The first time my heart physically hurt for Annie happened this summer. She had taken up with the neighbor girl, a really gorgeous, sassy 5-year old who I won't name but suffice to say her name rhymes with bratty and she shall be referred to here as such for reasons you will soon understand.
Annie was and is totally infatuated with Brattie. She wants to play with her all of the time and Brattie does come over to play with Annie often. The two of them played all summer in our kiddie pool or on the slip and slide. Brattie would pull Annie in her wagon and then they'd take turns blowing bubbles.
But trouble arose. For starters, the difference between being a 3 year old and a 5 year is vast. In some ways it's really the difference between being a baby and a little girl. So Brattie would boss Annie. Or ignore Annie. Or say things to me like, "how come Annie talks funny?" Um, because she's three, bitch. I'm totally kidding. About the bitch part, anyway. This was all small potatoes compared to what was to come. What I like to call the alienation of Annie.
Brattie has two other friends in the hood. The first is a the four year whiose family is extrememly close with Brattie's. Kristin does Brattie's bidding. The two of them would completely gang up on Annie, pouring buckets of water over her head until she'd beg them to stop (as she laughed all the while) or make up games designed to allow the sanctioned bossing of Annie. For example, they might suggest to her, "we'll be the mermaids and you be the baby fish and we'll tell you what to do" or ""We'll be the sharks and you be the whale and we'll tell you what to do". See the pattern here? Worse was when Brattie and Kristin would leave Annie out completely, seeking out activities for two with Annie begging to play. This was where my heart would rip a little. See, Annie would just ask over and over again so sweetly, "can I play?" not really understanding that these girls were being small versions of females at their worst, having sussed out the weakest among them, they must now set about asserting their power.
The other neighbor friend is older, a sophisitcated 7. She used to adore Annie, ringing our bell to play just with her. Their 4 year age difference didn't seem to bother her as she was always so patient and kind that it warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart. But now that she's a big second grader, Emma is now entering a hoochie mamma/cool girl phase complete with hip hop dance moves and gymnastics lessons. Now when she comes over, she is usually accompanied by her lacky, Brattie, and the two of them whisper rudely while Annie politely waits for them to finish so the playing might commence. A few times I have seen them simply walk away from Annie, leaving her in our yard to ask me where they went and if I think they'll be back. Oh, god, my heart can't take it.
I have intervened. I have scolded. I have gone so far as to tell these girls that if they want to come play with Annie that's great but if they feel like they can't be nice to her, maybe they should go home. Here's the killer part. While I die a thousand deaths at the cruelty I see against my little angel, Annie remains unflappable. See, she isn't aware that they aren't being nice to her. Wonderfully and beautifully, she doesn't know that "being mean" exists. But I am . And I'll be watching out for her for as long as I still can.
9.27.2006
Typewriters
All through my school years, papers were typed on typewriters. Can you imagine?? Do you remember? Oh, it would be such a freakin' hassle. I can remember having to ask my mom to use her typewriter. Mind you, this was a manual one, housed in a hard, square case that weighed roughly one million pounds. And you needed special typing paper, parchment-like in texture with the odor of chemicals.
Do we have typing paper, mom? There was about a 50-50 chance that we did. Okay, now. Check the ribbon. Again, maybe there's some ink left, but maybe not so much. Finally the typing could begin.
And this would always take me at least twice as long as writing the paper. It was an ordeal. Ugh, just thinking about it-remember erasing? Having to turn the dealiebob on the right to get the paper up where you could wedge in the eraser (oh, I hope mom bought the erasable kind) or whiteout (dammit mom, buy the erasable kind!). Then having to turn the whatzamadizzle down so that you could pick up typing on the same line where you made the mistake. But let's face it, it NEVER went back on the same line. It went on the line above or below the line below causing yet another error to be erased or whited out. The mother of Mike Nesmith from the Monkees invented whiteout and got really rich offa it which I just said to impress exactly no one.
I once took a typing class at the local public school but I broke two fingers that summer playing first base and my quick brown fox was really more of a slow brown fox. Or a quack briwm fix. Thank god for the lazy dog.
In college, the typewriter was a commodity. Stephanie had an electric one, Mark did too, I think. But these were shared by whole populations of people. While the electric kind had a way cool correction key, the correction tape was rarely restocked by the previous typist so the erasing and whiting out issue persisted. Term papers were the only assignments I ever completed ahead of time in school knowing that I best leave a day or so to get the typing done.
