MenGetPregnantToo

The Pounding of the Holidays is Less Deafening than the Silence which Follows...

A quick thought:

For all intents and purposes, our last wave of 'Holiday' guests departed this afternoon.
When compared with tales of war told by others, ours was a relatively tame fortnight. Granted, the New Year has yet to ring in, but in our house the occasion will be shared with one other family, homemade pizza, wine, and possibly a deck of cards.

We all feel moments during the Great Christmas Rush when our limits are reached and then tested further; shopping, cooking, hosting, and cleaning; then the cycle begins again. At times it can seem a relentless onslaught, at others it reveals - through tiny epiphanies - true meanings of friendship, family, and the spirit of giving and sharing.
Truthfully, I have been waiting to exhale. Now, though, sitting in a quiet living room, the children (their flu squarely defeated) asleep, and the house in order; the window reminds me of what lies ahead.
Winter & Routine.
While the carousing can chase us until our legs burns, the quiet Canadian Winter weeks ahead can loom like a shadow barricading our view of the Spring waving in the distance.
Granted, the days grow longer, now. But, with the house empty of visitors and the rhythm of life's ordinary schedule rehearsing for its next act, the question is:
Will the sighs of ordinary life ahead make us long for the cacophony and maelstrom of Christmas?

 

Go Play with Your Sister! I Mean, Isn't That Why We Had Two of You?

It's Boxing Day. Thankfully, The Kids are at the age where they care more today about playing with their new gifts than they do simply rolling about in the boxes. Despite their encroaching 'maturity', on my list for Santa next year I'm wishing for one thing only: a bucket load of collaboration to be shared equally among my offspring.

I don't know if it is their difference in age or their opposite sexes which tinkers with their chemistry, ensuring it's never quite a homogeneous mixture. There are patterns which seem to repeat, all of which end with a bicker-fest:

1) THE BATTLE OVER ARCHITECTURE:
My son (the 7-year-old wanna-be engineer), begins tinkering with a new build-it-yourself something-or-other, my daughter (the 4-year-old Passion play) enquires about the possibility of collaborating on this new construction project. The Boy expresses concerns - rightly so - about possible breakage; about wanting to tackle this challenge on his own, and simply about this being his, which by definition forbids her grubby hands from coming into contact with it. Of course, it's not so much about what is said, but rather how:
"Can I help you build that?"
"No! It's too hard for you, you're gonna break it..."
She goes from 0 to 100 in 3.2 seconds, like the Mustang she is:
"No, I won't!!! I can help!!! I know how to build things!!!!"
"Oh yeah?!?! How do you build a bridge?!?" There is a fraction of a second of silence, after which he continues: "Seeee???!!! You don't know!"

Tears, yelling, call for Mom and Dad.

2) THE WAR OF ONE-UPMANSHIP:
This is really just a question of who won't give whom a break first; example: My daughter (the budding performer) begins singing at the breakfast table. My son (the professor, always looking to correct his student) asks her to stop; she's bothering him.
She sings more quietly.
"Stop singing!!!"
I - not being fully awake and not ready to deal with yelling - make the mistake of intervening: "Sweetie, stop singing please, just while we're eating."
She stops.
The Boy, like that classic scene in National Lampoon's European Vacation, begins tapping his spoon.
 
"Can you stop tapping your spoon!?!?"
"Why? I'm not tapping it near you?"
"It's bothering me! If I can't sing, you can't tap you spoon!"
"Yeah, but when I asked you to stop singing, did you?!?!"
"Yes!"
"No! Daddy had to ask you to!"

Tears, yelling, call for Mom and Dad.

Of course later on, he'll want to sing, or play with her toy, which she will now not allow him to do as a result of the constraints he put on her earlier that morning; and so on, and so on.
I assumed it was just some rite of passage, part of a coming of age. Then I walked into our friends' house yesterday morning: their sons, similar in age to our children, were sitting side-by-side at the kitchen table beginning their second hour of collaboration building the entire Hogwarts School out of Lego.
Later in the day I spoke to family in Ontario. They have two girls, similar in age to our kids; I asked if their girls bicker. There was hesitation while they thought about it (the fact they had to search for the memory already hints at the answer):
"Well, they have their moments, but for the most part they get along."

