Thirty Somethings...Thing 9

Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

She's just one of those corners in my mind,
And I just put her right back with the rest
That's the way it goes. I guess...



I've had, to my best estimation, nearly three lifetimes worth of amazing friendships. And this lifetime is, I hopity-hope-hope, not nearly halfway through.

Facebook, for all of it's renowned evil, has made it possible for me to be in touch with every last person I can imagine who, before it's advent, might have been a drifted person I sorely missed. And for that I am eternally grateful.

While I'm able to remain in touch with everyone from my past that I might've missed, there is something adrift in the friendship department. And that something is 'circles' of friends.

There are a million things I wouldn't do in a million years. Go back to high school. Go back to college. Go back to my twenties. Go back to, well, yesterday. I have no interest in going back. Because as confused as I am today, I know things I didn't know yesterday and I'd hate to unknow them. I like knowing what I know, you know?

That said, I do wish I could time-warp to past circles of friends in present circumstances.

I'd knock on Jon and Dom's door, really, REALLY loudly because it's always funny to do that, just in case they're getting high. There would be no arm-twisting necessary if I bore a deck of cards and dared utter, "Let's play Hearts!' We'd laugh and compete and shirk responsibility, for just a little bit.

Because we're older now. And, presumably, a touch more responsible. And skipping 'class' has been usurped by responsibilities unskippable.

I'd call Steve and he'd say, "We're hanging out at Ray's and Dan and John and Aaron and Tim and Kelly are going to be there, too." I'd then call Ray who'd remind me which turn it is I take to get to his house again because I always fucking miss it. We'd lounge around listening to the Dead and being, well, really fucking cool.

I'd be in the bathroom with Dee, Carrie, and Kristin and we'd all be jockeying for a good position in the the mirror to do our hair; it's a good thing Kristin is short and Carrie is tall and Dee and I are average. A perfect diamond of hair-doing friends in the mirror. We'd joke about queefing and generally grace the bathroom with our astounding ability to laugh at just about anything and swear in ways no sailor had ever deemed possible.

I miss my circles of friends. I miss the person they made me when I was growing within the comfort and love of their friendship. Each and every person in those circles, and countless others, significantly altered who I am. No. Made me who I am. And while I love being in touch with each and every one of them, even the farm-building ones (bastards), I miss 'us all' for the village we were.

Those circles are now in the past and we'll likely not ever visit that geometrical shape again, so trapezoid it is. Regardless, these circles of friends sent me adrift. They drifted me off to others a better person for having been in their circle.

And while I miss the incarnations of me in large part for the people I surrounded myself by during those incarnations, the Zubes I was - before trapezoids became a way of life - belongs in a treasured corner of my mind.

And, because it's the best thing to do, I just put her right back with the rest. That's the way it goes. I guess.

WHOOOOOO-----AM-----I?

You know, I can only post so much happy, wisdomy horseshit before my head explodes or I tell my inner Pollyanna and the fluffy white poodle with pink ear bows she rode in on to fuck right off. Whichever comes first. Actually? I'm not going to let either one of those things happen first. Because, instead, I've decided to tell the truth outside the boundaries of Thirty Days of them.

The truth? I'm not awesome. I'm not shitty, either. Well, not too shitty, anyway. While I'm not so great at anything remotely resembling moderation, I somehow manage to be moderately awesome and moderately shitty. I'm pretty sure I'm at least as screwed up as everyone else. And most days that's just fine by me.

Is this some sort of self-love epiphany? Did I go for a long, crunchy walk in the woods, trip over a snow bank, and stumble upon the secret to giving yourself a fucking break already? Nah. Not even. The true reason for this outlook is none other than...sheer laziness. Who would take a walk in this blizzardy mess I call home anyway? Crazy people, that's who. Crazy people who are better than me. And crazy. Just sayin'.

For years and years I dithered around my brain, often seated opposite a therapist, striving to be improved. And I have the bills, some still unpaid, to prove it. I wanted to be improved in ways no one had ever before dared to be IMPROOOOOOOVED.

