My Tim Hortons Holiday Moment

I'm feeling stressed. Nothing is really coming together as I had hoped this holiday
season. I had high hopes of Christmas organization, food made in advance,
baking, homemade gifts, the full-Pinterest works!

But instead I have a poorly (read: hastily) decorated tree and a store bought tin
of shortbread, and I spent this afternoon in a scarily empty outlet mall off the
highway.

I really want the holidays to be perfect for my kids; I want matching stockings, not
dollar-store mismatch. I want the lights in the windows, not stacked in a pile on
the porch floor. I want, I want — but all I seem to have time to do is shop, sort of
wrap, and do the bare minimum to get dinner on the table every night.

My mom is a saint and is sending me menus and grocery lists (she is even
going to do the Christmas dinner grocery shopping!), but still I can’t even find
the twenty minutes I need to reply to her email about whether I want the Gordon
Ramsay gravy or the Jamie Oliver cranberries. Yet again I am left thinking, How
did my mom DO all this when I was little? And then to top it all off, a fucking
mouse ran through my kitchen yesterday. Seriously!? I thought I had curbed this
problem. Merry Christmas (cue eye roll).

And don’t even get me started on my husband at the holidays!

Shopping, no way. Not till the 23rd at the earliest. I’m not materialistic, but
sometimes it is hard to accept that your gift (as nice as it may be) was purchased
twelve hours before at an overcrowded Bay. Sometimes I want to throw in the
towel (or at least buy my own gift).

But my faith in it all was restored just ever so slightly this morning when we
dropped of cards to W’s teachers at daycare this morning. I made him go around
to all the daycare workers whom he has a relationship with, and he said “Merry
Christmas” as he gave them $5 Tim cards (very Canadian!) with yellow marker
scribbles on the envelopes. And it was like a perfectly heartwarming commercial
— they all had huge smiles and big hugs and one even teared up.

It was a reminder; Christmas really is about the feeling — not the ornate antique
wreath (fuck you, Pinterest). It is about how wonderful it is to hear your two-year-
old saying “Ho ho ho,” and to see your gorgeous new baby and your brilliant
toddler in matching fleece pjs in front of a failed attempt at ornament making.
So I have banned myself from any more Pinterest until December 26, and
instead I am going to hunker down and watch Rudolph until the spirit comes back
to me.

Merry Christmas, mommies. Have a glass of wine (or Baileys) and try to relax —
no one except you knows there is a mousetrap behind the Christmas tree!

-Tightrope Mama

[image source: Pinterest]

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 4

Warning: reserve for holiday time only. Lethal farts.

My Mother’s Utterly Addictive Nuts and Bolts Recipe

Preheat oven 250°F. Mix together:

8 c Shreddies
8 c Cheerios
1 lb (2 c) roasted peanuts
200 g pretzels
225 g cheese bits (Goldfish or what-have-you)

Mix and pour over mixture:
1 tbsp onion salt
1 tbsp garlic salt
2 tbsp Worcester sauce
1 lb butter (melted)

Bake 1 1/2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes.

-Drama Mama

Too Tired to Fight

My husband was having a moment this weekend (okay, it was more than a moment). For
days I asked what was going on, if he was feeling all right. I got little to no response or outright
aggression. As I was ready for bed and on my way Sunday night, he announced he was bored
with his life. I heard this as a criticism of me and our life.

My first reaction was to fly across the room and murder him. Was he seriously saying that all of
the work I was doing was not enough?

Instead, and only because I was too tired to fight, I calmly asked if he wanted to clarify what
precisely was upsetting him. He unpacked how he was feeling. Work was frustrating him, our
finances tiring, intimacy lacking, and he felt like everything had become about our son.

Still feeling defensive, I thought to myself, I get up at the crack of dawn, often after being up
multiple times over the night with J-man, while he soundly sleeps on the couch. I creep out of
the house and to the office in order to get in enough hours to get out by 6:00 or 6:30 p.m. Home
to make dinner. Clean-up is his job. That’s my “free time” when I play a bit with J-man before
I do the bath and bedtime routine. By the time I’m done putting him to sleep (usually well after
10 p.m. and sometimes 11 p.m.), I just want to go to bed. On most nights instead I come back
down so we can visit and unpack the day. What more could I do? Mounds of laundry, grocery
shopping, organizing and paying the household bills? Oh wait, I already do that.