Now every college kid has a computer. But I tell you one thing they don't have: the return carriage. Wasn't that the best feeling? I have reached the end of a line and now...yes...I am going to... swipe ca-ching! start a new line. What a tactilely pleasing exclamation point signifying that you were one line closer to filling 5 pages. And yet, I think I'll stick with the pc.
Do we have typing paper, mom? There was about a 50-50 chance that we did. Okay, now. Check the ribbon. Again, maybe there's some ink left, but maybe not so much. Finally the typing could begin.
And this would always take me at least twice as long as writing the paper. It was an ordeal. Ugh, just thinking about it-remember erasing? Having to turn the dealiebob on the right to get the paper up where you could wedge in the eraser (oh, I hope mom bought the erasable kind) or whiteout (dammit mom, buy the erasable kind!). Then having to turn the whatzamadizzle down so that you could pick up typing on the same line where you made the mistake. But let's face it, it NEVER went back on the same line. It went on the line above or below the line below causing yet another error to be erased or whited out. The mother of Mike Nesmith from the Monkees invented whiteout and got really rich offa it which I just said to impress exactly no one.
I once took a typing class at the local public school but I broke two fingers that summer playing first base and my quick brown fox was really more of a slow brown fox. Or a quack briwm fix. Thank god for the lazy dog.
In college, the typewriter was a commodity. Stephanie had an electric one, Mark did too, I think. But these were shared by whole populations of people. While the electric kind had a way cool correction key, the correction tape was rarely restocked by the previous typist so the erasing and whiting out issue persisted. Term papers were the only assignments I ever completed ahead of time in school knowing that I best leave a day or so to get the typing done.
Now every college kid has a computer. But I tell you one thing they don't have: the return carriage. Wasn't that the best feeling? I have reached the end of a line and now...yes...I am going to... swipe ca-ching! start a new line. What a tactilely pleasing exclamation point signifying that you were one line closer to filling 5 pages. And yet, I think I'll stick with the pc.
9.25.2006
The Olson twins and the aging athlete
Yeah, I used the Olson twins to hook you. This post has very little to do with them and quite a bit to do with getting old. Er. Older.
It was the last softball game of our season and my team was sitting in the dugout waiting for the rain to stop. Terri's kids were there and they kept quoting lines from Full House. So, wanting to make a little conversation, I blurted out, "Is Full House like The Brady Bunch was to us when we were growing up?" What I wanted to know was if Full House is this generation's cultural touchstone. Do kids quote certain episodes to their peers? Do kids watch the reruns over and over, finding comfort in the predictability and happy endings? Is "You're in trouble mister" the "Mom always said don't play ball in the house" of today?
My question was met with silence. Oh, they didn't hear me. Louder, "Is Full House likeThe Brady Bunch was to us growing up?" Another beat and then our pitcher frowned and said, "I watched Full House when I was little."
Thunk.
Geez, Mag, know your audience. The funny thing is is that this season in particular I have been hyperaware of being one of the older players. See, the league is for women 19 and older. Our team isn't the most egregious offender when it comes to being stocked with 19 year olds but we have our share of younger players. I guess I am not used to being one of the old ones yet. I am still shocked when I realize that some of these girls are right out of high school; high school being a lifetime or so ago to me.
What hurts isn't being old, though. It is for the first time in my life realizing that not only am I not one of the best on the team, I never will be again. This season I was put in right field. Right field! Oh, if the younger me could see this, she'd DIE of shame. One game I was even put in as catcher. Like, on other teams the catcher is frequently played by the grande dame of the team, too old to play the field, too well-liked to be told to take up golf.
No one ever talks about how the recreational athlete feels when it's time for her to hang up her cleats. I mean, as realitively old as I am, I can still hit the ball. I can still track flies. Inside, I feel so young. But I am slow,and I am carrying around 20 pounds of baby weight and two massive feedbags that these younger girls won't have to worry about for years. Do I want to play until I suck or do I retire with a shred of dignity?
What would Carol Brady do?
It was the last softball game of our season and my team was sitting in the dugout waiting for the rain to stop. Terri's kids were there and they kept quoting lines from Full House. So, wanting to make a little conversation, I blurted out, "Is Full House like The Brady Bunch was to us when we were growing up?" What I wanted to know was if Full House is this generation's cultural touchstone. Do kids quote certain episodes to their peers? Do kids watch the reruns over and over, finding comfort in the predictability and happy endings? Is "You're in trouble mister" the "Mom always said don't play ball in the house" of today?
