No More the Training Pants! It's time for big girl panties?

Squiggle Bug learned to use the potty a few months ago and she's pretty much a pro now. It's great, sudden hollering of "my poopoo coming! I go potty!" echo through out our little house on a regular basis followed shortly by "I did it!" and "Bye bye my poopoo! Bye bye my peepee!"

So with regular success of bye-bye peepee and bye-bye poopoo, it was time to get Squiggle Bug some new undergarments. Panties. Deciding to couple the Target shopping expedition with family time, we first went to see Toy Story 3. I've waited a long time for this movie and was more excited than the girls. Cute flick, we all enjoyed it including 2 year old Squiggle Bug. After crying through Toy Story 3, we headed with a grumpy, napless Squiggle Bug and the rest of the crew to go buy the new panties. Buying new panties is an exciting time. No more the training pants and stretched out undies from big sisters, it's time to pick out your very own panties! The general rule regarding trademarked characters on clothing in our home is lifted and any panties with any character are permitted. Even if they have no idea who Dora is.


I fully expected princesses or fairies. She doesn't know who the characters are really but she knows a princesses is anyone in a pretty outfit. She really likes princesses. We found our way to the baby section with toddler panties and found the smallest size. In a regrettable move I picked out some Tinker Bell and Friends panties and showed Squiggle Bug. One look and she was screaming no and hitting the package in my hands. Shocked but a little bit pleased I hung the offending package of panties back up. Not having learned our lesson, The Piano Man presented her with a set of the Micky Mouse Princesses and received the same reaction. Over and over she stomped around saying "I want MY panties!" Bewildered, we attempted to show her other potential selections, each received with a similar reaction.

I was determined to throw something in the cart, anything. Plain white panties weren't easy to find but I wasn't going home empty handed. Between the 5 of us there that had any hope of understanding what it was she wanted, none of us actually knew. Loitering in the toddler underwear aisle for a while was starting to feel awkward when I spotted a set of Toy Story undies. Thinking she would calm down upon recognizing the characters we just saw in the movie I showed Squiggles. It worked. She calmed down. Well, actually, she did an immediate 180, squealing and jumping up and down. Snatching the package out of my hands she squeaked "my Buzz! My Woody! My Panties!"


I looked at The Piano Man over our now enthusiastic 2 year old and tried to ignore the giggles and shocked whispers of her big sisters. He shrugged. "Boy underwear!" The Storyteller giggled uncontrollably.


And so it came to be that I bought my first package of little boy underwear. Reluctant to hand her package of undies over to the check out girl, Squiggles had to be comforted for the few seconds while it was scanned before gripping it tightly to her chest for the rest of the way to the van. As soon as we got home she wanted them on. Her favorite pair are the lime green ones with both Woody and Buzz on the butt. Modeling them for me, she got concerned when she couldn't find her new friends until twisting to look at her rear-end and then beamed up at me "There's my Woody! There's my Buzz!"


At 2 Squiggle Bug has figured out the secret I only learned a few years ago: boy undies are way more comfortable than girl panties. Screw the princesses, cowboys and spacemen rock for girls too.

Pressing Memories

I finished singing the "last" song and told her it was time to go to sleep. We both laid down, her face just inches from mine with her Raffie, she tossed her delicate legs over mine and gave me a sleepy smile. For a moment we just looked at each other with sleepy smiles. Just as I was lifting my hand to stroke the hair out of her face and trace light circles across her nose and around her eyes, Squiggle Bug settled her hand on my face and said around the Raffie ear in her mouth "I love you mommy." Finger the sunshine strands on her forehead in the dim light, I smiled and whispered that I loved her too. My chest constricted and tears stung my eyes as she began to caress my face just like I do hers every night. Laying there caressing each others face I told myself to press this moment into my memory like a flower between the pages of a book to be discovered later as a sweet, faded surprise. I worried I would forget anyway. Then my mind scrambled to find other memories hidden in it's pages; first giggles, how she smelled the first time I held her, a small arm clutching my neck, cuddles in the early morning, blue eyes gazing intently into mine as I held her while she nursed. Beautiful memories but already so faded.


