Fire.

Perhaps we've gone overboard on trying to teach Buster about dangerous things that we don't want him to touch. Particularly with regard to hot things. Perhaps.

One of his most consistently used words is "hot".  He says this while bending his little body partway over and sticking out his hand like a school crossing guard protecting kindergartners from oncoming traffic.  Its quite dramatic and usually one "hot" is not enough.  Typically, there are at least several "hots".

He says this every time he walks into the kitchen and sees steam coming from something on the stove.  And every time he sees steam coming from a mug of coffee.  He notices exhaust coming out of cars and smoke coming out of chimneys.

Recently, he also noticed a man smoking.  We don't smoke and no one that we regularly spend time with smokes.  So, seeing smoke coming out of a person must have been pretty exciting and very dangerous looking for Buster.  Before I could stop him, he was standing in front of this unsuspecting gentleman in his most concerned bent over posture, arm straight out, palm flexed and facing the man, repeatedly saying "hot", "hot", "hot".

Buster probably lives by that saying that goes something like "If you're smoking, you'd better be on fire". All things considered, I think I'm actually okay with that.

Preferences.

Yes to vinegar dipped bread.
No to mashed potatoes.
Yes to lemon slices.
No to In-N-Out Burger (?!).
Yes to pickled okra.
No to green beans.
Yes to garlic stuffed green olives.
No to spinach and cheese casserole.
Yes to cran-raspberry, celery, and walnut salad.
No to sweet potato fries.
Yes to dirt.
No to apple pie.

Apparently, Buster is developing an interesting palate.  He sure does keep me on my toes.

A Gift.

I was given a lovely gift this past weekend.  Time.

A number of years ago I was introduced to the book, The 5 Love Languages.  The concept of the book is essentially that we all have a "mother tongue" through which we most naturally express or receive love - a "love language".  The book not only encourages us to identify our own love language, but, perhaps more importantly to identify and learn the languages of the people in our lives who we love.  The languages are generally described as Gift Giving, Acts of Service, Physical Touch, Words of Encouragement, and Quality Time. 

I've decided that one of my love languages is probably Quality Time.  When someone spends time with me, I feel loved.  If I love someone, its most natural for me to express that to them by just "being" with them.  I think I read another book at some point that likens this love language to the behavior of a faithful Golden Retriever puppy.  It kind of makes sense.  

I think one of my husband's love languages is probably Acts of Service.  One of the ways that he naturally expresses love is by serving or doing something for those that he loves.  By way of example, he does the dishes every night.  Every night.  He also starts my car on cold mornings, shuffles the car seat back and forth between our vehicles, takes out the trash, and vacuums.  I actually could go on and on.  Suffice it to say, as he is doing all those things, I think he is speaking his love language, and I feel very loved.  

This weekend, though, my husband spoke his love language in a big dog way.  And, at the same time, gave me the chance to soak of lots of my love language.  He stayed at home with Buster for two nights.  TWO NIGHTS.  And, I got to go down the mountain to Denver to spend the weekend with three of my girlfriends.  We hung out, talked, laughed, poked around a bookstore, cried, made cake balls*, reminded one another of truth and grace, and encouraged each other.  It was a Quality Time heyday!

I'm feeling very loved.  And, that's a pretty amazing gift.

*Cake balls, if you've never come across them, are essentially balls of wadded up cake that have been squished with frosting and dipped in chocolate.  It's an acquired taste.  

Smitten.

What can I say? 

 I'm a sucker for a guy in a giraffe suit.

Words.

I've always said that one of the things that I love about working with kids in my counseling work is that they can be very unedited.  This verbal transparency does, of course, have its risks.  Like when I was about five months pregnant with Buster and I told a little client that I was going to have a baby just like her mom was having a baby.  This little girl's unedited response was, "Geez, I was wondering why you were getting so fat!".  Lovely.

The often unedited nature of kids' responses also, oftentimes, has its heartache.

Recently, a kindergarten age friend was perched at the corner of my desk in my office drawing a self-portrait.  It was probably a good thing that she was narrating the picture as she was drawing, "This is my head, these are my hands, these are my legs...", because it was one of those pictures that might of have lent itself to other interpretations.  Let's just say that it was a bit "free-form".  We've all seen them, and my guess is that we've all created them at some point during our artistic development.

Once the picture was complete, I asked some of my standard questions including "What's good about this person?".  This little person who had been fairly chatty up until this point paused, became very quiet, and then looked quizzically up at my face and said "Well, I try really hard to be good....".  I gently rephrased my question and asked again, "What is something special about this person?". My question was met with silence, and while my heart was breaking I heard a very quiet voice say, "I don't know".