My question was met with silence. Oh, they didn't hear me. Louder, "Is Full House likeThe Brady Bunch was to us growing up?" Another beat and then our pitcher frowned and said, "I watched Full House when I was little."
Thunk.
Geez, Mag, know your audience. The funny thing is is that this season in particular I have been hyperaware of being one of the older players. See, the league is for women 19 and older. Our team isn't the most egregious offender when it comes to being stocked with 19 year olds but we have our share of younger players. I guess I am not used to being one of the old ones yet. I am still shocked when I realize that some of these girls are right out of high school; high school being a lifetime or so ago to me.
What hurts isn't being old, though. It is for the first time in my life realizing that not only am I not one of the best on the team, I never will be again. This season I was put in right field. Right field! Oh, if the younger me could see this, she'd DIE of shame. One game I was even put in as catcher. Like, on other teams the catcher is frequently played by the grande dame of the team, too old to play the field, too well-liked to be told to take up golf.
No one ever talks about how the recreational athlete feels when it's time for her to hang up her cleats. I mean, as realitively old as I am, I can still hit the ball. I can still track flies. Inside, I feel so young. But I am slow,and I am carrying around 20 pounds of baby weight and two massive feedbags that these younger girls won't have to worry about for years. Do I want to play until I suck or do I retire with a shred of dignity?
What would Carol Brady do?
9.20.2006
I laughed so hard I cried, Part 1
If I had to name my favorite thing ever, it's laughing until I cry. God, I love that sensation that something is so damn funny that I can hardly breathe.
This has happened to me three times recently. The other night in bed, Brian and I were watching some newsmagazine or another on how mean girls are to other kids. Apparently the internet is helping mean girls be just that much crueler. To hear Diane Sawyer have to use the term Fruity McGaygay as she read aloud from some blog was just too much. First off, how have I lived so long to have not had that term in my arsenal? How many friends might I have taunted with that gem? Secondly, does this thought ever cross Diane Sawyer's mind: What the HELL am I doing?? Aaah, Fruity McGaygay. Delicious.
Another moment came when we brought Annie over to our neighbor Mrs. M's house so that Brian and I could go see the new birthin' wing of the hospital. Annie brought her Woody doll. But Mrs. M., God bless her, really wanted it to be Buzz Lightyear. But she couldn't spit out Buzz Lightyear. So the Woody doll just kept being called "Bud Bud er Bud Light". At the time I kept my cool and just let her run with it. She doesn't need to know the difference between Woody and Buzz or Buzz's real name, even. But the next day I spoke to her on the phone and she started it again, all this talk of Annie and Bud Light. When I hung up, the tears came. I was shaking as I tried to recount the details to Brian who couldn't understand why it was so funny to me. I dunno.
Finally, last January during our girls' gift exchange, B shared a story. She had recently moved to California and her sister, C came out to help. While B was outside waiting for the moving van, C was chatting up B's landlord inside. When B returned to the apartment, the landlord was filling B in on what he and her sister were talking about. Oddly, though, he said, "...as I was telling your nephew here..." NEPHEW!?!? B's sister is a feminine 40 some year old woman! Nephew!?!? A slip of the tongue obviously but so absurd that it took me a good half hour to get over it.
So, uh, anyone out there? What made you laugh so hard you cried?
This has happened to me three times recently. The other night in bed, Brian and I were watching some newsmagazine or another on how mean girls are to other kids. Apparently the internet is helping mean girls be just that much crueler. To hear Diane Sawyer have to use the term Fruity McGaygay as she read aloud from some blog was just too much. First off, how have I lived so long to have not had that term in my arsenal? How many friends might I have taunted with that gem? Secondly, does this thought ever cross Diane Sawyer's mind: What the HELL am I doing?? Aaah, Fruity McGaygay. Delicious.
Another moment came when we brought Annie over to our neighbor Mrs. M's house so that Brian and I could go see the new birthin' wing of the hospital. Annie brought her Woody doll. But Mrs. M., God bless her, really wanted it to be Buzz Lightyear. But she couldn't spit out Buzz Lightyear. So the Woody doll just kept being called "Bud Bud er Bud Light". At the time I kept my cool and just let her run with it. She doesn't need to know the difference between Woody and Buzz or Buzz's real name, even. But the next day I spoke to her on the phone and she started it again, all this talk of Annie and Bud Light. When I hung up, the tears came. I was shaking as I tried to recount the details to Brian who couldn't understand why it was so funny to me. I dunno.