Her hand dropped, too drowsy to continue fingering my face and peeking through slits in her eyelids she asked me to sing again. I obliged, holding on to this moment for as long as I could. Would she? Would she remember those dusty memories? With so many more memories and knowledge coming to fill the pages of her mind, I doubted it. I reflected on my own memories as a child, realizing that the earliest one I had of even going to bed as a child was when I was at least 7 or 8, certainly not 2. Peering through the clouded lens of so many years I remember sitting next to my mom in a nightgown on the couch in my family room, the blue couch with flowers, and my brother and sister and dad there as well. Dad was playing the guitar and we had been singing. He launched into "Goodnight Ladies" replacing ladies with the names of my siblings and me, one at a time. To the tune of our names we circled the room giving hugs and goodnight kisses before dancing off to bed. I don't think my older brother cared for that part much but he awkwardly participated. In bed I listened to the end of the song for my brother and then my dad sang another song and I sang along softly. There are details missing, details like the ones I was trying to grasp to hold forever from this moment putting my own daughter to bed. No, she probably wouldn't remember.


So I'll have to tell her. Over and over again, describe how she smelled, her sweet sleepy voice requesting yet another song, her soft hand stroking my cheek as she tells me she loves me, the favorite cookie pajamas keeping her warm and snuggly, and the way her hair lays across her forehead in the gentle glow from the nightlight. And to press it in my memory I'll write it down in her journal. I know that many of the memories I have from my childhood are because of the spiral bound journal scrapbooks my mom would squeeze out time at 2am to fill for me, recording her perspective of the mundane and exciting moments of my childhood.


This weekend I'm going to go through one of those notebooks and share those musty memories with my own children. Then I'll record those precious details that slip away and press them into my memory to share with them again one day. I will continue the tradition of preserving memories in the written word to share one day with my children as my mom did for me. There may be long blocks of time between those moments but I will press every moment I can.

The Measure of Indecency

Hello! Up here! My eyes. You’ve been so busy staring elsewhere that you probably haven’t even noticed I have eyes let alone looked in them long enough to tell me what color they are. I admit, the color of my eyes can be hard to nail down, it really depends on what I’m wearing or the color of the frames on my glasses provided I’m wearing any. Glasses! I always wear socks with sneakers, I was talking about glasses. Ugh, why must you only see me for that? As though that’s all I’m good for. It’s not like they are new, they’ve been around as long as humans have and most everyone has them.

Excuse me, it bothers you when I walk? You do realize that the primary function of my ankles is to help me walk on my feet, don’t you? I see, seeing them used in a different way is gross. Uh-huh. Would you rather I just sit around with my feet up, my ankles hidden discretely beneath my pants or skirt until they are to be viewed and touched for pleasure? Hmmmm, this could complicate things, like my life. And caring for my children. So it makes other people uncomfortable to see a woman’s ankles when she’s chasing her children around, keeping them safe, providing them with the best opportunities and using her ankles as, oh, I don’t know, how they are intended to be used? I should be worried about offending other people? Interesting. I’m really far more concerned about doing the best I can for my children. Research shows that mothers that are able to should let their children run and be active and for that to happen best a mother needs her ankles to chase after them. Saving them only for her partner’s pleasure would get in the way of her children’s health! Oh, I can use them, you just want me to cover them up. With a blanket. Or one of those fashionable things made just for that.

Wow. That really makes it difficult not to mention, uncomfortable and likely dangerous. What exactly would be adequate coverage? Adequate and safe? When I’m using them to care for my children, how much can you actually see anyway? I know socks that reveal more and ankles are plastered all over magazines, billboards, TV, and movies to sell everything from sports drinks to cars to furniture. Honestly. I’m not showing any more than what you’d see watching a sitcom. Probably less, actually. And if you think that’s shocking, what about flip-flops and open toe shoes that reveal ankles AND toe cleavage? Nobody is insisting those be covered up. But a mother running around caring for her children, now that is disgusting. Please tell me, what is the measure of indecency we hold as standard? But another man seeing my ankles while I run after kids could be a turn on? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. A woman doing the best she can caring for her children, using her body as it is intended is going to be an indecent turn on? Now who is disgusting? But there could be a slip and they might SEE something! Gasp! Oh dear, what will we do! Mothers around the world are seducing men left and right using their ankles as they take care of their children! What is the world coming to?!

