In which I have an epiphany

I've decided tennis is the perfect marital sport.

My Man and I played during our Fantastical Free Weekend, in true hoity-toity fashion.

And during the many minutes I spent chasing balls, I ruminated upon the subject that is tennis.

Thing first.

It's easy to keep score. There aren't many rules. I can follow them. (I STILL don't really get football.)

It's equally masculine and feminine. There need not be any embarrassment on either side. (He would never do Pilates with me, for example.)

It is fun for all skill levels. Even if you are completely deplorable at the sport, you still spend just as much time as an expert hitting the ball back and forth. (On the other hand, when 'playing' basketball, I basically never touch the ball.)

It's a decent workout. Not much standing around, waiting. And yet you're not running constantly, either. There's room for conversation. (I think it falls somewhere in between soccer and golf.)

It's fairly accessible. And outside. Most places have tennis courts, and once you buy rackets - which can be had for cheap, if you so desire - you're done. (Ice skating and skiing this is not.)

It's easy to fit into a schedule. You can play it for fifteen minutes or two hours. (Whereas swimming you couldn't squeeze into a nap schedule.)

It's perfect for two. You don't need more people to have fun. (Baseball for one couple is laughable.)

It's fairly ageless. Young people play it. Old people play it. (I've never seen the elderly play hockey, however.)

And most of all, My Man loves it.

In which I am every marketer's dream

I'm a highly suggestible person. If it's marked two-for-one, 10% off, or Last Day Only!, I need it.

I first realized this highly undesirable trait when I was sixteen years old. I was at the dollar store with a friend, looking at nail polish, when I saw it. A pearly pink bottle with a bright red sticker: "Last Chance for This Item! Discontinued This Month!"

I bought it immediately.

Upon arriving home, I understood exactly why they were choosing to discontinue this particular color: because it barely showed up on my nails, and gummed up if the wind brushed it the wrong way.

I still have that nail polish - to remind myself of my stupidity. Whenever I see a Fabulous Sale!, I think of that innocent pink bottle, and tell myself NO.

For the most part I succeed, but I still have these "frugal urges" every once in a while ...

Like the other day, when I passed the billboard for the hospital to see that the waiting time was only six minutes!, and had to fight the compulsion to check myself in.

I mean - what a deal, right?!

In which I type a word I never say

So after said car accident, I went to the chiropractor for the first time.

Apparently, chiropractors are a big deal. I didn't know. 

They can ease ear infections, alleviate menstrual cramps, remedy indigestion, and they're working on a cure for cancer.

They also make me fart a lot.

See, early in our marriage, My Man and I decided to enforce a strict "pooter whenever you darn well feel like it" policy. Unless it's particularly bad, in which case you'd better leave the room. Or at least warn each other. But for the most part, it's generally Free Toots around here.

And sometimes I forget that other people may not abide by said policy.

So back to my back.

I'm told that the accident whacked the curve right out of my neck. This is bad. You're not supposed to have a straight neck. So I've been going veryveryoften for alignments and physical therapy. Apparently I'm a sucker for pain.

Yesterday, I had my first dose of deep tissue massage (to work out all the soft tissue scars that won't let me bend my neck. Since I generally like bending my neck, I agreed.)

First there's the question of what to wear. Or not. They said to "undress to the level of your comfort." Well, lady, if it were that easy, I'd wear my sweats. Or perhaps a Snuggie. But then they might write "prude" under my patient notes, and I'd feel dumb.

So yesterday, with Scentsy burning and some nice Chopin in the background, she instructed me to "go ahead and get between the sheets." And then she leaves the room.

Pressure!

I had to make a quick decision, and decided to strip to my underwear.

(I can't wait to see what google searches will come up with for this post ...)

Feeling slightly kinky, I told her she could come back in. Hopefully it was too dark to see my blush.

Then there's the trouble of what to talk about - or not. I mean, we'd just met, and she's rubbing me all over with oils. I might as well know her favorite color.

Finally I just shut up and let myself enjoy it. And then ... I felt it.

A little bubble descending. That would totally ruin the Scentsy.

So then I'm alternately clenching and trying to "relax" without stinking up the place. I was practically sweating with effort. Not only will I be labeled a prude, but a gaseous one at that. I might have to switch chiropractors.

But success was had, and no flatulence was expelled. Forty-five minutes of victory.

Feeling awfully proud of myself, I got dressed and waited for the doctor for my adjustment. And -

POP!