Oops, sorry. Got to channeling the hookah smoking caterpillar for a second there.

Ahem...I wanted to be so goddamn improved that when you googled 'improved' on the internets, the first thing to turn up would be...



Right.

But then somewhere along the line, a couple of years ago maybe, I got over it. I decided I didn't want to better myself anymore. It's too much work. I just wanted to be as improved and as fucked up as I was at that time, for the unforeseeable future. And, apparently, the present I'm presently rocking is still that unforeseeable future.

What was that I mentioned back there about my inability to do anything in moderation?

The thing about The Things that started to bug me...The Somethings. The eight I've posted so far. Rereading them they make me sound like I'm a better person than I am. I'm not actually a better person than I am. I'm just really good at rationalizing who I am. Rationalizing isn't exactly the most admirable thing to be good at, true, but my flavor of rationalizing is a pithy means to a significant end. That end being happiness. And in my worldview, Happiness = Good.

So, while I might prance around my house congratulating myself for knowing damn near everything and denouncing other, stark raving mad people, don't be fooled. Because ultimately, well...it takes one to know one...



And now, I've got a tea party to go to. I don't want to be late. I'd like to get there before that stupid poodle takes my seat.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 8

Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

Well sure. There have been some folks in my life who'd fit quite neatly into this category. One in particular. I can still recall in vivid detail the thud that hoagie made as it hit the wall after sailing past my ear. And the crash of the tv as it gave way to his anger and landed at my feet. And the unleashing of my inner fire-breathing dragon when, from out of nowhere, I belched out through clenched teeth, "Would you just fucking HIT ME! Then I'd have reason enough to walk away!" And the barely audible whisper of my bruised and battered esteem..."He doesn't have to hit you for you to walk away..."

I don't think about those days much and I'm not angry about them anymore. They are simply part of the intricate pattern of my History Quilt. Some of the patches are a little fucked up, but the seams are strong.

There is one person, though, whom I hold most accountable for treating me terribly in the past; someone I should have been able to rely on for kindness and tenderness and compassion. And that person is me.

I'm not going to beat myself up for it given my penchant for letting people off the hook these days. At the time, I didn't think I deserved any better, and that's sad enough without adding to it some self censure. At least now I know I do, in fact, deserve better and act accordingly. Since the dawning of that realization, the folks who happen to treat me shittily either matter enough to have some explaining to do, or simply don't matter at all.

I'm not saying I'm perfectly, awesomely awesome over here in Perfectly Awesome Land or anything. I have not found the magical cure to self-doubt and, once in a while, even self-loathing. But it is no longer where I live. I visit I-Suck-ville once in a while and then head back home. After being the Mayor of I Suck-ville for many years, A sucky Mayor if you'd have asked me at the time, I am more than happy with my humble abode here in the rural stretch between Perfectly Awesome Land and I-Suck-ville.

And hoagies and TVs do not fly here. They are eaten and watched. Preferably simultaneously.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 7

Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.

The 'for' is superfluous and confusing in my opinion, so I'm striking it. There is a time and a place to end a sentence with a preposition. But, I don't know why they put one there for. Heh. I think I just proved the aforementioned 'for' superfluous but I'm too lazy to show you the algorithm. That was bugging me. I feel better now. Moving along...

Pretentious Asshole vs. Heartfelt Post Material

And the winner is...you be the judge.

The response to this one might seem obvious, and I suppose I could forgo the risk of sounding like a selfish asshole, but I'm feeling contrary today, so Potential Asshole Reputation, or worse, Fucked Up Mother of the Year, here I come.

My children? They do not make my life worth living.

Don't get me wrong, I'd give my life for theirs, if ever such an unfortunate circumstance called for it. I would, without a moment's hesitation, die if it meant either or both of them would be spared. Not a doubt.

