the Girl lately after hearing this old song of their's on VH1 the other day. I remember this song from my childhood but never realised it was Everything but the Girl, who only became popular to me in 1996 when Missing was released LOL&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;I don't want to talk about it&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can tell by your eyes&lt;br /&gt;That you've prob'bly been cryin' forever,&lt;br /&gt;And the stars in the sky don't mean nothin' to you&lt;br /&gt;They're a mirror.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to talk about it&lt;br /&gt;How you broke my heart.&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here just a little bit longer,&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I stand all alone&lt;br /&gt;Will the shadow hide the color of my heart&lt;br /&gt;Blue for the tears, black for the night's fears&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the stars in the sky don't mean nothin' to you&lt;br /&gt;They're a mirror&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to talk about it, how you broke my heart&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here just a little bit longer&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?&lt;br /&gt;This ol' heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here just a little bit longer,&lt;br /&gt;If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?&lt;br /&gt;My heart, whoa, heart.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-8677253602053932882?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/8677253602053932882/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=8677253602053932882' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/8677253602053932882'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/8677253602053932882'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-am-bit-stuck-on-everything-but-girl.html' title='I don&apos;t want to talk about it....'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-2447712949438138531</id><published>2009-05-05T22:09:00.003+02:00</published><updated>2009-05-05T22:20:28.092+02:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't know..</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SgCd4KE7GnI/AAAAAAAAACU/WCRcB_sE1Sw/s1600-h/crying_emo-1486.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SgCd4KE7GnI/AAAAAAAAACU/WCRcB_sE1Sw/s320/crying_emo-1486.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332435546909907570" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know how much more I can take.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need out...&lt;br /&gt;I need to cry but I can't.&lt;br /&gt;I need to scream but I can't.&lt;br /&gt;I need to love but ...&lt;br /&gt;I need to forgive...&lt;br /&gt;I need to move on...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have nobody to talk to, so I talk to a stupid blog that nobody reads. How is a blog going to help me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel so desperately alone..just cry goddammit...cry...scream...swear...anything...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I just get up and move on, pretend, act...and it's wearing painfully thin&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't do it anymore...I have had enough&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-2447712949438138531?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/2447712949438138531/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=2447712949438138531' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2447712949438138531'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2447712949438138531'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-dont-know.html' title='I don&apos;t know..'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SgCd4KE7GnI/AAAAAAAAACU/WCRcB_sE1Sw/s72-c/crying_emo-1486.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-4933841438064531110</id><published>2009-01-05T19:15:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2009-01-05T19:26:16.947+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Noooo not again</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SWJAuJWqAdI/AAAAAAAAACM/jywUhv19FQI/s1600-h/Maestro+2.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SWJAuJWqAdI/AAAAAAAAACM/jywUhv19FQI/s320/Maestro+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287860074015490514" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SWJAuJm8OnI/AAAAAAAAACE/7RH6e2difdc/s1600-h/Maestro+1.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SWJAuJm8OnI/AAAAAAAAACE/7RH6e2difdc/s320/Maestro+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287860074083793522" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck fuck fuck.&lt;br /&gt;My baby is gone. Another one in four months&lt;br /&gt;My beautiful, most loving, gorgeous Maestro. I am so sorry. I feel so guilty. I will miss you forever, you kisses, your weight as you sleep on top of me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maestro was this skinny little runt we rescued from Kitten action. He was an ill baby and we could only take him home a week after adoption as he was on antibiotics. He grew into a beautiful, most loving cat. He gave me kisses, slept next to me most nights, waited on the staircase for me to give him a love and followed me almost everywhere.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went away and the last time the neighbours saw him was the day before we got home. A neighbour from down the road said today he saw him (well he thinks it was him) on the road Saturday night...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My baby is gone and my heart is shattered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love you forever my boy...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-4933841438064531110?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/4933841438064531110/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=4933841438064531110' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4933841438064531110'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4933841438064531110'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2009/01/noooo-not-again.html' title='Noooo not again'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SWJAuJWqAdI/AAAAAAAAACM/jywUhv19FQI/s72-c/Maestro+2.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-7976153972638750552</id><published>2008-12-24T12:00:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-24T12:00:50.667+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Christmas</title><content type='html'>I hate it. I really do. Honestly. Blech. Puke. Argh&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nuff said.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-7976153972638750552?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/7976153972638750552/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=7976153972638750552' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/7976153972638750552'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/7976153972638750552'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/christmas.html' title='Christmas'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-4946915308859058831</id><published>2008-12-10T13:31:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-10T13:41:33.302+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Friendships</title><content type='html'>I got this phonecall from an old 'friend' today. Man it left me fuming! And it got me thinking about how we change and our friendships change with time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This friend introduced my husband and I to each other. I had already had Miss V from a previous relationship so we almost became like an instant family. Soon the problems started, especially with his friends who didn't have time for us anymore. They just couldn't understand that we could not go out anymore at the drop of a hat because of Miss V. And on the odd occasion we had a night off suddenly they would all have excuses. I guess one can't expect a non parent to understand the life of a parent. But it hurt and it was upsetting. So with time we started drifting apart with only the odd invitation for my husband to join them for a poker night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So recently one of the friends got married. And hubby didn't go to the bachelors as it was a whole weekend away from home. And no matter how much he tried to explain they weren't interested in hearing it. The groom to be basically had a very rude conversation with my husband after the fact, commenting on how 'some friends couldn't be bothered' to be at his bachelors. Again my husband tried to explain the whole thing about kids and family and not WANTING to go away with the boys for a whole weekend. He still didn't get it. The phonecall left a bitter taste in our mouths. We ran into the groom to be a week before the wedding and the conversation was stifled and curt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We made the decision not to attend the wedding. And yes, here my husband was in the wrong. He didn't bother to let them know we weren't coming. So then phone call came today from the friend (not groom), to innocently ask me if we're ok as they thought something had happened to us. He of course tries to blame us but the blame lies both sides. We're never available for them, they're never available for us. Let's cut our losses I say. But nooooo, I had to get a speech first for not being there blah blah blah.