By this point I was totally lacking sympathy. He was still talking about all of the things he’s
doing. They are all true.

He does get J-man up in the morning and he does the drive to daycare, toast in hand. As you
can imagine J-man’s never eager to wake, so organizing him in the morning is exhausting. Most
of the time my husband also does pick-up at daycare and gets me on the way home. His play
time is while I cook, and J-man’s usually a handful. He’s hungry, tired, and in desperate need of
some mama time. The truth is neither of us have much time that isn’t occupied with chores and
J-man care, and we both lack sleep (arguably l lack the most sleep).

Thus my second reaction: he is right about us not having enough me or we time. He is right
that our finances are frustrating. Thus my new job, which just compounded the lack of sleep
and lack of me/we time. We lack exercise, and often healthy food choices are abandoned for
convenience. We could really use some help with organizing everything that needs to be done
in our lives.

So I did what I could. Told him that I have my days of feeling the same and that I’m sorry that
things are tough. I gave him a big hug and said it’s almost the holidays and we could both use
a break. I gave him a kiss, ignored his comment about not thinking he could ever do the “baby
thing” again, and told him it could only get better.

Lesson learned? Sometimes it’s good to be too tired to fight. To listen, to sympathize, and to
let your partner vent without taking it personally (I know, hard unless you are too tired to fight). Parenting is hard and so is life.

-Sleepwalking Mama


[image: three red balloons II by Beverly LeFevre]

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 3

I hope you all don’t think this is a cop-out, but my recipe is from the back of a corn starch box!

But, I swear it makes the best cookies, and who can resist all the adorable cookie cutters at

this time of year? Plus, you can add lots of sprinkles, icing, and extra layers of sugar once the

cookies are out of the oven. If you don’t have cookie cutters, you can use the bottom of a glass

to make circles or roll into a rectangle and cut in to squares. Or, do as the recipe says below

and make them in to balls (BORING!)

Best served with hot cocoa and Bailey’s or eggnog with rum.

Grandma’s Shortbread (the name from the box)

1/2 c corn starch

1/2 c icing sugar

1 c all-purpose flour

3/4 c butter, softened

Sift together corn starch, icing sugar and flour. With a wooden spoon, blend in butter until a soft

smooth dough forms.

Shape into 1 inch balls. If dough is too soft to handle, cover and chill 30 to 60 minutes. Place

1 1/2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet; flatten with lightly floured fork. OR, roll dough to

1/4 inch (6 mm); cut into shapes with cookie cutter. Decorate with candied cherries, coloured

sprinkles or nuts, if desired.

Bake in 300°F oven 15 to 20 minutes or until edges are lightly browned. Cool on wire rack.

Makes 24 cookies (or fewer if you use cutters).

-Tightrope Mama

[Source: Canada Corn Starch box, image: in the kitchen]

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 2

Here’s another super-easy, super-yummy holiday recipe we love.

Fudge Pretzels

Nonstick cooking spray
2 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
3 c semisweet chocolate chips (16 ounces)
1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/8 tsp fine salt
2 1/2 c roughly chopped miniature pretzels

Coat an 8-inch square baking pan with cooking spray and line with parchment paper,
leaving a 2-inch overhang on all sides.

Place butter, chocolate chips, condensed milk, vanilla, and salt in a medium heatproof
bowl set over (not in) a pot of barely simmering water. Stir occasionally until chocolate
just melts and mixture is combined and warm but not hot, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from
heat and stir in 2 cups pretzels.

Transfer mixture to pan and smooth top; press 1/2 cup pretzels on top. Refrigerate until
set, 2 hours, or overnight wrapped. Using parchment, lift fudge from pan and cut into 36
squares.

For a variation, use trail mix, your favorite chopped candy, or crushed cookies in place of
pretzels.

[Source: recipe and photo martha stewart]

-Gray Mama

A Moose from Santa

East End Mama wrote an AWESOME post that encapsulates just one of the reasons Christmas
can be stressful. I have read it about 100 times, it is just so spot on and funny as hell. (Even
though I know I shouldn’t be laughing too hard, because she is definitely stressed about the
family dynamics aspect.)

