MenGetPregnantToo

The Sandwich Generation Demands More Rubber, Less Ham & Cheese

Sandwich: flavorsome filling coddled between soft slices of baked grain.
Sandwich Generation: Children who have become parents, while still shouldering the responsibility of being their parents' children.

*****

Chronologically, I qualify for inclusion among the other sandwiches on the shelf. Fortunately, my parents - as well as my children - are in excellent health.
My peers are not all as fortunate.
Some have children with special needs, others have parents who are ailing; and among my friends are those who are dealing with both situations simultaneously. 
They are not so much being pressed or squeezed by their responsibilities, but rather are being stretched and pulled apart.
A caretaker's psychological and physical peace is not compressed by the kind of pressure applied by a vice, but rather is thinned by forces straining them in opposite directions.

This generation is not built of layers like a sandwich, but of elastic losing its dimension.
It is the constant changes in direction - work, home, children, parents, schools, hospitals, care facilities, teachers, nurses, doctors - which stress the cohesion of us adult tweens.

My friend just lost his father.
This is where we are now, we Gen-Xers. We've transformed from that group of directionless adolescents caring about no-one, save ourselves. Now, twenty-five years later, we're learning what it is to care for everyone else despite ourselves.

It's an awakening, the transition from attending weddings to attending funerals. Eventually we'll attend weddings again - our children's; and then funerals again - our friends'. 
Forty years from now my kids will leave behind the label of "gen-whatever-we-are" and become "gen-whatever-you-need-us-to-be".
To be all those things to all of those other people, they will have to be much more rubber, and much less ham and cheese.

 
Photo: Hand in hand by Fabrizio Salvetti

 

 

 

Things I Don't Believe for a Second...

• The higher of the two prices on a Winners price tag actually reflects any real market value....there's no way I getting that good a deal.
• The three different colors of soap in a car wash contain different ingredients.
• The 'wax' spray in that car wash is actually spraying wax on my car.
• There is any method to fixing electronics other than unplugging the item, waiting 10 seconds and plugging it in again....I've stopped calling my cable company.
• Wii provides any exercise for my kids (my daughter has already figured out she can sit on the couch and snack on dry cereal while wiggling her wrist to whack ninjas).
• My body shape changes after exercising and eating right for only 4 days....too bad.
• People still don't get the concept of a left lane being for passing (c'mon already!)
• Owning a house is more economical than renting one.
• Through sheer force of great parenting, I can absolutely control the adults my children will grow to be.
• We're alone in the universe.

Photo: alien scene by Maggie-Me via flickr

• I have any really original ideas.
• Anybody can become an expert at anything after 10,000 hours of working at it.
• Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.
• Buying a car is more economical than leasing one.
• My wife's Pad Thai is any healthier than my Big Mac trio.
• My kids actually brushed their teeth and washed their hands and face when I'm not looking.
• Stories for or against Lance Armstrong.
• My kids' personalities aren't fully formed during the second week of pregnancy.

Parents, It's Never Too Late for a PhD! (Unless It's After 8pm.)

I just watched Supernanny encourage a mother of three children under six years of age to use her evenings to pursue passions she gave up on after having children: reading for pleasure and education. The mom mentioned the moment she realized she had lost herself in her role as a mother: she read on a social media site two of her former classmates had completed their PhDs. It was a sad reminder for her of the personal sacrifices she made for her family.

The solution for the weary mom?
"Why can't you do the same?" asked Supernanny.
"I don't know. I guess I could take some online courses."
"Yes, you could!" encouraged Supernanny.
The two women hugged it out as theme music serenaded the sunset and the credits rolled. Voila! Another family saved.

Boy, would I love to see a follow-up show in a year.

During the first fifty minutes of the show, Supernanny did have great advice for this busy stay-at-home mom : using time-outs effectively, following through on threats, create routines and sticking to them, offload to your husband when he comes home from work, and - most importantly - take advantage of the hour or two of available free time during the day to sit down and have a cup of coffee.
But, pursue a PhD once the kids are asleep?!
She is a better person than I.
Supernanny met Supermommy.

The Appropriate Way of Handling Children Behavioral Problems by CCBehavior

I only have two children, and I stay-at-home with them only part-time, and the only PhDs I have energy for after the kids are in bed are the guys on Criminal Minds, and a bowl of Phritos and Doritos.