At the very core of all that I understand humans to be, I believe that each of us has infinite worth and value.  This belief stems from a basic theological understanding that informs my marriage, my parenting, my relationships with others, and my counseling work:   We, as humans, are Image Bearers.  We bear God's image.  Part of what makes us uniquely human is that, somehow, we bear or reflect or exhibit the very image of God.  Amazing.

And so, when I hear from one of the littlest among us that she genuinely has no idea what is good or special about her, my heart breaks.  She's never been told.  And, chances are, she's heard plenty of other things that would lead her to believe that there really isn't anything good or special about who she is.  And, chances are, the big people in her life were never told what was good or special about them.  Or they were told, but those messages got drowned out by the messages of broken lives.  And the cycle continues.

So, now, please excuse me for just a moment while I hop up on my soapbox.  There is a proverb that says, basically, words have the power of life and death.

Words matter.

What we say to one another matters.  What we say to the littlest people among us matters.  It really does matter when we tell a child what is genuinely good and special about her.  Let's not miss opportunities today or this week to speak life into the little people who cross our paths.

I'm hopping off my soapbox now.  And, I think I might just go whisper a few things into a sleeping Buster's ear.

(*All identifying information, of course, has been changed regarding children in this post.)

Waving.

Buster's new deal is waving.  He's pretty much mastered a wave that begins at his elbow and involves lots of movement through the very ends of his fingers.  He waves at people, Lu, the clock, the hummingbirds on our deck, dogs at the park, and angels.

Yes, that's right, I just said that Buster waves at angels.

There are times when Buster will look at what seems like nothing and he will wave vigorously.  He's usually smiling when he does this.  Half jokingly, we decided that maybe, just maybe, he's greeting angels.

Without unpacking my theological understanding of angels, suffice it to say that I do believe that they are real.  And I do believe that there is a spiritual dimension to our world of which we are often quite unaware.  There is a part of me that just likes to playfully ponder things and finds gentle wonderment in the idea that Buster might be waving at angels.

Perhaps.

Busy.

I haven't been blogging much this summer.  Often times, the things that I blog about roll around in my head for a while before they ever find their way into typed words.  Lately, there has been a lot rolling around in my head that just hasn't been able to find suitable words with the right semantics to find its way into a cogent blog post.

So, I'm defaulting to this almost cliche phrase as I ease myself back into blogging:  It's been a busy summer.

Or, perhaps, more accurately, Buster has been busy this summer.  In the past two months he's sprouted his first two teeth, mastered shouting at the cat (actually, its a very friendly shout and it is directed any any creature that has four legs), and, most recently, he's started walking.  He walks everywhere.  Constantly.  No crawling, no sitting, no standing still.  Walking.  Out of my own curiosity, I'm considering putting a pedometer on the little man.

Based on observation, I would rank Buster's top ten hobbies in this order:

1. Walking.
2. Swinging.
3. Eating applesauce.
4. Shouting at the cat.
5. Unrolling toilet paper.
6. Picking up woodchips at the playground.
7. Touching Jack the Puppet's hair at our Library's storytime.
8. Standing up in the bathtub (totally against the rules, but he finds it VERY hard to resist).
9. Blowing rasberries immediately after taking drinks of water.
10. Playing with magnets on the lower part of the refrigerator.

I'll have to remember to show him this list when he's older.  And, secretly, I hope that "when he's older" lingers in the future just a little bit longer.  

Peace

Buster is almost nine months old, and I still sneak into his room several times throughout the night to check on him and to get glimpses of him like this.  Seeing him soundly asleep with a firm grip on Roy the Beloved makes me feel like time stands still for just the smallest of moments.  Blissful slumber. Peace.

Airport Angels

As we were trying to prepare for traveling to Estonia with Buster, I came across a comment in some book about traveling with babies.  Basically, the person suggested that if we had thought that international flights were a drag sans baby, we were in a for a rude surprise.  Previously, on international flights I would just get bored and tired of sitting in one place for so long.  This was not the case with traveling with Buster.  Having an active, eighteen pound, seven month old doing gymnastics sitting on my lap for a total of thirteen hours did not lend itself to boredom or immobility on my part.