I might have to switch after all.

In which I risk being called mean things

So for most of my life, I've walked around in jeans and T-shirts. Except - not CUTE jeans and T-shirts. Loose, too-short jeans and loose, too-long T-shirts. My hair was mid-back and I just let it air-dry naturally. (Translation: scraggly.) No jewelery. Minimal makeup. (Just enough to cover the zits.)

Brazil did not change me. Even when all my friends were blinged out on a daily basis and wearing high heels, I prided myself on being a slouch.
(Because really, the definition of cool is not caring - right?)

So let's back up to about a year ago.

I was getting ready for the day, and deciding between two particularly shapeless pieces of cotton. And Little Prince pulled out a blouse. A pretty, colorful blouse that I usually wore on Sundays.

"No, LP - that's for Sundays. I don't need to look that nice today."

"But, Mom, I like it when you look nice."

*****

And that's when I had a revelation. And epiphany, if you will.

Why shouldn't I dress up every day? Why do I feel I can't look nice "only" for my family? Aren't my kids and husband the most important and best people in my life? Shouldn't I want to look my best FOR the best?

Answer: Y.E.S.

Thus began a journey to The New Me.

I buy nicer clothes now - not just the clearance racks. I wear earrings - and sometimes even a necklace - on a daily basis. I do my hair. I put on makeup. Every day. Even if the farthest I go from home that day is the backyard.

It's amazing how much nicer you feel when you look nice.

Disclaimer: My one rule is that I have to be able to PLAY in my clothes. No dry cleaning allowed. If I can't jump on a trampoline or get down in a sandbox, I won't wear it. And yes, I've broken a few necklace chains (thanks, NBC), and yes, my hair is usually pulled back in a pony by 3:00. 'S alright.

Second disclaimer: If you wear your pajamas all day - good on ya! I see nothing wrong with this. If you feel good in those pajamas, then go for it. I am not judging you. Really.

But what I didn't anticipate is that sometimes - just sometimes - I make people uncomfortable. Like when someone stops by early morning and sees that I'm dressed and ready - it's, "Oh my gosh, that's DISGUSTING! You look so good!"

Hmmm.

I think they think that I'm judging them? But I really couldn't care less ....

I don't know. I feel good in my new skin. It fits well.


The end.

The dark side of humility

So I'm really into service. I'm also really into self-deprecating. And sometimes my two hobbies don't mix.

The other day I was delivering a meal to a sick friend. She immediately commences my least favorite part: the thank you.

I never know just what to do with The Thank You. It's embarrassing. It's awkward. I have nowhere to look. So generally I just do what I do best: run myself down.

"Oh, it was nothing! Nothing at all! I was cooking this for my family anyway! I just doubled it! It was just a crockpot meal! In fact, I just ripped open a package from Costco and heated it up! Really, truly, madly, deeply NO BIG DEAL!"

Translation: You're really not worth the effort, and I'm really not worth The Thank You.

Bad Becky. Bad bad bad.

Why can't I say, "You're welcome! I wish I could do more."

Or

"I love you - of course I'll bring you dinner."

Or

"You're my friend - serving you is a pleasure."

Or better yet - maybe I should just stick to anonymous stuff?

I annoy myself sometimes.

In which I finally join civilization

I have a cell phone.

I could totally get used to this texting thang.

In which I need some sequiny red shoes

We've moved a lot.

You know?

We spent the first year of our married life in Michigan. Then another year in Ohio. Then Brazil - wherein we moved four times.

So we've done the pack-unpack-make friends-leave friends - pack-unpack-make friends-leave friends thing. It's really no fun at all. 

And while we always made spectacular friends wherever we were - 

none of the places ever felt like h o m e.

When we went on long trips - like, long, ten-hour-plane-trip-trips - when we finally pulled up in the driveway ... nothin'. 

Home was wherever My Man and the kids were. The house itself ... they were always just houses. We came "house" - never home.

But now? I think I've finally found it. 

H

O

M

E

Have I told you how much I love Arizona?

I love Arizona.

I actually love the blistering hot summers. I love letting my children run naked all day in the sprinklers. I love swimming practically every day in the neighborhood pool - and the fact that my hair is dry before we get home. I love eating so many Otter Pops our lips never return to normal color. I love the sweltering evenings - the heavy air hanging - the crickets chirp chirping under an immense desert night sky.