Is it a male-female thing? An age thing? It couldn't be just an age thing, look at these other angels...
This leaves just one explanation: we're lousy parents. Of course, our kids are great with other kids, great with adults, great in school, and polite to elders; that certainly counts for something, no?
One of our close friends says I'm too quick to intervene; I should just let them work it out. Fine, but at what cost to my sanity, and theirs?
Mind you, I fought with my sister Ad nauseam during childhood, now we're copacetic.

Ok, then, I'll call it just a stage, like one of those things which explodes away after a space shuttle launch, and burns up upon re-entry to the atmosphere. In the meantime, while these two rocket boosters, filled with flammable liquid, are sitting side by side on the launch pad, I'm writing to Santa:

"Dear Santa,
I've been very good this year. I wish for valium, therapy, a quiet meal......"

 

 

Child with Nasty Flu Reminds Me What I Loved about The Sopranos

The Boy's fever has finally broken after four consecutive awakenings at 3am. The last time someone awoke so regularly at such an abominable hour, he was days away from fleeing his lake house in Amityville.

As stated in my last post, there is a certain comfort which accompanies a 7-year-old with a twenty-four hour bug: the pyjama day, the movies on the couch, the cuddling, and the subdued quiet.
But, being stirred in the middle of the night these past few days brought back memories of some of the more unpleasant aspects of dealing with this same little creature as a newborn; he was not a good sleeper. I did not miss the intense, unfair grogginess which challenges you as your 4-week-old begins to whimper. I remember opening an eye upon hearing his cry, and praying he would fall back asleep. Please, just give me one full night's sleep...just one.
I also remember being immensely thankful only my wife could breast-feed, thereby allowing me to roll over and dream on.
By 5am, though, it was time my wife had some rest of her own. When The Boy awoke in the 'morning', my wife would feed him once more, then he and I would head into the living room allowing her a couple of hours of peace.

There is not much for a father and his newborn to do at 5am in a living room; he was still an uncoordinated blob, eager for yet more sleep after his recent bellyful.
It was during this period I discovered The Soprano family. I would ensure I had at least two unwatched episodes on DVD ready beside the T.V.
There we would lay, him and me. He, curled in the fetal position - still a fresh part of his muscle memory; me, lying on my back on the sofa rhythmically patting his bum. He had to have his bum patted. Stop patting, he awoke and let you have it. But, a good, steady pat on the diaper, and he was off to wherever a newborn goes when they dream.

While he slept I took advantage of his new, sleepy, uncomprehending mind on my chest, and gleefully watched Tony and his crew whack some douchebags. It was heaven.

This past week, as The Boy stirred once again in the middle of the night, few things had changed: his whimper, while slightly lower in tone, is still instantly recognizable; he still becomes quiet under the gentle pressure of his father's hand (although now he prefers his back, no longer his bum); and I am still as desperate for him to return to dreamland.

The consequences of his seven years are notable, however: if he wakes now, it is a sign of fever, fear, or illness; not of hunger. He evokes more pity, now, as a sick 7-year-old with glassy eyes and red cheeks accentuating his pale skin, and a body temperature leaping past 100°f, than he did as a freshly fed baby.

And, of course, I can no longer drag him onto my chest and soak in Tony's f-bombs and therapist transference.
I don't miss the sleepless cycles of a newborn...but sometimes I do miss the day they shot Big Pussy.

The Little Kid with a Cold: Sad & Soothing

Ironically, I picked the title for this post yesterday. Yesterday was day one of what I thought was a simple cold; with it came the usual symptoms: my little guy had a low-grade fever, some congestion, and the usual unpleasant ebb and flow of mild gastroenteritis.
That was yesterday afternoon; yesterday afternoon when a few hours with a subdued, rosy-cheeked first-grader was almost a welcome break from, well, a few hours with a healthy one. There was a collection of bodies strewn under a collection of blankets, supported by a jumble of pillows. We watched a couple of movies, and encouraged The Boy to drink half-mugs of faux chicken-noodle soup (my Grandmother would have a fit at such a criminal substitution).
My post was to convey the serenity of the day, and discuss how - though I would never wish illness on anyone - being forced to gear down and allow time to pass is sometimes a fine thing.