All things considered, Buster did really well with the traveling part of our travels.  I did learn, however, that the minor irritations of airport delays can quickly become magnified when a tired baby is involved.  In the midst of two of these rapidly magnifying irritations, a delayed flight and an exceptionally long and slow customs process, we encountered two airport angels.  I know (at least I think I know) that they were not angels in the true theological sense, but, nonetheless, their sudden appearances in our lives felt small gifts from Heaven.

The first encounter was with a fellow passenger waiting on a delayed flight.  He was from Nigeria.  He noticed Buster, reached out his arms, and with a smile said "give him to me".  So we did.  Buster was suddenly face to face with this man.  And the two of them were smiling and laughing. He played with Buster for awhile commenting that Buster must be wondering "who is this black man holding me".  Then he handed him back and Buster looked over at him, smiled and made his friendliest spitting noise.

The second airport angel walked directly up to us while we were waiting in an eternal customs line.  She was seven years old.  She was from Toronto but was just returning from visiting her grandpa in Hong Kong.  She was traveling with her mom.  She loved babies.  Her name was Grace.  (This was all disclosed to us within about a minute's time).  All the while that she was telling us these things, Grace was also playing peek-a-boo with Buster.  She made silly faces at him and engaged him with enthusiasm and energy. Buster was thrilled.

We asked her if she liked flying on airplanes.  She said "no" because its boring after the first hour.  And, she explained, she didn't really like it when her ears hurt although she had learned how to blow air to relieve pressure.  It was at this point that this airport angel allowed her seven year old human nature to be revealed.  As she was trying to describe the process of ear pressure relief, her face looked a little perplexed and then she came up with this analogy:

"It's like your ears fart."

Oh, Grace.  Thank you.  That's just what we needed.  Really.  I think we survived the customs line riding on waves of laughter because of you.

Black Bread

Buster has discovered that he likes dark Estonian rye bread.  I don't know that I have ever seen an equivalent to this type of bread in the States.  When I say "dark", I mean practically black.  Not a typical item found on the "first foods" diet in the States, but for our little guy it has found its way into the lineup of peas, carrots, bananas, pears, apples, squash, and sweet potatoes.

Buster has also discovered that he does not enjoy sitting in his stroller all day long, but he does enjoy sleeping in his stroller all night long.  It would, in fact, be better to say that if he is awake, Buster much prefers to be carried in my arms where he can really see all the action.  But, if he is asleep, or trying to be asleep, at this point in our travels, he will not sleep anywhere but sitting up in his stroller like a little old man who has fallen asleep in his favorite chair.

It is possible that he has learned that yelling in the backseat of the car while mom and dad are in the thick of driving through trams, buses, and traffic while desperately trying to read the names of road signs that seem no bigger than a loaf of bread will result in any assortment of things (sippy cups, pacifiers, beloved "Roy", dark Estonian rye bread) being shoved at offered to him.

I'm hoping that he is learning that, even in the midst of new smells, sounds, sights, routines, betimes, mom and dad are trustworthy.  We will always do our best to meet his needs, protect him, and let him know that he is absolutely loved.

Eventually, I long for my son to have many memories of not just the adventure of traveling to new places, but the deep sense connection to people that transcends culture.  I long for him to experience the broad sense of the idea of "home" that I began to understand during the course of my 20's.

"Home" is where you know that you are wanted and waited for.

It has been such a joy and comfort to my soul to be in this place for which I have often felt homesick.  We have a couple days left in Estonia.  Just enough time to brainstorm how to bring lots of dark rye bread back on the airplane.

Milestones.

Babyhood is, of course, marked by many milestones:  smiling, laughing, rolling over, sitting up, cooing, and babbling to just name a few.   In the past week, I've encountered two less publicized but equally significant markers:  leaving Buster in the church nursery and leaving my brains who-knows-where.

The nursery thing has been weeks in the coming.  We've practiced with five minute and ten minute stints in nursery care.  This week, however, we went for the full deal.  It went something like this:  I take Buster to the nursery fully prepared to sit and play on the floor with him for the duration of church should he show any signs of distress.  He shows no true distress as our friend takes him from my arms and tells me to go and enjoy church.  I hesitate and find several reasons to stick around for a few more minutes.  I dig through the diaper bag and lay out his favorite toys.  I spread out his fleece blankie on the floor.  I adjust his clip-on pacifier.  I procrastinate until I start to feel silly.

Then I kiss Buster and leave.

