Good bye, Friend. May you rest in peace.

      

I bought a new plant the other day. An African violet. It’s a small plant, pretty but somewhat unimpressive. I’m not really a plant person, but I couldn’t feel better until I did it. I know… bizarre. 

I’ll explain.

We got some profoundly sad news the other day. A friend of ours, and a colleague of my husband, lost his battle to cancer. The news shouldn’t have been the shock it was, if I think about it rationally. He had been battling for many years and he was running out of treatments to keep him going. But we saw him a few weeks ago and he looked ok. Well, not really like his old self, but sort of ok. He certainly didn’t seem to be nearing the end of the fight.  It turns out that that he had had a turn for the worse shortly after our visit and the family was intentionally quiet about it. They wanted to handle it without “help” from outsiders.  I can’t say I blame them, to be honest. Sometimes help isn’t really helpful. 

Ironically, it wasn’t the cancer that got him. It was the infections and unfortunate side effects from all the treatments that were his final enemy.

I learned of his death by accident. I found his daughter’s Facebook post when I was having a cup of coffee, an hour before picking my kids up from preschool. I hate crying in public and it took until the end of the day, when I had some time alone, to truly take it in. I became instantly obsessed with buying a plant, a beautiful living thing, to replace the soul that had been lost. 

Over the weekend, we went to the family home to pay respects. The funeral was the day before, but I had been unable to go, with such short notice. My husband was there to represent us. He informed me that it was a packed house. So many people had felt the need to say goodbye.  That really speaks to the person he was, and he will be very missed by so many. 

And as terrible as it may sound, I’m happy for him. In a backwards sort of way.  When we were informed of his last few weeks, I felt more than a little sick. I actually found myself glad that he hadn’t survived because he would never really have “lived” again. He wouldn’t have played with his grandkids. He wouldn’t have hung out at the pool with his family.  He was an active guy, he loved life. The life he would have lived, had he survived, would not have been truly living. It would have been worse, for everyone. 

My husband and I watch Buffy, on Netflix. I know… we’re geeks. This is not new information to me. We are currently on one of the later seasons and we are just past the point where Buffy dies, sacrificing herself for her sister. Her friends, believing she is in hell, bring her back using magic. (I know… the writers couldn’t have a Buffy series without Buffy. Their plot was below standards. But that’s not my point.) My point is that Buffy, once brought back, is a disaster. When she decides to come forth and be honest, she confesses that she had not been in hell. She had been in heaven. And she had been happy there. The sadness had been limited to those left behind.

Despite being part of a cheesy, substandard plot, that confession rings as truth to me. It’s the way we felt when my grandpa passed away. He was ready and it was time for him to go. To be peaceful.

So, what’s my point? My point is this. 

Andy, we miss you. Being at your house without you wasn’t right. We hope that you are peaceful, distanced from the difficult and stressful medical invasions of your life for so long. We’ll help take care of your family, check in on them to make sure they get the support they need and hug them when they need hugs. 

You go on, now. Rest.

Diversity and a change of heart...

In June of 2011, I posted a blog about raising color blind children. Those of you that want to go back and look, fantastic. For the rest of you, here’s the gist of the blog.  My kids found themselves in a highly diverse situation and did not seem to notice skin color in their choice of friends to enjoy. I, having grown up in a less diverse environment, was thrilled. I could not have been happier that my kids were seeing past race, looking at the person.

I pondered whether our children were really growing up color blind. I couldn’t wait for them to be old enough, so that we could talk about it. So I could find out what they were really thinking. 

And I felt pretty secure about my thinking. After all, isn’t it beneficial to us all, as people, to be seen as who we are beyond our race or other markers that our society has deemed important? Beyond our race, our gender, our religion… 

Shortly after posting that blog, I found an interesting article online. The author of this article would have had heavy commentary on my blog, given ample opportunity. He felt that striving to raise color blind, i.e. diversity blind, children was a misguided goal. While it might promote harmony, the process of doing so would erase the value of diversity brought to the situation. He felt that we should raise kids that are color/diversity aware without the detrimental judgments that often attach themselves. After all, do we avoid mentioning that a person is blond or dark haired? Blue eyed or brown eyed? No, we don’t. Because our society doesn’t attach larger implications to those particular details. And to be honest, very few people identify themselves based on their role in a blond haired culture or a brown eyed culture. 

Interesting theory… It made me think.