Finally, last January during our girls' gift exchange, B shared a story. She had recently moved to California and her sister, C came out to help. While B was outside waiting for the moving van, C was chatting up B's landlord inside. When B returned to the apartment, the landlord was filling B in on what he and her sister were talking about. Oddly, though, he said, "...as I was telling your nephew here..." NEPHEW!?!? B's sister is a feminine 40 some year old woman! Nephew!?!? A slip of the tongue obviously but so absurd that it took me a good half hour to get over it.
So, uh, anyone out there? What made you laugh so hard you cried?
9.19.2006
Dodging the infertility bullet
When Annie was about a year and a half old, I had a miscarriage. I had planned that I might get pregnant so that Annie would have a sibling 2 years younger than her. Just as with Annie, I got pregnant right away. To make a long story short, the pregnancy was never quite right and it ended about 7 weeks in.
Afterwards, my body started doing some pretty funky things in the womanly bizness department. Periods that had come right on time since puberty started showing up late. I bled at strange times. I wanted to get pregnant again as soon as possible but my body was telling me to chill. Dude, you're coming up on 40, it said. So I started worrying.
I also started a pen-and-paper journal where I wrote things like: I am scared and pessimistic and hopeful and doubtful. And: If I am never to be a mom again I understand that I am already blessed in spades. And then cryptic infertility codes like: A positive OPK last night which means I o today or tomorrow which means if I get AF when abada abadoo blah blah blargh.
I started reading things and did things like take my temperature each morning and pee on certain sticks that would increase my chances of conceiving. I joined a group of women online who were trying to become pregnant but they were all so young and all got pregnant so quickly that I had to leave. I complained to my friend O constantly until she got pregnant and then I just felt jeaous and small that I couldn't be happier for her. I ignored Brian's admonishings that I was worrying over nothing and that it would take time and everything would be okay. As revenge, I had him get his whatnots counted and evaluated. Wait, no, the doctor recommended that. They were fine. actually, I believe supersonic was the medical term (HI BRIAN!).
My doctor prescribed clomid. It made me cranky and then pregnant. Mary came April of this year, just about a year after the baby I had initially hoped for was due.
Yes, it did take my minor run-in with infertility to really be able to empathize with couples who try years to have a baby. Though I adored Annie from the moment I laid eyes on her, it has been Mary who has shaken the last vestige of the non-mom me from my body and replaced it with a love and appreciation purer than I had known before.
Afterwards, my body started doing some pretty funky things in the womanly bizness department. Periods that had come right on time since puberty started showing up late. I bled at strange times. I wanted to get pregnant again as soon as possible but my body was telling me to chill. Dude, you're coming up on 40, it said. So I started worrying.
I also started a pen-and-paper journal where I wrote things like: I am scared and pessimistic and hopeful and doubtful. And: If I am never to be a mom again I understand that I am already blessed in spades. And then cryptic infertility codes like: A positive OPK last night which means I o today or tomorrow which means if I get AF when abada abadoo blah blah blargh.
I started reading things and did things like take my temperature each morning and pee on certain sticks that would increase my chances of conceiving. I joined a group of women online who were trying to become pregnant but they were all so young and all got pregnant so quickly that I had to leave. I complained to my friend O constantly until she got pregnant and then I just felt jeaous and small that I couldn't be happier for her. I ignored Brian's admonishings that I was worrying over nothing and that it would take time and everything would be okay. As revenge, I had him get his whatnots counted and evaluated. Wait, no, the doctor recommended that. They were fine. actually, I believe supersonic was the medical term (HI BRIAN!).
My doctor prescribed clomid. It made me cranky and then pregnant. Mary came April of this year, just about a year after the baby I had initially hoped for was due.
Yes, it did take my minor run-in with infertility to really be able to empathize with couples who try years to have a baby. Though I adored Annie from the moment I laid eyes on her, it has been Mary who has shaken the last vestige of the non-mom me from my body and replaced it with a love and appreciation purer than I had known before.
