<?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-4578017066999826878</id><updated>2012-01-11T17:49:28.886-08:00</updated><title type='text'>remembering Ben</title><subtitle type='html'>SUDEP information and support network</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>19</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-7940464903555707439</id><published>2011-08-11T08:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-11T10:11:25.927-07:00</updated><title type='text'>You Are Mine</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--B2iX6gEIiU/TkQL4QhuzJI/AAAAAAAABDc/-xMXAzYIrm0/s1600/IMG_1066_edited.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639645694511729810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 273px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--B2iX6gEIiU/TkQL4QhuzJI/AAAAAAAABDc/-xMXAzYIrm0/s400/IMG_1066_edited.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;When my son was placed in my arms for the first time and I got to see the little person who had been growing within my womb for the last nine months, I remember thinking "This is our son." And he was. But really, he was God's son first. We all are. We are given to our earthly parents by God. The parents have the task of raising these children to know, love and serve our Creator and to look forward to the day that we reunite with Him in Heaven. It is a big job and I was just really beginning to understand that when Ben joined our family.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seven and a half years later, I was standing in a little white chapel, packed full of family and friends, saying good-bye to my son. I honestly don't remember much of that day. I have little pieces here and there that stand out. I remember Jack fussing in my arms and someone taking him for me. I remember the smell of incense and the priest's comforting voice. I remember walking out of the chapel behind the casket while the choir (of which I was a member and they were like my second family) sang "How Great Thou Art". It seemed as though their voices were being lifted into the clouds each time the refrain was sung. I wondered how they were able to sing, because I couldn't. To this day, I cannot sing any of the songs from Ben's funeral Mass. The song I wanted the choir to sing was "You are Mine". It's beautiful melody and message had always been uplifting for me:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Do not be afraid, I am with you."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had such guilty feelings for not being there with Ben when he died. He was alone in bed. But the more I prayed, the more I realized that he wasn't alone. I received a strong, clear vision of Mary gently taking one of his small hands while he gazed up at her and then Jesus taking his other hand and his head gently turning to look into Jesus' eyes. They then started walking hand in hand away from me toward Heaven. Whenever angels appear to people in the Bible, the first thing they always say is "Do not be afraid". I know Ben was not afraid. How could he have been?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;"I have called you each by name."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why my child?" I think it is impossible to not think that at some point in the grief that engulfs and consumes you in the wake of such a tragedy. Ben loved going to Mass and it showed. So much so, that our priest told me "I have been praying for our future priest the whole way here", upon arriving at the hospital that day. I realize that God had different plans for Ben. He was called to be here only a short time, and I know I won't fully understand why while I am still living. God called his name sooner than I would have liked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Come and follow me. I will bring you home."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God promises such wonderful things if only we choose Him. With complete trust, Ben learned and believed in God. He never doubted what I taught him. I like to think that Ben let me know that he had arrived at his new home in Heaven the night he died. There was a thunderstorm that was not forecast. It was crazy. The sky was several different colors, the wind was wild, and the lightening was right on top of us. It was as if Ben had found God's "weather machine" and was seeing what he could do. Ben was notorious for testing out how things work. I remember sitting on the couch with my family and we were actually able to smile at the idea of God gently shaking His head at Ben while he pulled levers and pushed buttons.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;"I love you, and you are mine."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God loves us all and we are His. This sentence says so much in such little, simple words. We don't have to be smart to understand this. We don't really have to understand at all, we just need to believe it. Ben did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-audIdLtamEg/TkQL4LqPHxI/AAAAAAAABDU/Ux7pjOc4apI/s1600/IMG_9797.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639645693205225234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-audIdLtamEg/TkQL4LqPHxI/AAAAAAAABDU/Ux7pjOc4apI/s400/IMG_9797.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-7940464903555707439?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/7940464903555707439/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=7940464903555707439' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/7940464903555707439'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/7940464903555707439'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2011/08/you-are-mine.html' title='You Are Mine'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--B2iX6gEIiU/TkQL4QhuzJI/AAAAAAAABDc/-xMXAzYIrm0/s72-c/IMG_1066_edited.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-5161354154866873223</id><published>2011-02-22T17:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-22T18:30:23.267-08:00</updated><title type='text'>This one's for you</title><content type='html'>Dear Ben,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's your birthday again! We are going to Jamestown and Yorktown this weekend with Grandma and Pa. I know you would have had a great time there. I have a Mass being said for you on March 1, the first one available at our Church.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This year, your old Mom tried to be creative. I've changed the words to a Bob Dylan tune in your honor. My sweet Benny, I love you. There will forever be an ache in my heart for you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For my blue eyed son:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I've been dancing and singing my song up in Heaven.