My kids are in a new preschool this year and making new friends. My daughter, very gender oriented, likes to think that girls are her friends and boys are for her brother. I’m told this is normal and I believe it. 

One of the little girls in the class, an adorable little lady, is my daughter’s newest topic of conversation. Let’s call her M, as I don’t know her mom well enough to ask for consent. 

M is black. (Trust me. I’ll explain why this is relevant in a moment…)

So, we are on the way home from school the other day and my daughter starts talking about her friend M. 

Her: Mommy M is my friend. She’s a girl like me. She has long hair like me. She has brown eyes like me. She has pink fingers like me.

Me:  (thinking for a second…) You’re right honey. She is your friend. She’s a girl. Her eyes are brown and she has long hair. But, are her fingers all pink?

Her: Yes, they are.

Me: Are Ms. Erika’s fingers all pink like mommy’s or are they darker?

 (Ms. Erika is a dear friend of mine. She happens to be black and my kids adore her. I figured she was a good reference for this particular conversation.)

Her: (Thinks for a second, then grins) They are darker!

Me: That’s right. And how about M? What color are her fingers?

Her: (Thinks for a second, grins again). They are dark like Ms. Erika’s!

Me: That’s right, honey. They are. 

SLIGHT PAUSE

Her: Mommy, M is my friend. She’s a girl like me. (Huge grin)

I grinned too, because the conversation made me happy. I like what my daughter took from what had been said. It was cool to figure out something new about her new friend, but ultimately the coolest part is that she’s a girl. Oh, and she has a Hello Kitty backpack and gives good hugs. That’s pretty important when you are 3, almost 4.  

I like my change of view. I appreciate that we are talking about race, about diversity, about differences. It’s something to notice, to embrace. It’s just not everything.

Potty training and the 7th circle of hell

Alert the press. I found it… the 7^th circle of hell. Did you know that it has been disguising itself behind the deceptively innocent name of “potty training”? 

My kids turn 4 in December and we have tried, on multiple occasions over the past year, to get the process started. We have always kept the bathroom door open, my husband and I, so the kids were accustomed to seeing us during our potty time. We assumed that this would facilitate the process. Clearly, assumptions can be dangerous. 

 We tried sitting on the potty three times a day, cheering enthusiastically when we were lucky enough to avoid screaming tantrums. We figured cooperation was to be noted, right? We even gave treats and stars (that accumulated for a treat) for sitting cooperatively. Months later, our kids loved sitting on the potty but no actual peeing in sight. 

Sigh. 

I am SO not a boot camp kind of person. Every transition for our kids has been just that, a transition. Bottles were slowly transitioned away, as was breastfeeding. We almost never introduce, take away or change an expectation of the kids quickly. Instead, we make a more natural process. In my experience, this has been successful and much less stressful for everyone involved.  So, when people spoke of their boot camp approaches to potty training, I dismissed this idea for my house. It wasn’t my style. I’d do it my way, thanks. 

And here we are. September. 3 ¾ years old. Still in diapers. Boot camp here we come. 

Last week, on a seemingly benevolent Monday, we started. I took the underwear out of the drawer after morning preschool and we started sitting on the potty. Every 20 minutes. Oh, and we set the clock by when the previous sitting BEGAN, not ended. Made me think of breastfeeding an infant and feeling like it just never stopped.  By the time you are done, it’s time to begin again. I could count the minutes on one hand that the kids were OFF the potty that day. I began by starting the clock when we finished, but the constant floods proved that system wrong. I pumped them with juice, probably too much juice actually. Perhaps that’s why they had 15 accidents combined by noon. I kid you not. I almost cried right in front of them.

Tuesday wasn’t much better. Actually it was worse. We had zero pees, tons of accidents and lots of tantrums. My daughter objected to taking her turn on the little potty when it was her brother’s turn for the big one. An hour later, her screaming ceased and my pounding head got some relief.  Cabin fever had officially struck. Wednesday was tolerable and we started to see some success. Thursday and Friday were uneventful. We increased our success but also became increasingly irritated. At everything. All three of us.  By Friday night I was in rare form and the kids were seriously pissed off. Poor daddy when he got home. Our house was like an emotional mine field. He never knew when he was going to step in the wrong place.

Saturday, my husband and I got away for the day, leaving the grandparents and kids at home. It was a much needed break and I even got to eat my food warm. Imagine that.