I would also struggle to find a reason for living should the unspeakable happen to either one of them, or, even more unspeakably, both. Fuck. Most especially both. Goddamn, this is some jinx-loaded shit to unearth from the recesses of my mind that I know exists but pointedly ignore. I'm sleeping with everything crossed for a week to fend off the jinxes. Unless anyone out there has a better anti-jinx recipe.

But, that still does not mean they make my life worth living.

Let me rephrase the question and change the perspective a bit.

Whose life do I make worth living?

I hadn't even finished typing the question before I scrunched my nose and cringed. Ugh, no one. I've got enough on my hands without having to be someone's reason for living. That's on you, man. I don't want that kind of responsibility.

Right. And I'm old enough to vote and have frothy adult beverages and I'm well above forty pounds. I'll love you, but I don't want to be your life's worth. I hardly want to be the reason you decide to wear that shirt. You should wear it because you like it. And I'll notice how much more comfortable you are when you wear the one you like as opposed to how uncomfortable you are when you wear the one I like.

Does that make a little more sense? Z-Boy loves short hair on girls and hates tattoos. But he loves me more. And I have long hair and tattoos. He loves me when I'm most comfortably me. And likewise. Him and me. I even love that old Gwar shirt with the holes he wears. Because he's so HIM in it.

I live my life for me and I hope that in doing that, selfless little acts peppering the way, Zee and Bee will learn that it is not only okay but right to live their lives for them. It'd be super cool if the selfless acts followed, too. I'm seeing a hint of them, so I think I'm doing okay.

I do not ever want Zee or Bee to factor my pride or approval or disapproval into any major life decision. I'd hate for them to think, "Mom REALLY wants me to be the best President the United States ever saw, so I should probably forget my dreams of being a ballerina." Fuck that.

Zee and Bee? Whether your future involves a podium or tights, a wrench or a keyboard, a pen or a guitar, pennies or dollars...I hope you follow your dreams. I hope you find your life worth living. For you.

Meanwhile I'll be living my life for me. And hoping I did it right. And you take my lead.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 6

Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.

I hope I never get stuck on a desert island with anyone. Not even you. Not even if I can bring one thing. Partially because I'm a social butterfly quadruple squared and so I have an inherent need to be around lots of people, but mostly because I'm pretty fucking annoying in large doses and you'd end up hiding behind palm trees to avoid me. I think I have lots of friends so I can disseminate the annoyingness harmlessly and still remain in good graces with most. Or at least tolerable.

I hope I never perfect cooking a baked potato. I think it adds character to be shitty at cooking something that should be so easy.

I hope I'm never the mother of a bully. I also hope I'm never the mother of a bullied. I do hope I am the mother of a bully bullier. Or two bully bulliers.

I hope my children bury me. I know that's an 'I hope' and not an 'I hope not' but to type it alternatively...my fingers won't do it.

I hope I never have to admit I'm wrong to my kids. Eh, that's kinda bullshit. I hope I don't but I know that when I do it will only serve to make my kids better people. And me a better person. I'm just not looking forward to it is all.

I hope I never forget that sometimes I'm wrong. And I'm using the term 'sometimes' rather loosely here.

I hope I never have to hear the words, "Mom, I'm pregnant," in any context other than joyous. I hope I never lose myself in 'How Things Were Supposed to BE' land if those words are uttered at, well, what I consider not the right time but the deliverer of the words does. I really, really, really fucking hope that if those words are ever uttered and the speaker wants an abortion, I don't have to fly her to another country to get one. I hope I don't have to, but I will.

I hope, if reincarnation is real, I never have to be reincarnated as a person who gets stuck on a desert island with me. Because that would just be trippy.

I hope I never have to be reincarnated. Because this life is real. And it is fun. Hell, it's been really fun at times. And really not at others. But I'd like to just do it once, please.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 5

Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.

