a corruption of influences

i am cluttered like an American home,
from attic to garage, basement to cabinet.
my dogs bark like the neighbors dog
i spread my legs like most wives

still i believe i am a foreigner here.
novels line like white teeth in my mouth.
i am ravenous for the truth however morbid
joyful, mundane. this is not a saying-

these are not just quotes.
music fills my fingertips, i cannot pluck
a note. i am singing about everything,
i am dancing: of course this world's a stage.

at times there is a darkness, bleak. stagnant.
being told to tap dance on steel beams,
which hang from the towers of New York City.
being told to hang my neck like a white goose.

the crust of the Earth is far below,
in lava and springboarding chemical outbursts.
i hold my pelvis, hands shaped in a triangle
keeping the blood at boil.

there are four layered cakes.
layers of atmosphere repleted and regained.
orgasm, rest, orgasm, rest, orgasm, rest.
there are two hundred thread count sheets.

still unknown millions of species unqualified
subsets of niches, two hundred stitches
in the creamy white silk of underwear
nestled against the sweetly stuffed vagina.

there are a hundred ways to be mentally ill,
a hundred kind of grasses in North America.
the phone book keeps hundreds of different
people, all with the same name.

i am rooftop to slate floor a corruption of influences.
life burdens me greatly. i am blessed beyond reason.
the sun rises in the cotton of my daughter's hair,
it sets in the slanted dark eyes of another.

-maggie may ethridge

life around this here parts

come give me a big slobbery kiss ya'll. 

{ side note: whyyy does it look like we have two mini cockaroaches behind our toilet? }

some good things

ever putting her hands together and spreading them out, saying, momma? when she wants me, or her new ritual ( done with a winkwink every time) of wrapping her arms around my neck when i go to change her or put her in the car seat.

lola telling me a secret she had harbored for a year. not an awful secret, but one that she had thought might be bad, and had been too afraid to tell me. i know you'll always love me no matter what, i know that mom, but you might not like me as much. oh my lola. haven't we all feared the same?  i hope i said all the right things and held her long enough to convince her otherwise. i hope i earned her trust for the future. i think i did. she is so incredibly good, so clean souled, in a way i never felt or knew. i admire her spirit the way you admire a soaring mountain peak, or a crystal clear river tumbling through the meadow. 

dakota going to a job fair, driving our car with us in it!, filling a notebook with lyrics for his band Law and writing a song, for me. 

ian running errands with me every saturday morning lately. i have started to really look forward to that time with him. he's at that magical age of 15 where his social life is almost- just there- starting to take over, but not. quite. yet- so we still have him as our boy for a little longer. he is such good company, you know how some people are just reliably good company? i can't say that about  myself, but ian, yes. 

mr. curry... sometimes our marriage is in such an intimate, sweet, closed door space, i can't write about it here. some smart asses in the audience may be wondering when the hell that happens... well it's NOW SMARTYMCFARTY.   oh but i forgot! ( let the snickering begin HA HA ) we are going to a therapy appointment this week, wish us luck that the therapist is awesome. i am a huge believer in a great therapist having the power to empower awesome change in your life, having had this happen before. we used to have philosophers around the fountain, now we have therapist. i'll take great guidance from books, film, therapists, or anywhere i can get it. 

flux capacitor is getting a huge facelift, and i believe if all goes well it should be up this week....!!!

so excited!!!

i have two essays coming out in our local San Diego Reader, consecutively, and i'm paid for them, which makes me extremely happy. to be paid to write = heaven Oh also, they link to flux capacitor, so hello to anyone making their way here from there!!!

happy monday, bloggers. xo

i'm just a girl in the world

Ever Elizabeth, 14 months old. Obsessed with her sister, Daddy, brothers, Momma's boobies, and dollllsssss

 Go The F@ck To Sleep!  ( have you guys read that book? if you have littles, it will make you laugh! )

Brainssss, she says, brainnnssssss

You are mine, mine, miiineee! Whahahaha!

Cuddle break

MY MOUTH IS OPEN MOMMA. PUT A BOOB IN IT.