9.18.2006
The Giving Tree makes me cry
Why does the book The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein inevitably make me cry? I'd avoid reading it altogether if I could. I think the copy that resides in Annie's room must have been Brian's because I am pretty sure I wouldn't have bought it for myself, knowing what it does to me. Regardless, it's there and sometimes she wants us to read it to her.
It didn't always upset me. My mom used to read it to us when we were young and I liked it. I liked watching the boy age. I liked when he brought his galpal to the tree. I liked that the tree was anthropomorphized because I like when things that don't talk do talk. I even read it in church, once. Our grade had planned the mass and my best friend Maria and I read it, alternating pages.
Later and still, I must have felt like the ingrate that the boy becomes. I took so much from my parents and they gave so much. But it's not the same, really. No, really. I didn't leave them as stumps, for example. There were 6 of us siphening, I can't be held responsible for any lasting damage to them. Wait. I don't cry out of guilt. I got it! It's the damn beauty of it. Parents give and give and give more. There is no limit. And it's likely that their kids will never exude gratutude, nor should they. We give and give and give more and in return we want their happiness and we want them to return to us when they need to. It's one o'dem circle of life things.
So, it's the beauty. But it's still sad. Maybe because I think of my own giving tree, my dad, and how maybe even though he wouldn't have wanted it, I maybe could have exuded a little more gratitude before he died. But doing so would have outwardly acknowledged that I knew he was going to die and I am sure neither one of us wanted to go there.
I like Shel Silverstein, too. When Miss Hickey read his poetry to us in the third grade it was the first time I had been exposed to a kind of writing that was both current and funny on purpose. Even though Shel looked scary on his book jackets, he didn't scare me because he was silly.
Just as an aside, I hate a very similarly themed song, too. That stupid f-ing Cat's in the Cradle song. Manipulative and maudlin. And what is that plinging instrument between verses? Plink plink plink plink plink plink. Is that a harpsichord? Hate it.
When Annie chooses The Giving Tree as one of her storytime selections, I tell her it makes me sad ("WHY, MOM?" "I don't know, it just does") but that her dad will read it to her. As he does, I bite the inside of my mouth and watch her enjoy the talking tree and the growing boy.
It didn't always upset me. My mom used to read it to us when we were young and I liked it. I liked watching the boy age. I liked when he brought his galpal to the tree. I liked that the tree was anthropomorphized because I like when things that don't talk do talk. I even read it in church, once. Our grade had planned the mass and my best friend Maria and I read it, alternating pages.
Later and still, I must have felt like the ingrate that the boy becomes. I took so much from my parents and they gave so much. But it's not the same, really. No, really. I didn't leave them as stumps, for example. There were 6 of us siphening, I can't be held responsible for any lasting damage to them. Wait. I don't cry out of guilt. I got it! It's the damn beauty of it. Parents give and give and give more. There is no limit. And it's likely that their kids will never exude gratutude, nor should they. We give and give and give more and in return we want their happiness and we want them to return to us when they need to. It's one o'dem circle of life things.
So, it's the beauty. But it's still sad. Maybe because I think of my own giving tree, my dad, and how maybe even though he wouldn't have wanted it, I maybe could have exuded a little more gratitude before he died. But doing so would have outwardly acknowledged that I knew he was going to die and I am sure neither one of us wanted to go there.
I like Shel Silverstein, too. When Miss Hickey read his poetry to us in the third grade it was the first time I had been exposed to a kind of writing that was both current and funny on purpose. Even though Shel looked scary on his book jackets, he didn't scare me because he was silly.
Just as an aside, I hate a very similarly themed song, too. That stupid f-ing Cat's in the Cradle song. Manipulative and maudlin. And what is that plinging instrument between verses? Plink plink plink plink plink plink. Is that a harpsichord? Hate it.
When Annie chooses The Giving Tree as one of her storytime selections, I tell her it makes me sad ("WHY, MOM?" "I don't know, it just does") but that her dad will read it to her. As he does, I bite the inside of my mouth and watch her enjoy the talking tree and the growing boy.
9.17.2006
The worst breastfeeding advice ever
Look, I ain't nobody's idea of the la leche poster mom. I am breastfeeding now because I did my homework and Mary played nicely. But I had intended to breastfeed Annie, really I had. But like most things in my life I just assumed it'd go okay without my actually having to like DO anything.
