Our kids have had a packed schedule this summer between swim team and swimming in general, playing with friends in the neighborhood, and a few weekend trips here and there.

I figured that in August our six year-old especially would be getting antsy so I registered her early for the Romp n’ Roll camp at CMoR. She attended last week and we were not disappointed!

Thought I’d share a bit of it with you (in bite-sized bullets for those of us mamas-on-the-move) should you need inspiration for what can tend to be long, hot (and to kids) booooooring days of summer:

-This camp’s for 2-6 year olds, M-W-F 9am-12pm. For us, that was the perfect amount of time for her to have special time away from her big brothers but not get

too wiped out from being in an all-day camp.

-The price is rocking-$100 when we registered early, $120 now. Includes camp t-shirt and daily snack.

-Variety is the ingredient that makes this one a winner for our little lover-of-all-things. Movement to music, free play, and art (her favorite) created a nicely-packaged experience.

-There’s a cool theme every week. We chose Knights, Princesses and Dragons because our little diva is pretty-well convinced that she is a princess, and who are we to discourage her? Kind of cool to be able to choose a theme based on your kiddos’ interests. The last week–next week–is 3-2-1 Blast Off!

-It’s locally-owned and run. We love supporting locally-owned businesses and the Romp n’ Roll franchises run by Glen Allen residents Michael and Babz Barnett not only offers great programs, they do great things in the community like hosting book drives and supporting non-profits.

-The smiles rock. Our little gal, upon presenting her finished artwork for the week, said “Mama I had so much fun, why did you only sign me up for one week?!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that summer was almost over and we had to squeeze stuff like getting school clothes, haircuts and other school-prep chores and just couldn’t cram more fun in the way we wanted to this summer. We’ll try to catch an open gym, always a welcome break from sweltering Richmond heat.

Here’s hoping you can squeeze every last little bit of fun out of summer with your families.

Romp n’ Roll is an advertiser of Richmondmom.com.

The post CMoR Summer Camp Powered by Romp n’ Roll: A Real Richmond Review appeared first on Richmond Mom.

An impromptu family day off and desire to stick close to home in Glen Allen made this the perfect venue; finding $2/off coupons in ValPak ($2/off coupons also on the Cobblestones Park website) sweetened the deal. Our family-of-five grabbed towels, donned our swimsuits and headed five minutes up Staples Mill Road and here’s what we found:

An enormous pool. And I mean, enormous. Apparently it’s one of the largest on the east coast, and at 38,000 feet, I’d believe it. We loved the fact that it’s pretty shallow and even our six-year-old could touch in most places, and there aren’t many obstacles so we could see the kids everywhere.

Being a weekday, it wasn’t too crowded which was another bonus. This meant short lines and more waterslide fun on the two slick waterslides–one super-high fast one heading straight down and one more-tame twisty slide.

We spent several hours there, between swimming, sliding and jumping on the rhino and other floating animals that give kiddos a chance to get a jump into the water. There are also a bunch of smaller slides meant for little ones, but I noted that our six, eight, and eleven year olds weren’t embarrassed to take several turns on those, too.

I had no idea that they allow coolers which is brilliant because the one drawback we noted was that the snack bar area, even though it was plastered with “No Smoking” signs did smell strongly of smoke, so I wouldn’t have wanted to order lunch there.

We ducked out for lunch then headed back–it’s open until 5:30pm so it was nice to have a hand-stamp and some flexibility to return at our leisure. The kids couldn’t seem to get enough of it, and while we were out we snagged our beach chairs as we saw that folks had brought theirs, and were able to get a little reading time in while the kids played (this was, admittedly to also catch our breath to keep up with them.)

After checking out Cobblestone’s Yelp reviews later tonight it appears the restrooms are pretty unclean, but we had left for lunch and hadn’t needed to use them while we were there. So I can’t comment there. Also note that they don’t sell tickets after 4:00pm each day.

There are season passes available, and if we hadn’t discovered this so late in the summer we would consider buying them (they’re actually half-price now).

For a waterpark experience without the drive to Kings Dominion and to save a bit by bringing in a cooler, it was a day well worth it at fifty dollars for our family. Hope you get to check it out and squeeze some fun out of these last hot and hazy Richmond summer days.

*Note: we received nothing from Cobblestone Park in exchange for this post, we just thought it was a little gem folks may want to know more about.