Here is the Christmas update from my neck of the woods. W is old enough to “get” Santa. He is
not creeped out, he doesn’t have questions about what will happen in our chimney-less house,
he is all over advent calendars (“open MORE”). This, combined with all the gifts he is receiving
to celebrate his new bi-brother-ness, is creating a type of gift Olympics over here. W is training
and is in fine form for the pile of “stuff” coming his way.

However, he is still young and innocent enough that this is not yet completely off-putting and
greedy. Case in point: he has asked Santa for a moose. Yes, a moose. Don’t ask, I have no
idea what this means. Nor do I have any idea what exactly he is expecting (a real moose?!).
So I went to the fancy toy store and bought a fairly realistic-looking stuffed moose (for $40).
Technically the tag says it is an elk, but I am going for it.

I was nearly skipping when I found this toy; however, I should have known. The day I bought
(and wrapped) the moose I asked W what Santa was bringing: he said “drums” without even
skipping a beat. I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather. “How could this be
happening?” I wondered. When I later relayed this to my own mom, she said, “Welcome to hell.”
Ummm…

My husband said we are smarter than him and we will make him want the moose. So that is
what we have done. We are in full-fledged Moose Talk over here. We have also primed every
person who enters our house to talk about how amazingly cool moose are. I think we have
turned the ship around, and drum-mentioning is way down. For future, my mom says you have
to get them to commit to a Santa gift, and then you mail a letter to Santa way in advance so that
once the letter is gone, there is no changing their minds! Manipulation at it’s finest. Love it.

As for the rest of his gifts, I have instructed family to buy one wooden Thomas train each. If this
actually occurs I will be shocked. No one has mentioned buying him a laptop, so at least I can
be thankful for that.

-Tightrope Mama

Secret Mother in the Kitchen

Holidays! Yay! Baking, cooking, cleaning, entertaining, cleaning, sobbing over rum and
eggnog…ugh. How ’bout some recipes — easy, family-friendly, recipes for the holidays?

I’ve got a few vegan friends, and I don’t want them to feel completely left out around the goodie
tray, so I make a couple vegan cookies. And somehow I think vegan cookies are less evil for
little ones, although obviously I’m deluded. Anyways, these ones are actually awesome. Can’t
even tell they’re vegan, I swear. The only really “weird” thing you need (other than tofu, but is
that weird anymore?) is coconut oil, which totally makes me think of this video:
Sh*t Crunchy Mamas Say.

Chocolate Apricot Drop Cookies

2 c unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 pinches salt
1 tsp arrowroot flour (or cornstarch)
3/4 c dark chocolate chips
3/4 c diced dried apricots
1/3 c vegan margarine (like Earth Balance), at room temperature
1/4 c coconut oil
1/4 c maple syrup
1/2 c packed brown sugar
1/2 c mashed firm silken tofu (my Cookie loves to help with this part)
2 tsp vanilla extract

In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking soda, salt, arrowroot or cornstarch, chocolate chips,
and dried apricots.

In a large bowl, combine margarine, coconut oil, maple syrup, and brown sugar. Using an
electric mixer, beat on medium speed until the mixture is smooth and fluffy, about 3 to 4
minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and add the tofu. Continue mixing until all of the
tofu is fully incorporated, about 2 minutes. Add vanilla and beat briefly to combine.

Gently fold half of the dry ingredients into the margarine mixture. When the first half is
incorporated, fold in the second half. Be careful not to over-mix. Scrape down the sides of the
bowl and cover the dough with plastic wrap. Chill for at least 40 minutes.

[This kind of recipe works well for me and Cookie. We make the dough together and have lunch,
and then I bake them while she’s napping so I don’t have to run interference with the stove.
See, kid-friendly!]

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Position a baking rack in the middle of the oven and line a couple of
baking sheets with parchment paper.

Scoop dough from the bowl with a tablespoon. Place on the prepared pans, leaving about 2
inches between each scoop.

Bake cookies for 20 minutes, or until just golden around the edges. Let cool on the pan for 4
minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

This recipe came from a little vegan zine called Small Potatoes. Recipe by Lisa Gorman; photo
by Robyn McCallum.