I believe it is possible to become a doctor while minding three toddlers. I would just like to see how it's done.
Supernanny had all kinds of concrete advice that parent-viewers could learn from and apply at home. I would like the weightiest of these - get your Doctorate once the three toddlers are asleep - to be spelled out for us (we?) uneducated mothers and fathers.
As it is, we divide our day with our respective full time jobs (parenting and office work). They we divide our evening among homemaking responsibilities - children, supper, and bedtime. At some point, according to every marriage therapist on the planet, we should make time for each other. Once all that is accomplished we should, according to all available psychological studies, make time for ourselves.
Somewhere in there, according to Supernanny, there room for a PhD.
Could be; but I need a chart. I want to see the plan. I want to know how. Largely because I don't think it's possible to accomplish with three kids at home all day; and more selfishly I'm wondering if I still have time to become a pediatrician.

This where reality shows don't deliver.
They can never be seen to fail.
If Supernanny had told me as a stay-at-home parent of three kids under 6 to use my evenings as study-time for a doctorate, I would have a nervous breakdown on camera as the credits were rolling. They would have had to put the breakdown in the first block so they could end with a high point - like my kid eating an artichoke or something.

Curious that there aren't more reality shows about parenting. There are dozens about real estate, construction, cooking, makeovers, diets and wackos like the Kardashians. There are almost none relating to parenting - a field which is desperate for on-air expertise.
Could it be the best parents dedicate so much of themselves to their jobs, they have nothing left at the end of the day to pitch a reality show, much less become Dr. Mom?

 

 

Sexism and Sports: Just the Way We Want It.

Sexism and Sports: Just the Way We Want It.

 

Sex, Size, and Money: the three reasons men and women rarely face one another in a sports arena.
Sexism, Prejudice, and Stodginess: the three reasons things won't change even if they could.

Due to the general differences in physical stature and strength, it makes sense in many sports for men and woment not to compete head-to-head.
Yes there are some women who are taller and stronger than some men, but for the sake of this argument let's rest on actually percentages.
Hockey, track and field, basketball, soccer, as well as a host of other sports would give an unfair advantage to the physically stronger sex should they compete against each other.
There are, however, inequalitites, which defy logic.

I was watching sweat drip down the backs of competitors in South Carolina during the PGA Championship. Poor guys aren't allowed to wear shorts. 
The women of the LPGA are permitted skirts and shorts.  One explanation for that may be organizers and sponsors hope more leg will translate to more viewers. It's no secret that beautiful athletes (both male and female) are more likely to be chosen as spokespeople for their sport. 
No, Vijay Singh's hairy legs will not translate into a higher viewership...but would they drive viewers away? Or rather just allow a Fijian's kneecaps to breathe a little. 

Men's major tennis tournaments incorporate 5-set-matches instead of three. Why? Men's tennis draws more viewers than women's, largely due to the speed of the men's game (due as well to Roger Federer who, like Tiger Woods of two years ago, attracts viewers through his sheer dominance of his sport).
Viewership increases as Andy Roddick enters his 4th  and 5th sets. Apparently Neilsen has decided 3 sets is enough for the ladies, even Maria Sharapova.

Olympic diving? Men perform 6 dives, while the women stop at 5. Yes, a forward 4-and-a-half is more dizzying than a 3-and-a-half; but with the men fielding 32 athletes, do I really need to watch either sex plummet off a platform one-hundred and ninety-two times? While the male divers were more spectacular, more was not necessarily better.
Similarly with figure skating - the men perform longer routines. A quadruple is flashier that a triple, but when they spend a extra forty-five seconds in the middle of their long programme gliding to Pachebel while they catch their breath, who wins? Not the viewer.

Freedom - by Rigib via Flickr

An extra ten metres is tacked onto the hundred-meter hurdles when it's the men's turn to crouch at the start line. Maybe the excuse this time is physics: men have longer legs, ergo require more track....like larger airplanes.
Both men and women compete in a Heptathlon (though not against one another).  Decathlon? Men only, please. 
Why? How many advertising dollars are gained by truncating the women after the seventh event?

The blame is often put on men, since we tend to occupy most executive positions on Olympic Committees and Network Boards of Directors. We make the decisions.
But, in media, one factor influences the direction of content more than any other: money. Despite the testorone in the boardroom, ratings show that women enjoy watching men more than women enjoy watching women. Add those female viewers to the majority of men who also gravitate to male athletics, and it becomes a no-brainer: when it comes to sports, men sell.