Now you’re saying that it is ok to use them but not only do you not want to see them used “that way” but it should stop once the child is one? How exactly does that make sense? Excuse me, but my child still needs me and it is encouraged by the experts that mothers continue to chase after their children as long as it is mutually beneficial and both parties are comfortable with it. Seriously, I don’t see how there is a magic switch that is flipped when a child turns one that she would no longer need me to walk after her. She may not even be ready to walk herself yet at that point! No, there is nothing inappropriate about me continuing to care for my child that way and I’m offended that you would say there is. It doesn’t excite me sexually, I’m not that one-dimensional, thanks. I may run around and use my ankles in a fashion only appropriate with my husband in our private times along but trust me, I couldn’t even begin to compare caring for my children to making love with my husband! I am not abusing my child by continuing to trot after them. My ankles have more than one purpose and I can differentiate between their functions, it isn’t that difficult actually and I already do it with other areas of my body so why should this be any different?


Honestly, I am sorry it makes you uncomfortable but I really can’t help but wonder if that reflects more on your issues than my ankles and my mothering. Your issues don’t have much weight in my caring for my children, sorry. If other women feel uncomfortable with their ankles so exposed while they care for their children, fine. It doesn’t bother me and if they can figure out how to gallop around after kids while hiding under a blanket then more power to them. In fact, I’m impressed, I just can’t get it to work. So I’m going to continue doing what is best for my children and while I’m not going to parade around with my ankles just hanging out there all the time for the world to see, I’m not going to hide me or my children just to make you feel better. There is nothing wrong with what I’m doing, I’m not ashamed of my ankles or using them to race around after my children. Not every woman can, I’m blessed to be able to. And no, I’m not going to cover to protect your sensibilities. Maybe your sensibilities aren’t that sensible. It is, after all, only natural for a mother to hasten to protect and give her children her best. This is my best. If you don’t like it then put a blanket over your head!


Once upon a time in a bygone era, ankles were considered a sexually indecent part of the body for a woman to show, a flamboyant display of indecency if they were revealed. Other era’s featured fashion that regularly revealed the breast mostly bare including the nipples showing while covering most every other part of the body with clothing. What we consider indecent now was at one time the height of fashion and accepted by the majority of society. Likewise, what has been considered inappropriate and immodest exposure in the past are now considered commonplace even in most of the extremely conservative circles. This post was inspired by some recent online conversations I was able to read (thanks to Woman Uncensored for sharing them) and by this article. It is intended as satire regarding nursing and "extended breastfeeding." Not that I need to explain but for the record my husband completely supports me breastfeeding our children. Also, no ankle or foot fetish here. But aren't these shoes amazing? I love them. Well, love to look at them. Wearing them, not so much. Seriously, what could be more sexy that a woman scurrying after her children in a pair of smokin' hot, deadly heels?

Huggz Heal

I guest posted over here today. This was not an easy post to write for me personally and readers should know there could be triggers for abuse victims. In this particular post I talk about how even loving, devoted parents can slip into patterns of abuse with their children, in fact, I think often that is the case. The abusers rarely are the monsters we'd like to imagine them to be. The truth is, they are usually just like you and me. The danger of teachings by Michael Pearl and his wife Debbie Pearl is just that it is easy for parents seeking to raise their children "right" and to be godly people don't realize just how far it, how far they can go. My family was a part of ATI, then called ATIA or Advanced Training Institute (of America) and my parents really believed they were doing what was right. I believe that later their understanding changed. It is a slippery slope and the intentions are for the best. Unfortunately, that doesn't ensure that the outcome is.

To Grow Imaginations- part 1

A shoe zoomed by my head with a “swoosh” sound effect from my three year old. I looked up from my perch on the couch just in time to see the tiny homemade fairy with crazy yarn hair and a little stuffed giraffe fly by tucked into one of my daughter’s sneakers. The shoe was followed by a wooden toy boat loaded with more homemade fairies and various small wooden animal shapes bobbing along in the air supported by my 5 year old’s arm. Following the boat was yet another shoe, this one sparkly and red from last year’s Dorothy costume for Halloween with more fairies, tiny people and animals tucked inside with my 8 year old daughter providing sound effects. I paused in my reading to see if I could catch the tale being woven with flying shoes, boats, funny fairies, and wooden animals in the amazing minds of my three daughters. They called back and forth to each other with the voices of fantasy play about a magical land they had to reach before nightfall. Though it was early morning, nightfall was apparently coming quickly judging by the urgency with which they encouraged each other along. I couldn’t catch it all but their land of fantasy sounded truly fascinating.