This one time in college? I went to class. I must've been really bored and out of weed and too tired to do keg stands and I never did own a flute or anything. So class it was. It was a writing class and I (heart)ed writing back then, too, but I struggled with it a bit while I was experimenting with various and sundry states of mind and having really DEEP conversations at 3AM with guys who wore those old man hats. Anyway, there was an old lady in this class who sat two seats behind me. She was probably the same age I am now. Right, so NOT old, that is to say. She was really annoying, always raising her hand and talking about her kids and generally attaching her lips to the teacher's ass. Figuratively, of course. She was the kind of old lady I'd probably be if I ever decided to drag my ass back to school to complete my degree. And that, my friends, is how easy it is for me to talk myself out of shit. No desire to be that old lady.

But I digress. One day the professor gave us our assignment and we all groaned in unison. Well, 29 of 30 of us did. One of us squealed and instinctively raised her hand. I'm sure you can imagine who that was because if you have the intellectual prowess to be able to navigate your way to my blog on the internet, there aren't just rocks banging around between your ear-holes. When she was acknowledged by the professor she breathlessly stammered, "Well, Ms. Professor, I am VERRRRRY excited about this assignment but I feel like it is a little unfair because all of these kids are just beginning life and won't have much to write about while I've had all kinds of experiences to share."

Commence glaring. Not one person peeped because apparently mocking assholery is too much trouble when there's only one minute left in class. The professor merely said, "I think you'll be surprised," and we all hurriedly shoved our books in our bags and hauled ass outta there, eyes a-rolling.

I recall staring at my word processor that night (told ya, I'm an old lady) as my 'minimal life experiences' flashed before my eyes. In the end, I pussed out. I didn't tell the story of being raped and having an abortion. I wasn't brave enough. Apparently bravery is only something I was apt to embrace almost a decade later. I turned in a paper that certainly told my life story. But not the whole truth. I just wasn't ready to be the sacrificial lamb on the alter of Yuh-Huh I DO SO Have Life Experiences Asshole!

When class reconvened, a few chose to read their autobiographies out loud. There was one girl who took Old Lady's challenge head on. She was the first Goth I'd ever seen, before 'Goth' was ever spoken in mainstream lexicon. She'd never spoken a word in class until that day. She pursed her black lips and closed her thickly lined eyes for just a moment and then unfolded, in vivid detail, her experience of being molested as a child and coming to terms with that through her teenage years. I can't even do the experience justice with words. It was absolutely powerful.

There was not a dry eye in the room, but for hers. She shared her story with such intensity and strength that she's more than just a little bit one of my unsung heroes of the past. She was who I hoped I'd be a decade past my shitty shenanigans of the time.

And she is who I became. I owe her. Which is probably why I'm writing this.

That is the longest preamble in the world to say that I hope, in my life, I will always, always be mindful that everyone, young and old, asshole and martyr, has a story. Something worthy of an autobiography.

Even old ladies who go back to college well past the age most people do in the interest of doing SOMETHING for themselves while sitting in a class full of snotty kids who throw the term 'old' around like it's nobody's business and scorn a genuine interest in learning while they're juggling kids, a relationship, a mortgage, a degree, and, not often enough, a vibrator. Yes, they have stories, too.

I want to spend my life minding people's stories. Which sometimes might not seem so obvious what with me droning on about mine, but it's true. That's what I hope to do. To realize that not only is there a My-ography, but a You-ography, too. We're all a bunch of Ographies. Important ones.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 4

Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.

This one is easy. Nothing. Really and truly, I'm not currently angry or holding a grudge, new or old.

You're welcome to piss me off so I have something to write about and I promise I'll forgive you. Unless you barge into the grocery store line and start putting your shit on the conveyor belt BEFORE I'M EVEN DONE UNLOADING MY GROCERIES! Some asshole actually did that! She? Does not deserve my forgiveness. Which is saying something because I generally have all kinds of forgiveness to go around.

By the way, did you know that being a superhero is kind of a stressful job? It's really hard to find the time to practice my ninja rolls what with the need for my kids to stuff their pie-holes with not just pie. Not to mention, there's always an ass around here that needs wiping. I barely have time to do the moonwalk never mind stitching that rip in my cape.