This phenomenon extends to movies and television shows. Tom Cruise earns more than Gwyneth Paltrow. Why? Largely because women prefer Tom.
This phenomenon does not explain why poor Vijay is stuck in slacks when its forty degrees out....or why I can't wear a summer dress to a summer wedding.
I hate suits. Maybe I'll dig through my closet for one of my old figure skating outfits. While the teasing I was subjected to wasn't easy; the outfits had their perks - lycra breaths beautifully in the summer heat. And for a 7-year-old boy in lycra - the fewer viewers the better.

 

Exercise?! The Last Thing I Jogged Was My Memory.

I have a stringent running schedule. It's like clockwork. It's a little OCD, really.
For about seven consecutive months I run 3 to 4 times a week. I'll work towards a half-marathon, one either in my hometown or a short drive away in Ottawa.
After the race, I'll intend to take a week off and begin training for a full marathon imagining myself an uber-fit 40-year-old smoking all the twenty-something's who run races thinking they know what it means to be in shape. 

But, inevitable, after the race weekend something important comes up: like a once-in-a-parent-of-young-children's-lifetime dinner and a movie with my wife. I'll skip running that evening. (I never run in the morning. I know there are parents of youngsters who wake even earlier than their kids to work out. Those parents are just plain crazy.)
The morning following "date night" (which is really just sitting next to each other in bucket seats rather than on the sofa, and watching a really big silver screen instead of the TV in the den), I'll sleep in and have a slow breakfast. I justify that laziness as an extension of Date Night.
A couple of days later I'll skip running because it's too hot. I'll skip the one after that because of some sort of appointment; and the one after that because I haven't blogged frequently enough due to my rigorous training.
Then I'll take 7 months off because I'm discouraged and out of shape. 

So it goes: 7 months on; 7 off.

Jogging in Morning Light by h.koppdelaney via Flickr

I'm at the tail end of the 7 months off, and I'm feeling it. My back is stiff after watching The Newsroom back-to-back to True Blood. My shoulder hurts when I lift one of my kids (remember when you used to lift both of them simultaneously? Are they bigger, or are you older? The answer is 'yes'.) Every twenty minutes or so, I flex my neck muscles and turn my head - the move is followed by a satisfying cracking noise where my head meets my body.
I need to get back out there. But, boy, I really don't want to.
Why can't running be like sex? Why can't I remember how good it felt last time? I think the reason is because, where running is concerned, I spend the first ten minutes thinking "this *&@n' sucks!"
There is a fantastic rush which accompanies a good, long, sweaty workout. Unfortunately, it will take me at least two months of training to get to a place where I feel I'm doing more than working my way towards a heart attack. 

I remember how running gave me more energy. I remember how once I became active, I wanted to remain active and was therefore a more productive father, husband and human being. But, man, at the end of the day I'm just too pooped.
My daughter begins kindergarten in two weeks. As a result it will be the first time in 7 years both kids will be out of the house for thirty-one hours and forty minutes each week. 
I'll have no excuse.
Certainly not when I face that group of moms who gather outside the school brandishing Lululemon running gear and Bluetooth headphones linked to their MP3 players.
I have an MP3 player.
And shorts.
And shoes with a little bright red velcro tag with my home address and phone number on it so the medics know who to call once they revive me. 

Some parents find the time, others don't.
Some parents make the time, others can't.
How do you do it? Do you do it?
I know I should, especially now that I have the time. 

Of course, we're redoing the entrance way this fall. I don't know how long that will take...but I can certainly arrange to work on it for thirty-one hours and forty minutes a week.

 

FatherDaddy Named Among Canada's Top Parenting Blogs

Dear Reader,

Web-logging is largely about self-promotion. A good friend of mine describes the internet - and especially social media - as one big echo chamber.
Either for the purpose of promoting sales or ideals, bloggers do what we do because we feel we have something to offer (occasionally, at a price).
As in any facet of life, it's thrilling to have concrete positive feedback in some form other than page-views. Everyone loves a kiss of validation.