Dear Sugar : Cheryl Strayed, My Favorite Online Writer

"After our second child was born we slept in separate beds for months so I could dedicate my nights to tending to our newborn while he tended to our toddler. One time I got so mad at Mr. Sugar about the fact that every time he goes to the grocery store he only manages to remember half the stuff we need, I stabbed him in the thigh with my toothbrush. One time I brought our kids to their preschool and I came home and told Mr. Sugar that I had the impulse to ask one of the preschool dads I’d chatted with at drop-off to go with me to a hotel, where we would spend the morning fucking each other’s brains out. Not because I had any real desire for this other fellow. Not that I wanted to cheat on my beloved and hot Mr. Sugar. But because I wanted to spend the morning with someone who wanted to fuck my brains out who was not also someone whom I’d stabbed with a toothbrush in the course of a conflict about groceries." - Dear Sugar

Dear Sugar is an advice column in the online magazine The Rumpus whose identity has been a mystery even as the popularity of the column was becoming unavoidable, found everywhere online- even inspiring a line of tee shirts and mugs, the most popular of which reads Write Like A Motherfucker. I'm sure you all know that is a sentiment I can definitely get behind. After a long awaited and huge reveal party, 'Dear Sugar' was found to be the writer Cheryl Strayed- and look out world, because here she comes. On the cover of Vogue this month, a byline for the excerpt of her memoir  Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail ; and the excerpt I read was so good- probably the kind of book I'll read in one night, like eating a delicious meal, or stuffing your face with brownies all night. Either. Reading her columns blows me away. She is hands down the best advice columnist I've ever read, and the writing is genius. The words 'advice columnist' convey someone witty and intelligent and practical, but hardly conjure up the brilliant bombshell of Strayed's writing: compassionate, hilarious, so, so honest, with an emotional intelligence and writing chops combined to create the best reading experience online right now.  Cheryl's writing is what we need right now, and it's exciting.

What the hell does that mean, exciting? What's exciting for us, the public? I'm sure the writer is thrilled, but 'exciting'? Really? Well yes. It's EXCITING DAMNIT. If you love words, if you love writing, if you love exceptionally talented people who also happen to be incredibly caring and who are kicking ass with a particularly honest sword, then it is exciting. I'm excited. When I read the above excerpt from Dear Sugar, I literally laughed until I cried. I laughed because it is hilarious and I cried because it's so, so true. And then I felt excited, because it's been a long time since I read someone new to me who told the truth about human life so brilliantly. The excerpt from her memoir was completely engrossing. I mean, for me, this is like fundamentally necessary for survival. I have to read amazing writing or I will FREAK OUT. My entire blog is and always has been revolved around the quote 'one woman, telling the truth about my life' and telling the truth is something Cheryl Strayed excels at.

She's John Irving and Anne Lamott's literary lovechild

and I love her { writing }

xo

People In Your Neighborhood: Essays

take a seat and read!

I was happily reading along with this young girl who is in France being an au pair to five French children, when I came across this bit about the 'groceries wouldn't be delivered until Monday'

Wha? I must have groceries delivered!

Monica writes her ass off in this beautiful essay about living in both wonderment and fear, inspired by thinking about the loss of her friend Katie's son Henry.

And in the wonderful call and response of the internets, Katie wrote this beautiful essay about how her fears for her children have changed deeply since she lost her beautiful boy. 

Kristen blogs about life with four kids- some of whom are adopted. In a gentle, helpful essay, she talks about if it's OK to ask someone if their children are adopted.

flashback

myself, my mom, my sister Lura, probably about 1976

are you a sad fish too?

In the news: a father, a mother at sixteen, a thirteen year old charged as an adult, a dog trapped in the sewer system, these five men, this famous singer, faulty wiring, a family torn apart by this devastating lie, a baby, a toddler, a car accident, a horrible accident no one could have predicted it it just happened, a man who did something good for a woman, a man who did something bad to three women, a horrible accident everyone predicted it still happened.