And I watch him from around the corner like some sort of secret service agent or spy.   He seems fine.  Our friend looks at me, gives me the "thumbs up" and mouths "go".  I go.  And I return seven minutes later.  He's still fine.  He's playing on the floor surrounded by toddlers who are thrilled to have a baby to pay attention to and offer every single toy in the nursery to.  Buster looks like a king accepting gifts from his toddler peasants. I leave again and return to spy.  And leave and spy.  You get the picture.  Basically, Buster did great and greeted me with a gummy grin at the end of church.  Big milestone for Buster.  Even bigger for his mom.

The other milestone, the brains thing, is one that I've heard other mom friends mention.  They talk about feeling like they lose their brains as they have babies.  There has probably already been plenty of evidence of this in our household, but the most obvious happened this past week.  I had made some roast beef for dinner.  We had some leftovers so I made note that I would try to use it later in the week.   Later in the week came around and I started to feel like old lady from the Wendy's commercial, asking "where's the beef?"  It was nowhere to be found.  Until it was found.  By my husband.  In a tupperware container.  Stacked neatly in the drawer with all the other (empty) tupperware containers.  He looked at me like I was kind of crazy.

But in my mind I knew that I had just checked off another milestone of motherhood:  I've left my brains elsewhere.

I'm sure I'll find them again.  I think I'll start by checking the tupperware drawer.

Slumber.

I don't think I ever realized how differently my newborn son and I would view one single issue:  sleep.  As a brand new mom in those early weeks and even months, I longed for sleep.  Not just naps, but genuine long stretches of deep slumber.  During that time, if I ever were a passenger in a car, it was all that I could do to keep my eyes open and not immediately drop into a head nodding doze.  I was bone tired, because, seemingly, my newborn was not.


I don't know that Buster ever really went through that newborn phase where "all they do is sleep".  Although I'm sure that he did sleep at some point, I'm also pretty sure that for quite some time he didn't sleep for stretches that any adult would term "long" or "deep".  It's hard to say, because my sleep deprived memory from that stage is foggy at best.


I am thankful to say that, now, a half a year later, we are sleeping.  In fact, right now, Buster is taking a wonderful snowy-day-post-church-mid-afternoon nap.  And, I've already had a little snooze myself.  Even more wonderful is that fact that our nighttime sleeping can be counted in hours, not minutes.


Perhaps if I had had the assistance of Andrea Bocelli, Buster's newborn phase might have included a bit more time in dreamland.  Click here to see what I mean:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv38j4lPzd0


Editorial note:  This posting was developed with the sole intention of sharing the above video.  My husband and I both find it very funny.  I have to laugh every time I hear Elmo attempt to bargain with Andrea by singing "Elmo will be okay up..."

Beautiful and Terrible

I came across a quote recently while reading a friend of a friend of a friend's blog.  I guess the truth of the matter is that I was chasing internet rabbit trails.  You know, the long twisty ones that beckon you further and further until you have no idea why you sat down at the computer in the first place?  Those are the ones that I'm talking about.  This particular trail, however, ended with this treasure: 


"Here is the world.  Beautiful and terrible things will happen.  Do not be afraid." Frederick Buechner


This strikes a chord with me.  A pretty deep one.  So I had to research the quote and the context a bit further.  Essentially, it seems that Buechner, a theologian, states this in the context of God's promise of His presence.  His nearness is our good.  Our circumstances are not our good.  The promise of the presence of the One we call Emmanuel is our good.  And the world, our circumstances, will display the fantastically beautiful and the horribly terrible.  But He is near.  We need not be afraid.

I think the reason this strikes such a deep chord with me is because I love the risking taking beauty of it.  I believe in the message encapsulated in the quote.  I love the idea of living life fully, without fear, and with the assurance of the presence of God Himself.  I long to be able to communicate this kind of courage and assurance to Buster.  And at the very same time and in the very same breath, I want to protect Buster from every possible terrible thing that could ever come our way.  What mom doesn't?


Today I am celebrating with one friend as she welcomes her fifth child into the world.  And I'm grieving with another as she is saying goodbye and waiting for a loved one to be ushered into death.   


Beautiful and terrible.  And honestly, both stories have threads of beauty and pain.  What story, fully lived, does not?


And, according to my conviction which is sometimes even reflected in my experience, He is present in both.


So, shortly, I will gather up a sleepy Buster from his afternoon nap.  We'll pack ourselves up in the stroller and head out into the world to see what we see and find what we find.  And, hopefully, the steady message that I will learn to communicate is: "This is the world, Buster, we will not be afraid.  He who is the both the Good Shepherd and the Sovereign One, is present."