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so tired of all this. I miss this friend dearly (the one who introduced us) but I am just as tired of the excuses and stories. And nobody is willing to understand that our free time is precious and does not come along all that often. So who is in the wrong here? No matter how much we try explain they don't get it! I said to him that it's not just a case of needing a babysitter or whatever but my husband spends hardly any time with me during the week because of busy schedules so he would much rather go out with friends and include me in the party than go play poker just with the boys. And because our time away from the kids is so limited could they not try understand a bit more and play along than just get angry when we can't fall in with their plans?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my opinion I have now cut the losses. Farewell friend and thanks for the introduction to Carl. Best thing you ever did.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-4946915308859058831?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/4946915308859058831/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=4946915308859058831' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4946915308859058831'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4946915308859058831'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/friendships.html' title='Friendships'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-3601466139902792069</id><published>2008-12-09T20:51:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-09T20:54:35.372+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Stevie's coming home!!!</title><content type='html'>I am so so so excited! One of my bestest friends is coming back from the UK for a visit and I'm finally get to spend a whole entire full complete evening with him catching up! It's been a year since he was last home and we never go to see each other because of all his family plans.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stevie, I am sooo looking forward to having a good fat chat again!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;xxx&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-3601466139902792069?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/3601466139902792069/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=3601466139902792069' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/3601466139902792069'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/3601466139902792069'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/stevies-coming-home.html' title='Stevie&apos;s coming home!!!'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-6364536128208485296</id><published>2008-12-07T19:51:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-07T19:59:46.287+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Hugs &amp; prayers</title><content type='html'>I can't believe a year has passed. A year ago today a beautiful little boy became an angel. Tammy and Eric my heart still bleeds for you. Know that you are very loved and have many people who care for you. I am so sorry for the pain you have to suffer. You are in my thoughts all the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And a year ago another two angels joined, Ashlee and hubby, my heart aches for you too. I can never begin to understand what you go through every day. I think about you constantly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-6364536128208485296?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/6364536128208485296/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=6364536128208485296' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/6364536128208485296'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/6364536128208485296'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/hugs-prayers.html' title='Hugs &amp; prayers'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-4159312957758404323</id><published>2008-12-04T18:22:00.003+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-04T18:39:41.340+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Hooray for boobies</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STgEBjsTFJI/AAAAAAAAAB8/7rsIlsppbis/s1600-h/cleavage.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STgEBjsTFJI/AAAAAAAAAB8/7rsIlsppbis/s320/cleavage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275971388271957138" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, at the age of 30, I have a cleavage!!! WHOOP WHOOP!! Ok Ok this isn't me in the pic haha&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wasn't even IN the line for getting boobies when adolescence hit. The only time they looked half decent was when I was pregnant. But two pregnancies later they looked even worse. So it was time to take drastic action and finally the opportunity arose for me to have breast augmentation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had been doing research on it for quite some time and researched some doctors. The initial surgeon I really liked unfortunately never answered the phone when I finally wanted to make that appointment. I went with the surgeon that also did my colleagues boobs and incidentally found out later he also did surgery on my dad's legs. So anyway, at least he was known and on the association's website so I felt comfortable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first consult was easy peasy. He told me I was a perfect candidate. "No kidding dude" I thought. He very nicely explained the whole procedure to me, told me how much it would cost *gulp* and said, "ok when would you like to have it done? I am available tomorrow?". I learnt that this doctor also had a wicked sense of humour which really helps when you're a bit nervous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we decided on 12th November 08. All the finances sorted, leave organised, all I had to do was wait. 2 Weeks had never felt this long in my life. Not even waiting for my child to be born! But finally the day arrived and off we went to hospital. We did all the usual questionnaires, checks etc. Doc came to draw pretty little lines over my boobies and the weirdo cool aneathetist came to say hi. I got given to tablets, Dormicum, to 'calm' me. Whoah baby, I passed out mid sentence and gave my husband the biggest fright of his life!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When they came to wheel me down I had to wee but was so drugged I wasn't allowed to go to the toilet, so I had to use a commode. Whahaha what an experience! So anyway we get going down to theatre and hubby was allowed to come along for a walk up to the entrance. Doc came passed with my boobs in a box, proudly displaying his shopping bag as he walks passed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got wheeled down this loooooong corridor and into theatre, where quickly they put the monitors on me and strapped my arms down. The aneathetist found the vein and I felt this immense ache running up my arm. The thought of "Fuck that's sore" started forming in my head and on my mouth, but I was gone!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I woke up extremely groggy and really don't remember much. I was in quite a bit of pain but they kept that at bay with painmeds. I really struggled to breathe because of the tight bandages so they gave me a nasal oxygen tube. That helped a bit. The worst was not being able to move at all. No sitting up nothing! I was like this for 24 hours and I am happy I don't remember all that much of it. I got more of the good drugs to sleep which at least knocked me out for 8 hours solid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next day they came to cut the bandages and remove the drains and after a while I was finally ready to go home. It's been 3 weeks now and so far so good. They are still sensitive but getting better every day. A few more months and I am doing the biggest bra shop ever in my life! I am not allowed to wear underwires yet so sports bras etc will have to do. But it's lovely to finally have something there. To feel feminine and able to by clothes that FIT! Worth every single cent, for sure!