But it’s not over yet. My daughter’s progress is significantly more notable than my son’s and our house arrest may not be over yet.

And to think, I took my going to the bathroom for granted.

The political battle, uh, I meant debate...

Have I ever told you how much I miss my grandpa? He was a force to be reckoned with, a real pain in the butt sometimes. And I loved him dearly.

He used to call me, just to debate the politics and semantics of education.

Grandpa: Hey Lisa, have you heard about this phonics thing? Total baloney!

Me: Grandpa, do you even know what phonics is?

G: Yes. A way to read.

Me: I mean really know what it is. I mean, do you know how it works?

G: Uhm, no. How does it work?

Me: (insert silent snort here)

And I would tell him. Then he would ask me my opinion of phonics and I would give him my two cents. Or maybe even three or four cents. He would ask me follow up questions, really intelligent ones at that. Then we would chat about life. He’d tell me he loved me, I’d tell him the same and we’d hang up.

The fact of the matter is that he couldn’t have cared less about phonics. He just wanted to call, say hi, and debate a bit. Given that I am an educator, educational theory seemed like a good place to start. He was right. I bit every time. And loved it.

Did I mention how much I miss him?

I remember going down south to visit him and my grandma, with my family, when I was young. Every day, late afternoon/early evening, he would meet “the guys” at the pool. For approximately an hour they would sit around the pool and yell at each other. One would express an opinion and another would inform the first that he was wrong. And so it continued… It was hilarious. Then, abruptly, they would notice the time. Say their goodbyes and agree to meet the next day to do it all again.

I was on face book the other day and found a posting, one of those generic pictures you can forward with little effort. I sincerely wish I could remember the exact wording but it alluded to someone feeling annoyed by others wanting them to keep their political views quiet. Expressing those views, in her mind, was supposed to spark debate. And debate is a healthy thing.

I, personally, am someone who does not post according to my political beliefs. I don’t comment on the posts that I disagree with and I don’t forward the ones that I agree with. I have political opinions. Lots of them. Those of you that know me well could probably guess them all, as they are consistent with my overall personality.

I’ll tell you why I don’t mix face book and politics.

First, the standard forwards with political content rarely show respect for the other side. Second, the “debate” sparked from these forwards is rarely based in mutual respect. Few people agree with every decision made by the politician they support, but they don’t want to be forced into response by a comment that he/she is an idiot. Even if the person who posted the forward happens to believe it. I don’t object to an individual being adamantly pro life, but I DO object to being call a murderer for believing abortion needs to be kept legal. Do those that are against marriage equality enjoy being called antagonistic names by those who believe the rights should exist? I think not.  

And the “debates” that follow in the comment sections truly disturb me. The heart of a democracy is the ability to disagree, debate and remain civil. The total lack of civility in some of these comment threads can be truly upsetting. Is it debate or attack?

So, in light of the upcoming elections and the imminent mudslinging that is bound to occur, I sincerely hope that we will maintain our ability to be civil in our disagreements. That we will not define our friendships by those who agree with us on larger political issues.

I, for one, enjoy the diversity of my world. Don’t you?  

Backs of heads and bouncing backpacks- Mommy tears on the first day of school.

Today, my kids had their first day of school and many tears were shed. Wait… you think I meant THEIR tears? No… THEY were fine. It was MY tears that I’m talking about.

It’s not like it’s their first school experience, they were in morning preschool last year. And it was a great experience. This year they in are in a new school, but it’s still just pre-school. The fact that it happens to be housed in an elementary school is incidental.

So, WHY, you ask is this year different?

It all began in the morning, when I was preparing the kids for school. My daughter insisted on wearing her new backpack all morning, she was so excited.

We had to buy new backpacks because the new school asks for a binder to be carried in the bag and their tiny toddler backpacks weren’t big enough for a full sized binder. It was time for an upgrade. Sigh.

In the past, I would have gone to the store and picked out the backpacks myself, after the kids were in the bed. But they are 3.5 now and they have opinions. Big ones. So, we went to Target as a family to pick them out. My son first chose the Spiderman one, but quickly switched when he found the orange and camouflage dinosaur one that truly stole his heart. My daughter, who had been happily toting a cute Dora backpack, dropped it like a bad habit when she spotted the black, sequin backpack that was ultimately her final choice. Really kid? Are you 3 or 13?