But when I do find a spare moment, I think I'll hop on my broom, use my super-duper gps powers to find the Grocery Store Asshole, park by the back door, ninja roll into the kitchen and fill every one of her cabinets to the brim with packaging peanuts.

Then I think I might find it in my heart, somewhere deep down in a corner, to forgive her for not thinking I'm the bees knees.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 3

Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.

It's funny, I'd been composing this post in my head while I was giving the kids a bath, because that's how I roll with the rough drafting. The thoughts were swirling, and they centered around the idea that I really had nothing I felt compelled to forgive myself for. Nothing.

Lather...Rinse...Repeat...

I spent years sumo wrestling guilt and it was just...counterproductive. So I decided, quite a while ago, that I'm just forgiven. Not much posty sort of material there and it felt like a bit of a cop-out, but it was the best I could conjure up.

And then something interesting happened. Zee looked at me intensely, that piercing direct look, right in the eyeballs, the one that busy family life doesn't afford often enough, and she said, "Mommy, my growing bigger. When my get big my be just like you!"

"No, no, no, you don't, baby! You be just like you when you grow up!" was the first thought that frantically pounced between my ears, craving to escape my lips. But I said, "That's sweet honey. But I like you just like you."

When the student is ready, the teacher will come. Isn't that a saying? If it isn't it should be.

It made me realize that, while yes, I have come to terms with my inadequacies, I have yet to come to terms with my offspring coming to terms with my inadequacies.

So, perhaps what I need to begin doing in the forgiveness department is pre-forgiving myself for the idiosyncrasies and flaws that will eventually screw up my kids. In hopefully non-spectacular ways.

If I were truly prone to self-reflection and betterment, that would probably mean I'd vow to stop composing blog posts in my head and being more present during bath time. But, fuck it, I'm not that great of a person. I'm only human.

And one of the reasons the intense 'Locking of Eyes' moments are so incredibly moving is because they are so incredibly not the norm. A million of those moments might rob them of their worth.

But still, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I get lost in my own little world sometimes and forget to Be. There. Every Minute. of Every Day.

You know what, Zube? It's okay. You're forgiven. But I don't know about you, Mom.

Ouch. That would hurt. More than shampoo in the eyes, I'd imagine.

Thirty Somethings...Thing 2

Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.

Allow me, for just a moment, to channel Brad. It's easier to find me lovable through his eyes. Ommmmmmmmmmm.....Do people say "Ommmmmmmmm," when they're channeli...wait...wait...It's working!

Ugh. "Dammit, Angelina, would you shut up for just a minute? I'm loving on Zube. Please and thank you."

Ahem, Zube's hot. Like, supermodel hot. Plus? She's a fucking genius. It's true.

And then, I woke up. As Zube, of course. And made myself breakfast. Because I like to do that for the people I sleep with. Makes me feel a little less whorish.

Really, though, I love how I'm usually able to laugh in the midst of sorrow. Like the time I told my coworker to forward an annoying customer to my uterus because it seemed to have a way with putting a stop to things.

I'm generally quite good at reading people. I love that. I also love that it makes me a really good waitress. Some people want to chat. Others just want to eat their fucking eggs already. And I'm able to tell the difference.

I love that I take pride in waitressing. Others might think it's a bullshit job, but I honestly enjoy it.

I love that I love to take care of people.

I've somehow managed to surround myself by amazing people. Love them. I love myself for finding them.

I love my fierce loyalty to my family.

I still creep up the stairs at night and take one last peek at Zee and Bee before I go to bed. I can't believe I've got them. I love that I don't think that feeling of gratitude and disbelief will ever go away.

Sometimes the door to their room creaks and wakes one of them up during these late night visits. I hate that.

Sometimes the door to my room creaks and wakes me up. Goddamnit, Brad! I hate you!

I love to hate Brad.