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-4159312957758404323?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/4159312957758404323/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=4159312957758404323' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4159312957758404323'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4159312957758404323'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/hooray-for-boobies.html' title='Hooray for boobies'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STgEBjsTFJI/AAAAAAAAAB8/7rsIlsppbis/s72-c/cleavage.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-2292770941638214713</id><published>2008-12-03T18:40:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:54:59.446+02:00</updated><title type='text'>My thoughts on parenting</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa5v_2DL5I/AAAAAAAAAB0/LSdhxgH2dBY/s1600-h/epa1833l.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 261px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa5v_2DL5I/AAAAAAAAAB0/LSdhxgH2dBY/s320/epa1833l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275608247754239890" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don’t see myself as a mommy know-it-all but I find myself not really reading forums based on parenting questions/abilities and experiences. I don’t often ask questions. I don’t post brag posts. I don’t even comment much. Because my idea of parenting is so vastly different from other mom’s I’ve met. And that is exactly why I say I’m not a know-it-all because it’s not like I am quick to offer advice either. I guess I have an ‘each to its own’ approach. Sometimes though I don’t know if this is normal and so, I asked my husband the other day “What is wrong with me?” He laughed! But he said to me, “Love, you are who you are, and you’re a perfectly good mom!” Bless him hahaha!  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;I don’t know all the answers to everything. I have two kids - 3y7m old daughter and a 14month old son. And for some reason even though I don’t have the answers to everything about them I don’t ask for advice…&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;Is this because&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="msolistparagraph" style="text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;a)&lt;span style="font-size:7;"&gt;      &lt;/span&gt;I think nobody knows better than me? NO&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="msolistparagraphcxspmiddle" style="text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;b)&lt;span style="font-size:7;"&gt;      &lt;/span&gt;I might hear something I don’t want to hear? NO&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="msolistparagraphcxspmiddle" style="text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;c)&lt;span style="font-size:7;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;I don’t care enough? NO&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="msolistparagraphcxsplast" style="text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;d)&lt;span style="font-size:7;"&gt;      &lt;/span&gt;Or maybe, just maybe, I am so relaxed about parenting I won’t allow myself to become paranoid and ask for 100s of different opinions. Hearing so many different opinions from people can cause great confusion you know and some people can be very adamant that their reasoning is the only correct one.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;Sometimes though, I wish I was like so many other mommies I know. They are SO into their kids and talk about them all the time. They brag about every toofie that breaks through, the first step, the first everything. They can’t wait to go home after work to spend time with their kids and try out a new recipe for them. They can talk for hours about what they did with their kids over the weekends. Their kids consume their lives. Is that necessarily a bad thing? No, I don’t think so, but I still love my independence from my children, I love still feeling that I am my own person. I am me, a wife, a lover, a friend, an employee. Not JUST a mommy.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt; Don’t get me wrong I love my kids and their milestones are so important to me, but for some reason I didn’t even tell people when my son started walking properly on his own, never mind when his teeth came out. And I normally can’t wait to get home after a hectic day in the office, but not to jump straight into my parenting duties, no! I want to sit down and put my feet up, have a glass of wine with my husband…relax! Weekends I can’t wait for the odd night when the babysitter would come and my husband and I can have a night out.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;Does this make me a bad mother? No I don’t think so. Not at all! I can tell you something, my kids have everything they need. I love them very much and do my best for them. They are happy, well loved and well looked after kids. And they are very independent. My daughter hardly suffered separation anxiety EVER, and my son doesn’t really show signs of it. They know they are loved, but they know Mom and Dad don’t give up their entire lives for them.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;I know many of you won’t agree with my way of parenting but it has worked a charm for us. Let me share something else it has done for my kids…when my daughter was very young I would not run to her room when I woke in the morning. If she cried for her morning bottle I would give it to her (when she was old enough to drink on her own) and leave her there. Often she would fall asleep again afterwards anyway, so I would crawl back into bed for a bit. She learnt through this to play on her own until we came through to her. My son is doing the same thing. Only difference is he has an older sister who will now go sit in his room with him and ‘read’ to him, sing to him or just hand him some toys while he is in his cot. And mom and dad get’s another hour’s sleep. Pure bliss.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;Do I sound evil yet? Wait till I tell you about my bedtime techniques. Bedtime has always been strictly adhered to. No, I didn’t leave my kids to cry for hours on end, but with a firm voice they very quickly learnt that once they’ve been put in bed, there they will stay. And now, both of them go to bed 99% of the time without a single moan and groan. No running into the room with the slightest moan and being picked up. It doesn’t work for us. A child learns to manipulate from a very young age and frankly I believe a baby CAN be spoilt. Again, do not get me wrong, if you want to spoil your baby there is nothing wrong with it. If you want to hold your baby until she falls asleep, there is nothing wrong with it. You find the parenting techniques that work for you and make you comfortable. Not being a ‘soppy mommy’ works for me…and my kids!&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;I must admit my hubby is a little soppier than me though! When the little man doesn’t want to eat, he freaks out. “Why isn’t he eating? What else can I give him? Maybe he is unwell? Can we try making some other food?” Hah! Normally he is met by my response which is more often than not “If he doesn’t want to eat, take him to bed!” Evil, right? You may think so, but I will not make 5 different plates of food until the little bugger decided to eat something! He has to learn from a young age how things are going to be. Again, I don’t just dump a horrid meal in front of him, he gets a selection of finger foods, different flavours, textures, colours…all things he normally would enjoy…but I will not lose any sleep over him not wanting to eat.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style=""&gt;My hopes for my children are to grow up independent and strong. To not feel that they can’t do anything unless mommy or daddy is holding their hand, and at the same time know that I love them with everything in me.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-2292770941638214713?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/2292770941638214713/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=2292770941638214713' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2292770941638214713'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2292770941638214713'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/my-thoughts-on-parenting.html' title='My thoughts on parenting'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa5v_2DL5I/AAAAAAAAAB0/LSdhxgH2dBY/s72-c/epa1833l.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-5927117866807884138</id><published>2008-12-03T18:30:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:36:17.029+02:00</updated><title type='text'>O gosh!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa0sm8RnOI/AAAAAAAAABs/uP0Kz7SLcw4/s1600-h/ah_skulls_roses_ant.