I was more impacted by the choice of backpacks than I expected to be. At first I thought it was just watching them make choices for themselves, big kid choices. But then I realized that it was also the size of the backpack. Seriously, the bag is bigger than the kid. Good thing we aren’t going to fill it with anything heavy. They might fall over.

On the drive to school, I talked excitedly to the kids about the day to come. I reminded them that they had seen their classroom last week, at orientation, and that they would love their teachers. I reminded them that I wasn’t going to bring them to their classroom this time, that I their teachers would be waiting for us outside the school instead.

I should have listened to that catch in my throat when I talked about the drop off process. I should have known that it would have a greater impact on me than I anticipated.

And here’s how it went…

1-      Mommy pulls up in front of the school, sees teachers and waves

2-      Mommy gets out of the car and lets the kids out.

3-      Mommy hands bags to kids, hugs and kisses kids.

4-      Teacher walks kids inside, holding their hands.

5-      Mommy climbs into car and drives away crying.

And that was when it hit me. They are wading into the big world as little people. They aren’t babies anymore.  Symbolically and literally, they are carrying bags too big for their little bodies, preparing to grow into them. Just like their world. Amazing that a simple curb drop off brought on all that deep thought.

And in my heart, I know that this image will be forever etched in my mind.  My children, backpacks and no faces, holding hands with their teacher. Walking away from me, their oversized backpacks bouncing against the backs of their little legs as they move excitedly forward. Leaving me behind. Entering a classroom that is theirs, not mine. A world where I am the visitor.

I am going to be so embarrassing when my kids get on a school bus. And have a school play. And graduate. Sigh. Someone remind me to hold off on makeup that day. And bring tissues. Lot of ‘em.

Vintage

A Facebook friend recently posted about an item from the mid 90’s being called Vintage. He objected, stating that not enough time had passed for the term to correctly apply. For the record, I happen to agree, but it made me think about time. And the relativity of it. How long ago qualifies as “a long time”?

I was shopping in Target today. The cart had a few items in it and we were in search of more. My daughter was walking nicely next to me. My son, sat in the top of the cart, was screaming at full volume. He was seriously pissed off at me. I followed through on my “promise” to take away his letter stickers (not yet purchased) if he didn’t get off the floor and walk like a big boy.

Sigh.

As I passed by an older woman, she glanced up at the approaching noise. She looked at my son, then at me. She noticed my calm and vaguely annoyed facial posture and my daughter’s total lack of interest or concern for her brother’s noise pollution.  The woman made eye contact with me. I shrugged. She sighed. “I’m glad those days are done for me.” She commented.

Frequently those comments irritate me. They feel like a gloating of sorts. A smug reminder that others have survived it and now it’s YOUR turn to survive the initiation. A snide “good luck”. Sometimes it feels downright insulting, insinuating that your children aren’t good or that you are doing something wrong. This woman, however, did not illicit this reaction from me and I can’t quite tell you why. Maybe it was the quiet sympathy in her voice. Maybe it was the total and utter lack of judgment, for the fact that I was totally ignoring the screaming.

Or maybe it was because she’s right.  I will not miss this element of my children’s current age.

I will miss many day to day components of my life with my children right now. I will miss the belly laughs that I hear from the basement as my kids play and watch TV. I will miss the sloppy kisses at bedtime. I will miss the hours spent cuddling and reading together. I will miss the never ending desire to create original songs while we drive in the car and giggle infested “that’s not right” I hear when I’m done with the newest creation.  Oh, and the request for the next song that comes immediately after. I will even miss the way they look when they are finished eating pasta, looking more like they bathed in it than ate it.

But I won’t miss the toddler tantrums. My guess is that nobody will ever mourn the disappearance of that particular behavior.

My neighbors just had a little baby, a gorgeous little girl. She is their blessing. Their light at the end of a long tunnel. The one they have always yearned for. And they are so very happy to meet her. But they are exhausted, and she’s only a week old. It seems that they are now pleased to get 3 straight hours of sleep! I remember those days.

 When I talked to them, I was reminded of the fog that invaded the first months of parenthood. I resisted the urge to say “I’m glad those days are done for me” when I spoke to them, because it was unnecessary. But it would have been true.  I love the way babies taste when you kiss them. I love the way their little toes curl when they cry and I love the way they smile at the world around them at moments of happiness and serenity. But I DO NOT miss the days of strollers, especially when getting in and out of the car. I don’t miss getting up 2-3 times a night and I certainly don’t miss not being able to ask my kids what’s wrong.