Remember to carry your sadness inside. Do not bury it. Carry it. Remember to let it go occasionally and watch it fall apart at your feet. Remember to dance on its grave. Allow time for slow motion, disco, modern and robot dance maneuvers. Remember to lift the corners of your mouth enough to prevent an entire day of What's wrong? Remember everyone has an answer to that question. Constantly address the present moment, like Hey what's up PM? What's happening? You chill? Check out the PM's dress, manner, body language and if the PM is a dirty rat bastard, address it with the steely, dignified acceptance and enduring faith of someone you wish you are,  someone you read about in a Robert Parker or Joyce Carol Oates novel, and are sure you will become more like if you just keep pretending.  Wear appropriate shoes. Find something small that is beautiful and carry it with you, like a rainbow keychain, a necklace of gold, your nails in chevron stripes. Glance at it all day. When The Sadness becomes a fish flapping nastily on the riverbank, reach back deeply into your throat, pull it out, flog it repeatedly while cursing in a loud and vigorous manner until breaking a sweat and becoming red of face and neck. When properly flogged, sternly yet quickly lecture The Sadness on it's proper place in your life, being a good example for the children, remembering how much you actually have, that you are not special, Sad Fish, just another Sad Fish- actually a lot LESS sad than many in the river, and shove the flat and emasculated fish back into your gut, where it will hopefully remain meek and subdued for quite some time, or at least long enough to get you through this thing you have to do or  that other thing that must be done, or the kids are in bed. Possible containment of The Sadness through medium glass of wine, which will either bring forth unencumbered weeping- therefore preventing public doing so- or giggling ridiculousness.  Let is be made clear that giggling and ridiculousness are both highly desirable and should be sought after as much as possible.***Do not make mistake of assuming the drink can kill The Sadness, and fall into the wishitwere's. The drink cannot kill The Sadness, but when misued, can feed the Sad Fish until it is bloated, enormous and agitated, unable to be properly sorted, flogged or carried. The Sad Fish may, in this case, with scales of liquor and beer, lay eggs. In this case, you are truly fucked, until you make your way to a vigorously practicing AA meeting, rehab, or a spiritual experience.***Consume as much material as possible re: survival. Include: children's stories, YA fiction, poetry, French films, 80's and 90's American dramatic films, any marvelous novel, classical, gospel, folk, alternative music, memoirs, certain TED lectures and face to face discussions.  Consume as much happiness as possible and is available. FATAL MISTAKE: to begrudge happiness because you are angry/disenchanted/hurt/exhausted/sickofit or the worst of all: feeling sorry for yourself. FSFY is a known killer, causing Sad Fish to lay eggs, causing normal living humans to become the walking dead.  Unable to appreciate or acknowledge the good things and people around them out of a stubborn sense of being singled out in life for pain or fear of losing focus on the shitty things and/or people's sympathy for them, FSFY causes severe uglification and decay of the soul, slowly poisoning a person until they vomit up their Sad, Dead Fish, and eat it while hissing brains, brainsssssss. FSFY must be avoided at all costs. Better to become a Sickeningly Positive Person than a FSFY. FSFY's do not get great sex, great friends, family that likes them or even dogs that adore them. FSFY's are toxic to normal human beings and are not allowed past the sitting room. Think ridiculous thoughts that make you chuckle to yourself, even if you must look around nervously afterward, feeling stupid and wondering if anyone heard you. Lay in grass in sunshine. Take hot baths and read. Watch hilarious movies and shows. Be around children often. Help someone else, every day. When you want to growl, bark or bite at your family or friends, slap yourself, begin again. It's exactly like your damn mother told you: practice, practice, practice. No one becomes great at being sad without a shitload of effort. Remember The Sadness is going to be a part of your life, forever. Why? Was that you, in the corner with the green headphones, ear piercing and energy drink who asked that? Because you were the lucky winner of life. You got chosen to be alive. Life is a package deal. It comes with The Sadness. It begins the first time we feel the sharp and salty tang of loss, yearning and frustration as an infant, and let out a wail. Have sex you wanted to but were afraid to. Do yoga. Stretch. Instead of walking to your car, skip. You will feel ridiculous. And better. You will find those two words often go together; if you want to feel better, you have to be willing to be ridiculous. Take out your Sad Fish, put glasses and a hat on him, and dance with his short rubbery little arms in yours. Carpe Sad Fish! Later he'll be so tired you will have an hour of peace. When you wake up every morning, slap water on  your face and say to your reflection ' Well, you ain't no prize. '  This keeps you in check, and lessens possibility of FSFY. Then smile at yourself and say ' Well, on the other hand, you ain't a piece of shit, either. ' 

Scenes From A Marriage: valentine

today my sweetheart was awash in pain

and i his long loved bride,

today he quietly loved me

and i he, in stride.

today nothing magical was said or done,

no deep longing made voice to one another.