I love the beauty of this place. It's a different kind of aesthetic than the leafy green wonder that is Michigan - where I grew up. They both set my heart a-glow. But Arizona - it's different. The strong-lined mountains cutting into the sky - a sky that is always, always blue. And the intense color of summer flowers in full bloom - the deepest of pinks and purples and oranges and reds send me into raptures.

I love the people. People are nice here. They give you directions and help you with groceries and stop to talk to you on the street. Arizonians are colorful - cheerful - they're into health food and citrus and farmer's markets and can be found everywhere running, biking, walking, swimming, moving. Arizonians are outside.

I love that there are so many people of my faith here. I love that on my street of thirteen houses, ten of them are Mormon. And yet - I'm glad we're not overrunning the city. (Though we are overrunning my subdivision.) I love that 85% of people you meet are not members. I love the diversity - the opportunities to meet different kinds of people - the chance to be an example and teach.

I love the community. I love that I can find any class or sport imaginable - available during your choice of times. I love that there are always at least four parks within walking distance, wherever you are - and usually a few pools, too. I love that there are fun, funky shopping areas where we can stroll and absorb the eclecticity of humans. I love that the parking spaces are van-wide, the grocery stores have free child care, and every fast-food restaurant has a playplace.

I love the endless museums within 30 minutes of my house. I love the art - the culture - the theater - the symphony. I love that there is so much to do here.

And I love the winters. I love that the winters here are like autumn everywhere else. I love that I get months of colorful, crunchy leaves - and still get to keep my blueblue sky and lush green grass.

I. Love. Arizona.

Welcome home.

Oober Legit Post

I just wanted to say that.

Anywho!

So after taking a bloggy sabbatical for, well, a really long time, I'm catching up on the cyber world. Lemme tell ya - high, concentrated doses of bloggy reading does things to you.

I've come to the following conclusions:

Apparently I need an "about me" and "best of" page
Apparently I need to renovate something in my house
Apparently I need to take more pictures of my outfits
Apparently I need to take more pictures of everything I eat
Apparently I need to take more pictures
Apparently I need to put more buttons on my blog
Apparently I need to join Twitter

Apparently.

But more than anything, I was struck with the "oh, gosh, I love my sweetperfectcutestbabyonearth because he's just AMAZING" trend. Because he slept through the night from the minute he left the uterus, because she was perfect on the plane from LA to New York, because he smiles and coos at appropriate times, because she could do compound math before her first tooth arrived.

The skeptic in me laughs until unattractive noises spew out of me.

Do these parents really think that you can possibly love your baby BECAUSE OF anything? What if your baby had the ability to shoot yellow poo up to distances of three feet every time you changed his diaper? What if the mere sight of a car seat left your baby struggling and kicking and wailing until your heart wanted to break? What if your baby screamed at bat frequencies every time you set him down? What if you had a baby that only napped in twenty minute intervals?

Not that MY children fit any of those qualifications ....

I promise you that you would still love your baby - of course you would. I do.

So I want to say to these moms - I'm so glad you have such a sweetperfectcutestbabyonearth. You are lucky. You are blessed. But you do not love your child because of their perfection.

You love your child because you are their mother.

My flock

 My Man grew up on a sheep farm in central Utah.

Did you know that?

Every time we go to my in-laws, I fall in love with him again. I like seeing him in his natural environment. He may act like a big-whig city guy in the business world, but he's quite comfortable moving sprinkler pipes and hauling hay in coveralls.

I want my kids to be comfortable, too. 

Pretty much every time we visit, I want to move there.

My Man doesn't understand why farm life seems so idyllic to me.

I know what it's like - the long hours, the pay, the every-single-day-no-benefits-no-vacation-up-to-your-knees-in-dung part.  I've even helped mark sheep. (Of course, I interpret "help" in the loosest manner possible ....)

I really don't know how to explain it. It's the back to basic-ness of it. The simplicity. The connectedness. The grass-roots-spirituality. The living by the sweat of your brow. A farm is the best way to learn about the world and compassion and responsibility and gratitude and work and life - and death. (My kids were appalled one night when they were told the "mutton" they ate for dinner used to live in the backyard.)

I know the chances of us packing up and shipping out to Sanpete are slim to nil. Still - I know that farm life made My Man the person he is.

And I want very much for my kids to follow in his footsteps.

I done did something

No more swoop. My bangs are now SOLID.