-East End Mama

The Gift Grinch

I am the most ungrateful gift recipient there is. I really only realized this when Cookie came
along. I’m not really truly ungrateful, but I have a hard time not being honest when someone
gives Cookie something I don’t want. When I was pregnant, I had all these plans to buy fair-
trade, toxin-free, made-in-Canada, organic, yadda yadda. That included, very importantly,
non-directed-play toys — blocks, balls, musical instruments, art materials, etc. And of course
we have all those, and of course very few of them are non-toxic or not made in China, and of
course when they were given to us I barely refrained from saying that we don’t really go for that kind of thing. But they were given with only the best of intentions, I remind myself.

So it’s Christmas, a time of year I dread for this very reason. Family members will give
inappropriate gifts (pink, princesses, TV characters), and I’ll say passive-aggressive things
like, “Cookie really has no idea who Bob the Builder is” (a lie since she’s watched the show at daycare), or “Oh lovely, pink. Gee thanks.” I am a bitch.

In an effort to avoid this ritual, my mother-in-law sends out exploratory emails well in advance, which I appreciate, but which inevitably I have no response for. Now that she’s retired, she gets most of her gift ideas from The View, which just stuns me, but whatever. Did I mention I’m a bitch? Bit of a snob too, apparently. Anyways, recently they featured a laptop for toddlers. So she sent the link and suggested that maybe my parents could buy the software since the gift was so expensive, but that they’d have to get the Level 2 software because Cookie was already too old (at two, mind you) for Level 1.

Okay, wait a second: what?

First of all, if a gift is too expensive, then don’t buy it. It’s not necessary.

Second, she’s already too old for a beginner laptop at two? No. Unacceptable.

Third, I actually recall seeing this laptop featured somewhere else last year. Specifically,
a “worst gifts of 2011” list from Parenting or some such fairly reputable source. Reputable on
this subject relative to The View, anyways. Mainly because it directs play, which in a two-year- old stifles imagination and doesn’t promote outside-the-box thinking and all that stuff.

I have not told my mother-in-law any of this. I’ve not responded at all, assuring myself that it’s
my husband’s responsibility to respond to his mother anyways, not mine. But mainly because
I don’t know what to tell her. I know it’s wrong, I know I don’t want this in my house, but I can’t
give her a good reason why, and I know that she’ll ask for one.

Part of the problem is that my husband wants to get her something like this. He works in
computers, and he wants her to be tech savvy, and he thinks it’s time to introduce her to
technology. I argue that she’s already swiping her way around her iPhones and telling us that she’s checking our email, so that’s more than enough for now. I’m afraid that’s not enough for him.

So I asked my Secret Mothers for advice. Someone mentioned that computers aren’t good for developing eyes. Raffi tweeted about problems schools in the States are having in classrooms that use iPads (no one goes outside anymore, they have to limit iPad time because that’s all kids want to do, stuff like that). I’m sure there are many studies and arguments that I could easily find, but I’m overworked and over-screen-timed myself right now, so I’m not that ambitious. I just want someone to tell me that I’m right and why.

At a party the other night, I ran into friends who kind of did just that. He works in computers too, and he said he was shocked recently when a friend asked him what Nintendo DS he should get for his one-year-old. He had gone into a tirade, explaining all the reasons he thought children shouldn’t be exposed to this stuff at all (creativity and eye sight among them) — ending with the fact that there’s no need since they’ll probably have no problem picking up on it when it’s time to learn. After all, he works at the forefront of computing, and even though he hadn’t seriously touched one ’til he was twenty-three, it hadn’t really been a disadvantage.

His wife mentioned that they go for brunch on Sundays at restaurants full of families, and see
tables and tables of children with their heads down, focused intently on their iPads. Sure, it
allows the parents to enjoy their adult conversations without interruption. But did they ever stop to consider that the lack of socialization and manners means their own children would probably have difficulty having their own conversations some day?

I’m not really an outside-the-box thinker myself, and I didn’t get my first electronic toy ’til I
was ten. (A Radio Shack blackjack game. Blackjack! Talk about inappropriate. Also, good for teaching math.) So I’m not sure how much of creativity is nature and how much is nurture, but I’m pretty sure this stuff doesn’t help. My argument to my husband is that some exposure is fine, but we know from the fights over the iPhone how easily “some” exposure becomes “all the time.” Do we really want to add that fight when we’re already fighting about food and potty and naptime? That worked. For now.

