The Mississippi Delta

It never fails - as I drive the last curved lap of the hills heading down into the Mississippi delta, my first glance of the flat, beautiful land that stretches as far as the eye can see gives my heart a big tug.

I Write to Find My Way

Last spring, I went through some dark months.  I trudged through it, and found a happier way to be.  I started writing again, and discovered truths that, apparently for me, could only be discovered by writing, and digging deeper.  

I found some online friends that probably didn’t know how much they helped carry me through that time. I wasn’t able to talk to anyone in my real life for several reasons.  One of the reasons was that I couldn’t even identify what was wrong.  I was fighting ghosts.  These ladies helped me identify some things, and I felt a little more anchored by seeking out their writings.  (This is my first holiday season "knowing" these ladies.  In this week of gratitude, I am thankful for Lindsey, Pamela, Christa, and Christine. Thank you, thank you for your help this year.)

After a couple of months of focusing on myself, I expanded the circle to my family.  I created the Take Back My Family initiative, which, like life, morphed into something different than I expected, bringing unexpected peace, with a less tangible explanation. My initiative started with very specific guidelines, like eliminating most extra curricular activities and cleaning out our house.  

Roughly three months into Take Back My Family, and six months into my own journey, we are absolutely reaping the benefits.  It is far from perfect, as I’ve learned to accept most things are. We are happier than we have been in a long time.

I have long said that I hope no one finds all my writing when I die, because they will think I lived the most miserable life ever.  I have learned, mostly in the last couple of months, that I write more when I am not well.  Perhaps I write first to release, but secondly I write to find my way.  

I have blazed trails before, and it is hard work.  Sometimes I go through with a machete like tool and hack at the easier stuff, as a first go through.  Some trees have to be cut, and thrown aside.  Some take heavy lifting.  Some things grow back quickly and have to be taken care of for a second time.  Some have to be removed from their roots.  

When I write, especially this last year, I find things that I didn’t know were there.  It may appear to be painful writing, and undoubtedly it was excruciating at times. I have never (intentionally) shared my release writing, but have posted here much of my writing that helped me find my way.  

The past couple of months I haven’t written as much.  I have been living.  I have been very happily involved in some activities at my kids’ school.  I have been working on our house.  (ie: trying to ensure we don’t end up on Hoarders, the show I have never watched.) I have been slowing down.  I have been working on homework with the kids, and spending much time navigating their  learning disabilities.  I have been learning new ways to eat, much easier with more time at home.  I have been watching the kids build forts in our woods.  We built some fires at the fire pit this fall on Friday nights, and have already had many fires inside this fall.  I have watched my three dyslexic children develop confidence in their reading skills, and actually enjoy reading some books. I have lessened, if not eliminated, social obligations that weren’t fulfilling.  I have played many games of Uno and Mario Kart.  I have even read books that were not self help or memoirs.  Mindless murder mysteries just for fun.  And I finally had a birthday party for my daughter.... who turned six last May.  

I am enjoying my family and my life.  I am not in a rush to work on my book, or really in a rush to do anything.  When I start to breathe fast and worry that I am not doing enough, I take a deep breath.  I wanted to do more family excursions, but we are home most of the time.  We are nesting, I guess.  We are enjoying peace, and embracing change.  

Just Write (from yesterday)

This morning, I woke up and all the kids were awake.  The little ones were working on a project for Santa.  They were using green and red duct tape to make giant letters that said, To Santa. They started this project last night and were excited to finish it this morning.  My oldest daughter was sitting close to them and chatting with them, while she was chatting on skype with a friend.  

This juxtaposition, for me, exemplifies the tween stage.  Being close to her siblings, but not working with them, while I am in bed four feet away on the other side of the wall.  Having the stability and comfort of family, while venturing out into the world.  This feels perfect to me - healthy growth and expansion, yet still close and safe and protectable by me.  

The light was shining bright and made the room feel warm and cozy.  It was the perfect kind of warm.  The kind you appreciate.  The light’s trick - making us think it was warmer outside than it really was.  

There was, unbelievably, no quarreling, no fighting, no teasing, no aggravating.  I’ve heard these are normal, but I honestly believe this stuff is worse in our house than most.  The attention deficit disorderd kids just move their bodies and mouths twice as fast and twice as loud as most.  Not today.  The little ones were working together as if world peace might be just within grasp.  