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa0sm8RnOI/AAAAAAAAABs/uP0Kz7SLcw4/s320/ah_skulls_roses_ant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275602691971718370" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Has it been that long already. I have been terrible. Almost three full months and no blogging. I disgust me. A lot happens in 3 months I suppose. Just trying to break them up into themes and get writing again for a change!&lt;br /&gt;Thing is half the time I don't know WHAT to write, I hit a blank. And I hate writing crap. Oh well. I'll try harder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;PS The pic I chose today is the fabric of my newest fabbest handbag, isn't it so yummy? LOL&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-5927117866807884138?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/5927117866807884138/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=5927117866807884138' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5927117866807884138'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5927117866807884138'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/12/o-gosh.html' title='O gosh!'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/STa0sm8RnOI/AAAAAAAAABs/uP0Kz7SLcw4/s72-c/ah_skulls_roses_ant.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-4061414626249524475</id><published>2008-09-04T19:46:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-09-04T19:54:44.041+02:00</updated><title type='text'>RIP Xavier my darling...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SMAftfH_xHI/AAAAAAAAABk/4oxq3EgZKrI/s1600-h/P1010151.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SMAftfH_xHI/AAAAAAAAABk/4oxq3EgZKrI/s320/P1010151.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242224832568870002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today my beautiful angel cat, Xavier, died. He was hit by a car we presume, as our neighbour saw him on the side of the road and came to tell us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Xavier was a gorgeous half persian, with the softer thick black fur and the gentlest, yet skittish personality. He did not like to be picked up but would love a gentle rub when he was in the mood.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We found it quite strange that he ran into the road as he was always afraid of loud noises, so we think he might have gotten a fright and bolted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I did not go out to look at him, I could not stomach it, but Carl says he is convinced he died instantly, which does bring me come degree of comfort. I would hate to even think that he suffered at all. My husband kindly took him to the emergency vet so they could dispose of the body, I did not feel comfortable with burying him here as we live in a complex with very little garden space.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My darling Xavier was not even 2 years old, so practically still a kitten. I love you my boy, and will miss you forever. RIP.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-4061414626249524475?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/4061414626249524475/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=4061414626249524475' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4061414626249524475'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/4061414626249524475'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/09/rip-xavier-my-darling.html' title='RIP Xavier my darling...'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SMAftfH_xHI/AAAAAAAAABk/4oxq3EgZKrI/s72-c/P1010151.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-968188786933593983</id><published>2008-08-04T18:55:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-08-04T18:57:22.882+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Motor Mouth</title><content type='html'>I have not written in a while. I've had bloggers block. I've been miserable. I've been stressed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, today I have prayed and prayed for a little bit of silence. For my 3 year old to just stop talking for 5 minutes. To just stop asking questions over and over again. The same question...until my answer is satisfactory. Just 5 minutes!!! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She opens her eyes and it starts with her&lt;br /&gt;"mommy no school today?"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes V there is school"&lt;br /&gt;"No!"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes V it's Monday, monday is school"&lt;br /&gt;"MG school?"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes"&lt;br /&gt;"Can I wear my green shirt?"&lt;br /&gt;"It's dirty"&lt;br /&gt;"But I want to"&lt;br /&gt;"It's in the wash V"&lt;br /&gt;"NO!"&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;br /&gt;"Mommy I'm hungry"&lt;br /&gt;"you will get porridge at school"&lt;br /&gt;"No, I don't want to"&lt;br /&gt;"V you are not eating now"&lt;br /&gt;"Must I eat at school"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes"&lt;br /&gt;"But I'm thirsty"&lt;br /&gt;"Have water"&lt;br /&gt;"No I want juice"&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That is just the first 5 minutes of my day. Please tell me I am not the only one and tell me you feel sorry for me???????&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-968188786933593983?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/968188786933593983/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=968188786933593983' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/968188786933593983'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/968188786933593983'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/08/i-have-not-written-in-while.html' title='Motor Mouth'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-2489934029475768907</id><published>2008-07-22T18:34:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-22T18:40:53.837+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Trapping Angels in my Rearviewmirror</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIYNBXSu-eI/AAAAAAAAABc/7Bbtzke25oc/s1600-h/angel12.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIYNBXSu-eI/AAAAAAAAABc/7Bbtzke25oc/s320/angel12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225878734693661154" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I was thinking for a blog name the one day. I didn’t  want to choose something arb. I needed to have meaning, and sound good. At the  time two songs were forever playing in my head and even though these songs  separately have deep meaning to me, the combination of their titles made up  something totally unique and sacred.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I could not decide for a while whether to share this  meaning or keep it to myself. You should really make up your own meaning behind  it. It could mean something personal to you. Anyway I reckon it’s an awesome  title! I have decided to try explain me reason behind this title as maybe it’s  would clarify just a bit about me.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Trapping Angels is a Tori Amos song which I for the  life of me will not try and explain to you. I believe Tori Amos is one of those  artists that you either love or hate. And that her lyrics speak to everyone on a  different levels. None of her songs are really just straightforward “stories”.  Sometimes one can argue that they are just plain weird! The lyrics follow below.  You figure it out! LOL&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Rearviewmirror is a Pearl Jam song that totally  empowered me with the breakdown of a few relationships. I’ve added the lyrics  below for the sake of interest. I believe it’s very  self-explanatory.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I believe as human’s we are forever checking our  rearviewmirror. There are not many people who never look back on life, and never  reflect on what happened in their past. I also believe that I often try mask  some of what happened in my past. I often think I try and trap angels in my  rearviewmirror. So when I look back, it wasn’t that bad and my angels were there  to protect me. Maybe that means I am not true to myself? Maybe I still live in  that fairytale world? But when I look back, those angels uplift me, they tell me  “girl, you’ve made it this far, you can go on”.