Maybe I should change my header now ....

(For the record, I did it about a month ago. I figured it was time I officially announced it.)

I'll be banged

So I've had bangs for a couple months now, and I think we finally understand each other. We've had some miscommunications - we've had our fights and disagreements. There's been sacrifices on both sides.

The fact is, hair spray saved our relationship.

O hairspray, where hast thou been all my life?

Seriously - how have I survived this long without it? Millions of women are hairspray devotees, and I'm just a little late to jump on the bandwagon. It's like the people who refused to read Harry Potter and are just now getting into it. Why did you wait so long?

But I've repented. I'm a total convert now.

Just wanted you to know.

In which I indulge in a little (or a lot) of self-pity

So I have carpal tunnel.

It pretty much stinks.

It's been goin' on a couple weeks now, varying between what's-up-with-this-funky-tingly-feeling? to holy-crap-I-want-to-cut-off-my-arms.

Went to the doctor. Liked him a lot. Until he said "take it easy and try not to strain your hands." That's like saying, "oh, and by the way - try not to breathe."

Tcha. 

Because LIFE strains my hands. Holding children, changing diapers, making beds, washing floors, folding laundry, kneading bread, sewing quilts, taking pictures, writing notes, playing piano ... all pretty much impossible when the nerve running up and down my arms is on fire. Or numb. Or both.

And I know what you're thinking - why is That Girl typing, for crying out loud? But to tell you the truth, it's about all I can do. (Especially with braces on, it's really no big deal.) Typing isn't weight-bearing, so as long as my wrists are immobile, I'm okay.

Now holding up a book - that's tough. 

But I truly think what bothers me most is not what this is doing to me, but what this could mean for my loved ones. Cuz my mom - SHE has struggled with carpal tunnel her whole life. I know what it's like to have to open her a jar, pour her a glass of milk or wring out a towel. All the time.

And it pretty much stinks.

I was never angry at her. I never blamed her. But - it's no fun. 

And I do NOT want that for my children.

So right now I'm crying like I have some fatal disease, feeling sorry for myself and doing as much as I can while pretending I'm not in pain. Great plan, eh?

Naw - mostly I'm just counting down til I get bad enough they let me do the surgery. I'll do anything - anything! - to be able to be independent again.

K. Back to your regularly scheduled morning.

In which I'm annoyed with my body

So last week when I was randomly looking at my blog (do you go back and read old posts of yours? No? mmKay ...) and I noticed that on my sidebar, in big bold black letters was


YOU HAVE NOT UPDATED YOUR WEIGHT FOR 80 DAYS. 

*insert speechless face*

Yes, I know my weight has not changed in foreverz - thanks soooo much for the reminder.

I gained close to 60 pounds with the NBC. That's almost double what I gained with the other three. Not sure why - maybe the bed rest factor? Anywho, it's been a beast to lose it all.

Actually - I haven't lost it all. As TickerFactory so kindly reminded me. Loudly and embarrassingly.

So I've lost 48 pounds. That's good. That's great. That's wonderful. I should shut up and be happy, yes?

'Cept I still have 8 to go. And technically another 10 after that before I'm pre-Mr. Squishy. So that's basically 20, and that's basically depressing.

Thing is, I don't think I've ever been in such good cardiovascular shape. Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays I run four miles. Tuesdays and Thursdays I bike ten miles. I do the occasional Pilates ball and push-ups, too. I stretch. I eat right.

And yet the scale HAS NOT BEEN UPDATED FOR 80 DAYS.

Plus also I'm severely squishy. I fit in my jeans, but there are chunks.

(Me, after getting back from running, as taken by Little Prince.)

Pretty sure my metabolism has slowed to a crawl or something.

Does anyone have any magic cures? Which doesn't require me to bump up the exercise or further limit my (already limited) diet? A pill or some kind of magic chant would work just great ....

Looka here

I got BANGS.

It's not national news. It really will not affect your life at all. But it is solely responsible for my not paying attention to the lesson at church today.

How come everybody else's bangs fall casually and elegantly to the side, while mine fork all over the place? I counted thirteen people with bangs in Relief Society. No forks.

This may have something to do with my answer of "Does my husband's gel count?" to the hairdresser's question of "What kind of hair products to you have in your bathroom at home?"

She told me I will

A) have to train my bangs
B) love my bangs if trained correctly
C) have to mess with them constantly til we find out what works for us
D) have to go to marital counseling with my bangs

Ahem.