we washed the hair of our babies fine,

each sister and each brother.

today no great lovesong poured alongside

our exhausted bodies as we made for bed

but a simple pause in movement -

his hands, my head.

today his eyes were dim forest groves

and his back a clearing wide.

and i was not the lustful girl

but the witness of a wife.

today we were not clever,

we did not dance or laugh or sing.

but flew each other parallel:

wing, to wing.

today i remember our hard learned treasure

that love is not always a loud, lusty song

but an ever steady abiding,

that rights life's crooked wrongs.

today he did not know i watched

as he stroked the baby's face

and i marveled at the endurance of love

and the sanctuary of grace.

today i wish for my valentine,

peace, and a healing heart

for his burden to be lightened

and his hand in mine in the dark.

image via The Smithsonian The Art Of Love

What Would You Do? A Bizarre and Sad Duet at Target

Lola, Ever and I made our way finally to the toy part of Target, which Ever believes IS Target: her personal playground to roam freely, driving enormous dump trucks, tucking dollies firmly under her pudgy armpit before tromping around with their legs dangling helplessly, kicking balls in the aisle. I walk steps behind her, cleaning up her mess like Rosy The Robot, occasionally whispering One toy, Kinny! ONE!  Today was no different, Lola debating if she was truly and all the way past the Disney princess doll stage, Ever mucking about, me dutifully cleaning up. Then it rang throughout Target- the absolutely unmistakable voice of a man bullying a child. I am expert at this; some can name bird calls with one trill; I can point out the average frustrated, overtired and stressed father snapping at his kids from the spirit crushing, emotionally abusive father every time.  One note, hanging in the air, and my stomach plummets, my ears burn, and I fight the ridiculous urge to leap on a fully grown man and smack him in the face. I convey this to you with equal parts shame and pride.

I picked Ever up and tried to look casual as I strolled down the aisle and turned my head toward each, no, not this one, this one, this one- here he is. Towering over his child, a little boy of maybe 7 years old at the most, with a defiant scowl, arms crossed tightly over his chest, face cocked upward, occasionally pulling his hands apart to slap them over his eyes and drag them down to his chin in the heartbreaking way small people do when they are attempting to control their behavior, and to stop themselves from crying.  The father was yelling even louder now. You know what selfish people do? What YOU are doing. I don't know if you know what selfish is, but it's you. Do you want to be selfish? DO YOU? I heard the little boy answering in a low voice, and then his father's booming reply That is NOT for  your friend, that is for YOU, that is selfish, how are they going to play with that? They aren't! And you know it! His voice dripped with contempt for his own son. As I stood holding Ever I felt my arms begin to tremble and my face redden. An enormous fury was climbing it's way through my veins and bubbling out my skin. The Man kept on: GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW DAMNIT! You aren't getting anything! Nothing! You hear me?! That's it!

I rounded the corner of the next aisle and listened. Everyone around me was listening. Every adult there, at least 20, was listening, shoulders down, eyes looking for the source of the noise, faces in grimaces of both disgust and discomfort. For two or three more minutes, The Man went on, and I looked hopefully at the father's faces around me, strapping, good sized men who would have no physical fear of The Man, who was himself 5'10, 170 pounds, simply dressed, nothing ferocious or terrible about his appearance. The fathers looked at me and looked at their children and no one said anything. Soon I saw that The Man had a friend with him, a man in his early 30's, bright red, bristle stached, humiliated, dragging behind his friend like a repressed child. He was clearly upset. Not upset enough to say something. To do something.

The little boy sprang out from an aisle and his body was trembling like a rabbit in the snare, face curled in a snarl, fists tight. He had moved from fear to rage. I remember that so well from my own little years. He was arguing, snotty voiced, mocking. The mocking comes with a complete and total decimation of any respect the child had for the parent, once they realize that the parent is totally out of control, childlike themselves, reactionary and most of all filled to the brim with self-hatred and a fear of being exposed as nothing, emotionally incapable of handling the most mundane and repetitive tasks of parenting: the constant demands and pushing of children who always want more than what they have. The parent hates themselves, and the child's disrespect is always, to their dissonant hearing, a sign that the child somehow knows the parent is unworthy of respect, and so the parent is overbearing, loud, snappish, reactionary, and finally, mocking, cruel.  Once this realization has occurred, only a total rehabilitation of The Man into a real man could fix the disrespect now lodged into the child's heart. Nothing The Man tells him will ever resound or have authority, because the child knows The Man does not act as a man in the world, but as a child. Half of me cheered him on, fight boy, fight, it will keep you alive! And the other half despaired: what would The Man do in the face of such defiance? Escalating fury is what I expected, and what happened. His voice broke it's thick depth and crested a pitch in fury that rang out over the entire half of Target. Get back here right now you are going to get spanked until you cry when we get home do you hear me? 

Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes of a tirade.

I checked on Lola. Fine. I gathered Ever. 

Half galloping a few paces behind The Man dragging his mocha skinned, doe eyed little guy behind him,  I yelled:   I do not appreciate listening to you scream at your son like this- and he turned around. 

Shut up, he spat, and kept his striding.

Your son is going to hate you when he grows up if you keep talking to him like this!! I was truly yelling now, furious at my inability to stop him from taking that boy out the door and raising him for the rest of his little life. My chest heaved, sweat drenched my shirt. I kept on: He's never going to talk to you again once he can escape! He looked back at me, face in a mysterious activity of the brain, and rounded the pillows. That was it. He was gone. 

I cried and cried on the way home. The cycle breaks my heart in a terrible way: it is intolerable that we ( the sociatal we ) cannot find a way to protect children, to help them, to speak up when they need us, and then how furiously! how righteously! how thunderously and indignantly we punish them when, as teenagers, they turn into law breaking, drug using, drinking, disrespectful, hardened and sarcastic people who come across as if they have little depth. who come across as if who come across as if---

as if-- they had spent their most vulnerable, tender, sweet and good and kind years having their souls and hearts ground into raw meat by their parent or loved one, and no one helped. No one stopped it. 

In high school, I hung out with many groups over the four years, and one of them was the 'no goals, no respect, lazabouts ' group. Without exception, each one had their own story about The Man. Sometimes, The Woman, or The Uncle, but always someone who stole their sense of safety, who took from them not only their happiness and peace, but also the faith that adults take care of children, that adults help children. Because for them, there had been no help. And now, restless with a hidden grief, they found themselves unwelcome and unloved at every turn, and embraced instead an alternative idea: that the world and it's adults were all bullshit fakers, and the only real thing was to admit it's all fucked, and give up.

If this little guy spends the next ten years of his life like this, what do you think he will be at 20? Will he be a beaming, prideful young man full of promise and health and interest in the world and people around him. 1 in a 1,000 can do that on their own. The rest need intervention. Help. Unconditional love. Therapy. Fucking travel, experiences, bonding, groups, education, art classes, apprenticeships, but dammit, they do not need jail time and scorn and condemnation and a community of tongue clucking judgement. 

I thought these things as I drove home, and then turned this framework on The Man. This is the key. The framework always turns.  What we believe the deepest truths to be hold true for our friend and our enemy, our closest loves and our worst  fears. Most children, most young adults, are capable of change, love, growth, happiness. Maybe The Man had his own Man. Maybe he had been hurt deeply, and was now full of inchoate rage, turned toward his son. 

The point is not blame, but reality. If we refuse to admit that of course, most chronically abused children are not happy and successful adults, but alcoholics, addicts, criminals, abusers themselves, then we can never address the problem, stop the gushing of the arterial wound. I passionately believe that if every young person had a person who stuck their nose in, who became deeply involved, who cared beyond a smile and a prayer, our adult population would be an entirely different animal. Hardly a revolutionary idea. So if so many believe this, then why did no one at Target speak up? I don't understand. All the people around me in this nice suburban town, probably most of them church goers, 'good people'. This man screamed at his son for ten minutes before he left. Think about how long that is. Ten minutes and the toy section was almost deserted by the time he left, when it had been teeming. Everyone got THEIR children away. But the little one who was receiving this abuse had no where to hide.

His father might need medication. He definitely needs therapy. He might need an aural cleansing, for all I know. But whatever he needs, he won't get it in the silence of an emptied out Target, where the only sound was his own terrorizing voice, tearing apart the innocence and spirit of his child.