Beloved

I've always been comforted by routine.  Even with an adventurous spirit, there is something very soothing and grounding about it's simplicity and predictability.  When I must have been about three years old, I can remember the daily rhythm of Sesame Street.  It came on after my nap.  I can still faintly remember that post-nap sleepy feeling and the reassurance of watching my favorite characters do their thing.  I also vaguely remember Mr. Rodgers and how soothing it was to watch him take off his jacket and street shoes and put on his cardigan and Keds (at least they looked like Keds to me).  So I try to incorporate a lot of routine into Buster's days and, honestly, this is probably as much for my comfort as it is for his.

Motley Crew

These guys are all a part of our daily rhythm.  These are the "people" in our neighborhood.  It occurred to me recently, that they are quite the mixed assortment.  They do all share one thing in common though, well, two things, actually:  1) They must all come from some French origin as they all greet Buster with a kiss on both cheeks;  2)  They all share his affection as evidenced by his gummy grinned response to their kisses.

Out of this motley crew, however, there remains a favorite.  A beloved who already has a slightly worn nose and often damp ear to prove it.  His name is Roy. Roy is the friend who is reached for when nothing else will do.  He is the buddy who is cuddled first thing in the morning and as the last thing before bed.  He accompanies us to the doctor's office and bravely stands by the tough stuff of life.  Like shots.

This mom's heart kind of wants the Roy stage to last for a long time.  Something about it feels warm and comforting.  Like groggy Sesame Street viewing after a long nap.

Roy the Beloved

Lu.

Before I became mom.  Before I became a wife.  Before I moved to the mountains...

I became a cat owner.

This was essentially a "hand me down" cat.  A friend had rescued her from the streets.  Well, actually, a friend had rescued her from a suburban Denver neighborhood.  Due to the fact that this cat has something buried deep inside her that makes her want to kill any cat that comes within her line of sight, my friend, already a cat owner, had to find a different home for this little aggressor.  My friend basically challenged me to just "try out" this cat for a week.  So I did.  That was about five years ago.  And I named her Lu.

Lu and I have had our challenges.  Like coming home from work after one day of owning her to find her hanging from my shower curtain.  Like continually having to "rescue" her off of the roof of the house that I lived in because, for a period of time, she preferred to try to enter the house through an upstairs window.  Like a very expensive visit to the emergency vet after Lu took on her nemesis, Mike, the neighborhood orange cat.

And yet, I love this animal.  She pretty much does nothing all day long other than lay on soft things.  But I do love her.  She has endured many changes with me including moving to the mountains and subsequently becoming an indoor cat.  Though I think she'd hold her own against this new neighborhood's cats, she probably wouldn't fair so well against the bear that my husband saw off our deck about two years ago.

I have, however, recently become aware of some very passive aggressive behavior coming from my cat.  And, I have to say, it pushes my buttons.  I mean, it REALLY pushes my buttons.

I have developed a little routine that involves a cup of coffee and a few minutes just to be still in the morning after I put Buster down for his first nap.  I love this time.  And, lately, just as I sit down and reach for that first sip of coffee, Lu appears out of nowhere.  She marches over to my cup of coffee and she begins to pretend like she burying my coffee.  Like it is so distasteful to her that the only option is to bury it deep inside the earth.  And then she marches off to go lay on something soft.

It drives me bonkers.  It is so unnecessary, so opinionated.  So catty.

Graced.

Two tiny smiley face stamps.  One planted deliberately in the center of my right palm and one in my left.  Given to me at the end of an hour spent with a new kindergarten age friend.  This little person had been entrusted to my care for the purpose of understanding why the sudden changes in behavior.  The parts of the story that were being entrusted to me through words and pictures were linked together by grief.

I really try not to take for granted the privilege that it is to bear witness to another's grief. Particularly grief that is expressed from the littlest among us.  The kind of grief that brings a lump to my throat as I attend to the story.  The kind of grief that makes me want to come home to my little boy and wake him from a nap just to hold him for a while.  A nap into which his daddy has just spent an hour settling him.

And I struggle to be reminded that grief is sacred.  I cannot take on or take away another's grief.  I can enter into the process where I am invited, but I cannot and should not take it as my own.

So, at the end of our time together, these two smiley faces were given to me to carry home.  Such good and not necessarily deserved gifts to me.

Like little marks of grace.

Dinner at Denny's

One evening this past week, we found ourselves cruising up the road to a town about twenty minutes away underneath a brilliantly clear starry sky.  Our destination?  Denny's.  My husband, my son and I were taking a little road trip to find some supper and a little solace.