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I've watched the stars falling when you looked for them too.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I've sat right beside you when your heart was a'breakin.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I've prayed for my family that we'll all be together.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;And it's a good, it's a good, it's a good place to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Oh, who did you meet, my darling young one?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I saw Mary take one hand and Jesus the other.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;They guided me gently to meet our Great Father.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I've sung with the angels at Mass, did you hear me?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;I welcomed Augustine, put my arm 'round my brother.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;And it's a good, it's a good, it's a good place to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Happy Birthday, my son.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Love,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;Mom&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-5161354154866873223?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/5161354154866873223/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=5161354154866873223' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5161354154866873223'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5161354154866873223'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2011/02/this-ones-for-you.html' title='This one&apos;s for you'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-1630257303816618214</id><published>2010-02-22T03:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-22T03:40:56.918-08:00</updated><title type='text'>To Ben on your 10th birthday</title><content type='html'>Dear Ben,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have been awake for a while now, thinking about what I would say to you on your birthday this year. Already, the tears are flowing, for I miss you so much that it is still a physical pain in my heart. What makes it harder is that your Dad is away on a band tour. I don't have his hugs today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know if I ever told you about the day an angel saved you from harm. You were little, not quite 2. It was late summer, and school would be starting soon. I would be teaching music 2 days a week at the girls' school and I had been praying about who would care for you on those days. I had just found out about a family at our Church who lived nearby and wanted to help us. The mother had two little ones at home and offered to watch you on those days. I brought all of you outside to play while I called this woman. You wanted to color with the sidewalk chalk on the driveway and the girls were riding bikes around you. I dialed the number and heard it ring. I had barely said hello when I looked up and you were no longer sitting there. I asked to her to wait a minute. I stood up and looked to see where you had wandered. Not by the swingset, so I turned toward the front of the house. There was a white truck at the edge of the driveway and a woman was holding you in her arms and walking up the driveway, telling me that you were about to wander into the street. I was so overcome, I just grabbed you and held you tight, crying at the idea of what could have happened. Then I remembered that I didn't say thank you to this kind lady, so I turned back around. She and the truck were gone. Vanished.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You were truly a blessing from above and I cherish every moment we shared with you. I thank God for the time we were given and I know I will hold you again someday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mom&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-1630257303816618214?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/1630257303816618214/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=1630257303816618214' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1630257303816618214'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1630257303816618214'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2010/02/to-ben-on-your-10th-birthday.html' title='To Ben on your 10th birthday'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-8410946174171477094</id><published>2009-08-02T19:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-04T12:00:25.799-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Bedtime Story</title><content type='html'>Once there was a doll named Angelo. A mother saw this doll among many others, but chose him to be her little girls first baby doll. But the little girl rarely played with the doll. And he lay in the cradle. Then the mother had another little girl. Again she presented Angelo to the second little girl. But this little girl rarely played with the doll. And he lay in the cradle. Then the mother had a son. She thought that a boy would not want a doll. But the mother was wrong. The little boy loved Angelo and slept with him every night for many years. Angelo now lay on the boy's bed. Another little girl came along, but she had her own doll. And then, another little boy was born to this family. When the baby was just learning to sit, the big brother came to his mother one night and said, "I would like Jack to have Angelo". This surprised the mother, for she knew how special the doll was to her son. The mother could never have imagined that the very next day her son would go to Heaven. She remembered her son's wish and tonight, as she tucked Jack into bed, Jack said to his mother, "Where's my baby that my Ben gave me?" And the mother smiled and cried.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-8410946174171477094?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/8410946174171477094/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=8410946174171477094' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/8410946174171477094'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/8410946174171477094'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2009/08/bedtime-story.html' title='A Bedtime Story'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-3776277477132899724</id><published>2009-02-22T13:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-22T14:18:34.435-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy Birthday, my Benny</title><content type='html'>Dear Ben,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We had Mass said for you today at St. Matt's. I shed a few tears, for I miss you so dearly. There are days that seem like it has been too long since you went to meet our Heavenly Father, just as there are moments that I expect you to come galloping into the room and flash me that sweet smile. At this moment, know that if I could, I would take you in my arms and hold you so tight. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is snowing as I am writing to you, dear Ben! Can you believe it? Tomorrow, we are going to the Great Wolf Lodge to have some warm weather fun to celebrate your birthday. I know you would love it and that is why we are going. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, Ben, there is so much in my heart that I want to tell you, but words fail me. I love you and I am so proud to have had the privilege of being your mother. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mom&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-3776277477132899724?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/3776277477132899724/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=3776277477132899724' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/3776277477132899724'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/3776277477132899724'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2009/02/happy-birthday-my-benny.html' title='Happy Birthday, my Benny'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-1954314381475525295</id><published>2008-12-23T15:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-24T18:57:47.342-08:00</updated><title type='text'>my little drummer boy</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SVF1QaAuOjI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/mIjPKAxQ_5E/s1600-h/IMG_0510.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SVF1QaAuOjI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/mIjPKAxQ_5E/s320/IMG_0510.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283132762603010610" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of the first years we were in Georgia, our Church had a children's Christmas program during Mass in which they re-enacted the Nativity. I do not even remember how it happened that Ben was to be the little drummer boy. I cherish the memory of watching him with a drum over his shoulder, marching solemnly around the Church while I was playing "Little Drummer Boy" with the choir. I remember tearing up as he took his part so seriously. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have been missing him deeply during Advent. I hear songs that he loved to sing and my arms ache to hold him one more time. To kiss his sweet head and hear him sing to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On a more light-hearted note, we have an Elvis Christmas CD that Ben loved to listen to all year. I always smile when I think of him belting out with Elvis "Santa Claus is Back in Town". He had some good dance moves too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Merry Christmas son.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;****UPDATED****&lt;br /&gt;We just returned from the Vigil Mass. The opening hymn was O Come All Ye Faithful. The trumpets blared, and the altar boys rang the bells through the entire song. It was so beautiful that a smile immediately spread over my face. Then the second verse started "Sing, choirs of angels.." and I knew that Ben was in THAT choir and was rejoicing with us. My heart was filled with joy!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-1954314381475525295?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/1954314381475525295/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=1954314381475525295' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1954314381475525295'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1954314381475525295'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/12/my-little-drummer-boy.html' title='my little drummer boy'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SVF1QaAuOjI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/mIjPKAxQ_5E/s72-c/IMG_0510.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-60687863738393655</id><published>2008-09-27T12:33:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-02T18:56:55.459-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A New Mission</title><content type='html'>As you all know, this blog has been about celebrating Ben's life. But I feel that God is calling me to spread the word about how Ben died. Hopefully by telling his story, this can become a place for others to come for information about SUDEP, to find support as families cope with their loss, and to help raise funds for research in preventing SUDEP.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ben was our 3rd child of 5 and our first son. He was the fussiest baby I had ever seen! But as he approached his first birthday, he became the child I will always remember. His love for life and others began to blossom. The tears were replaced with laughter and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ben had his first seizure following a fever when he was 14 months old. I was holding him as I went to get the thermometer. All of a sudden, his little body stiffened and his eyes rolled back and he had a grand mal seizure in my arms. We rushed to the hospital where we were told this was a common thing in children with fevers and not to worry. But a week later, he was hospitalized with uncontrolled seizures. They ran many tests and put him on medication. After a year, he had had no seizures so the doctors decided to wean him off medication. For 9 months, he was seizure free and we all thought that he was fine. We celebrated Thanksgiving with my family and while there, he started having seizures again. Each one became longer and more severe and by the time we got him to the hospital, they were happening about every 30 minutes. Amid all the doctors coming in and asking questions, the doctor that stands out in my mind is the one who stood quietly by, and when it was only he and another doctor in the room, he walked over to Ben. Ben had been unconscious this whole time from medication. The doctor put his hand lightly on Ben's forehead and looked at him with such kind eyes. Then he looked at me and said "You are truly blessed to have this child." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ben was diagnosed with epilepsy at age 3. His seizure activity was almost completely controlled by medication, and the few seizures he did have always happened when he was ill. The doctors had even told us that he would probably grow out of this and were considering stopping his medication. On Saturday August 11, 2007, Ben woke up early. He and his 7 month old brother sat quietly in my room playing together. I remember just watching them play, imagining all the fun these two brothers would enjoy together. As the other children woke up, I got busy with the morning routine. Around 9:00 Ben came to me and said he had a headache. The other children had all had colds recently, so I figured he was next. I gave him some medicine for his headache and he asked if he could lie down. After Ben went to bed, the piano tuner showed up to fix the piano. When he left I went to check on Ben. I called out his name as I walked up the stairs, but he did not reply. I had this horrible feeling overcome me and I quickened my steps. As I entered his room, I screamed. My little boy was dead. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No one ever told us you could die from epilepsy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We now know that Ben died from SUDEP. Sudden Unexpected Death in Epileptic Patients. Right after Ben died, I tried looking up SUDEP. There is very little to be found on the internet or elsewhere. Even our neurologist could not tell us any more than we had already found on our own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This has completely changed our family and we will never be that family again. There is a huge hole in my heart and in our family. I was amazed by how many lives Ben had touched in his 7 years. As we try and move forward, I still want him to be a part of how we live. Hopefully Ben will smile down on us as we try to reach out and offer a helping hand.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-60687863738393655?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/60687863738393655/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=60687863738393655' title='17 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/60687863738393655'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/60687863738393655'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/09/new-mission.html' title='A New Mission'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>17</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-4290741534491671839</id><published>2008-08-11T13:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-11T13:25:46.434-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A hard day</title><content type='html'>One year ago today, Ben went to his new home in Heaven. I miss him so passionately. I still cannot fathom that I will not hold him again. My heart skips a beat when I realize the truth. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Little Ben, I am trying to stay strong. Please intercede for your mama and ask God to give our family all the graces we need to continue each day without your smile, charm, and hugs.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-4290741534491671839?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/4290741534491671839/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=4290741534491671839' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/4290741534491671839'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/4290741534491671839'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/08/hard-day.html' title='A hard day'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-5611861987219761815</id><published>2008-05-24T11:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-24T11:18:37.878-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Buffalo's and Ants</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SDhb10Ln_dI/AAAAAAAAAC0/wYDtGkW5NXc/s1600-h/ben.party.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SDhb10Ln_dI/AAAAAAAAAC0/wYDtGkW5NXc/s320/ben.party.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204010349525204434" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I like it when something triggers my memory of a funny story that could have easily been forever lost. I can't recall the trigger now, but here is the story:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When we first moved to Ft. Stewart, the folk choir would go out to eat after Mass. It became a custom to go to Buffalo's. Ben enjoyed the BBQ chicken wings more than most people. He could polish off a basket of 10 wings himself. The process was more than messy. No one was allowed to wipe his hands or face until he was done eating. Most nights, the sauce would be up to his wrists and quite often I would find it in his ears. I always enjoyed watching him eat his wings. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After dinner, we would stand in the parking lot chatting before heading home. One evening, I looked over at Ben and he was chewing on something. I asked him to spit out whatever was in his mouth. He did and handed it to me. It was a piece of candy. I asked him where he had found it and he pointed to the ground. I then asked him why he had chosen to do so and he answered me matter-of-factly, "Because it was the one without any ants on it."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-5611861987219761815?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/5611861987219761815/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=5611861987219761815' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5611861987219761815'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5611861987219761815'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/05/buffalos-and-ants.html' title='Buffalo&apos;s and Ants'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/SDhb10Ln_dI/AAAAAAAAAC0/wYDtGkW5NXc/s72-c/ben.party.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-5647097147461709027</id><published>2008-04-08T10:33:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-08T11:05:54.080-07:00</updated><title type='text'>ramblings of a sad mama</title><content type='html'>There are so many things that Ben did not get to do. Mostly, I can think about all the experiences he did have and find much comfort. This, however, is hard. He did not get to make his First Holy Communion. It was something he was eagerly looking forward to doing. I was going to prepare my son this year. Next weekend is when he would have done so. I read someone describe this as the "first taste of Heaven". I wanted to be there for his first taste. Instead, I received it for him in the emergency room as our priest gave him the Last Rites. It brings tears to my eyes and makes my heart ache each time I think of this. I was not there when he left this world to experience truly his first glimpse of Heaven. God knows why it happened that way, but as a mommy, I feel like I let him down not being there to reassure him and hold him and say good-bye. This morning on my walk, the air was crisp and I was reflecting on not being able to say good-bye. I heard his little voice so happy and clear say "bye mama".