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Rearviewmirror&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I took a drive today&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Time to emancipate&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I guess it was the beatings&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Made me wise&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;But I’m not about to give thanks, or  apologise&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I couldn’t breathe, holdin’ me  down&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Hand on my face, pushed to the  ground&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Enmity gauged, united by fear&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Forced to endure what I could not  forgive…&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I seem to look away&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Wounds in the mirror waved&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;It wasn’t my surface most  defiled&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Head at your feet, fool to your  crown&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Fist on my plate, swallowed it  down&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Enmity gauged, united by fear&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Tried to endure what I could not  forgive&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Saw things x4&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Clearer x2&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Once you, were in my  rearviewmirror&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I gather speed from you f@#$ with  me&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Once and for all I’m far away&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I hardly believe, finally the shades….are  raised…&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Saw things so much clearer once you, once you  x2&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Rearviewmirror&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Trapping angels&lt;/span&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;And with a wink&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;And a smile&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;You toss your instructions on&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;How to catch a train&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;While it’s moving&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;You always were the one&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;That kept us all guessing&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;How you could survive&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;The fall you had&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;From Medicine Men&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;To my DJ friends&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They all have said&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;“he’s got to watch his back”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;CHORUS&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They’re trapping angels&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;By to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Potomac&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;But it’s not how you think&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;You’d be surprised&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They Liberate&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Your Dreamscape&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Till you can’t remember&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;To recall &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Where your wings&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Have gone&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Tell me where they’ve gone&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;From &lt;/span&gt;&lt;st1:country-region&gt;&lt;st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Jordan&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/st1:place&gt;&lt;/st1:country-region&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt; to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;st1:city&gt;&lt;st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Chicago&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/st1:place&gt;&lt;/st1:city&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Another child is born&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Trusting that we’ll get it&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Right this time&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I should’ve worn my glasses&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;You said just to trust&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Then you chose&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;To sign the dotted line&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;From Modern Magdalenes&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;To my DJ friends&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They all have said&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;‘he’s got to watch his back”&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;CHORUS&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Before I close my eyes at night&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I can still see you smilin’&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Before the Truth was&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Buried Alive&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Did we prize it&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Before you change the world&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Maybe boy you should change&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Your girl&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They’re trapping angels&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;By the &lt;/span&gt;&lt;st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Potomac&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They’re trapping angels&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Lord I know this&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;They’re trapping angels&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;By to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Potomac&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/st1:place&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;But we’re getting closer&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;I said we’re getting closer&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;To where they’ve gone&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Tell me where they’ve gone&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Arial;"&gt;Now it won’t be long&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-2489934029475768907?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/2489934029475768907/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=2489934029475768907' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2489934029475768907'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2489934029475768907'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/trapping-angels-in-my-rearviewmirror.html' title='Trapping Angels in my Rearviewmirror'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIYNBXSu-eI/AAAAAAAAABc/7Bbtzke25oc/s72-c/angel12.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-8607181926674525713</id><published>2008-07-21T19:08:00.007+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-21T19:15:14.479+02:00</updated><title type='text'>History makes me</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITDDni0AAI/AAAAAAAAABU/I9fCdrP9ENY/s1600-h/Broken_Love_by_chelloveck.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITDDni0AAI/AAAAAAAAABU/I9fCdrP9ENY/s320/Broken_Love_by_chelloveck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225515934578638850" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;My relationship history is what added to who I am today...&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;I am only listing long term  involvements. There have been many inbetweeners no really worth mentioning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;Std 6-8 - Mr CAW.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;My first “love”.  And the man I thought, as a stupid teenager, I would marry one day. We broke up  because he finished school and went to live with his father. I thought this was  amicable. I dated his friend. He got the mad. &lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;The first time I saw serious anger  flash in a man’s eyes.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;St 9-10 - Mr DvD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;A year younger  than me. And the man I thought, as a stupid, older, teenager, I would marry one  day. We broke up. I thought it was amicable. I wanted him back. He said no. He  started dating someone else. He broke my heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;The first time I saw the pain a  man’s denial can cause.