Today we worked on Cookie’s list for Santa. She asked for a piggy bank and cake. I’m happy with that list — perplexed, but happy. Maybe I’ll ask Cookie’s nan to fill the piggy bank with the money she would have spent on the laptop.

-East End Mama

[image: diy gift wrap]

Big Brother

Okay, I had a second baby, and of course along with the joy, pain, nipple callouses, etc.,
came my old friend GUILT.

W, my first son, is two and a half, and while I knew that a new baby would come with its
challenges for all of us, I anticipated it would be hardest for him. I was right.

I myself am an only child so I really can’t relate to the whole sibling love/hate thing, but
I have witnessed it many times with friends and family. My husband and I talked a lot
about the baby beforehand to prepare W. We encouraged him to be a “Big Boy” with a
new bed, some new toys, swimming lessons, a potty (FAIL), giving up bottles (but not
soothers) for the baby, etc., etc.

At first everything was going pretty well. W came to the hospital and was moderately
interested in his new sister. He held her and kissed her, was very gentle, and then
occupied himself with the magical hospital bed for about 45 minutes. When we
came home, he wanted to sit with her and have his picture taken with her. Again, I
thought, “Okay, this is pretty good. “

But this is week #3, and I think W has realized a few things, namely that the baby is
staying and sometimes I HAVE to put her needs over his. The rational part of my brain
knows that this is normal and I have to help the infant, and that though W is crying
hysterically, the “booboo” he has from throwing himself off the bottom step to get my
attention is not life threatening. He is also doing all the classic things, like needing help
with tasks he could accomplish ten days ago and talking baby talk. He has been throwing
things and refusing to get dressed for daycare (very unlike him), and though I stay calm, I
do get firm when the situation demands it.

Even though everyone (teachers, friends, grandparents) brushes this behaviour off
as “normal,” I find it gut-wrenching and difficult to watch. My heart is bleeding for this
little man and I totally get that the conflicting emotions of jealousy and love that he feels
for his sister are very complicated and extremely challenging for a two-and-a-half-year-
old to tame, let alone articulate. I don’t want to go overboard here, but some of the looks
he is giving me are downright heart wrenching.

Then I see it, the familiar look in his eyes — GUILT. I am passing this terrible,
complicated emotion down to him either by DNA or by example (probably both). He
immediately knows that he is doing the wrong thing or acting the wrong way, and so the
tears start to flow. He works himself up into a big whirlwind of emotion because he can’t
seem to say “I’m sorry” or “I acted this way because…” How can we expect a little kid
to handle these huge feelings with dignity when most adults can’t even give meaningful
apologies?

I know that this too shall pass and I know that my son has a wonderful heart that loves
his sister, and that good will prevail. I just have to keep reminding my self of that old
mommy mantra, “I am doing the best I can.” I am loving both my kids and starting
to understand that it takes more than love to raise your kids. You have to try and get
inside their little brains and put yourself in their tiny dino rain boots as often as you can.
Looking at the past few weeks from W’s eyes, I think I might break a few crayons too.

-Tightrope Mama

Small Town Hair

This from Rob Brezney’s Freewill Astrology page:

The Four Foolish Virtues

Traditionally, the Seven Deadly Sins — actions most likely to wound the soul — are
pride, lust, gluttony, anger, envy, sloth, and covetousness.

But we have formulated a fresh set of soul-harmers, the Four Foolish Virtues. They are as
follows:

(1) being analytical to such extremes that you repress your intuition;

(2) sacrificing your pleasure through a compulsive attachment to duty;

(3) tolerating excessive stress because you assume it helps you accomplish more;

(4) being so knowledgeable that you neglect to be curious.

***

My daughter is not yet in daycare in our new small town residence. And I am really tired
of watching my semi-retired partner come and go as he pleases whereas I can’t. Why? I
think Rob has the answer here. Number Two: A compulsive attachment to duty.

I have, for the first time, left the house without “permission.” No one has ever told me I
can’t leave without permission. So why do I feel like I’m breaking the rules?

I mean… I shouted up the stairs, which is what Sir Dick does.

Me: “I’m heading out for a coffee!”
Him: “Who is?”
Me: “I am. You can follow me if you want,” I add weakly, not meaning it.

I could have said “I’m going out to get diapers and juice,” (not that I ever do that) but I
didn’t. I said coffee.