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I think about the mysteries of the rosary, there are such definite emotions--joyful, sorrowful, glorious. I feel like I am in the midst of my own sorrowful mysteries. I don't know why God has put these things in my life, but I am trying my best to carry this cross. So many friends are reuniting with their husbands after this long deployment. I have such joy in my heart for them. I sometimes feel like we were stripped of that happy homecoming. Tony's homecoming was heartbreaking. Hopefully this season of sorrow will strengthen and mold our family in ways that will bring us closer to what God wants us to be.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-5647097147461709027?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/5647097147461709027/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=5647097147461709027' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5647097147461709027'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/5647097147461709027'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/04/ramblings-of-sad-mama.html' title='ramblings of a sad mama'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-8240018549768245824</id><published>2008-02-22T12:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-22T12:38:53.293-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Eight Years Ago...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R78yp7u8OCI/AAAAAAAAACs/A-9IWvbih8E/s1600-h/IMG_1206_edited.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R78yp7u8OCI/AAAAAAAAACs/A-9IWvbih8E/s320/IMG_1206_edited.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169906593235220514" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My dear Benjamin,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eight years ago today, God blessed us with you, our beautiful firstborn son. We were all filled with joy to meet you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so glad I had seven and a half years to be your mommy and see you grow and laugh and love. I do not understand why our time together had to be so short. I had a vision that Mary and Jesus came to your room and gently took your hands in theirs and guided you to Heaven. That has brought me such comfort to know that your Heavenly Mother was there for you so that you would not be scared in your new surroundings.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Happy Birthday, my sweet Benny. I hope that you will be with us in spirit as we celebrate you and the time we had together. I love you, son.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mommy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-8240018549768245824?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/8240018549768245824/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=8240018549768245824' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/8240018549768245824'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/8240018549768245824'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/02/eight-years-ago.html' title='Eight Years Ago...'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R78yp7u8OCI/AAAAAAAAACs/A-9IWvbih8E/s72-c/IMG_1206_edited.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-1461909904558102668</id><published>2008-01-16T09:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-16T10:18:35.553-08:00</updated><title type='text'>waiting it out</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R45JSKzjt-I/AAAAAAAAACk/SSPq3am4hH8/s1600-h/IMG_0632.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156139199872874466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R45JSKzjt-I/AAAAAAAAACk/SSPq3am4hH8/s320/IMG_0632.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;In February of 2006, we took a trip to Disneyworld. Ben wanted to do everything. The Tower of Terror was no exception. I can remember the enthusiam that exuded from him as we stood in line. He was still excited as we ascended up the "elevator shaft". But as the ride plummetted, so did his enthusiam. He turned to me and said in a small voice, "I'm scared! I really am." As his mom, I wanted to push a magic button and get us off the ride. But I knew the only thing I could do was to hold him tight until the ride stopped and the scariness was over.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;That is how I feel right now. I want God to push the magic button and make this all go away. But all I can do is hold on tight to Him. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Later in the trip, he got a Mr. Incredible outfit complete with muscles (We celebrated his 6th birthday there). His infectous smile and uncontainable enthusiam returned. I knew that the scary feeling had gone for now and in his costume he felt he like he could conquer the world. And he has.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am still waiting it out, holding on tight. I hope God hears my small voice, calling to Him, "I'm sad. I really am."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-1461909904558102668?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/1461909904558102668/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=1461909904558102668' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1461909904558102668'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1461909904558102668'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2008/01/waiting-it-out.html' title='waiting it out'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R45JSKzjt-I/AAAAAAAAACk/SSPq3am4hH8/s72-c/IMG_0632.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-1153045875277133651</id><published>2007-12-14T10:33:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-14T10:44:20.842-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Love Your Family</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R2LNEKzjt9I/AAAAAAAAABU/ShejWAzAEk8/s1600-h/IMG_1543.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143899195914303442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R2LNEKzjt9I/AAAAAAAAABU/ShejWAzAEk8/s320/IMG_1543.