They went to get dressed and gather their things for school.  I made them toast and a smoothie and fried eggs because they were being so delightful.  

Sally said her feelings were hurt because her big brother didn’t say hi to her when he passed her at school.  He tried to make excuses, but I know how he gets caught up and likes his own life at school.  We talked about how close these two are, and how family will always be there for us, even when friends aren’t.  He said, “I’m sorry, Sally,  Next time I will say hi.” She nodded, silently communicating that that would make her feel more secure in this world.  

We sang together on the drive to school, and Chaucer helped Sally read a book.  I was so lonely when I dropped them at school.  I wanted them to stay.  I wanted it to last.  

I wrote this as part of Heather at The Extraordinary-Ordinary’s Just Write exercise. Head on over if you want to learn and read more.

The Good 'Ole Days

Children accumulate multitudes.  I intentionally and with restraint rarely buy my kids toys.  First of all, they have plenty.  They have always received many gifts from many people and are the recipients of many second hand toys of friends and relatives.  Somehow, we are still bulging at the seams. 

Then there is the paper and art work and books.  I am a book lover and have not cleaned out their books EVER.  My oldest is eleven.  Thats eleven years worth of accumulating children’s books.  I always said that we were saving them for the youngest.  I would not let them get rid of any books, even if all the pop ups were torn out, some pages ripped, bindings falling apart.  I don’t have any of my childhood favorite books, and I wanted to make sure theirs were saved.  

So, last weekend I cleaned out shelves and shelves and boxes and closets of all of our children’s books.  I threw away (horrors!) the books whose bindings were done and that were falling apart.  I saved a few of the baby/toddler favorite books for each child.  (Honestly, sadly, I can’t remember any many of my third child’s favorites, so I made up some that were her favorites.)  We saved a bag of good ones for the new nephew/niece coming in March.  We fixed up their bookshelves with favorite sections - Diary of a Wimpy Kid, American Girl Series, World’s Record Book, Captain Underpants, and Baby Mouse.  And I made sections for two of them with “just right” reading books that they could turn to when needed.  And I have about 10 bags of books to donate. 

Guess what happened?  They want to read all the time.  They love how neat the shelves are, and now the shelves seem like they are for them, not a bunch of younger kids. 

You see, I was holding on to a time and years that have passed.  I thought I could stop time by keeping these favorites around. Some of the ones that I really liked didn’t become their favorites.  I held on to the hope that they could love what I loved.  While doing this, I was holding them back from finding their passions.  

We are still Taking Back the Family.  We are cleaning, purging, making room for who we are now, not the family we were several years ago.  We are making spaces and steps for growth for all of us.  Even if their childhood looks different from the way mine was or what I had pictured for them. 

I wished I had read more to them.  We read all the time, every night at least.  Often several times a day.  I loved reading to them and wanted more of that time back.  

Now they read things that I don’t read and it is hard to find a book that all four of us want to read.  It is also hard to find time for all of us to read together - with homework and even the limited activities we have now. 

Since the purge, my little ones have been asking for story books that we can read in one sitting again.  Sometimes they let me read, but often they want to read.  The cool nights have come and we are spending many nights reading by the fire before bed.  

These are, still, the good ‘ole days.  

Nuggets and a Salad

Two years ago, my husband and I celebrated our 10 year anniversary with a trip to the California Wine Country.  The details around this trip make a good story in and of themselves, but that is not the focus now. We had three or four days of doing what we wanted, talking without being interrupted, and eating a lot of food and drinking a fair share of wine.  

On the weekend that we were in California, my dad and step mother were visiting my step brother and his wife.  We were texting back and forth with him when he sends a random text.  I wish I could remember the exact words, or had access to it.  But that phone fell into a toilet at the Portland airport last year and all evidence is gone. 

The gist of the random text indicated that my step brother and his wife were now vegan.  Now, I’ll admit that I didn’t exactly know what that meant, but I had heard of it, and after living the last 15 years in the Midwest, it was definitely off the grid. I had been cautioning them to take very good care of themselves because they have accumulated five or six or twenty cats, which is weird enough.  But if one of them died, that would leave the other one living alone with all those cats and that might be cause for an intervention. 