And now I am here, in the café with my Americano, and now I am guilty. And I am being
petty about my coffee. The barista put it in a tall skinny cylindrical pottery mug. I look at
it. I deserve better than this! I have just walked out on my baby!

I tell Barista “I’m worried when I drink it the coffee will hit me in the face.”

I want it to hit me in the face.

When I left home, the Guppins was crying, shouting from the top of the
stairs, “MomEEEE!!” But she had bitten my breast — she’s been sooo grumpy, she has
not been sleeping — and a whole bunch of other crappy things happened.

Like: the glorious week in which I had home care for two to three hours per day…ended.
(See my previous blog entry.)

Like: East End Mama travelled to Smalltown to visit, to party (her aunt was going to
babysit), and the second she arrived I came down with stomach flu. And the Guppins
bit her daughter in the face, which makes me absolutely crazy and helpless and
embarrassed…and fear for my daughter’s mental health and my parenting skills…and
worried for Cookie’s, well, face. We didn’t get to go out that night. I never get to go out
at night. Except the last time when I was out by myself and wrote about it the whole time
I was out.

And the next day (today), I had planned, with much effort and leviathan convincing, to
escape to the city for a rare overnighter to:

Get my hair cut and low-light my “silver”
Have drinks with friends
Go to an important theatre opening (if I miss another one I know they’ll take me
off the invite list)
Have more drinks with friends
Get eight hours sleep
Go to a nutrition appointment for the Guppins (okay, I’ll admit I was planning on
cancelling this one)
Have a decent coffee with Secret Weapon Mama
Hit the Mennonite thrift on the drive home
Drop off a letter of introduction for a job in Smalltown (the only thing I really
needed to do)

But Sir Dick, suddenly, came down with the stomach bug I just got over.

So I cancelled everythiiiinnnnnnggg.

Then, two hours later, he feels fine.

He doesn’t seem to get that I am disappointed. He sees it all as a money-spending
excursion.

Him: “How much does it cost to get your hair done in the city?”
Me: “$95 dollars” (lie) (it’s way more)
Him: “Can’t you find someone here to do it?”

(Choking back tears…seeing where this is going… I don’t WANT to have small-town
over-highlighted orangey-spikey hair. I want my city locks, subtle and ashy.)

Me: “I really hope you are still feeling sick.”
Him: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

When I was sick, he didn’t offer to help. He didn’t feel the need to stay home. I had to
plead: help me, please do the night-time routine…falling against the wall, choking back
vomit.

The truth is, I know he’s just not up for it. He’s…well, he’s older. He’s a brilliant father,
don’t get me wrong, but the pace of it, the energy it takes… maybe I have an over-
attachment to duty, but I feel like…like there’s no one else.

When that little stomach bug started coming on, it wasn’t just disappointment I felt about
being landlocked. I began to panic. I am not strong enough to be sick and be a mother at
the same time. But who will look after her? How will they cope? How have women, for
so so many centuries, been looking after kids while they have the stomach flu?

It makes me mad.

And yes feel guilty.

And I feel trapped.

I rush home from the coffee shop only to discover his car is gone, where did they go?
I burn around town (for once I’m glad it’s small) looking for them. I see them! Parked
outside the coffee shop. Relief floods me. The Guppins spots me, and shouts “Mommee!”
her little face beaming. I begin to weep. Sir Dick looks at me like I am crazy. This is
usually how it goes.

The rest of the day is a family day. No TV, we do some shopping, we make out in the
car while she naps in the backseat; we pick up lots of new secondhand books for her,
he drives me to the big theatre in town and I drop off my resume; there’s dancing in the
kitchen at suppertime. It was… is, pretty perfect.

And at one point I catch myself saying to my daughter, “You see? You can’t always do
everything you want to when you want to.”

Kindly, Sir Dick asks me if I would go to the city tomorrow since I missed out today. I
say, “No, it’s okay. Look at all the good things that happened. It was good to focus on
family.”

I said that.

Then:

“What fun things we gonna do tomorrow?”

So maybe the thing to do is transform duty into pleasure…at every chance you get.
Because this is all…well, take it from a gal with a near-septuagenarian boyfriend and a
two year old… it’s all going by pretty quickly.

Duty into pleasure. But keep your big city hairstylists. Please.

-Drama Mama