The post Cobblestones Park: A Real Richmond Review appeared first on Richmond Mom.

I’ve read fellow-writer friends express their feelings on turning forty here on the blog and over wine on coveted girls’ nights out. And, sure as crows feet are etching their way across my eyes and AARP bumps my mailing address up in their pending queue, my time  has come.

Part of me is in denial as I’m surely still twenty-one, working thirty hours a week, going to college full-time, juggling a busy social schedule and somehow managing to still catch a nap before heading out to bars at eleven p.m.

Other days I’m the twenty-five year old who flew around the country non-stop recruiting on college campuses, trying to relive the dream and figure out the corporate thing before settling down a bit to have my kids.

Then I’m twenty-eight, the thrill of holding our newborn son placing a perma-smile on my face and confirming that yes, being a mother was the coolest and toughest role I would ever play.

Three years later, my second son came on the scene and I gotta be honest, between his birth and my daughter’s just under two years later I lost a few months in there so it’s all a little hazy. I had started a new position and was traveling and trying to hold it all together while working a reduced work schedule.

When I’m feeling like my thirty-five year old self I’m struggling with figuring out who I’m supposed to be–losing my job when my company went bankrupt, plunking away on this little blog no one had ever heard of while all of my friends and family watched me muddle through in conjoined surprise and concern.

Most days, though, I feel like someone who feels pretty damn comfortable in her skin after all of these years, even though I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (today’s front-runners: college professor/trophy wife/Oprah’s personal assistant) and who can’t seem to learn enough about everything.

All the Kates of my past are here in this slightly more-wrinkled package who is often called “Mrs. Hall” (I still look over my shoulder for my mother-in-law) and have given me the gift of challenges, experiences, and triumphs.

The bonus is that now I’ll be able to watch my sons and daughter (pictured left with my mom and a childhood photo of me) in each of their life stages, hopefully making a few less mistakes than I have and with much less fear than I’ve harbored.

These first forty years have given me so much more than I’ve deserved that I can’t wait to see what the next forty hold.

The post Not Fighting Forty appeared first on Richmond Mom.

When we recently moved back to Glen Allen and my kids heard about other kids in the ‘hood joining swim team, they all got excited about it and all three decided to take the plunge (pun intended) at once.

Little did I know that a world of education was awaiting me and, thanks to the fabulous swim team parents of the Hungary Creek Marlins, I’ve been able to manage to get us successfully through most of the season without major distress. If you’re considering signing up your little darlings for swim team, here are a few pointers I’ve learned that I’m happy to share:

1) This could cost you. In addition to the pool membership, I shelled out an additional few hundred dollars for fees, swim team swag, and top-of-the-line required Speedo suits (which are also adorable and only found at Nova in Richmond). We looked at it as an investment in their swimming skills and of course a great phsyical activity for summer, so it’s a worthwhile expense but one we weren’t prepared for. So far it’s proven to be money well-spent. (Children, enjoy your ramen noodles this summer!) Side benefit: those speedos are the cutest on little boys.

2) Latch on to a swim team parent, they know what’s up. They’ll see that glazed-over look in your eye and jump in to help: the noble veteran-swim-team moms and dads who boldly come back year after year to cheer on wet, soggy youth at the finish line. It is they who have taught me how to time two swimmers simultaneously, explained the lengthy swim meet process and that it’s critical to look at that relay board at mid-meet (I learned this the hard way, after learning they were calling out my son’s name after we left, not realizing he was supposed to be part of a relay. Oops!)

3) Clear you calendar. Especially if it’s a rainy season. Apparently “no other year has been as rainy as THIS year” but 3/5 meets we’ve found ourselves schlepping all three kids, a cooler and duffel bags stuffed with wet towels back into our car to wait out thunderstorms because everyone gets the boot at the first sign of lightning/thunder. Usually this is after my six-year-old’s 6th trip to the snack bar and she has to go to the bathroom. If the meet is called–and in my experience, these dedicated die-hards don’t like to cancel–the next night you’ll be back poolside ready for the 50+ event meet to continue.

4) Speaking of 50+ events, be prepared for some loooong swim meet nights. Since my eldest is always in event number 47 (keep in mind some events have several heats), I’ve learned the hard way that preparation is key, so my husband and I each drive and take turns taking the little ones home as their eyelids start drooping over their blood-shot, chlorine-ridden eyes. If you’ve got little kids, you’ll get out of there mucho earlier so congrats! You may actually get an hour of downtime at night.