Instead, yesterday turned into last night, and then into this evening.
We were up together until 4am, The Boy and I. His sleep was so restless he whimpered from unsatisfied fatigue. We stared at the Solar-System mobile suspended from his ceiling, talked back-and-forth about not much at all, and waited for each other to be the first to succumb to sleep. The difference between us was his eagerness, yet inability, to rest; and my eagerness, yet inability, to see to it he did.
Finally, he slept. I, rather than return upstairs to my bedroom, set up HQ on the couch outside his.
Three hours later - 7am on the dot - he awoke. 7am is when his day begins, regardless of the hour he tumbles into bed. A party until 11? Up at 7. An early night after a long day? Up at 7. Feverish and restless until 4? See you in three hours.

It is now 7:30pm on day two. The fever has returned. After nearly falling asleep in yet another mug of chicken noodle soup at 5:30, and being carried to bed twenty-minutes later. He awoke at 7 - pm this time - confused, thinking 7am had arrived and a new day had begun. Such confusion may be the result of a fever, but is exacerbated by today's sunset on the shortest day of the year, which ensures it is as dark in the early evening as it is in the early morning.
He's lying next to me, again, not being able to sleep. And me? I'm tired, Googling 'helping sick kids sleep', and suddenly willing to give up this small, rosy-cheeked lethargic first grader for the talker, joker, runner and skipper I usually live with. Hello, first day of winter.

As Mr. Murrow would say: Good Night and Good Luck.

 

Men Need a Purse for all these Darn Rewards Cards!

Christmas shopping has ramped up to light speed. Consumers are trying to keep up with deals, while stores are trying to keep up with consumers. Nearly every business on earth has been turned onto the phenomenon of building loyalty through the issuing of points cards.
These programs have been growing exponentially in number since the first paper stamp cards were issued by your local (and locally owned!) video store: rent 10 movies, get your 11th one free!

I've lost count of how many I've been issued. In my wallet, at this moment, I have: Air Miles Rewards, Petro Points Rewards, Chapter-Indigo Rewards, my driver's licence, Medicare card, medical insurance card, three hospital cards, two credit cards, business cards, social insurance card, train pass, long distance calling card, Tim Horton's card, a rewards card from my local pet food store (for Casper the Guinea Pig, and The Fish with No Name), a Home Depot card, a Pennzoil Roadside Assistance card - issued by my local garage as a reward, a pharmacy rewards card, an identity card should my son ever be lost, a couple of receipts...and no cash. As for my debit card, I keep that in my pocket, as I rarely walk around with my whole wallet; I can't stand the 'wallet in the back pocket of the jeans look; aside from being very 1987, it ruins my jeans pocket, and, I've heard, it's bad for your back.
Since I rarely have my wallet on my person due to its cumbersome nature, I often find myself face to face with a cashier asking for my rewards card, which I am without.
"Do you have a ____card?"
"No."
"Would you like one?"
"I have one already, just not on me."
"Well, that's not very helpful."
F%$* you.
"I know." I answer instead.

My local grocery store offered a thumb-sized card which slid onto your key chain. Perfect! I have my keys on me all the time; I almost always drive to the grocery store, therefore I will always be rewarded for frequenting this particular store. Unfortunately, my keys are a high-traffic item; the card's constant rubbing again my keys has faded its barcode to the point where it can no longer be read. I was told to call a 1-800 number - which was given to me on yet another card - and order a new key tag barcode. To protect the next barcode, they suggested I cover it with Scotch Tape.
Where is my Scotch Tape Rewards card?...here's one for 3M...did I file them alphabetically, or by product?....

I have a feeling fifty years from now we will be trading these things as collectables; (I have an original 1984 KMART, signed by the company's president, I'll trade for your 1979 Columbia House) since all our rewards will be implanted in our necks in the form of a chip which we will learn only ten years later is carcinogenic.

As a kid, I remember my Dad carrying a leather bag, about the size of an iPad, it contained everything he needed; all which was in his pockets was loose change. I thought the bag was kind of a weird affectation, until in high school my friend Mike had one; I then thought it was pretty cool, and purchased one myself. Mike could never leave the house without it: "Where's my black bag!?" he would constantly be yelling. I don't know what happened to my Murse; they have since - along with the fanny pack - become unfashionable.
Either way, I now require something more. Not Louis Vuitton or Hermes (not necessarily, anyway), but something practical: over the shoulder, with a larger compartment for my big stuff, smaller compartments for my small stuff, an easy access pocket for my keys, and a shallow flap for my wallet. In that Murse I would carry my keys, some hand sanitizer (perhaps some moisturizer?), a cheque book I would never need, some gum, my phone, my access pass for work, a thumb drive with my writing on it, and two wallets: one for my important cards - drivers license, credit card, Medicare, etc. - the other would be larger, and in it I would organize with pride all the reward cards retailers could muster.