Anyway, we were lazing away the afternoon at a quaint little restaurant eating squid and drinking wine.  I think we were about to order a side of burger with cheese soup. Well, maybe we weren’t but we could have been. We were texting back and forth asking questions, shaking our heads, and enjoying a good laugh out of this.  I hadn’t yet sharpened my awareness to pay attention when I start having smug thoughts and getting laughs out of situations like this.  

No animals or animal products.  I kept asking questions and my dad would answer, appearing uncharacteristically patient. I now know they were trying to absorb the change also.  My stepmother and stepbrother are private people.  They process things inwardly and give information on a limited need to know basis.  My dad and I talk out loud as we process.  My stepbrother dated a girl for about 7 years and one day, while visiting home, he is showing me pictures from a recent trip to Guatemala.  There are many pictures of a woman, whom appears to be more than a friend.  I asked him if Amy had seen these pictures and he said No.  I asked what she would think of them and he said he didn’t know.  He left and I asked my stepmother about it and she said they broke up. WHAT?!?!?!?

So, this is how we are introduced to major changes in his life. Like becoming a Vegan. Over the past few years, they have lived about three hours from us and they visit whenever my parents visit so they can get a free meal at a nice restaurant so we can enjoy quality family time.  My stepbrother has always been a foodie and would eat anything.  He introduced us to many restaurants in our town and foods like Kobe beef and carpaccio and sushi and whatever that raw fish that supposedly cooks with lime juice is called. 

So the vegan thing was kind of a big deal. 

It became a bigger deal the next month when we were planning their Christmas visit and Christmas dinner.  My parents come from Mississippi and they drive up from Iowa.  My husband and I cook the meals, and try to cater to everyone’s schedules and particularities.  This usually comes within a week or two of Thanksgiving, in which we also host my husband’s entire family.  We had the youngest kids and very busy lives.  I am tired thinking about it. 

I was attempting to explain some of this to my aforementioned father, whose lesser qualities include, but are not limited to, impatience and conflict avoidance. Trying to explain that planning for this one meal would take up the better part of two holiday season weeks prompted him to say, “Then we won’t come.” 

Not exactly the understanding and help I was looking for.  Of course I wanted them to come, so I said of course I could do this and would never want them to cancel.  

I put my all into the Christmas dinner.  I didn’t cook using butter or put cheese in the salad.  No animal secretions.  I bought horseradish hummus from Trader Joe’s and found avocados in December and made guacamole.  I didn’t cook in chicken broth and I bought a nut based sour cream.  I made a salad with a million veggies, roasted portobella mushrooms, had spinach, asparagus, and potatoes without butter. My step brother  brought a delicious squash soup.

And my husband made his famous prime rib.  You can only get this meat during the holiday season and it has long been a family favorite. He is a chef by trade and meats are his specialty. There was just a little glitch.  Everything was ready before the prime rib. So we ate the soup and salad, and saved the veggies to go with the prime rib.  

You see what’s coming.  After the appetizers and the soup and salad, we were full.  Steve had worked so hard and loved doing this for everyone.  It was hard to watch.  My dad and my stepmother and I all had some of his prime rib, but not because we wanted it.  We wanted to honor his effort and his skills and his gift.  

But the vegan Christmas dinner was one of the best holiday dinners I have ever had.  Yes, it was a lot of work.  And I was overwhlemed which made me look crabby about it at first.  I felt so good, like my body had just been tended to with such love and care.  I didn’t feel full or yucky.  

I felt like I had to keep this to myself.  For starters, I didn’t want to eat crow pie with a side of apology.  And I didn’t want to hurt my husband’s feelings.  And it was a lot of work.

I have wanted to make changes for myself and my family in the food arena for awhile.  It is very, very hard.  It is hard to incorporate children whose favorite foods are neutral colored and a meat and potatoes Midwestern husband.  I honestly have no idea how to do it.  When I try to make something healthy for myself, I often make something else for them, served with a side of resentment. Cue the ones who will say don’t make something else for them, they can eat what is served or not eat at all.  I have one child who is on a medication that suppresses his appetite all day, and has to eat his days worth of calories between 4 and 8 pm.  And of course they wont starve if they miss a meal, but I WILL go crazy listening to the moanings and cryings of hungry children for hours.  

I have tried really hard the last week with cooking for everyone.  After somewhat of a flop Wednesday night, my husband was sick of my food  recognized my frustrations and offered to cook chicken parmigiana for dinner Thursday night.  Yes, he can move effortlessly through the kitchen with a meat and frozen veggie and pasta.  But the chicken parm is special.  We picked the last of our tomatoes and he made a homemade tomato sauce that was to die for.  