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;St 10 - Mr NLT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;He was sweet. So  sweet it made me sick. I left him. I broke his heart. We kind of remained  friends for a while.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;The first time I realised I also have the ability to hurt  hearts.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;1&lt;sup&gt;st&lt;/sup&gt; – 2&lt;sup&gt;nd&lt;/sup&gt;  year Varsity - Mr SRF.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;Admittedly my first &lt;st1:stockticker&gt;TRUE&lt;/st1:stockticker&gt; love. A tumultuous and fiery  relationship. Something that could never ever have worked. But it shattered me.  It made me realize what I wanted and did not want in life. Today he is a person  I respect immensely, someone I am still close friends with and someone who will  hopefully stay a part of my life forever. And if he ever finds a GF or DW I will  kill her with my bare hands if she hurts him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;The first time I realised love is  not a fairytale and that love isn’t enough. Because if it was we would have  stayed together.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;3&lt;sup&gt;rd&lt;/sup&gt; Varsity and 3  years on - Mr &lt;st1:stockticker&gt;AMC&lt;/st1:stockticker&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;A pathetic little boy who  almost ruined me, yet only made me stronger! Engaged at some point during this  relationship. A feeble excuse of a human being with serious disorders and mental  instability. A waste of life. My biggest regret.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;The first time I realized I can  also make serious mistakes in my life&lt;/span&gt; (did I say that? That I made a  mistake??????)&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;2004-2005 - Mr DB.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;Father of my  beautiful daughter. Seeing her is an everyday reminder of him. But just a  reminder that I am glad I got away from him. Fell pregnant after only 3-4 months  of dating. Mistake mistake mistake! Slept with other woman at same time I fell  pregnant. Loser. Pathetic. Useless. Pain is my backside that will always be part  of my life. &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;The second time I realised I made a huge mistake.&lt;/span&gt; But this mistake  was not one I could just walk away from. I created a life with him. &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;2005 to present. Mr  &lt;st1:stockticker&gt;CAR&lt;/st1:stockticker&gt;. Husband. Father of my cutest boy.  Saviour? Hero? Mistake? On the latter I sincerely hope not. Life has not been  easy. I often think it’s a mistake. I often want to run away. I often want to  cry. I often look at him and remember all the good. I often look at him and  wonder why. I am going through changes (like the Ozzy Osbourne song hehehehe). I  hope these changes are for the better because.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;The first time I realised it's possible for somebody to love me for me. He has never asked me to change.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-weight: bold;"&gt;“DH I do love you. I don’t yet  believe it’s enough and I can’t promise you anything right now. But I look at  you and I want to cry. Cry because I wish I was different. Cry because I think I  hurt you so much. Cry because you hurt me. Cry because I feel I failed us both.  Cry because no matter what you believe, I think you are gorgeous, and because I  sometimes phone you just to hear your voice”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-8607181926674525713?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/8607181926674525713/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=8607181926674525713' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/8607181926674525713'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/8607181926674525713'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/history-makes-me.html' title='History makes me'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITDDni0AAI/AAAAAAAAABU/I9fCdrP9ENY/s72-c/Broken_Love_by_chelloveck.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-5729245366130172781</id><published>2008-07-21T18:48:00.004+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-21T19:08:13.648+02:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITB_o4NZ2I/AAAAAAAAABM/7jO7lB-aqj0/s1600-h/killingloveoriginal+-+Copy.gif"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITB_o4NZ2I/AAAAAAAAABM/7jO7lB-aqj0/s320/killingloveoriginal+-+Copy.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225514766705715042" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;The first thing that popped into  my mind when I thought about whether love is enough in any relationship  is…yeah…the lyrics to a song.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;Patty Smyth and Don Henley did  this amazing song many years ago (check when) called “Sometimes Love Just Ain’t  Enough”&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Now I don’t want to lose you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;But I don’t want to use you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Just to have somebody by my  side&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And I don’t want to hate you &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;I don’t want to take you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;But I don’t want to be the one to  cry&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And that don’t really matter&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;To anyone anymore&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;But like a fool I keep losing my  place&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And I keep seeing you walk  through that door&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;CHORUS&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;But there’s a danger in loving  somebody too much&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And it’s sad when you know &lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;It’s your heart you can’t  trust&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;There’s a reason why people don’t  stay where they are&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Baby sometimes love just ain’t  enough&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Now I could never change you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And I don’t want to blame you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Baby you don’t have to take the  fall&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Yes I may have hurt you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;But I did not desert you&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Maybe I just want to have it  all&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;It makes a sound like thunder&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;It makes me feel like rain&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And like a fool who will never  see the truth&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;I keep thinking something’s gonna  change&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;CHORUS&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And there’s not way home&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;When it’s late at night and  you’re all alone&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Are the things that you wanted to  say&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And do you feel me beside you in  your bed&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;There beside you where I used to  lay&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And there’s a danger in loving  somebody too much&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;And it’s sad then you know it’s  your heart they can’t touch&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Theres a reason why people don’t  staere who they are&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; font-style: italic;"&gt;Baby sometimes love just ain’t  enough&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;So I guess since the first time I  heard this song on the old Radio Port Natal station I always believed that was  the truth. And I still do. Love isn’t enough. No matter how much you think it  may be. And why do I say that? Well I love my son. I love him very very much. I  carried him, I birthed him, I sat with him in hospital, I stayed home with him.  But I do not believe I am the best mother I could be. My husband is his main, if  not SOLE, caregiver. I don’t change him, I don’t feed him. I may bath him, give  him the odd bottle, give some hugs and kisses but I do not care for him the way  a mother should. But I don’t want to talk about my lack of natural parenting  skills now.