 

 

 

You Wanna Piece 'o Me?!...Anything for My Kid's Role as "Bwitzen".

Being a parent is like managing a small, successful corporation. The employees - your children - look to you for guidance, draw on your experience, rely on you for their survival, and (hopefully) take their cue from the boss vis à vis behaviour and expectations in the workplace.
And, as within any corporation, there are outside forces at work eager to have their portfolio reviewed and have few minutes of your time, or money, dedicated to their cause. These forces - particularly during the holiday season - take many forms, ranging from the telephone solicitation at dinner time, to trimming angel shapes with an X-Acto knife  and preparing egg-salad sandwiches for a school event.

Juggling is a metaphor often associated with parenting, but I prefer to think of raising a family as goaltending. Juggling has serenity about it; if you haven't studied three-ball juggling it's worth learning: here's a tutorial. Juggling requires focus, not much physical exertion (unless you one day graduate to fire and swords), and tunnel vision, which can be very relaxing after a hectic day.
Goaltending, on the other hand, more closely resembles running a household: everyone is taking their shot, being in two places at once sure would help, you can never clearly see what's coming; on some days everything seems to get by you, and on others you post a shutout and win the game. (By the way, to be fair, here are some tips to improve your goaltending.)

Solicitation of your parenting corporation usually begins in earnest the first week of December in the form of teacher gifts.
Let's be clear: teachers deserve gifts from students. (At least the ones who teach my kids do, they're fantastic...I know there are exceptions; I remember those exceptions from my grade school years.)
It's more the logistics which become complicated. My kids - 7 and 4-years-old respectively - are in different schools. Co-ordinating a collection of funds for their teachers' gifts has to be done in a manner which is covert - as to not alert the teacher,  and fool proof - as to withstand the literal and sometimes clumsy mind of a grade-schooler.
I don't know how this was done before the advent of e-mail; I'd have to ask my mother. Perhaps it wasn't habitual back then, or perhaps my parents didn't like my teachers.
In 2011, the collection of funds could be relatively simple: someone takes the initiative through the delivery of one e-mail. In the body of the text is an amount, a deadline, and the name of the person collecting the funds. An envelope is left at the front office; done. Contribute, or don't. Have your name on the card, or not.

But, it's never that easy.
If all the donations have not been received, is that because some parents decided not to donate, or rather they haven't received the message? Only one way to find out: a reminder e-mail.
This process is repeated through similar channels at both schools. I read, reply, delete. Delete, delete, delete.

Simultaneously, Christmas concerts are being planned.
What time?
Are parents invited?
Are grandparents invited? At one school yes, at the other no more than four people can attend due to fire regulations. Who to invite? Parents? Yes. Sibling? Yes. Grandparents? Ok, which? Time for a quick phone call to explain to a couple of grandparents why they will hear from their grandson about a concert they were not invited to attend. Those tend to turn into longer phone calls.
After the Christmas concert there will be an after party. Here is a list of items we would like parents to contribute to the buffet, please sign up. We are also organizing a charity Christmas basket; below, please find your child's name alongside the items we would like her to contribute. No later than Friday, please.

During all this, apart from the teachers' gifts, a charity donation is being organized in their names. A generous thought...which requires funds to be collected at the school by so-and-so...before Friday, please.
Not all parents have donated. Was that because they chose not to, or rather they haven't received the message? Re-send, re-read, reply, delete. Delete, delete, delete.

I can tell you, though, what makes this all worth it:
* My children scamper out the door in morning, eager to share with their teachers stories of home life. They later race home, eager share with my wife and I stories of school life. Inspiring that level of excitement and pleasure in a child while wrapping it all in an education is no easy feat.
* Out of nowhere yesterday, my daughter let out a long sigh, as though she were being bothered by something she was only now speaking of: "Ok, fine. Do you want to hear one of my Christmas songs from my concert?" Not only has she been performing arias from the back seat of the car, she later added arm movements and a curtsey during a performance in the living room.
* My son has been carolling to himself while completing his homework.
* My daughter revealed she did not want to play the mother during the upcoming show, instead she' ll be wearing all brown; she's one of the reindeer: "I think I'm Bwitzen."