Reading about Lindsey’s cleanse yesterday was intriguing, especially the part about how much better she felt.  It was on my mind all day yesterday.  As I ate my chicken parm dinner last night, I realized the only thing I could have had if I were to do this cleanse was the tomato sauce and the broccoli (if he would have held the butter).  As I watched my children eat their chicken without sauce and their white pasta and white bread melted with mozzarella (and their broccoli, Yea!), I worried about them and felt guilty for them eating this way.  At the same time I worry, sometimes when I fix something different, I make a side of pasta just so they will eat something.  Ugh! 

I am struggling with wrapping this post up in a neat little package.  I have no answer, just musings and questions, and trying to share a part of my journey. 

I am running to the store to get ingredients for this sweet potato, kale, and black bean salad.  And maybe some frozen chicken nuggets for the kids. Sigh.

Erasing the Lines

I remember hearing a speech about education either before I had kids or when Chloe was a baby.  Back when education and parenting were all theories that worked to perfection.  Back when I knew it all.  

The speaker was a father of four school age kids.  He opened with a cute little vignette.  He said his world was opened by the birth of his first child.  By having his own child, he finally, finally knew what kids were like.  And then his second child was born.  He was humbled by this experience, but was ultimately grateful because if he hadn’t had that second child, he wouldn’t have known there were two different kinds of kids in the world.    And then his third child was born, and, again he had to remold his ideas of categories for kids.  As an educator, I guess God didn’t think he was getting the message.  So, it took a fourth child for him to realize that, like snowflakes, all children, and all people were unique and operated in the world with their own internal compasses.  

I chuckled appropriately at his quaint introduction, smugly wondering if I was more qualified to give this speech.  

Ten years later, I have learned to heed caution when I have smug thoughts like this.  I have learned to brace myself and proceed gingerly.  I have learned to recognize an, often painful, lesson heading my way just as I can recognize the almost imperceptible cooler currents of August air letting me know Old Man Winter is always watching.  

Turns out, it was OK that I was smug that day.  I have always had a visceral understanding, and a subsequent appreciation of the differences in people, all their strengths and shortcomings, and how the world needs it all in order to function. To this day, I find it hard to take a stand on any side of most issues, given my propensity to understand, believe and feel both sides.  (Oh yea, except for my husband’s side.)  

When I was kid, I always wrote stories.  Or rather, I started many stories.  But my favorite part was planning the stories.  I would spend hours writing the descriptions and histories of the characters, or describing the houses and places that would eventually be in my story.  I would create an entire world and setting.  Often I was bored after that with the actual story line.  So I would move on to create another story.  

My newest lesson is a fun one, not painful.  (She says thankfully.)  It’s like starting a new story.  The lesson is basically an extension of all people are unique and special and should be honored for who they are. The new lesson incorporates complexity.  I think all people are much more complex than I have given them credit for in the past.  

This new discovery is a grass roots one, starting with myself and my family.  My kids go to a wonderful school where many adults know them intimately.  It’s not just their classroom teachers, but many specialist teachers (art, gym, drama....etc) and the associate director of the school.  They are opening my eyes to the complexity of my children.  I hadn’t realized how I had already put them in boxes that they may spend a lifetime trying to escape.  Even armed with the knowledge that the world does this and how much I fight it, I have come to the realization that I have done it.  

My oldest daughter’s greatest gifts are her persistence, her vibrant personality, her interpersonal skills, her artistic, musical, and writing abilities and her problem solving skills and her can do, will do, let’s do mentality.  I praise these all the time.  

My son’s greatest gifts are his athletic prowess, his mathematical and reasoning skills, his happy disposition, and his ability to charm anyone around him, making him much loved by anyone, adult or child, who comes in contact with him.  

My youngest daughter’s gifts are a little harder to articulate.  She values her relationships and is intensely loyal.  She is very slow to warm, cautious, and always follows her own internal compass, regardless of the external stimuli.  Her mind is always moving, processing and she needs quiet and alone time to process.  She will not talk to people unless she has something important to say, and does not like talking in front of groups of people.   She is athletic, very independent, loves drawing and writing, and is tough as nails.   