5) A sense of humor is a life-saver. Whether it’s jockeying-for-position or a coveted poolside table before the meet, sweating buckets in Richmond humidity for hours or realizing that you’ve forgotten your snack bar donation (again) requiring a last-minute Wawa run, laughing at the insanity of it all helps immensely.

My son modeled this behavior well after coming home late one night after I’d bathed the two younger ones, shouting “Mom! I got a silver!”

“Awesome!” I responded.

“Yep,” he said, “Dad told me the best way to get a silver was to swim against just one other guy, and that’s just what I did.”

The post Top 5 Things I’ve Learned as a Newbie Swim Team Mom appeared first on Richmond Mom.

Last year, my husband and I happened upon a bright young lady at dinner one night. She had graduated from college, tried the corporate world, and was taking a  break from it as she considered next steps.

We were lucky enough to have her waitress our table that night. We never would have imagined that a bit over a year later, after a lot of screening (she screened us–it’s a miracle we made the cut) she would become a natural member of our family.

Olivia started watching our (then) five-year old daughter daily in anticipation of her brothers being released from school, and when the last school bell rang, she took on all three kids for the entire summer. And I mean ON: to the pool, the park, CMoR and The Science Museum, the dog park with her sweet dog Bella, the SPCA to visit animals, you name it. There were times when (and I’m ashamed to admit this) I was actually jealous of Olivia’s relationship with my three treasures—she got to be with them all day and was the fun playmate I was often too tired to be at night.

Yet, I pushed my lowly-green feelings aside to make way for the gratitude that filled me for finding someone so loving to share our home and most prized possessions.

Among her many lovely attributes, Olivia happens to be black. This has led to some interesting conversations with our now six-year old daughter as we lived in an area that offered little diversity at the time, and she would ask questions like ,”Why are you brown?” and “Why is your hair like that?”

The beauty of Olivia is that she takes these questions in stride, shares her (often-hilarious) responses with us, and we all use them to have great conversations with our kids about how color really doesn’t matter.

Sadly, though to a lot of folks it still does matter. She often gets lots of strange glances at the pool and other locations where she can be seen with our three in tow; luckily her spunky stance poises her well for the raised eyebrows. I jokingly call her my “Jamaican college spring break baby” and we often talk well after her “shift” is over, which is a treat.

Recently my husband and I were talking about how thankful we are that our generation seems so much more open to not only diverse friends but truly talking about our differences, and how lucky we are to live in a time where children have no idea what segregation means.

Words can’t describe how much joy, comfort, and fun having Olivia in our lives has brought us this past year.

We wouldn’t care (& I think my daughter may actually adore it) if she were purple. I really can’t imagine why anyone would.

The post Our Family Plus One (Minority) Adoptee appeared first on Richmond Mom.

Well don’t you worry, I’ve not had a minute to slack–I’ve been packing up my family-of-five to move to our seventh house and dealing with crying/moaning/pain (and that’s just my husband) resulting from cleaning out/packing away/giving stuff up.

And, yes, that just said seventh house. In fifteen years.* I should be a pro at this, but apparently I haven’t learned a darn thing and I’m still a candidate for hoarders, and after this long weekend I learned that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Here’s why, even amidst the sore muscles and angst, the moving process has actually been positive to date:

10) I DID give up several bags of my old clothes to the Goodwill, but my paper-thin twenty+ year-old t-shirt from my alma mater was not one of them. There’s just too much history woven into its yellowed fibers; every time I look at it – I see a sunny day with one hundred thousand or so really fun people huddled around Beaver Stadium and fall leaves rustling – and that just makes me smile.

9) I found over twenty dollars in old purses, holla!

8) Sorting through my kids’ school pictures and artwork provided me with much-needed mental breaks and inspiration. Priceless.

7) The massive pile of unmatched socks in a basket in my laundry room finally met its maker, sock monster BE DAMNED.

6) My baking dishes are now nicely nestled away, cushioned between bundled sheets of packing paper, so surely my family will not expect a home-cooked meal anytime before our move date in ten days.

5) Unearthing my dad’s sweater from my closet was like hugging him tight again, even though he passed away twenty-five years ago.

It made me picture his dark curly hair, moustache, silly grin. You can’t imagine how many times I have folded and packed up this sweater, and I will continue to do so, for as long as I live.