I did take a class. They showed a movie. The movie depicted an overty hirsuit woman (are there any other kind in childbirth related movies? Yeeg.) popping out her baby. The cord is cut and the baby TAKES IT UPON ITSELF TO SCOOTCH UP THE MOM'S BODY TO COMMENCE BREASTFEEDING. Yeah, I'm yelling, but come on. How was I not to think this was a piece of cake? The baby did all the work, people.
But that's not even the bad advice I got. I am not even sure how what happened there even could be framed as advice: Clear the alley from your hoo-ha to your breastages so that the baby may travel the path of least blah blah..
No, no. The worst advice came in my childbirth class. The RN who taught the class told us this welcome hint, "The night of your baby's birth, get a good night sleep. Tell the nurses to keep your baby overnight in the nursery-you'll need your rest." I didn't need to be told this twice. I never have to be told means by which to get more sleep twice. So she said it and I did it and my the time my baby met my breast, she had a taste for formula and a fairly intimate relationship with silicone nipples. I was powerless to intervene.
After the frustration of failed breastfeeding, I now know the truth. Never introduce the bottle if you want to breastfeed. Your baby won't starve. Their stomach is roughly the size of a marble those first few days. And the best advice: as soon as you can get your hands on that baby, do so and shove your boob in its mouth before it has a chance to think about it. I mean, this is such a crucial and proven piece of information. Someone might have mentioned it.
The downside to all of this is once you start breastfeeding, you are breastfeeding. You cease to be a person, you are a pair of breasts with a baby attached. You are always the star of the show and there is no understudy. More on the pros and cons to come. Boing.
I did take a class. They showed a movie. The movie depicted an overty hirsuit woman (are there any other kind in childbirth related movies? Yeeg.) popping out her baby. The cord is cut and the baby TAKES IT UPON ITSELF TO SCOOTCH UP THE MOM'S BODY TO COMMENCE BREASTFEEDING. Yeah, I'm yelling, but come on. How was I not to think this was a piece of cake? The baby did all the work, people.
But that's not even the bad advice I got. I am not even sure how what happened there even could be framed as advice: Clear the alley from your hoo-ha to your breastages so that the baby may travel the path of least blah blah..
No, no. The worst advice came in my childbirth class. The RN who taught the class told us this welcome hint, "The night of your baby's birth, get a good night sleep. Tell the nurses to keep your baby overnight in the nursery-you'll need your rest." I didn't need to be told this twice. I never have to be told means by which to get more sleep twice. So she said it and I did it and my the time my baby met my breast, she had a taste for formula and a fairly intimate relationship with silicone nipples. I was powerless to intervene.
After the frustration of failed breastfeeding, I now know the truth. Never introduce the bottle if you want to breastfeed. Your baby won't starve. Their stomach is roughly the size of a marble those first few days. And the best advice: as soon as you can get your hands on that baby, do so and shove your boob in its mouth before it has a chance to think about it. I mean, this is such a crucial and proven piece of information. Someone might have mentioned it.
The downside to all of this is once you start breastfeeding, you are breastfeeding. You cease to be a person, you are a pair of breasts with a baby attached. You are always the star of the show and there is no understudy. More on the pros and cons to come. Boing.
9.16.2006
Why Kangaroo Life?
When I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was trying to learn as much about breastfeeding as I could. I kept coming across this unfamiliar term: kangaroo care. As I understood it, this was a certain kind of mothering that involved just kind of strapping the baby on and keeping him or her as close to you as possible, with the boob available for snacking. The concept was a little too hands on for me, but the idea stuck with me, especially when Mary was born and became my pal joey; in my pouch as much as I'd allow. But it's not just Mary I carry with me, I thought. Aren't all of our pouches sort of overflowing with the things we carry? Aren't we all just a bunch o' kangaroos?
Friendships, family, memories, friends...the older I get the more I carry. I am not sure what the capacity is for a pouch but I started thinking that if I don't empty mine I might lose some of it. So this is my blog, here for safe keeping.
I imagine what I will mostly write about is what weighs me down the most which also happen to be the things that make me hop. Yeah, I don't get that either. Boing.
Friendships, family, memories, friends...the older I get the more I carry. I am not sure what the capacity is for a pouch but I started thinking that if I don't empty mine I might lose some of it. So this is my blog, here for safe keeping.
I imagine what I will mostly write about is what weighs me down the most which also happen to be the things that make me hop. Yeah, I don't get that either. Boing.
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