___________________

In the early evening, I had to return to Target. I got in and out with my groceries and my baby, cold, exhausted and wanting home. Ever was strapped into the wagon, which was full of groceries, and just as I bumped the cart into my car, a woman in a bigger hurry than I slammed her cart toward the line and walked away. I watched as the cart banged into the line, bounced off and out, and took off, a red flash in the darkness, toward the busy road. I was paralyzed for a second, then took off  for it before stopping running with a horrible start- was I insane?! I couldn't leave Ever in the dark strapped into the cart!  I ran back toward her and unbuckled her, calling out Ma'am! Ma'am!  to the woman, who never turned her head. People walked by me, a man with his family, two women, and all watched as I unbuckled Ever, watched as the cart sped away. Not a single person ran after it. I just shut my mouth, pulled Ever out, and turned to see the red cart fly empty and unattended into oncoming traffic.

People In Your Neighborhood: Parenthacks & He Said/She Said

take a seat and read!!

This year is probably the most exhausting and relentlessly demanding/busy that Mr. Curry and I have been so far in our marriage. Between the three older kiddos and the baby, our full time jobs, my writing career ( multiple news on that soon!! :) ) two dogs, family and friends that would actually like to, you know, hear our voice or be in our presence more than on Christmas and a house full of chores, we are literally not sitting down to just relax or take a moment until 8pm many nights. And that moment is like, A MOMENT AND THEN HURRY UP AND GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR WE HAVE TO MAKE LUNCHES AND THE BABY IS CRYING. Yeah. So when I read this awesome Parenthack, I felt, for a brief moment, both understood and excited to try it out.

Monica and Serge are both writers that grab you with their voice right away, and it's no different when they are in person in your face! on their new webshow, He Said/She Said where they talk about how they met and fell in love, had babies and then discovered their wildly different parenting styles. They recently lost their new house rental in a fire during which they were home with their two littles. Thank God they are all OK, and bouncing back fierce style with this entertaining show- my kind of reality TV. Love these guys!

Baby Bathtime

Downton Abbey: On Sunday Nights We Stay Up Late

Fundraiser for My Friend Carrie Brown

This is my friend Carrie and her awesome kiddo, Gabriel. I've known Carrie for ten years, known her to be strong, loyal, witty, caring,  a devoted ( single mom ) to her son, her family and her friends. She teaches kids with developmental delays and other issues and she loves a good comic, off color joke or compliment ;) She's incredibly warm- when you meet her, you can feel her genuine interest and caring just emanating from her. She's a good goddamn human being, and she's dealing with a rat bastard: ovarian cancer, Stage 4. She's had two surgeries in the swift time since her shocking diagnosis, and is now at home on a feeding tube and receiving chemo.

Right now, Carrie needs some serious help. She can't work due to the serious nature of her surgeries ( on her entire abdomen ) and she is a single mom with rapidly piling medical bills ( with insurance ) -- she doesn't even have internet, people. INTERNET. Now anyone reading this knows that no one stuck at home going through some seriously life altering and scary stuff should have to be isolated from the most hands on, 24-7 available means of support they can get: Internets.

We can offer whatever we have- 5$ or 150$- and literally change Carrie's experience of this time. How often can such a simple gesture make such enormous change? 

I hope that if you can give something, anything, you will.

Here's the link for the Facebook Fundraiser:

Help Carrie Crush Cancer

Squeal Of Delight! Anne Lamott's new book: Some Assembly Required

I AM SO EXCITED!!!!!

Kitchen Decor

People In Your Neighborhood: Sweetney Talks About Love and Marriage

 take a seat and read!

Do you read Sweetney? I do! I love her bright, honest and sharp voice and her take on life and parenthood. Right now she's writing about marriage and how it lasts, or doesn't, and why. 

A Month Of Love: Should A Marriage  Be 'Work' is deftly written, and even the comments are good! Check it out.

Dragon-Seeker, Bent on Improbable Rescue

Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.  ~ Joseph Addison

The thing to remember about fathers is, they're men. A girl has to keep it in mind: They are dragon-seekers, bent on improbable rescues. Scratch any father, you find someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, believing change is a threat - like your first shoes with heels on, like your first bicycle it took such months to get.  -Phyllis McGinley

It is the nature of babies to be in bliss. - Deepak Chopra

"A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic."  ~  Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance.  ~Ruth E. Renkel

1:32 AM @ i'm not confused. just tired. really, really tired.