4) Unearthing my first serious boyfriend’s sweater. He gave it to me when I left as an exchange student when I was sixteen. We broke up soon thereafter, but he was always my first love and I just couldn’t part with it. A few years ago, he died tragically in a car accident, so it reminds me of him as I knew him, full of life, fun, mischief.

3) Lining up my boot collection, feeling the smooth leather on them and looking forward to fall just so I can put them on again. I get excited just thinking about it . . .

2) Purging games with missing pieces. Need I say more? The feeling is exhilarating.

1) Reaffirming that everywhere we’ve lived keeps a tiny bit of who we are, and who we are changes with every single place we lay our head, for better or worse.

And these things, they are just things. It’s the people in our lives that make up our memories that matter. What they give us cannot be neatly packed away or wrapped up; they become a part of our being and no miles or bricks or fences can separate us from them.

*If there is a diagnosis for this disease, please alert me. I refer to it as freakisitis movalotagus, but there’s surely a more clinical term.

Personal: Kristy, this one’s for you.

The post Top 10 Reasons Moving May be Good for the Soul appeared first on Richmond Mom.

After five years it’s easy to forget sometimes but I need to tell you this story so you can tell it over and over again so it doesn’t happen to anyone else, ever.

Long story short: my daughter at four weeks old ended up in the ER with severe skull fractures. I felt like a failure. Even after having three kids. I thought I knew what I was doing.

Drawing on my inner English-major from Penn State, I sat in a chair next to her tiny body in a bed (that looked like a pitiful, stark baby crib with giant rails) at MCV (now Children’s Hospital of Richmond at MCV) in 2007 and began to scrawl out our story so that it wouldn’t happen to anyone else.

Long story not short: I hadn’t strapped her into her carseat as she lay swaddled on our kitchen island because, I thought, at four weeks old and sleeping soundly where would she go?  She was near me and the boys were on the other side in their stools and I wanted to be able to see her. I made lunch for my two boys and turned to the microwave and seconds later I turned to heard hear screeching and the island was empty except for the boys’ plates.

When I was in the ambulance, hysterical, the sweeet, young EMT’s told me that this happens all the time–babies, toddlers, kids fall all the time from all kinds of places: stairs, couches, beds, and yes, islands. That didn’t seem to help the fact that I felt like a huge loser who put my daughter in danger because I wanted to see her and wasn’t thinking through the risks of having her car seat on that island with no buckles secured.

Two days we stayed together in that hospital room, she in the bed and me in the chair next to her.

Two nights the nurses were so sweet they let me crawl into the tiny bed with her (which wasn’t really allowed, but they looked the other way) because I just wanted to be close to her, hear her breathing, reassure her that I loved her and that I never meant for this to happen. I nursed her and held her and watched her breathe and looked under her tiny hat at her bruises and swollen little head and prayed to God that she would be alright.

MRI. IV. Another MRI. Blood samples. Temperature. Poking. Prodding. Shining lights in eyes and reflexes and temperature and reassuring nurses that it would be alright, it would be alright, there was no vomiting and she was eating and sleeping.

I remember laying my hand on her little body and trying to negotiate with God if you just please let her be okay, you can do anything you want to me. She is perfect and innocent–she is a tiny infant and I have had a wonderful life and if you just let her be okay, I’ll give up anything. As if God entertains such bargains.

Six months later, when the amazing neurosurgeon Dr. Tye reassured us that she was just fine, her skull fractures were healed and she was flourishing I found myself with a cool domain name and a website, neither of which I really understood but both of which for I was grateful.

The term “mommy blog” was a vague concept to me and, as a corporate gal, it was a world into which I started to dip my toe and ended up doing the Nestea plunge. And yes, I realize I’m aging myself with that reference.

Parents need to talk about this stuff. Not just successes and milestones but the stuff that scares the shit out of us and makes us prematurely gray did we not color our hair.

Parents need each other without judgements and with piles of support and learning and reading and improving every single day because the truth is, none of us starts out knowing what we’re doing.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this and please share this, and any other story here that can help someone else.

After all, the hospitals don’t send these darling little creatures home with instruction books detailed enough for real life, and real life is what we’re all living with them every single day.

The post A Head Injury: Why I Started This Blog appeared first on Richmond Mom.