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Three days before Ben died, I mailed a package to Tony in Iraq. As usual, the kids filled the package with letters and drawings. Of course, Tony returned home before receiving the package. Yesterday, it finally came back to us. This is one of the pictures that Ben drew. At the time, I know he meant "Love your family" as a close to a letter. However, I think he meant it as a command to us all this time around. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ben, I am ever so more aware of how important each moment is with our family. Watch over your family during this season of Advent and help us to show our love for one another. I love and miss you.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mommy&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-1153045875277133651?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/1153045875277133651/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=1153045875277133651' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1153045875277133651'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1153045875277133651'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/12/love-your-family.html' title='Love Your Family'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/R2LNEKzjt9I/AAAAAAAAABU/ShejWAzAEk8/s72-c/IMG_1543.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-161170080320899502</id><published>2007-10-31T12:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-31T13:06:00.672-07:00</updated><title type='text'>To my pirate on Halloween</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RyjfXODOBrI/AAAAAAAAABM/PLuOvLpsi8E/s1600-h/IMG_0783.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127593765762893490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RyjfXODOBrI/AAAAAAAAABM/PLuOvLpsi8E/s320/IMG_0783.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dear Ben,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was one of your favorite days of the year! Halloween, where you could don your pirate-y things, and run through the neighborhood collecting your pirate booty...all the candy a kid could want. I am going to miss watching you create your latest pirate. You had been working on making your black pirate hat look more like the ones in the Pirates of the Carribean. I think you used most of my scotch tape!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How I miss you son. These "firsts" are the hardest. The first Halloween without you. I pray that you know how very much I cherish the time I had with you, my sweet angel boy. Do you get to dress up in Heaven? I sure hope so.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mommy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-161170080320899502?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/161170080320899502/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=161170080320899502' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/161170080320899502'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/161170080320899502'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/10/to-my-pirate-on-halloween.html' title='To my pirate on Halloween'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RyjfXODOBrI/AAAAAAAAABM/PLuOvLpsi8E/s72-c/IMG_0783.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-55480493708153543</id><published>2007-10-15T14:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-15T14:16:00.417-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And the punchline is....</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;One particularly beautiful day, I had opened the windows to let the fresh air in as we did our schoolwork. Ben had finished his assignments and was dressed up in his cowboy gear. He decided to go out in the backyard to play cowboy. At one point, he wrangled up to the open window and in his best western drawl asked, "Ma'am, you got any soda in there?" I was helping the girls so I told him "No, we're out of soda. Try back later." He played around a bit more but returned to the window with the same question, "Ma'am, you got any soda in there?" Once again I told him there was no soda. He went back to playing in the yard. When he came up to window the third time, and asked the same question "Ma'am, you got any soda in there?" , I decided to play along with his game and said, "What kind of soda will it be?" To which he replied without hestitation, "Make mine Minnesota!!!" &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;I will never know if he made that up himself or if he had heard it somewhere, but it is such a good representation of his sense of humor that I would like to think it is a Ben original. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;Ben, you made me laugh out loud and in my heart every day. You were such a happy guy, you woke up cheerful every morning and always had a hug and kiss for me first thing. Smile down on your family every day from Heaven and bless us with your love.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-55480493708153543?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/55480493708153543/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=55480493708153543' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/55480493708153543'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/55480493708153543'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/10/and-punchline-is.html' title='And the punchline is....'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-7572015249552872488</id><published>2007-09-26T19:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-09-26T19:32:54.729-07:00</updated><title type='text'>From Ben's Sisters</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsUdrNzs0I/AAAAAAAAAA0/Brtv-45L8Ps/s1600-h/IMG_0840.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114704301858730818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsUdrNzs0I/AAAAAAAAAA0/Brtv-45L8Ps/s320/IMG_0840.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Olivia writes:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I remember the time when Ben wanted to watch the movie "That Thing You Do". One day he said, "I want something to do." Mom gave him toys, puzzles, and games but he said, "No, I want something to do", and got "That Thing You Do".&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;That is one of my favorite memories of Ben. I will never forget it. God Bless you Ben. Olivia&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sophie writes:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;On post, there is this water treatment plant by where we live. We call it the "stinky plant". We have to drive past it quite often. About a year ago, we were driving by and Ben asked, "What's that smell, Mom?" Mom told him, "Ben, you know what that smell is. It's the stinky plant". Then he asked her, "Mom, when is that plant going to die?" We all were laughing so hard and everyone we tell still thinks it is funny.