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;My husband seems to think my love  for him is enough to sustain our relationship and I do not believe that. I add  nothing to his life. In fact I take away from it. I believe his life would be  better without me and without my daughter. I believe he would have fewer  troubles, better quality of life and maybe even the possibility of finding a  better wife.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;Now you may think, well why does  she not just change? Because I don’t want to. Because I blindly believe I should  not have to change who I am. Because I am stubborn and I don’t believe I am  wrong. And because I still blindly believed in fairytale love like in the  movies, where they lived happily ever after. And then reality hit me like a  freight train and I have never been the same since then…&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-5729245366130172781?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/5729245366130172781/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=5729245366130172781' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5729245366130172781'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5729245366130172781'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/first-thing-that-popped-into-my-mind.html' title=''/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SITB_o4NZ2I/AAAAAAAAABM/7jO7lB-aqj0/s72-c/killingloveoriginal+-+Copy.gif' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-99081947488416340</id><published>2008-07-21T18:39:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-21T18:46:35.582+02:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIS9JQ3nGgI/AAAAAAAAABE/pYDPEFy9WTA/s1600-h/dark_angel-1481.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIS9JQ3nGgI/AAAAAAAAABE/pYDPEFy9WTA/s320/dark_angel-1481.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225509434501306882" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;The monster in me&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;I like to think that I am never  wrong…well there was that one time but then I discovered I had made a mistake.  LOL I kill me!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;No seriously, who ever like  admitting they are ever wrong? Don’t we all like to think we can never make a  mistake? Because if you are one of those people who just love saying sorry then  you are stupid and you are looking for attention. Just my opinion, take it or  leave it. Be too quick to apologise and you’re a suck up and unsure of yourself.  So there!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;But then I have days like today.  Days where I feel very sorry for myself. Days where I wonder if I am really a  good person. Days where I think I am worthless and probably to full of it. Days  when I realize that I am truly the most stubborn person I know and that somebody  should probably give me a tighty #THWACK#&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;I am in a bad place today. Today  I am pondering life, my place in it and whether I really want to be here or not.  Last night I almost left home. Today I am still not sure whether or not I want  to stay. Am I staying for the right reasons? So I am pondering a few thoughts  that I should deal with in the next few days/weeks or however long it takes. So  in no particular order…&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;1)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;My depression&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;2)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;My marriage&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;3)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;What is love and is it enough to make things work?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;4)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;When do I have the right to say “no more”?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;5)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;If I think about suicide often does that mean I am suicidal?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;6)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Do I really love myself and am I good enough to be loved?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;7)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Why do I so desperately want to be pregnant again when I don’t  want anymore children?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-indent: -18pt;"&gt;&lt;span style=""&gt;8)&lt;span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"&gt;       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Why do I feel like such a failure in my work and marriage?&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt; &lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"&gt;So there. I need to work through  these in order to move forward in my life. I know these are quite serious topic  and not what I had in mind for a blog. But hey, such is life.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-99081947488416340?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/99081947488416340/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=99081947488416340' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/99081947488416340'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/99081947488416340'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/monster-in-me-i-like-to-think-that-i-am.html' title=''/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIS9JQ3nGgI/AAAAAAAAABE/pYDPEFy9WTA/s72-c/dark_angel-1481.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-2106829821749089351</id><published>2008-07-20T12:25:00.003+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-20T12:33:58.169+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Red red wine</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIMUiucZh1I/AAAAAAAAAA8/GUmdUvBLmss/s1600-h/Red+wine+can+stop+you+from+going+deaf,+researchers+say.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIMUiucZh1I/AAAAAAAAAA8/GUmdUvBLmss/s320/Red+wine+can+stop+you+from+going+deaf,+researchers+say.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225042579495159634" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No I'm not writing about the song, I'm writing about that burgundy liquid that leaves one with a mother of a headache the next day. And makes you write stupid posts on your regular chatting forum about being pissed. And then makes you feel stupid the next day for doing it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I drank way too much wine last night. It was great fun while it lasted but today I have to pay the price. And the only price I wish to pay is to curl up in bed and stay there for about a week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't mind hangovers so much but having a 3 year old motormouth rattle on at high volume the whole day can get a bit much. The other 2 kids (i.e. baby and husband) has gone out for a few hours so that helps a bit. Oh I wish she would go take a nap....then I can follow suit!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-2106829821749089351?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/2106829821749089351/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=2106829821749089351' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2106829821749089351'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/2106829821749089351'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/red-red-wine.html' title='Red red wine'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIMUiucZh1I/AAAAAAAAAA8/GUmdUvBLmss/s72-c/Red+wine+can+stop+you+from+going+deaf,+researchers+say.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-5728158776650758195</id><published>2008-07-19T15:58:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-19T16:08:40.483+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Teacher</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIH1QgyVTAI/AAAAAAAAAA0/yt1o7Qcpbjw/s1600-h/23211117.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIH1QgyVTAI/AAAAAAAAAA0/yt1o7Qcpbjw/s320/23211117.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224726706754243586" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My daughter has become an English teacher at the age of three. I am forever being corrected in my way of speaking and pronouncing words LOL&lt;br /&gt;The best part of my day is after work, as I am busy washing our little boy's bottles, she stands next to me chattering away about her day. As usual I am a thousand miles away, reflecting on my own day at work, and inadvertently I start saying "mmmmmm" to everything she asks me. I am very quickly met with the following words:&lt;br /&gt;"Don't just mmmm me, TALK PROPERLY!"&lt;br /&gt;From the mouths of babes I tell you....