Like most parents, we’ve experienced the fun of picking out just the right toys for our children for holidays and birthdays only to have our youngsters captivated by the wrapping paper and boxes over the gifts we selected for them. At first I was slightly hurt by their apparent lack of appreciation of all that I went through to find the perfect gift, hide it and then wrap it up for them. Actually, they did seem to appreciate that last part a bit but the toy itself was profoundly neglected in favor of the packaging they had ripped apart. Eventually my disappointment gave way to rationalizing their choice, they were so young and when everything was cleaned up they could see and play with the toy properly. Besides, when they got older their appreciation and anticipation of the gift inside the packaging would grow. I told myself that for quite sometime.

With three children close in age it didn’t take long for the toys to begin pilling up and still the boxes and wrapping paper were the best part. We began to assess the situation of trying to keep the toys caroled and I noticed that I was less than thrilled with them myself. Not just because they were regularly under foot and actually not played with that often but because most of them were an ugly nuisance. The colors seemed tacky, the beeps and whirls down right irritating, the music out of tune, and they seemed to rob my children of something that I couldn’t put my finger on. It didn’t help that there were just so many of them! I was overwhelmed with the shear amount of toys available, how to pick which one to play with at any given moment? Did they even matter any more? One thing was certain, the toys were in the way of our lives but I wasn’t sure how or why.

Woman Uncensored

A couple of months ago I stumbled across a blog with a very outspoken few posts. It was a new blog, there were only a few posts. I ended up going back a few times and started following her blog and facebook. I love her frank, tell-it-how-I-see-it style and gutsy way of taking on issues and the conversation her posts often generate. So I was really honored when I was asked to be a guest blogger on her blog.

The recent death of Lydia Schatz from child abuse got me thinking. This particular case is extreme but it still triggered questions and memories from my past and made me reevaluate our discipline decisions. I believe that her parents were convinced they were doing right by their children. They were taught be "experts" that this was what they should do, for the child's good. They put those experts words and advice over their daughter's cries. This to have a happy household. Externally everyone thought they were happy. Odd how often that happens, abused children in what looks like the perfect family, everyone looks very happy and well-behaved. Jeremy and I have been reminded to put listening to our children, to allowing them and God show us what they need. Yes, I'm sure our past baggage factors in there as well but then, shouldn't our past experiences be a part of educating the decisions we make now? To be honest, I have a hard time wrapping my brain around hitting a child being a means of communicating love and concern for someone's well being no matter how controlled the hitting or even how rare. The blog post I wrote for Woman Uncensored is bit of our journey regarding discipline. I'm so honored to be asked to share. Check it out.

On the Inside

*sigh*

I've started numerous blog posts in the last few weeks but they don't get finished before I get pulled away for some reason or another. With 5 kids, one of which is a newborn, I shouldn't be too surprised. There goes one New Year's non-resolution. Oh wait, the post I had intended to share here on that was never finished or posted so none of my readers (that have probably stopped reading and have considered calling the police to check on me) will understand the reference, it's just in my head. Like soooooo many other things. At the moment I'm typing one-handed.

I'm posting to try and get my mojo back. If you're looking for something profound, this post will let you down. Mindless entertainment and time killer? Here you go.

Today, while bathing the two little ones (ages 2 years and 8 weeks, how did THAT happen?) I was interrupted by an 8 year old that thought my presence in resolving an issue with her younger sister was immediately required. The following conversation transpired.

L: (from outside the closed bathroom door) Mommy, come now, I need you!

Me: What's wrong?

L: (Hysterically) We need you!

Me: Is everything ok?

L: NO!

Me: Is someone hurt?

L: YES! (crying)

Me: Are they dying?

L: (disappointed) No.

Me: Are they breathing?

L: (quieter) Yes.

Me: Are they bleeding?

L: (Loudly and with tears) I'm bleeding on the inside! (sob)

Oh, she's good. She's really, really good.

It's A Beautiful World

Da, da, da, DA! Helena!

Helena loved the camera, or the camera loved her. Not sure which but Marc made her shine!

Click. Wind. Repeat Featuring Ophelia

Speaking of Ophelia (in my post before this), here are some of Marc's work featuring her. Ophelia, age 10.