This post was one that was shared with me by it’s author, Shannon Weisleder as well as several other women who care deeply about her. It really hit home, not only because I knew well of her brother’s horrific, abrupt departure from this life and had thought many times of how horrible this must feel for everyone who loved him.

by Shannon Weisleder

I will never forget the sadness that hung over me on a Friday morning last January. I had been shopping for my brother’s new rental house. I was so excited to plant spring pansies to boost his spirits as he was starting over. Recently having gone through the “perfect storm” as we called it, he had lost his marriage, his career, a public election for local office and was diagnosed with a mood disorder, a mental illness, bipolar disorder.

I stood in Home Depot fretting over just which pots would bring him the most cheer and recall being a bit disappointed in the color selection of the winter time pansies. Would Pat care that they were burgundy with a little yellow center? Nah.

I left Home Depot, ran to get my garden tools along with the chairs and small table I had to assemble for Pat’s small deck. I thought, “he can have his iced tea here or have a sandwich with the sunshine warming his face.”

Later, I was standing with a group of ladies at school and was a little put off when someone asked me why I was not invited on a trip that a bunch of my neighbors had just left to go on. It actually had not crossed my mind, but it put me in a foul mood, souring the morning of kindness I had set out to enjoy.

I also had recently pulled a muscle in my neck and had been on prednisone all week. Well, that can make you wild and bitchy in its own right! So, I plowed forward, heading to meet my mom and her best friend to finish unpacking and organizing my brother’s new kitchen and to set up his “garden” on his deck.

One last stop I told myself, to the Greenhouse to pick up a plant for my brother’s kitchen. I walked around agonizing for some silly reason over what kind of plant to get…finally one of the sales girls came up to see if I needed help and I said, “Yes, I need something my brother can’t kill.” We choose a great green stalky beauty – perfect I thought!

I drive up to the “rental” with my music playing, happy to see my mom and her best friend, and we laughed about having to assemble this tiny table with a million pieces. They knew I was in a bit of a funk and when I told them why…”I feel so silly,” I said, “but my friends went away and I was not invited…why do I feel so left out?” My mom’s friend came over to my car window later when I was leaving and said, “Elizabeth, let me tell you a similar story. Many years ago I was in a tennis group. I was left out of some lunch or dinner, I cannot even recall now. The next week my mother died and it put everything into perspective.”

Okay, thanks, I said. You are right. I need to buck up. I laughed and said the three of us could go into business together, “Decorating for the downtrodden.” We all laughed. We loved to decorate, no matter who or what for.

The next day I laid on the sofa at my house while my brother was moving. My neck hurt, I was in a terrible mood, and really, I had been to the consignment stores for furniture, goodwill for kids books, Dollar General, Target, Crate and Barrel, and through my own attic trying to prepare a “home is where the heart is” kind of place for my brother to start his life over again. To heal.

When my mom called to check in she was at my brother’s apartment with him. She had just finished cleaning it and having lunch with

him and a couple of his kids on the floor of the finally empty and clean apartment. “Why are you cleaning his apartment Mom?” I was a little perturbed at everyone and everything. Just like a sister to be a bit jealous of a brother whose mama does everything for. She said, “Say hi to your brother.” I was like, Mom, I don’t need to talk to him and as I was saying this he was saying hello. I told him I did not feel well and was sorry I could not get over to move him. He said “don’t worry,” and I said, “I’ll be over tomorrow to sort through your clothes with you and to bring you the rest of the drawers to the yellow dresser for the kid’s room.” “Okay,” he said. I reminded him that we needed to put the rug down first and I would be over with it the next day. Then we said, “Love you.”  

The next morning my mom called and said, “Have you talked to your brother?” “No,” I said. “Remember you told him to sleep in and then we would be over.” “You’re right, she said.” She called me back again and said, “He is not answering his phone and his car is there.” “Mom,” I said, “give the guy some space, he has probably gone for a run.”

But by then my stomach was starting to hurt. Something felt not right. I asked my husband to hurry up and take the dresser drawers and rug over to my brother. “In a few minutes he said.” By then, I was pacing and getting worried…”Hurry up I said, before you find him hanging from the rafters.” I did not mean that of course. But for some reason those words spilled out of my mouth. I finally said, “forget it, I’ll go. My mom is on the way over there anyway.” My husband sensed my panic and said, “No, I’ll go.”