It’s only been 3 years, yet it feels like an eternity ago. A different lifetime.

You know, Vintage.

I believe you...

The other day, my son came down from nap a little less enthusiastic than usual. He wakes up really well normally. This is a trait that he inherited from his dad, not me. Me, I wake up like a drugged sloth and my daughter inherited that trait full force. It ain’t pretty, watching us wake up. Either one of us girls. Especially when we had to be woken up before our bodies were totally ready. My dad says I used to wake up swinging as a teenager. Somehow, I believe him.

 Instead of aiming directly for his toys, my son wanted a cuddle and among his first words to me were a request for medicine to “make it all better”. I asked him where his ouchie was and he told me it was his mouth. Hmmm… I had been a bit hoarse myself and my throat, while not hurting, was not totally normal either.  I’d been attributing it to the heat and potentially allergies. Whatever the reason, I was not feeling 100%. My lack of complaint was entirely maturity and lack of time for my own needs.

I am pretty firmly in the gray area when it comes to medicine. I don’t believe in medicating everything in existence, but I also don’t see the point in suffering when you could take something safe and feel better. With the kids, I try to be conservative so that I don’t overuse the medications but I also like to keep them comfortable when I can.

I was going to hold off on the medicine, wait to see if he asked me again. I figured if he asked me again he meant it. If not, then he was probably fine. Right?

And then it occurred to me. He NEVER asks for medicine. And I do mean never. He asks for hugs and cuddles when he’s less than 100%, but not medicine. He’s given me no reason to doubt him. I believe him when he tells me that he saw a truck that I didn’t see. I should believe him now. Isn’t that one of the benefits of kids developing language? We can find more opportunities to trust them. Especially when they have proven themselves trustworthy.

I sat him on the kitchen counter and gave him some medicine. Kissed his head gently and gave him a big hug. 15 minutes later, he was a new man. Go figure.

I remember being a kid and asking for things. Permission to go somewhere or do something. Access to something I wanted. My parents were really very good about saying yes whenever possible. They worry enormously, as part of who they are, so I always had to call when I got there. I did, however, get permission to go more often than not. It wasn’t bad at all. Even at the time, I rarely complained or felt bothered.

It always drove me crazy, however, when adults didn’t believe me. I resented being seen as unreliable or untrustworthy simply because I was younger. Sometimes I was probably missing something, lacking an awareness of the bigger picture. Ignoring the fact that I lost this person’s trust at one point or another. At other times, however, the adults had no reason to doubt me. And those moments really angered me because I knew I deserved the chance to prove my worthiness, my honesty.

There was a time, in High School, when a teacher accused me of cheating. We had a surprise assignment, a pop quiz of sorts. We completed the assignment and then the teacher asked us to turn it in. At least I presume he did. I was talking. I know. I should have been listening, but I was talking to my friend. Being talkative and immature, I frequently talked in class. And because I was talking, I didn’t hear the request to turn in the assignment. Later, when the teacher noticed the missing assignment and approached me about it on campus, he behaved as if I had intended to cheat.

I was furious. Indignant. How dare he! I may be talkative. I may even have been a bad student or a pain to have in class. But a cheater? No way! I’m honest. That, combined with my failing grade on said assignment, should have been the tip off. If I was cheating, I would have improved my score. Right?

My parents, however, believed me. I confessed entirely to everything for which I was guilty, but I denied cheating. My parents believed me, thank goodness. They gave me a lecture about paying attention in class (a well deserved one, I might add).But they backed me up on the honesty attack.

Thanks Mom and Dad. I wonder if you knew just how much that meant. I wonder if my son felt the same way as I picked him up, and gently gave him the medicine he had requested. 

How fast "should" a dolphin swim?

Our local aquarium has dolphins, and up until recently they had a pretty cool dolphin show. You got to watch the dolphins perform some really cool tricks and they educated you on some dolphin trivia. And lost in amongst the myriad of interesting facts about dolphins, was the following.

 Dolphins swim faster than they should.

 It seems they have studied the musculature of dolphins, combined with the other elements of their movement patterns. The speed limit they calculated is slower than the speeds they have witnessed. Interesting. Good thing they didn’t tell the dolphins. They might have slowed down, limited themselves to the “correct” speed. What a tragedy for the dolphins.