This site was just named by Reader's Digest Canada as one of Canada's Top Parenting Blogs - the only Dad on the list.
Hopefully, this will boost dads' voices in the Internet Echo Chamber.
Yes, there are many dads who get laughs (and earn a healthy income) writing about new power drills, how dirty diapers make them puke and how Kraft Dinner and grilled cheese constitute the entirety of their cooking repertoire. There is a place for them the way there is a place for your favorite sitcom. 
It is more difficult to find fathers who cook, grocery shop, iron, do laundry, play pitch and catch and speak openly about their fears concerning their children and their relationship.  
Even in person; hands-on, working fathers are greatly out-numbered by men who occupy more traditional roles in the household.

This blog started a year ago as a vehicle to promote a book: "Men Get Pregnant, too. (Despite Never Pushing a Watermelon Through a Pigeonhole." In that book  I discuss openly the fears I felt about becoming a father, the embarrassment of a spermectomy, test results which made us wonder about the health of our child, and the terror of an emergency c-section. The book was put aside as I "tried to build an online presence" at the advice of a literary agent.
In that regard, in June 2011, I began touching on many issues facing working fathers and husbands. Ideally, being on this list will encourage readers to read more of what Daddy Bloggers have to offer.


Some of my favorite posts are archived here: at FatherDaddy Favorites. Hopefully, some of those essays will give readers new insight into their husbands, fathers, and friends.

If we work at it, the Mommy Bloggers won't outnumber us Dads 10 to 1 on next year's list:)
A special thanks to those readers who put me on this one.

Cheers,
Kenny Bodanis - FatherDaddy. 

My Kids Try My Patience. My PC Strips it Away.

Remember a while ago when someone asked you who the 12th President of the United States was, you would have to walk to the library and look it up?
Sooooo slow....
Put on your shoes, and a jacket if necessary, and stroll for twenty minutes or so. Then you would search for your source material via micro film (or index cards if you go way back), search up and down the stack for the required volume, and thumb through the pages for your answer.

Zachary Taylor.

You would jot President Taylor's name in your Hilroy notebook with your HB pencil, and head home.

Photo: State Library by stibbons via Flickr

*****

Nowadays? Here's the answer on Wikipedia.
My Google search was "presidents of the united states wiki"; Google churned out "about 135,000,000 results  (0.25 seconds)".

After entering a search string into Google's box, if I don't get a screen full of answers within 0.25 seconds, I want to throw my laptop out the window. I have very high expectations of my online experience. When I'm online - blogging especially - it is squeezed into the finite about of time I have to myself. When the broadband narrows, or the high-speed slows, it feels like and infringement on my freedom.
I never had that feeling at the library. It was always quiet there, and I was always alone.

I lose patience with my kids sometimes, too (I know, I'm unique that way). The difference is in the expectations I have of my kids versus those I have of my Intel processor.
I expect my PC to react instantly. When it doesn't, I consider it wasted time.
I expect to have to give my children fourteen commands to brush their teeth. When they don't listen I consider that just another Wednesday.
Every second must be filled during my online alone time. If I can't perform a certain task on the window open in front of me because I'm waiting for a page to load, or an update to install, I'll open a new tab and check my email, or Facebook, or Twitter. I'll never just look out the window and wait.
If my kids refuse to eat their supper, I'll sit there stubbornly like those weird space hippies in that old Star Trek episode and defiantly look out the window.

 

In some ways, it would be nice if my kids were more like my PC:

• I'd like them to go to sleep when they've been inactive for ten minutes.
• When they have a virus, I'd like to bring them to a tech geek until they're better....but, like, down load all their best part onto a thumb drive just in case they don't come back.
• I'd like them to have a finite battery life; at the end of the day, they force themselves to shut down.
• I'd like to be able to right-click on them, read their code, and programme them to be neater and more efficient.
• When they zone out in front of the TV (screen saver mode), I'd like to jiggle their mouse and have them instantly perk up and pay attention to me.
• I'd also like to have them search for my running watch they "borrowed" from me, and have them instantly offer up 135,000,000 possible locations for it.

 I don't like the way I am impatient with them sometimes, though. My PC can handle my frustration, the kids aren't programmed that way. They meander, they tune out, they react slowly, they get distracted, they process things in their own way and in their own time.

While my PC frustrates me with its hiccups, delays, updates and endless processes; my children's processes are exactly what fascinate me about them.
That, and the little things, like how fascinated they are by hiccups.