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-7572015249552872488?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/7572015249552872488/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=7572015249552872488' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/7572015249552872488'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/7572015249552872488'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/09/from-bens-sisters.html' title='From Ben&apos;s Sisters'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsUdrNzs0I/AAAAAAAAAA0/Brtv-45L8Ps/s72-c/IMG_0840.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-3578705564285193745</id><published>2007-09-26T18:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-09-26T19:11:07.342-07:00</updated><title type='text'>All-time Greatest Stories</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsQJbNzszI/AAAAAAAAAAs/3Zhn0LKSDXY/s1600-h/Ben+003.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114699555919868722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsQJbNzszI/AAAAAAAAAAs/3Zhn0LKSDXY/s320/Ben+003.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are some things Ben did that will never fade in my memory, but I think that one of the top ten things was the washing machine incident. He was probably 18 months old because we were still in Tennessee and I had my old washer and dryer. The washer was a top loader. Ben was a climber. I would find him in high places daily. I heard his usual cry for help that meant he had climbed on top of something but could not get back down. "HEELLPP!" I started following the sound of his voice but then it seemed like I had passed him. Odd, I thought, the only thing I passed was the laundry closet. "HEELLPP!" So I backed up and there he was in the washing machine while it was in use! I was doing the bleach load, no less. He had stacked the boxes of Tide and opened the lid and must have thought the swirling water looked fun. Now, I happened to be wearing my favorite navy blue t-shirt and there he was bobbing in bleach water. So, quickly I took off the shirt and grabbed him out of the machine and took him directly to the tub for a quick "rinse cycle". He thought the whole experience was great. I could feel the gray hairs developing in my head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Please share with us your funniest Ben story.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-3578705564285193745?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/3578705564285193745/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=3578705564285193745' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/3578705564285193745'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/3578705564285193745'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/09/all-time-greatest-stories.html' title='All-time Greatest Stories'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvsQJbNzszI/AAAAAAAAAAs/3Zhn0LKSDXY/s72-c/Ben+003.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-6245774615664986119</id><published>2007-09-23T05:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-09-23T05:31:23.238-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Boys</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvZbtrNzsyI/AAAAAAAAAAk/81eAnmOiQ_g/s1600-h/IMG_0977_edited.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113375267178656546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvZbtrNzsyI/AAAAAAAAAAk/81eAnmOiQ_g/s320/IMG_0977_edited.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;As I was driving the other day, I remembered how Ben would call out the make and model of the cars we saw. Tony had taught him all the different cars as they would walk across the parking lots. This was a new game for me because he was my first boy and I grew up in a house full of girls. He would ask me the name if he did not recognize the emblem on the car. He liked Ford Mustangs the most and we bought him a remote control Mustang for his birthday. If you have a memory of Ben doing things only boys would do, please share it with us!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-6245774615664986119?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/6245774615664986119/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=6245774615664986119' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/6245774615664986119'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/6245774615664986119'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/09/boys.html' title='Boys'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/RvZbtrNzsyI/AAAAAAAAAAk/81eAnmOiQ_g/s72-c/IMG_0977_edited.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4578017066999826878.post-1178183232685681825</id><published>2007-09-04T19:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-09-04T19:23:46.841-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mission Statement</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/Rt4SWZameMI/AAAAAAAAAAM/WFHOFP-ua3I/s1600-h/IMG_1211_edited.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106539203473602754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/Rt4SWZameMI/AAAAAAAAAAM/WFHOFP-ua3I/s320/IMG_1211_edited.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;We are creating this blog so that our friends and family can share their stories, memories and pictures of Ben with us. From this blog, my sister and I will be creating a scrapbook. We hope that everyone who knew Ben will help us remember our sweet little boy.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4578017066999826878-1178183232685681825?l=reosti.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/feeds/1178183232685681825/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=4578017066999826878&amp;postID=1178183232685681825' title='12 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1178183232685681825'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4578017066999826878/posts/default/1178183232685681825'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://reosti.blogspot.com/2007/09/mission-statement.html' title='Mission Statement'/><author><name>Jenny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/12537767678040466695</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RT2vn8k4i20/To5FqoWxC-I/AAAAAAAABI0/Nj4vsdAet20/s220/125327-R2-E024-1%255B1%255D.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3ASikUqHlUQ/Rt4SWZameMI/AAAAAAAAAAM/WFHOFP-ua3I/s72-c/IMG_1211_edited.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>12</thr:total></entry></feed>