"I hereby promise to attend Bang Obedience School."


Is that a zit?
I can't decide if it's Sixth Grade Sweetie (when I curl it) or Rocker Chick (when it's air dried).

But hey. I'm both, right?

In which I'm home, but not

So I'm in Michigan right now.

I'd forgotten how humid it is here. The air, it's close and heavy. Lungs have to work harder. My hair takes twice as long to dry and I feel like I'm wet long after the shower is over.

Michigan is a place where you can believe fairies exist. It's full of little forest glades and wooded groves. The colors are somehow more intense here, and you can find every shade of green on a short summer stroll.

image here

I've missed the trees. I'm friends with several, you know. They don't seem to mind that I've been away for so long; there aren't any awkward pauses in our conversations. They know me. And I've measured my life by theirs.

We're packing up my mom and sister. It is a bittersweet, melancholy process. They've been in this house for almost twenty years, and I greet memories in every corner.

I'm going to be doing a Trip Down Memory Lane series for the next few weeks while we're here.

Watch me grow up - and say goodbye.

Hi

So I read a lot of blogs.

But I don't really know that many bloggers.

Have you noticed this? How many bloggers might take beautiful pictures - write beautiful words - even be beautifully, ridiculously popular - but you really don't know them at all?

I don't like that.

So I'm going to introduce myself. For real.

HI.

I'm married. I think my husband is the most amazing person on the face of this planet. Like, really.

I have four boys. I love staying home with them. But I lose my temper more often than I should, and don't get down and play like I should either. I do think I get drastically better every year, though. Maybe I'll be the perfect mom by the time they move out?

They are all two years apart and sometimes I wonder if that was so smart.

But gosh darn it I love my boys.

I'd like a daughter, but don't know if I want another kid. This leads to majorly stressful thoughts.

My parents are getting divorced. Thirty-five years. That makes me sad.

I really hate the hour before dinnertime.

(I think about the statement-two-sentences-ago a lot. Yeah. Moving on.)

I limit the television mucho-lot-o. Sometimes it's hard to stick to it when my children are bored.

I'm strongly religious, and it influences my every thought and deed.

I hate money. I hate credit. I hate debt. I have a hard time when people make poor financial decisions.

I love being outside.

I think I'm fat.

I don't like chit chat. Maybe that's why I hate the phone? I like deep, meaty conversations with lots of soul searching and belly laughs to boot.

I have a very hard time being the first to bridge the communication gap.

I cannot be overly busy or overly at-home. Both drive me nuts.

I still feel like a homely wallflower nerd most of the time.

I'm still cowed by 'the popular kids' most of the time.

I'm still stupid most of the time.

I'm generally open to suggestions, and I admit when I'm wrong. But once I've made a decision, don't get in my face.

(Please.)

I can be really weird.

I fart whenever I feel like it.

I'm crafty, but not in your face about it.

I try to be healthy. But love desserts.

I still bite my fingernails sometimes.

My mom and sister are moving in with us. I'm actually pretty excited about it, but maybe I shouldn't be?

Things are about to change around here.

I struggle with motivation and proactivity.

Most of the time I'd rather be reading a book.

I really want a fudgesicle right now, but I shouldn't ....

I get really depressed when I think of all the things I want to do and buy.




And I want to get to know you better.

In which I start out really well and then crash

Today is Saturday. That means it's cleaning day.

First is the dusting. Mr. Squishy helps me spray down all our wood furniture (and we have a lot), while I waxonwaxoff. My living room smells like lemon.

My Man vaccuums and mows the lawn, too. He doesn't like to dust.

I did one bathroom yesterday and another today. I resign myself to having boys and scrubbing disgusting tile grout.

The day continued. I watered plants, cleaned the oven, scrubbed chairs, went through the everlasting pile of papers on the counter. Picked up books in the living room, picked up books in the kitchen, picked up books in the hallway, picked up books in the bedrooms.

We took some breaks. (Ghana WON?!) We went swimming. (It's freakin' hot.) I went shopping. (I went down a size!) I cooked some food. (We like to eat.)

But the cleaning continued all day. And at 8:00, despite gleaming surfaces, a sparkling floor, and white tile grout, THE HOUSE WAS STILL A WRECK.

I'm talking about stuff. Just - STUFF - all over our house.