A family member told me that that the same concept applied to bumble bees. It seems that when you take the wing size, body size, weight, etc in to account, they shouldn’t be able to fly. But they do fly. Quite well, actually. Don’t tell the bees. They might forget about their past successes and find themselves grounded.

I have the burning desire to post this on the entrance to every building of education, make it the first sentence of every syllabus. Post it on the wall of every office and remind everyone I know every day.

As a teacher of foreign language, one the most significant barriers I fight is confidence. Sure, some students have more natural academic ability than others. Some have better memories and some just focus with less effort.  And then again, some just work harder. They just accept the discomfort of hard work more gracefully. Yearn for the pride of the accomplishment to come.

Years ago, I had the following conversation with a student. On the first day of class.

Student: I’m not going to do well in your class.

Me: Really? Why?

Student: Because I was tested and I have learning disabilities. I can’t memorize well. I won’t do well.

Me: I don’t believe you.

Student: (pissed off) You don’t believe I was tested?

Me: No, I believe you were tested. And I believe you about the result. I just don’t believe that you won’t succeed. I just expect you to work harder and ask more questions.

Student: (staring directly at me, challenging… then walking away) Humph.

 Would you believe that she earned a solid B+ in my class and was one of my prize students? Of course you would.

The ones who lack the confidence are, for me, the most tragic of situations. I have been forced, on way too many occasions, to look into the eyes of a student and know that they were not going to succeed if they didn’t break past the barriers they placed in front of themselves. If they didn’t void their heads of the limiting thoughts that had been instilled there over time.  I mean, nobody told the dolphins they were swimming “too fast” or the bees that they shouldn’t be able to fly.

I suppose this topic is bit of a soap box for me, being someone who doesn’t like to be told what I can and cannot do. Not to imply that I don’t have a healthy respect for authority, because I do. But I do expect to be seen as an intelligent adult with good judgment and being informed that something is out of my reach is by far the best way to help me achieve it. Wanna dare me? Go ahead… I’ll prove you wrong.

So maybe these dolphins were in a hurry. A hurry to get the food. A hurry to get a mate. Or simply a hurry to catch that really big wave. So they pushed themselves. Good for them. I hope they achieved their goals. And to you little bumble bees, you keep on flying. I believe in you.

A memo to my fellow moms!

A memo to my fellow moms:

First and foremost, I want to thank you heartily for taking the time to read this blog. I know that your moments of quiet and sanity are few and far between. I feel honored that you share at least a few of them with me.

Secondly, I want to remind you of something you may have forgotten. You are beautiful. Really. When your children look at you, they don’t see the tummy that didn’t quite bounce back or the gray hairs they have encouraged. They don’t see the wrinkles and dark circles around your eyes from all the hours of sleep they stole from you. They see YOU. Their mom. The one who loves them, and whose smile means more to them than almost anything else in the world.

They would probably be downright gleeful to bear witness to that gorgeous smile more often.

And on the topic of body, let me tell you one more thing. You are not less beautiful with the “imperfections” you have earned over the years. You are more beautiful. Stretch marks. Scars. Wrinkles. Hair that’s not quite coiffed. Yes, all of it. A fashion model has nothing on you. It may sound nutty to you, but I love my c-section scar. It reminds me that my children were born of my body, that I was their first home and that I will always be their home to come back to.

And more thing about your body. If your body’s current status isn’t acceptable to you because it inhibits a valued activity or because it doesn’t quite feel comfortable, then changes it. Go for it. Lose some weight or get into better physical shape. Start eating more salad and fewer cookies. Whatever.  Take care of yourself, so that you can live a longer and happier life. But don’t do it to be more beautiful because that doesn’t need any work. You’re already there.

And if the people who are supposed to love you don’t see it that way, the problem lies with their vision. Not the view.

And as for what you “get done”, hmmm… Let’s talk about that. If you believe that your accomplishments must be measured on a rote checklist, you are missing the other list. You know, the list that includes “cuddled and read with my kids”, “danced in the kitchen” and “healed the ills of the world with one of my magical kisses”.  You know, what we accomplish when we decide to stop getting things done. Oh, and incidentally the hardest thing to do in this busy and crazy world. (At least in my humble opinion).

In short, I congratulate you. I applaud you. And I suggest that you take a moment to smile at yourself in the mirror. Congratulate yourself on being the mom of that wonderful human being. And no, the fact that he/she is wonderful is not an accident.