Last spring, I was talking to my son about the fitness test and talking often of the goals of the Presidential Award.  My oldest daughter finally came up to me and asked why I expected that out of Chaucer but not her.  Hmmmmm.

Last winter, my oldest daughter had an accident that ended up being painful for weeks.  She had to have an unexpected “procedure” at the hospital and it took lots of pampering and attention on our part.  My husband and I kept quietly wondering why it happened to her, rather than one of the other two, who would have been much tougher and less work.  The principal of the school called to say that in her 40 years of being in the school, she had never experienced such a tough kid.  Hmmmmmmm.

Last spring, some things were occurring in the second grade.  My son’s teacher started sharing some of them with me, and I brushed it off, saying he was always happy and, luckily, he didn’t get caught up in that.  She said, “Well.  I don’t agree.  I have found him twice crying in the bathroom.....”   Hmmmmmmm

My son has a reading disability and has to be pulled out of class to get extra help.  They  scheduled his tutor during art time because he had not appeared to care much about art.  He came home terribly upset because “Art is the best place to mix colors and poetry together.”  What?  Hmmmmmmmm

Sally’s first grade teacher came up and said she so appreciated Sally volunteering to give her “presentation” first.  She was so impressed at how well Sally carried herself while speaking in front of the class.  Hmmmmmmmm.

An assistant at school told me a beautiful story about Sally searching for days at the book fair for books for (the assistant’s) grandaughter.  Sally brought her books several times, often not saying a word.  She had this incredible awareness and was nurturing that relationship differently than we understood.  Hmmmmmmmmm

I am excited about my new discoveries.  I am giddy about erasing the lines I have inadvertently drawn around myself, my children and all those around me.  I am thrilled to discover the complicated complexities that are often hidden and obscured.  

Mostly, I am anxious to discover what limits I have put on myself and the opportunities that exist outside of the box.  

My Quest to End the Stupid Battles

My feisty grandmother died almost five years ago.  I don’t think about her every day anymore.  And I’m not sure when that happened.  She wasn’t sickly or elderly ever.  She just had a heart attack and died one night.  I am grateful for that, really.  Because she will always be strong and vibrant to me.  Because of this, it took me a couple of years to realize she was really gone.  

I have a  very rough draft an outline of a book about her.  I write this as evidence that she is not easily, nor quickly definable, so I won’t even attempt it now, as this post is really about me, not her. 

I was of adult age, but without children.  I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do and she replied,  “I don’t want to” or “I don’t feel like it,” or “No”, or one of her favorites, “Hell no.”  I may have tried to convince her for a minute or two but I know I didn’t try long.  When she didn’t want to do something, she wasn’t going to do it.  Period. 

What I did say was this:  “I wish I had a grandmother that was a pleaser.” 

And she replied, “I wish I had a granddaughter that wasn’t a smart ass.” 

I open with this story because I was about to open with explaining what a pleaser I am.  And then the thought of anyone that I know in my real life reading it began to consume me.  They would laugh, discredit me, and try to expose me as a fraud.  And chew me up and spit me out.  

But I am more of a pleaser than people realize.  By people, I mean everyone.  Friends, family, kids, parents, husband, and especially myself.  I am finding a little joy in realizing this fact.  

First and foremost, I am a straight shooter.  I tell it like it is.  I call a spade a spade.  I can see how this could be perceived as not being a pleaser.  Because sometimes what I have to say is not always pleasing.  I have learned over the years that the truth doesn’t always have to have sharp edges, and I have acquired a light filter.  (Yes I have.) But life is complicated enough than to have to try to be someone I am not, and this, directness, if you will, is as much a part of me as my  hazel eyes and  the Mississippi of my youth. 

The other reason people may not think I am a pleaser is my refusal to do some things.  I do many things.  And I do many things I don’t like to do.  But every now and then I adamantly refuse to do something I don’t want to do.  To hell with the consequences.  And every now and then, I may do something that no one else thinks I should do, to hell with the consequences.  And many times, an apology should accompany these actions, but most times it doesn’t.

This is a good segue into why, actually, I am a pleaser.  

Except there’s one more thing. Damn, that realization was a really good segue, but I need to explain one more thing that again, some would argue.  I am often, sometimes a pretty easy going, low maintenance person.  I can hear certain people laughing and guffawing and coughing in protest now.  Like my husband.  And my father.  Actually, since the birth of my third child, and getting to know her over the last few years, I have come up with a pretty good description that probably most would agree is accurate. 