 
Photo: athlon XP 200+ by Rod Senna via Flickr

My R-Rated TV Taste Conflicts with My G-Rated Fatherhood

I used to squeeze myself into an easy chair hip-to-hip with my gramma on Friday nights. Together we would watch the
Good Ol' Boys - Bo and Luke Duke (and their sexy sister Daisy) - rassle with Boss Hog and that dimwitted sheriff Roscooooo P. Coltrane.
That was prime time viewing...The Dukes of Hazzard.
That was also 1979.

Bedtime time viewing back then consisted of Magnum P.I., Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere.
Even if I wandered out of my bedroom into the den, I don't remember my parents needing to change the channel. There was little risk I would be emotionally scarred by J.R.'s shooting or Charlie's Angels' boobs...even all six of them.

Watching these shows now in syndication I realize a) They didn't age well, and b) compared with today's programming, they're nuns on tricycles - slow-moving and harmless.
Even when Magnum entered its "stern and serious" phase (Genesis even provided the soundtrack!), no villain came close to approaching the 'hero' in HBO's Dexter.

Both my kids - my 7-year-old son especially - habitually wander out of their rooms fifteen minutes after bedtime. Instead of joining their parents on the couch for a harmless block Cheers or Frazier, they stare at a frozen PVR image of Nurse Jackie seducing the pharmacist in exchange for illicit drugs, or Bill Compton feeding on Sookie's bloody breast (certainly no Charlie's Angel!), or Dexter challenging the Glad Man's claims of "won't break or tear" by stuffing a serial killer into a hefty bag.
That is the image they see, as long as I've had time to press pause. If they linger silently on the staircase behind the couch...they see much worse.

My son's exposure to murder, extortion, assault and philandering actually began in infancy. He would often sleep on my chest while I watched The Sopranos.
Or was he sleeping?
Perhaps my chest was simply where he lurked during his first months while my attention was elsewhere. How does a two month old interpret a mobster related stories to his shrink about the asshole he just whacked?

*****

I remember my parents occasionally letting me stay up an hour or two past my bedtime (as long as my pj's were on and my teeth were brushed!) to join the adults during prime-time viewing.
Then, we only had four or five channels to choose from, and all provided very sanitary programming.

When I capitulate and sit my kids next to me on the couch after 8pm, the choices are scarce. I avoid switching to children's programming; lest they become convinced leaving their bedroom is too worthwhile. We used to have the shopping channel, but that has this strange, hypnotic quality; I find myself
unable to turn away from it and end up not only being really tired the following morning but also noticing some weird charge on my MasterCard a month later.

I avoid the sports stations; the highlights surpass any violence dished out by Jackie or Dexter.
HGTV only inspires my wife to suggest more home renovations, like a new kitchen which would magically be four hundred square feet bigger than our existing one.
The Food Network is always a safe bet; worst case scenario the kids realize how little variety they actually get:
"Can you make us that,
Daddy?"
"As soon as I build us our dream kitchen, sweetie."

Does my viewing taste make me more demented than the average parent?
Borgia was behaving like Borgia centuries before "The Borgias".
Henry the VIII behaved like Henry the VIII long before "The Tudors".
Bram Stoker was a father, and he conceived of "Dracula".

I think I'm doing OK. I don't murder, or suck blood, or pop pills; I am simply entertained watching others create mayhem.
I have a clear sense of right and wrong, evil and good, reality and fantasy. As long as I shield my children from the aggressive fiction which constitutes my prime-time viewing, they'll be just fine.

If, by chance, they catch a few minutes of True Blood, what real harm will it do?
I mean, look at Dexter; he has a son who's doing just fine.
Photo: EntertainmentWallpaper.com

Never Mind a Time out for Kids, One for Parents Works Just as Well.

There is so much mumbo jumbo, advice, and analysis available concerning parenting it's just about worth winging it and risking the consequences.

Nutrition: Should your kids drink juice? No. But if it's hot, juice is better than dehydration.
Entertainment: Should your kids watch TV? Not before the age of two; after that, TV should be limited to two hours and be monitored by a parent. Unless, as a parent, you're close to a nervous breakdown. Then, sitting the kid in front of the TV while you clear your head is better than venting your psychosis to a 3-year-old.
Discipline: The "Time-Out"; put little Jimmy on the stairs while he logically considers the consequences of his misbehavior. How long? One minute for every year of your child's age. 3-year-old Jimmy should spend 3 minutes by himself. It's the quickest three minutes of a parent's day.