 The magic of running your own corporation manifests itself in strange ways. It's not about the deadlines we meet, the tasks we juggle, or the goals we achieve. The magic appears through these little workers, and their songs, and the stars shining in their eyes when they gallop on stage. The magic continues when the sleigh arrives at home, and a sleepy Bwitzen is tucked into bed.

 Thank you to all those who donate their time.

 

Like I've Got Time to Deal with Cable Companies...

No minutes are more supremely wasted than those spent duelling with call centers.

I suppose no one really ever feels they have enough free time, though I felt I had much more of it before parenthood filled my grid with the nutritional, emotional, educational, and hygienic needs of my offspring.
There is usually an hour or two during the day during which I can 'catch up' on the duties and chores which accompany being an adult, married homeowner: cleaning, repairs, shopping, responding to personal e-mails, actually spending time with my wife...writing, etc. In the evening, if I leave the TV off, I may recuperate another sixty minutes, though I resent butt-joining chores with bedtime; some decompression, and deep breathing is a necessity before flopping into bed and starting all over again the following morning.
So, when I waste hours, or even a couple of half-days on the phone shovelling my way through telecommunication ineptitude, it really feeds the ulcer I've resigned myself to one day developing.

A typical example:

We receive an automated message from our cable company: our cable service will be interrupted from 9am until 5pm due to a network upgrade. Great, I love a network which is up to grade.
7:30pm: Still no service. I can do without TV for an evening, or longer, but I always assume the worst: that we have been forgotten in the web of wires and fibre optics which services the neighbourhood, and we will never have cable service again. So, I call, and after entering my phone number, and date of birth into the automated system:
"What is your name? Your phone number? Date of birth?" Did I not just enter this information electronically? "What seems to be the problem?..Sorry sir, they are still working on the lines, it will be back up by 7am tomorrow"
Fine. I can live with that.

9am: Still no service. From a TV viewers perspective, I don’t really care - I don't watch daytime TV, and anyway, I don't get OWN as part of my cable package; without Oprah, what's the point?.. BUT! Now it's becoming a matter of principle. So, I call, and after I enter my phone number and date of birth into the automated system:
"What is your name? Your phone number? Date of birth? What seems to be the problem?"
Me: "You're kidding, right? Not only did I just enter this information into the automated system, I had this exact conversation with a colleague of yours a little more than twelve hours ago." I relay the whole story, explaining we still have no service.
Them: "Hmm...Let me transfer you. Please hold."
Holding. Kids coming home in an hour...free time slowly being bled from me by Evil Corporation...patience dwindling...
Another person comes on the line:
"What seems to be the problem?"
I tell him.
"What is your name? Your phone number? Date of birth?"
I lose it...then I calm down until:
"According to what I see in front of me, sir, your system is functioning just fine."
I lose it again. Just fine?! I say, just fine!?!?
You supply me with my home phone, cable, and internet, none of which are working. If I were a penguin, the subject of an Antarctic documentary, I would be just fine. But instead, I'm someone paying you a healthy monthly sum for services which do not exist...”I'm NOT FINE! And NOTHING'S WORKING."

"One moment, please...
"Sir? We are going to send someone to your residence to have a look at the line. You will not be charged for this visit."
I explain that had they tried to charge me for this visit, I would have an aneurysm only slightly more irritating than the ulcer I'd yet to develop.

Time to pickup the kids.

6:45pm: That evening, my daughter, over supper, asks why there is a man with a ladder in our backyard? We all pile outside as he's climbing down from the pole on the edge on the property.
"So?" I ask...knowing complicated problems often have simple solutions.
"Wasn't screwed in properly."
Of course.

Should I waste your time,  Dear Reader, with my follow-up conversation requesting a reimbursement for my cell phone minutes used to rectify this situation while my home phone was out of commission?
Nah, No one's got that kind of time.

Long live rabbit ears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overheard at a 5-year-old's birthday party: "The guinea pig is NOT a toy!"

Yes, Men Shop. Want Me to Return to Your Store? Here's What I Expect...