I am really laid back and easy going, except when I’m not.  

This may sound funny, but it is the best truth.  Another way, although not as accurate, is to say I have a long fuse.  So, I generally don’t care what we do, how things are done.  And if I do, and it isn’t done my way, I generally won’t argue, I’ll just carry on.  If I do have and state my opinion, if it’s a battle to get it done my way, I just won’t fight it. 

There are basically two times I will fight it.  If I feel very strongly about it from the beginning and deem it battle worthy.  Like when our kids were babies, I didn’t want them to have juice.  Steve wanted to give them juice all the time and said kids drink juice.  I explained about the sugar content and training them to like sugar.....etc.  Now, many people are amazed that our kids only drink milk and water.  They don’t like kool aid, most juices, pop (or coke or soft drinks depending on where you live).  In essence, our kids don’t drink sugar.  Battle worthy.  

The other time I fight it (what is it?) is less admirable and more foggy and something of which I am not proud.  I fight and spit and spew when I am done.  Just done.  Done with everything.  Now, I can hear it.  Here it comes.... everyone does that, you do a lot for your family, you are not taking care of yourself.  Yes, thats true.  But it makes me react over little things as if they are BATTLE WORTHY.  Like the color of my daughter’s head band not matching her outfit or the way my husband loads the dishwasher or the teachers saying to act as if school started fifteen minutes earlier than it does.  

Here is a summary of what I have written so far:

1. I am (more of) a pleaser (than most realize)
2. I am usually laid back. (except when I am not)
3. I fight WORTHY BATTLES. 
4. And I fight stupid battles when I am not taking care of myself. 

MAY I INTERRUPT THIS POST FOR A MINUTE? All bloggers are writers, and many, many have written, or are writing books.  Many writers say they write to discover what they know.  And many writers say that they don’t know what they are going to write when they sit down to write.  I used to think this was a crock of shit never believed this until I started experiencing it, EVERY TIME I SAT DOWN TO WRITE.  OK, so now that I have acknowledged that I never know where my writing is taking me, may I say that I am getting a little tired of every piece of writing coming back to the same thing: YOU CAN’T TAKE CARE OF OTHERS UNTIL YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.  I am tired of this.  I want to move on.  I get it.  I get it.  This is like memorizing the Canterbury Tales.  I worked and worked on it.  And now I can never forget it.  It became so ingrained that I named my son Chaucer for Christ’s sake.  I can only hope that this lesson that keeps presenting itself over and over like an unwelcomed guest, will become as ingrained as the Canterbury Tales. 

Life has become better since I have started taking care of myself.  And actually learning and experiencing what that looks like.  Writing has become almost as vital as air itself.  If I don’t take the time to write and reflect, I am crabby, unproductive, selfish, and unloving to those I love the most.  

My mother is visiting, and she is much more of a doer than I have ever been.  (Someone has to be, right?)  She comes and does many projects that make our lives much more manageable and healthy.  We have always done projects and it forms a core of our relationship.  Although these projects are benefitting my family and me, and not her, my heart has not been in it. I wanted her to know how thankful I am for what she does.  I wanted her to feel like she is helping us and accomplishing something.  I wanted her to understand that I want her around even when she isn’t working.  I love to hear her voice in the morning, and smell the smell of my mama being around. But I don’t want to do projects now.  

You see, I have a new air.  I am smothering without my pen.  

The struggle for me, the pleaser, this week has been giving up my new air so my mother would feel loved, useful, welcomed, appreciated, adored.  And the irony is, in all my efforts, I feel as if I have failed.  

I don’t want taking care of myself to be a stupid battle when I am on empty.  I don’t want taking care of myself to be .... in your face, fuck you, I’m doing what I want.  I want it to be like eating and bathing and breathing.  Just something you do every single day in order to live.  

So, in a cloud of guilt and heaviness, I told my mother this morning that I just didn’t want to work on these projects.  I wanted to spend time with her, but I need to take care of myself, so that I have more to give. I have learned a new way to be.  A life where I don’t have to trudge through every day.  I didn’t know there was an easier way. 

And do you know what she said? 

“O.K.  All you had to do was tell me. Enjoy your morning.” 

I didn’t know it could work like that.