Photo: "Time" by John Morgan via flickr

I loved the Time Out as an effective method of personality management when my kids were naive, simple, smurfy toddlers. Now, they're 7 and 5 and have achieved that maddeningly reckless level of intelligence. They are now obstinate enough once their time out is over to remember what they were angry about, and carry the argument through. They are also aware enough of my personality to understand which button they can keep pressing to get me riled up all over again after the time out. But, they are still ignorant enough not to understand the futility of carrying on. For instance:

They don't eat a proper supper, nor do they touch their veggies. "I'm not hungry." they say.
"No supper; no veggies; no dessert." I assert.
And we're off to the races.
Tantrum, tantrum, go to your room.
We soon (relatively) heal and go about our business.
An hour later: the kitchen is clean, pyjamas are on:
"Can I have a popsicle?"
"Are you kidding?"
"No. What?"
Oy.
"We just went through this, no supper; no veggies; no dessert!"
"You said no ice cream. I don't want ice cream, just a popsicle. It's not even food; it's juice."
Oy.

You get the idea.

Two nights ago...Groundhog Day. Here we go again.
I served baked cod topped with stir-fried, shredded carrot and onion and (way too much) mozzarella cheese.
It came out of the oven looking exactly like a slice of pizza. To keep it company on the plate: roasted potatoes.
Neither of them would touch the fish. The fish was rejected purely for being fish the way you reject advice simply because it came from your parents. No logic, all spite.
With my best "Terms of Endearment" lilt, I appealed to their humanity:
"You know, kids, when I'm done working and put a lot of effort into preparing a meal for you - not only that I think you'll like, but is good for you - and you don't even try it, it really hurts my feelings."

Silence....for 18 seconds.

"So? What else is there?"
Unbelievable.
"Nothing! This is supper! You can eat it or not, but this is the food that's available until breakfast!"
And we're off to the races. Heat 2.

Except this time, I remember the actual theory behind the Time Out:
What kids want most is their parents' attention; when deprived of it, they realize the behavior isn't worth it. They consequently modify that behavior.
BTW, I also found a cure for cancer last Wednesday.

Although they desperately needed to be taught a lesson, I was not up to pouring my energy into seeing to it they stayed in their rooms - and didn't scream at me or at each other - while I tried to find Tupperware lids and room in the fridge for a bunch of leftover cod (which, let's be honest, I would end up throwing out...leftover cod - yuck!).
So, how could I reap the benefits of the Time Out without fighting through the exercise of the time out?
BING!!!!
If the point is to deprive them of my presence; that's exactly what I'll do.
I sent myself to my room.

"Where are you going?"
"Upstairs."
"Why?"
"Because, I'm angry, and I don't want to be at this table right now."

They were stunned. I grabbed my smartphone (the Gin Rummy app was made for situations such as these), and retired to my quarters.
For two full minutes, I was in heaven: the house was quiet, I was lying on my bed in peace, I was dealt three 3's and a 9 and 10 of diamonds right off the top.
Then, a sweet little knock on the door; my daughter.
"Yes?"
"We want you to come back down."
"Not if you're going to fight about supper."
"We won't. We promise."

She was right. They didn't fight about supper.
They still didn't eat it, but they didn't fight about it.
It was then I realized I worried less about their nutrition than about my exasperation.
After all, pediatricians will tell you: kids will never starve themselves. Eventually they will eat what their body needs if it's made available to them.

Full disclosure: my son did eat what was given to him: at 8pm he welled up with real crocodile tears because he was hungry. He asked for a second chance at the carrot/cheese/cod. I warmed it up and served it to him.
"This is delicious!" he said.

....I did my best not to vent my psychosis.

Photo: Sole Fillets Florentine-Style, SOS Cuisine

If We All had a Month to Live, Disney World Would Rake it In.

FatherDaddy is now a weekly contributor to "The Good Men Project". Every Wednesday I will have an article published on their site. There will be an even rotation between original content, and essays previously published on FatherDaddy.

Enjoy this week's original submission:

If We All had a Month to Live, Disney World Would Rake it In.

Photo—Sign in Orlando, FL from Shutterstock

Thanks for reading,

KB