We opted for the two lane highway rather than the freeway.  Longer drive time.  Less traffic.  More peaceful.  More of a chance for Buster to settle down a bit and be soothed by the movement of the car.  It had been a rough afternoon.  Sometimes, when you're almost five months old, you have rough afternoons.  It happens.

We were seated in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.  Perfect.  My husband and I both settled on the Grand Slam.  Somehow, the option to put together a breakfast-for-dinner combination of our choosing was just what our slightly frazzled nerves needed.  I chose fruit as one of my combo options.  I think that fruit always tastes better when someone else has washed and cut it for me.  Even at Denny's.

We ate, both of us taking turns distracting and entertaining Buster.  Then we packed up, got back in the car and drove home.  And on the drive home, with our little guy finally settled and sleeping in the backseat, it struck me.  We are becoming a family. I know that we are technically already a family:  a mom, a dad, and a baby.  But, at the same time, we are becoming a family.  We are developing a shared history of simple moments and struggles; car rides and meals at Denny's.

The adventurous part of my spirit delights in the process and prospect of becoming and I couldn't ask for better travel companions.

Big Box Stores and Belly Laughs

Lest you judge, I'm just going to be straightforward and blunt about this.  I shop at Wal-Mart.  There, I said it. 

I have my own qualms about all the issues related to big box stores and all the ways in which these stores are not the prettiest reflection of our culture.  I also don't feel great about how this particular store has been cited for less than supportive employment practices.  But, the fact is, I still shop there, or perhaps the better description of what I do at Wal-Mart is wander.  

I've never really been a big "shopper" in general, but when I used to live in an area where there were malls, I would, on occasion, wander around a mall.  I now live in an area where there are no malls, but there is a Wal-Mart about twenty minutes up the road.  And there are days, particularly this winter as of late, when it simply isn't reasonable to go outside for a walk with Buster.  We get to about 3pm and he's already made the rounds of a couple naps, lots of indoor playtime (including baby flashcards, by the way, for those of you who still might be judging me) and we are in desperate need of a change of venue.  So, I load up my baby boy and we head to Wal-Mart.

Our little trip serves a variety of purposes.  One is that Buster really doesn't nap well the later in the day it gets, although he is clearly tired.  So a little car ride is a sure-fire way to get him to snooze a bit.  Another purpose is that, at this age, seated in his carseat while riding in a shopping cart and looking around at all sorts of things like lights, boxes, colors, people, etc. truly seems entertaining to Buster.  He's usually mesmerized by the experience. 

A final purpose is related to a quest that I'm on.  It's the quest for the belly laugh.  I've heard it a couple times, and I have to say that I feel like an addict of sorts.  That first belly laugh was so rewarding that I find myself just wanting more.  I'm a baby belly laugh junkie, and Wal-Mart has the makings for my fix:  Hoops and Yoyo greeting cards.  Buster finds these guys VERY funny.

So, after we've made a couple wandering laps around the various departments, we settle on Greeting Cards.  And I show him card after audio card of Hoops and Yoyo.  I laugh in an exaggerated way hoping to encourage the elusive but oh-so-worth-it belly laugh from my tiny Wal-Mart companion.  And, my bet is that I sound like a raving lunatic.  In fact, there may even be secret footage of me on someone's cell phone that they are intending to send into that website called People of Wal-Mart or Wal-Mart People or something like that.  But, quite frankly, I don't care, its worth it to me.


The temperature when we got up this morning was -12F.   I have a feeling its just that kind of day.  Hoops and Yoyo, here we come.

Its true.

It's true. 

I do crave milkshakes.

To be more specific, I crave vanilla milkshakes.  Straight up, no frills, vanilla.  Which is only significant because I have not always craved milkshakes.  They started to occupy a space towards the front of my thoughts when I was pregnant with my son.  It was my food of choice immediately after he was born.  Mixed in with a bazillion other thoughts while I was in labor, was the thought of a cold, smooth, creamy vanilla milkshake.  And so, shortly after my little guy entered the world and while I was holding him in my arms, both of us probably looking more than a little amazed and bewildered, my husband and my dad went out to find a vanilla milkshake for me.  They came back with the most heavenly milkshake ever created.  From McDonald's.  I promise, it was pure bliss.

My love of milkshakes is also only significant in that I can no longer indulge my desire.  For the sake of my little guy I'm going "dairy-free".  No milk, no cheese, no creamer in my coffee, and sadly, no milkshakes.  The truth is, I would eat crickets if I thought it would help him feel better.  But we're starting with dairy-free and seeing how that goes...