It's Not an Eggsact Science

So, I've been working and working and working and have not had time to put into words what exactly it is I love about myself. I'm getting there.

But last night I was laughing about something that had happened a while ago and it gave me an idea. My friend, Chickie, posted a tale written by someone who was too embarrassed to own it. The chickie that wrote the tale? Yeah, that was me. Almost a year later, I figured I'd own up and share it. Enjoy. I hope you laugh. Hard.

Thirty Somethings...

I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions. I mean, I have them, but they're generally of the ridiculously attainable mocking variety. This year's? I aspire to be more annoying on Facebook. If you're not already my friend, I betcha want to be my Facebook friend now. Really, I have no intention of being more annoying on Facebook. I mean, any more than I might already be.

But, thinking on this whole New Year's Resolution thing, I might actually give it a go with a real one this year. I want to write more. And, as always happens when I get a hankering for brain spills onto keyboard, this here blog is the medium.

That said, forgoing writing for so long, there are gobs of thoughts yearning for the spotlight and I think a little discipline is in order. I'm not usually much of a Meme-er, but this one seems like a timely homework assignment I'll willingly embrace. Something structured to get me from mass chaos to order to my ultimate goal. Free-flow. I stumbled upon it on Stella's blog. I'm jumping on the wagon, beer in hand. Um, this is the bandwagon, right? I've no business on any other wagon. *Glug*

It is officially called Thirty Days of Truth. And I wouldn't be Zube if I didn't rail a bit against the orderliness of it, quest for discipline notwithstanding. I don't know how many days it will take me. I also don't promise to tell the truth. Some of the questions strike me as, hm, a little stupid? My eyes rolled a bit when I read them. I'll be honest about the eyeroll-worthiness of those and make up gargantuan lies to make my answers interesting. So, my version of Thirty Days of Truth is hereby incarnated Thirty Somethings. But I hereby promise that at the end of this exercise there will be thirty answers. In, hopefully, not as many years.

The point of it all? I answer a question with each post. The questions are thus:

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself

Some are pretty dumb, right? And I'm mentally exhausted just reading the list, so I'll start the project another day. And that's the truth.

Wherein My Mind Gets Blown

The other day I was showing Zee some photos of family on Facebook. We ventured our way through some pictures of her and Bee and ultimately ended up watching her birth montage...

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

She stared intently, and proclaimed, "Oh no, Mommy, my crying! My COLD!" while seeing the pictures taken immediately after her debut. And then...she said something that sent my tear ducts reeling. The photo shot when the doctors first held her next to me, assuring me that, yes, in fact, I had a beautiful case of real, actual baby on my hands. Upon seeing that picture, Zee nearly shouted, "Aw, look Mommy! You so happy see me!"

Baby girl, you have no fucking idea just how happy I was. And am still actually.

There was something pretty mind-blowing about that moment. Like time colliding. The collision of two mind-blowing moments. Every time I see that picture of us moments after she was born I recall vividly just how absolutely shocked I was that an actual, real, heart-beaty baby had been in my guts the whole time and I'd not been precariously incubating a weird tumor with a heartbeat as I'd suspected. I just couldn't bring myself to believe that at the end of the day, I'd have a baby they'd let me bring home to my own house and screw up in hopefully minor, quirky, 'Mom's Only Human' ways. Even further from my mind was that some day I'd have a little girl.

And to hear the little girl I dared dream of having once upon a time say, in her precious little girl voice, "Aw, look Mommy! You so happy see me!" packed a similar punch to seeing her upon her arrival. Not a bad punch. Actually more like a fruit punch. Nah, even better, a cotton candy punch. A cotton candy punch with a splash of vodka. It was fucking awesome. And, I'd imagine, just as dizzying.

My sweet little girl, I am just as happy to see you every day 'til Kingdom Queendom come! Believe it or not.



Now, for crying out loud, PICK UP YOUR CRAYONS!!! And get Mommy a tissue. Please. *Sniff*