I will never forget the amount of time it took from leaving my brother a voice mail, “Pat, pick up, its Elizabeth, George is on the way. He is bringing the dresser and the rug. Are you there? Call me.”

20 minutes must have passed. WHY was my husband not answering his phone? WHY was my mother not answering her phone?????? Panic, sweating, PLEASE GOD, let my brother be okay.

What time is it?? I checked my watch and it had stopped. Strange.

When my mom finally answered her phone, she was screaming, “He is dead Elizabeth.”

PAUSE.

I cannot even explain the feeling of the world coming out from under your feet. I ran out of my house up the street, past my friends empty homes with tears streaming down my face…NO, THIS IS NOT REAL, NOT POSSIBLE. THEY ARE WRONG.

The blue police lights are something I will never forget.

My brother, at age 41, was dead. January 29, 2012. Gunshot wound to the head. My mother found him. My husband was right behind her. She pushed everyone out of the way and locked herself in the house with him and held his hand until the police arrived.

They say that you go through five stages of grief when you lose a loved one.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance

I have been through, over, under, and back around and through, again, and again, the five stages of grief.

What I can tell you is this. I hated the author of the book that told me I would find a “gift,” in all of this. WHAT, how is that possible?

The gift I have been given is my voice. After facing something as traumatic as the suicide death of your brother, after setting up a home for him and then packing it up piece by piece, throwing things away, deciding what to keep, donating what would help others, I found, if I can do that, I can do anything. What would I do if I were not afraid? Suddenly I was afraid of everything though. Trauma will do that to you.

This is the first time I have taken a chance to talk about my brother’s stigmatized illness and his public death. And what I know is that the truth will set you free. Love always wins. Good intention, good will, compassion and empathy will get you further that ill will, anger and hate.

I think about Pat when he decided to depart this life – struggling because he felt broken and ashamed because he let others define his character. I wonder what his thoughts were and I wonder what answers he has now.

It has taken me all of this time, over 400 days, to work on my voice, with pain, and tears, hope and courage, to transition into advocate.

I hope my brother would be proud.

The post Finding Me: A Sister’s Notes in the Loss of Her Brother appeared first on Richmond Mom.

I was recently asked to write a post giving my thoughts on bulletproof backpacks in response to Kerri O’Brien’s report on WRICTV Channel 8.

Kerri will be sharing the full story tonight at 11pm-please catch it if you’re able to, then share your thoughts and let us know what you’re feeling.

The post Bulletproof Backpacks: What We Need to Send our kids to school Safe? appeared first on Richmond Mom.

From that spot, the newsmen told us that two had perished and many more injured at the Boston Marathon.

My brain tries to wrap itself around the images on the screen. The world slows down, the emails unimportant.

Flash forward hours later. One more has died. One of the dead includes an eight-year-old.

All my head keeps repeating is: My son turns eight this Friday, April

twenty-fourth. Please God help that family. God. No. No. No.

Meanwhile, shrapnel was being pulled from the limbs that remain of top athletes and those standing on the sidelines to cheer them on.

Somewhere, a coward (and potentially cowardly friends) likely smiled in accomplishment. 

Yet, I won’t focus on the the cowards.

As my friend Paul said in his Facebook post today after a dinner with friends devoid of conversation about the events: “Sometimes you just need to remember what’s important so the bad guys don’t win.” Thank you, Paul for gifting us with perspective.

NBC tells me that more children have been injured, including a two year-old. President Obama reassures us that the terrorists will be found. (I prefer to call them Cowardists, as they targeted a race knowing small children and innocents would be in the vicinity. There is not one ounce of bravery in that.)

Yet, as I talk to friends and strangers–like the one who touched my arm as I rode up on the escalator telling her about the attack, goosebumps pricking each hair on my arms–we are united.

Bostonians by the thousands opened up their homes to marathoners offering support.

Friends, strangers and celebrities offered kindness and caring via the web.

 Heroism thankfully runs rampant.

For every small group of evil people in this world there are a thousand times that number who care, who wish goodwill, who will run back after finishing the marathon to stop the bleeding.

We’re Americans. We’ll never let the bad guys win.

The fact that so many runners in the Boston marathon kept running after the marathon to the hospital to donate blood, touches my heart.

— Olivia Duran (@oliviacduran) April 15, 2013

The post Can’t Let the Bad Guys Win appeared first on Richmond Mom.