One of the group

Watching her sisters play with wooden cars creating an entire world of excitement, Evangeline was completely entranced. The big girls whirled around her with calls to each other and sound effects of their alter egos adventure. I watched her take it all in and wondered what she would do: come to me to rescue her from the chaos, toddle off in search of her favorite book and her stuffed dog Fabio or figure out how to join them. At almost 16 months she seems too young to me to even want to try to participate in her sister's play but to my surprise she dodges through the flurry to find two wood cars for herself and joins in with her own sound effects of squeaks and babbles. Lavinia didn't hesitate, interacting with Evangeline drawing her into their developing story-line with a graceful enthusiasm. Helena too engaged her with play and Ophelia showed her how to make her car fly. The almost 5 year gap between the two youngest hardly seems noticeable, they are happy to have her in their ranks and show her the ropes with delight. This happens more and more, setting her up to color when they are sprawled on the floor doing so themselves, recruiting her help with setting the table, gently kicking the soccer ball for her to attempt to play, and taking turns holding her on their laps to swing.

As I watched them play this morning, marveling at how fast the youngest is growing up, Ophelia came over to me and in a very adult tone said, "I just can't believe how fast she's growing up!" There she stood, near tears with a proud smile beaming at her youngest sister and I couldn't believe my ears, my first baby acting all grown up. "Tell me about it." I said and hugged my first baby close.

Eight

I don't remember being 8. There are a few fuzzy memories of when I was 5 or of kindergarten anyway: "M" day where we all had to bring something that started with "M" and there were marshmallows, M&M's, a kid with red dots all over his face for "measles." A crush on PJ or was it JP? David chasing me around the playground trying to get a kiss and the substitute that was kind of mean about quiet time. After that I have vague memories of events or playing but I could have been any age. I remember some birthdays (the ice cream cake with clowns and the chocolate chip themed one), vacations, school projects, etc. but just being 8 doesn't stand out to me.

Maybe this is why sometimes I look at Lavinia and wonder where this variety of person came from and how in the world can I relate to her.

Two weeks ago she turned 8 and being that she got a big party last year this year it was a small affair, just family. We let her pick out whatever she wanted to eat for the day and after her initial request of French Toast, Doughnuts, Kolaches, Cupcakes, ice cream, crepes and a whole lot of other sweets we amended the "whatever you want part" to be "one breakfast option, some kind of non-sweet lunch and dinner option and one celebration sweet" which left plenty of room for lots of junk she normally doesn't get to have. She pouted but settled on French Toast, Macaronni and Cheese with hot dogs (yuck!), cupcakes, and pizza. Hardly growing food but we conceded and she enjoyed her feast of grease and sugar. We gave her the gifts in a similarly simple fashion, she gushed over an American Girl doll from Grandma and Grandpa Martin (only complained once that it wasn't the one she asked for) and carried her around changing her outfits and hairstyle multiple times a day right off the bat, she giggled over arts and crafts supplies from Jeremy and I, she hugged a new outfit, shrugged at the $50 she could spend anywhere on anything (amended to exclude everything normally excluded when she asked "Even a Barbi!?"), and squeeled over the "Fairy Realm" series. The best gift of all though was 6 rolls of Scotch tape all her very own. She loves tape, steals it constantly sticking it everywhere from walls to paper sculptures to herself. Jeremy and I had been half joking for two years now that we should get her tape and we finally did. I never expected that she would be so delighted by this gift, made me wonder why we didn't give it to her years ago. Oh to be 8 when Scotch tape would trump $50.

Today we had a call from the director of the home school enrichment program the girls go to on Tuesdays, she asked us to see her when we came to pick up the girls, there was something she needed to discuss with us. Apparently, during Creative Writing the boy (we'll call him Bob) Lavinia had a crush on last month decided to write the boy (we'll call him Joe) that Lavinia has a crush on this month and so Bob, who Lavinia informed she no longer liked, told Joe that Lavinia now liked him. Joe handed the note to Lavinia who freaked out and wrote a note back to Joe denying the whole thing and telling him that she infact hated him. Horrified that she told the boy that she does actually like that she hates him, her heart got the better of her and in front of the entire class she stood up and declared that she lied and that she does in fact have a crush on Joe. Her pension for drama earned her, along with Bob and Joe, a trip to the Director's office and a phone call to mom and dad. I wasn't exactly sure what my reaction was supposed to be so I laughed. Hard. Really, really hard. In case your wondering, the director laughed too. For that matter, perhaps the entire class did since they all witness her rather loud proclamation of love to Joe. A long conversation with daddy about how she doesn't need to be announcing her love to anyone outside her family for at least another 12 years or so Lavinia seems unphased by the entire experience. When asked if she was embarressed at all that the entire class heard she said no because she knew it was important to tell Joe how she really felt. She's 8. We are in so much trouble.