The wheel to that one rolly pouf. Random keys. Pieces to the Spiderman puzzle and cut up paper from the boys' latest project. Post-it notes with phone numbers. Broken crayons. Half used notepads and Brazilian coins.

STUFF.

And I might have had a minor meltdown.

I huffed and puffed that I

pickuptwentyfourhoursadayeverydayofmylifeandinevergetanywhere. it'slikediggingaholeandfillingitbackupeverynight. ijustcleancleancleaneverydayandyoucan'teventell.
ikillmyselfeverydayandnoonecares.
ibasicallyhatemylifebecauseican'tstandtheclutter. iknowitdoesn'tmatterifmyhouseisdirtybut*I*caretremendously. idon'tlikeSTUFFidon'tlikeSTUFFidon'tlikeSTUFF. ican'tthinkstraightinherebecausethejunkeverywhereiscloggingmybrain. itpilesupeverywhereandijustcan'tfunction.
and so on and so forth

I actually cried a little bit.

But after the inevitable guilt and apology, I realized something.

My house will have STUFF all over it for a good eighteen more years, at least.

I might as well get used to it.

Right?

Finally

Packed them all up. He's three months old. Don't judge.

In which I once again don't follow the crowd

So triathlons seem to be the "in" thing lately. They're all the rage both in and out of the blogosphere. Even My Man is catching the Tri Bug. And I have three words for all of you.

Good for you.

Now five more.

I'm so not with you.

I don't razz or ridicule you - especially since you're all buffer than me. I respect you immensely. Just from a distance. A very far distance.

See, I have this problem with sweat-induced introvertedness. My body quite literally shuts down when asked to perform in front of others. And no, I've never been good at organized sports, why do you ask?

My Man is just the opposite. He is able to push himself more - farther, stronger, faster - when presented with an audience. It's motivating to him to work out in front of or alongside others. He does best when he's racing someone.

Me, not so much.

When I'm out running or biking and see someone heading my way, I cross the street rather than have to pass directly next to them. (Sometimes I criss-cross quite a bit.) When there are people on both sides of the street, I all but come to a complete stop. I can't tell you how far I've come just to be able to exercise outside instead of within the privacy of my own home. Hey. It's the little things.

***(I know, in a way, this is extremely self-centered of me. I freak out that people are staring at me, analyzing me, measuring exactly how much I'm panting - when I know deep down they probably don't even notice me. But hey. I never claimed I was rational.)

So yeah, the idea of a triathlon - swimming, biking, and running in front of not just one or two, but DOZENS, maybe HUNDREDS of people? Just thinking about it makes me clam up.

And I really think that's okay.

I'm totally at peace with my insecurities. It doesn't keep me from exercising. It doesn't harm me in any way. I'm a freak, and I'm okay with that.

A closet triathlon, now that I could do. Totally on my own. By myself. Just me and my thoughts and my iPod. Now that's motivational. Maybe in September?

I was just wondering

So last Friday we had a Family Date to the park. Barbecue chicken, chips, jello salad, grilled lemon asparagus, the works. We played, we ate, and we played some more.

Then a whole bunch of middle schoolers showed up.

Now I know you are probably all collectively rolling your eyes at the blight upon humanity that is middle schoolers, but I didn't. At first, anyway.

Then the obnoxiousness started.

A bunch of boys were flirting with a bunch of girls, and then the bunch of girls started bickering and the bunch of boys started being stupid. It ended when a bunch of boys did something rude to a bunch of girls and a dad was called and he showed up and cussed out the boys, who then went home.

My Man and I raised our eyebrows a lot, but mostly we just ate during all the drama.

On the way home, we passed another group of boys - high schoolers this time, by the looks them - just hanging out on a street corner. Hoodies and shorts, all. I couldn't help eyeing them suspiciously as we drove by. What were a gaggle of teenage boys doing on a street corner at 7:00 at night, I ask of you?!

(Most likely nothing.)

As I looked at each of those boys in the eye, I couldn't help thinking. Every one of you has a mother who thinks the world of you. And you probably deserve it.

So here's my question. When do boys stop being (at least in the eyes of the general population) precious little princes and start becoming disreputable hooligans? Every baby boy starts his life being coddled and cooed over, then works his way up to being ignored, and finally completes his youth by making everyone in the vicinity wary and suspicious. Especially when there's more than one.

I have four. And it hurts my heart to think anyone would ever think of them as anything less than perfect.










Because they are.