I like shopping. I like to shop for other people; the challenge of unearthing gifts which will bring someone pleasure is exciting. I love shopping for myself, too, especially where gadgets are concerned.
One of the phenomena which will transform a tedious shopping experience into an enthralling one is GCS. Good Customer Service. Not only will GCS trigger my evolution into a complete and happy shopper, but it will create out of me a loyal customer; I will go out of my way to return to that specific store, even if it costs me time and/or money. Conversely, an unpleasant customer service experience will ensure I never return to an establishment, despite its closer proximity to my home, or its inexpensive merchandise.

So, for a retailer seeking to gain an additional, loyal customer, ready to divest of his disposable income (and occasionally beyond), here are some do's and don'ts:

DON'T IGNORE ME:
If I'm standing at the counter, say 'Hello'. Even if you're busy replacing the tape in the cash machine, clearing the counter of whatever leftover rubble is strewn about from the previous sale; even if you are on the phone. A simple 'Be right with you' or, 'It won't be long' goes a long way toward acknowledging my time is as important to you as it is to me. No greeting at all is like answering the door at your home and standing there, saying nothing.

DON'T COMPLAIN TO ME ABOUT HOW BUSY YOU ARE:
I don't care. Aren't you supposed to be busy? Isn't it good to be a busy retailer? It's one thing to have your hands full and to let me know you'll help me as soon as you complete whatever transaction you may be in the middle of, but, when I ask a question, never sigh and say 'Sir, we're very busy.' We're all very busy; the difference is, at this moment, you're collecting a salary to be busy.

DO GET OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER, AND SHOW ME WHERE MY ITEM IS:
Especially if I've been searching based on your first instruction, and returned for further guidance instead of simply leaving the store. Obviously, due either to my own thickness or your inaccurate communication, I still haven't located the item for which I would like to give you my money. Please, come out from behind your retail bunker, and walk me down the aisle. Treat me as you would an inept family member...scratch that, treat me better.

DO PUT DOWN THE PHONE:
The customer in front of you, with debit, or credit card, or cash in their hand is more important than the person on the other end of your carcinogenic cell phone line, especially if that person is a buddy, or girlfriend, and not a customer at all. At the very least, if you refuse to end the conversation, put the phone down, and pick it up once I've left...unless, of course, I'm that caller. Then, please give me your full attention; I’ll be concise with my question, and you may then serve the person in front of you...;-)

DON'T CHARGE ME FOR A BAG:
Really? I'm paying full retail price for this gift, and suddenly, under the guise of some sort of Al Gore hero worship, you're adding a charge of a nickel, or a dime, or a dollar for a bag you had shipped overseas from a sweatshop in China at a cost of $0.001 per unit? Never mind, I’ll find a store which includes in its pricing an implement with which I can carry my item from the store.

DON'T ASK THE MANAGER:
Know your merchandise, know your policies, brush up on what online gift certificates and coupons for your store look like, know your return policy. In short: be informed. This way, I don't have to wait for you for page the manager who's busy with someone else and won't hear your page until the second time you've sent it, and which you will only send after I point out to you: 'It's been ten minutes...is it possible your manager didn't hear your page?'

DON'T ROLL YOUR EYES:
When I ask a question toward the end of your shift, don't make me feel like I'm a burden. I know you're tired, your feet hurt, and working with the public (i.e. me!) is never easy at the best of times, much less during the holiday season. But you're paid for a shift which lasts from its beginning until its end. During that time you are on the job; part of that job is being happy serving the needs of your customers.

DON'T MOISTURIZE!!!:
Ok, this goes out to a specific sales lady I've recently encountered. She approached the counter rubbing what remained of her Aloe Vera cream between her fingers; no problem; the winter season is dry, and hopefully this application is indicative of frequent hand washing: always appreciated when handling merchandise. But, once her hands had absorbed what they could, she proceeded to massage the rest into her face and neck. Is this the sight I must behold before our transaction? An Aloe Vera facial? For several seconds there was no greeting, no 'hello', no 'I'll be with you as soon as I'm moist'. Nothing. Just a rubbing so thorough it would impress dry sticks around a dark campfire. Next time, finish your moistening in the back room. And, while there, dig out the thing I'm about to ask you for which is no longer on display in front. That way you won't have to page somebody to go look for it.

Happy Shopping!

 

 

 

 

 

What made you smile today? Or what did you do that made you feel good?

My son letting other birthday party guests finish their round during glow-in-the-dark mini-putt; he learned if he made a hole-in-one on #18, it could lead to a chocolate bar or temporary tattoo. The boy needed room to line-up the shot...ahh to be 7 again.

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