Everyone's Beautiful- except me.

Deep breath. It's simple really, just write a few sentences about your day, life with kids, homeschooling and whatever is in the crockpot at the moment. Not hard, you can do this.

Yes, I talk to myself. Even to prepare to write a blog post. In fact, I talk to myself all the time though it's never really to myself but to some imaginary host of readers. A host. There are 7 followers of my blog, hardly a host. But I love you guys, even if it doesn't appear that way thanks to my gross neglect of my blog. They don't make it here often but I write post after post in my head through out my day, I'm thinking of you, I promise.

The neglect is over, it ends here. I'm blogging again. Last night I had dinner with an author, Katherine Center, a wonderful woman who nicely kicked me in the rear though I don't think she realized it. Blog, she said, and write. Constantly struggle with the balance but at least struggle. So here I blog. My confession, I want to be a writer, always have but have always dismissed it as something that would never happen because, well, there are millions of people that want to be a writer and last night I learned what I already knew with out numbers to back it up- something like one in 900 submissions to a publisher get published. The number could have been 9,000, I don't exactly remember and in reality it doesn't exactly matter, the odds are not good. Still, I'm going to try. Here's my first attempt, I'm telling the world that I want to be a writer and I'm working on a book. All 7 of you. Plus maybe my mom, and if she can figure out how to comment she might even say hi. Hi mom.

The question is what to blog about. In my mind, my life is boring, really boring. I see beauty in my life but I am not part of it, just the onlooker of beautiful moments that perhaps only I'd appreciate because they are created by the glue and painted covered hands of my offspring. Cooking, cleaning, home schooling, knitting, and occasionally writing, not exactly the stuff of captivating posts and I'm not about to have a specific theme to my blog, say homeschooling or crafting because I am far too unfocused and unorganized to achieve that well. My blog reflects my life, a little bit of everything and profoundly unorganized and the idea of recording that chaos somewhere and holding it up for the world to see (yes, even the 7) is rather intimidating. Sure, I could present something that is nice and polished, like a semi-precious stone cut and smoothed to shine as something of real value but in reality I would know, it's still just a piece of rock you can find on a hiking trip made to look pretty. No, that doesn't interest me, if for no reason other than I stink at lying. I'd be found out. All it would take is for one person that's been to my house to say something and it would be all undone. Sticking with the truth even if it is messy and unglamorous.

Enough about me. Last night my good friend, Monette (currently blog-less, this situation must be remedied) invited me to an event she planned for her club to have dinner with Katherine Center who is *gasp* really a very normal woman and mother. Borrowing Katherine's most recently published book, Everyone's Beautiful, from Monette, I read through it in about 3 days, give or take. I would have read it in less time, an easy read it's free flowing conversational style makes it hard to put down but I had a few distractions that required I feed and teach them at least once in a while. It was everything all the quotes and reviews said it would be and more. Mildly depressing for maybe three quarters of the book for me not because it's a depressing story, on the contrary, it's funny, poignant, real, and engaging, but because in the telling of a young stay-at-home-mother with three children under 4 it was a little too real for me. I squirmed at times in spite of my laughter with the feeling that I could relate with the main character a little too well. This is so much of what made it so I wanted to read it all in one sitting. Uncomfortable though I may be with the idea that I could relate to this character I had to see where the book was going, what was going to happen to her. She starts off the book declaring that she decided to change and I had to know what that change would be and how it would take place. The further I got into the book the more I had to know about this change, if for no other reason than to have hope for myself.
Read this book if you have been a mother of small children, are a mother of small children, want to be a mother of small children, or have a mother. Though it's a book about a mother of small children in reality it's about so much more, a book about feeling stuck and what we do to change it. A story of love, hope, promise, and the humor in life that accompanies us on whatever path we're on if we have the courage to see it. And beauty, a story of beauty. I'm attempting to find that in myself now too.

And that was more than a few sentences. I really need to write a book.