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-5728158776650758195?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/5728158776650758195/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=5728158776650758195' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5728158776650758195'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5728158776650758195'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/teacher.html' title='Teacher'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIH1QgyVTAI/AAAAAAAAAA0/yt1o7Qcpbjw/s72-c/23211117.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-5501552892756752256</id><published>2008-07-18T08:43:00.009+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-18T11:00:37.341+02:00</updated><title type='text'>My life in a song.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIBCE8GUtQI/AAAAAAAAAAU/-m6BAMfi9ZQ/s1600-h/MirrorAngelPic%281%29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIBCE8GUtQI/AAAAAAAAAAU/-m6BAMfi9ZQ/s320/MirrorAngelPic%281%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224248220369335554" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Music has always had a big influence on my life. No I can't sing. I can't play any musical instruments. But I have this strange obsession with lyrics. I have had this obsession since I was a little girl and my dad made me listen to the words of The Girl With April In Her Eyes by Chris de Burgh. I was hooked. I will probably still bore you a lot with my ramblings about music LOL&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lately I have been a big Katie Melua fan. Out the blue. I never listened to her music before until I heard (and saw the video) of If you were a sailboat. It's off her new album called Pictures. And I fell in love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Katie does this awesome rendition of In My Secret Life. Originally a Leonard Cohen song. Another favourite...Leonard leaves me weak the knees...anyway I love to digress...even more so when I have been drinking...see there I go again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well back to the song. Though I should at least put the lyrics here so you know what I am on about...but it's only really one verse that is important, so I'll make it bold.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"  &gt;&lt;b&gt;"In My Secret Life"&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw you this morning.&lt;br /&gt;You were moving so fast.&lt;br /&gt;Can't seem to loosen my grip&lt;br /&gt;On the past.&lt;br /&gt;And I miss you so much.&lt;br /&gt;There's no one in sight.&lt;br /&gt;And we're still making love&lt;br /&gt;In My Secret Life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I smile when I'm angry.&lt;br /&gt;I cheat and I lie.&lt;br /&gt;I do what I have to do&lt;br /&gt;To get by.&lt;br /&gt;But I know what is wrong,&lt;br /&gt;And I know what is right.&lt;br /&gt;And I'd die for the truth&lt;br /&gt;In My Secret Life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hold on, hold on, my brother.&lt;br /&gt;My sister, hold on tight.&lt;br /&gt;I finally got my orders.&lt;br /&gt;I'll be marching through the morning,&lt;br /&gt;Marching through the night,&lt;br /&gt;Moving cross the borders&lt;br /&gt;Of My Secret Life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;Looked through the paper.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; Makes you want to cry.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; Nobody cares if the people&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; Live or die.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; And the dealer wants you thinking&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; That it's either black or white.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; Thank God its not that simple&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt; In My Secret Life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I bite my lip.&lt;br /&gt;I buy what I'm told:&lt;br /&gt;From the latest hit,&lt;br /&gt;To the wisdom of old.&lt;br /&gt;But I'm always alone.&lt;br /&gt;And my heart is like ice.&lt;br /&gt;And it's crowded and cold&lt;br /&gt;In My Secret Life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh what a spine chilling song. It may mean nothing to you but I don't believe life is just black or white. And life is not simple. And thank God I have my secret life or I would never survive this crazy world&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-5501552892756752256?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/5501552892756752256/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=5501552892756752256' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5501552892756752256'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/5501552892756752256'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/my-life-in-song.html' title='My life in a song.'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SIBCE8GUtQI/AAAAAAAAAAU/-m6BAMfi9ZQ/s72-c/MirrorAngelPic%281%29.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1516494028887813711.post-776948770202064307</id><published>2008-07-17T12:47:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-07-17T15:37:41.480+02:00</updated><title type='text'>It's a start</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SH9LEtQA9NI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ha6Ajik3mNw/s1600-h/Mama+Monkey.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SH9LEtQA9NI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ha6Ajik3mNw/s320/Mama+Monkey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223976637011391698" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well this is all very new to me...&lt;br /&gt;Blogging is apparently the in thing. I don't know if I can write. Or what to write. And would anybody even want to read it?&lt;br /&gt;I used to write a lot when I was a student. Stuff that made sense to me, maybe not to others. I used to write during lectures instead of listening. I used to write instead of studying. Now I am 12 years older and wiser, I would think, and I can't fathom what others would find interesting about me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok so here is something that plays heavily on my mind lately....&lt;br /&gt;Was I meant to be a mother?&lt;br /&gt;I have 2 kids. A daughter, 3 years old. A son, going on 11 months.&lt;br /&gt;I always said I would never get married and never have kids. I told my parents they had enough grandchildren from my siblings (7 at that time) so I did not need to provide them with more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I fell pregnant, by accident, with my daughter. Who is not, by the way, my husband's biological child. I was in a rocky relationship for only 3-4months when I got pregnant. I gave up going overseas for this guy and well, obviously it did not work out. I pretty much knew that it wouldn't even before I got pregnant!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met my husband when my daughter was only 7 months old. I told him from the get go, we come as a package, you don't like it, leave NOW. He didn't leave...&lt;br /&gt;We married a year later and fell pregnant with our son on our wedding night. I was broody, then moody, then hell to live with. Divorce was threatened many times (by me). We stuck it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I digress...I just don't think sometimes I'm a good enough mother. I listen to other mother's who love playing with their kids for hours. Who would love to sit home with them the whole day. Who happily cook them freshly prepared, well nourishing meals, with love. I don't cook. And I don't plan on learning any time soon...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do I love them? Of course I do. But is love enough?&lt;br /&gt;Was I really meant to be a mother? Or is someone playing some awfully sick joke on me?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1516494028887813711-776948770202064307?l=trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/feeds/776948770202064307/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1516494028887813711&amp;postID=776948770202064307' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/776948770202064307'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1516494028887813711/posts/default/776948770202064307'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://trappingangelsinmyrearviewmirror.blogspot.com/2008/07/well-this-is-all-very-new-to-me.html' title='It&apos;s a start'/><author><name>Tash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15568368466887578710</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LhBDGN93JSI/SH9LEtQA9NI/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ha6Ajik3mNw/s72-c/Mama+Monkey.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
