By Karrie McAllister
Mondays are usually pretty long for me. We’re usually swamped with the big mess of the weekend and the luring stress of what lies ahead for the rest of the week.
Tuesdays are rather ho-hum. Wednesdays are always a struggle because we’re trying so hard to get over the hump of the week.
Thursdays are spent attempting to clean up the mess we’ve been putting off for the past three days, before the weekend comes again.
Fridays are rather fun, and Saturdays drag on because usually means it’s time to do some work around the house, in the house, or trying to think of reasons to get out of the house so we don’t need to do any work.
But Sundays are faster than a mom running after a child holding scissors in one hand and a lock of his sister’s hair in the other. They are the one day each week that my family spends real quality time just being a family, and I just can’t get enough of it.
For me, it’s always been this way. The Sundays of my youth were spent at a cottage on a lake, far, far away from anything but a bait shop. We took hikes and boat rides and dreaded the long car ride back home to where real life and the work week were waiting for us.
When I was older, we didn’t travel to that cottage so often, but that didn’t change the quality of our togetherness. It’s strange how some memories stand out in your mind, and for no real reason, there is one particular Sunday morning that I’ll never forget.
We lived far from the road, and because the weather was rather sunny that morning, I walked all the way out to get the newspaper. Walking back up to the house, I heard the sounds of my Grandfather playing polkas on the piano, which meant that for certain my mom and Grandma were dancing around the kitchen and that I’d join in as soon as I put down the paper. And that’s what happened.
When Grandpa’s fingers were tired, the three women in the house set to making a big breakfast for everyone, but not before putting on Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits, an album that would definitely be included in the soundtrack of my life.
“I fall to pieeeeeces…” we sang as we fried bacon and cracked eggs.
For me, those random memories are the most precious, and the ones I strive so hard to give my children.
Last Sunday at our home was one of those memory making days. Sunny skies, newspapers, and bacon, it started out perfectly and just got better as the day went on. We played outside, visited with neighbors, ate popsicles and just really enjoyed our time together as a family. That doesn’t happen often enough anymore.
That Sunday, we stayed out all day until we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows on the campfire for dinner. And when there were more marshmallows on my kids’ faces than in their tummies and the fire was starting to die down, I looked at those sticky faces and hoped they would remember the fun day we had.
But for all the fun, I was kind of sad that the day was over; I wished my Sunday would never end.
I wished it would last forever—or at least a month of Sundays.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Moms are 20 times more likely to be found at the sink than at the mirror
By Karrie McAllister
Finally some truth in advertising.
Suave has a new ad which I have taped to my bathroom mirror, only because I didn’t think tattooing it on my arm would be appropriate.
Apparently they have launched a new campaign designed to target mothers, thinking that we are an untapped resource when it comes to hair and beauty products.
Apparently they think we could all use a little help.
They don’t know how right they are.
The ad states in big bold letters, “The average mom devotes 87.9 minutes a day to meals and only 4.2 minutes to her hair.”
Well, duh.
In fact, there are quite a few of us who do both at one time, trying to shove breakfast in our mouth with one hand while we brush with the other.
Hair has always been a sensitive issue with me, only because I am forever thinking everyone else’s hair looks better than mine. Let’s call it a coiffure complex. And it stems from the fact that I honestly have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to hair.
This does not, however, stop me from trying an average 4.2 minutes a day. (I actually timed it last week and hit 4.5 minutes—maybe I needed the extra 0.3 because I was eating breakfast at the same time.)
But still I try, and although I don’t feel that I succeed, I don’t entirely fail. I am at least publicly presentable most of the time.
What is rather unfortunate, though, is that I torture my children with this inability to style.
Why is it that we parents think that, no matter how unskilled we are at hair, we can successfully cut our children’s locks? Sure, it saves a few bucks, but the humiliation they don’t know they are enduring is not worth the money.
Case in point: I spent my entire childhood with bangs that started on the left at my eyebrow, and then took a steep slope up to the top of my forehead on the right.
The curse of the crooked bangs, and you’d think I’d learn a lesson, but no. Just like millions of other unqualified parents out there, I catch myself saying those tragic words, “C’mon, kiddo, let’s just give you a little trim.”
We sit them outside, draped in a garbage bag, and use our sewing scissors to trim, trim, and then re-trim some more.
By the time we’re finished we could have practically just gotten out the clippers and preformed the old standard buzz cut.
My son, with his beautiful red hair, got his first buzz cut recently. You guessed it, outside, draped in a garbage bag, and while he thinks he can run faster with his new aerodynamic do and my husband is happy that he saved some cash, I know that he looks like a giant bald head sitting on a little body.
Such unfair things we do to our kids.
If it’s not the cutting that gets them, it’s the actual styling. There needs to be an extra chapter in parenting books telling us rookies how to do things like put clips in that won’t fall out, or how to make a ponytail on a girl who is dancing in front of the mirror. Maybe there could even be a bonus section on braids that aren’t crooked or lumpy?
I could really use something like that. It’s especially hard to get a ponytail straight when you’re the one who has been trimming and re-trimming their hair.
So maybe moms only spend 4.2 minutes (or 4.5 in my sorry case) on our own hair, but I know that I have put what seems like countless hours trying to figure out what to do with the hairs on the tiny heads that live in this house.
Poor things, with their bald heads and cock-eyed braids could really use some help. And so could their mother.
Maybe with all of the time we spend prepping meals (87.9 minutes), I could trade casseroles for cuts and soup for styles. Any takers?
Finally some truth in advertising.
Suave has a new ad which I have taped to my bathroom mirror, only because I didn’t think tattooing it on my arm would be appropriate.
Apparently they have launched a new campaign designed to target mothers, thinking that we are an untapped resource when it comes to hair and beauty products.
Apparently they think we could all use a little help.
They don’t know how right they are.
The ad states in big bold letters, “The average mom devotes 87.9 minutes a day to meals and only 4.2 minutes to her hair.”
Well, duh.
In fact, there are quite a few of us who do both at one time, trying to shove breakfast in our mouth with one hand while we brush with the other.
Hair has always been a sensitive issue with me, only because I am forever thinking everyone else’s hair looks better than mine. Let’s call it a coiffure complex. And it stems from the fact that I honestly have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to hair.
This does not, however, stop me from trying an average 4.2 minutes a day. (I actually timed it last week and hit 4.5 minutes—maybe I needed the extra 0.3 because I was eating breakfast at the same time.)
But still I try, and although I don’t feel that I succeed, I don’t entirely fail. I am at least publicly presentable most of the time.
What is rather unfortunate, though, is that I torture my children with this inability to style.
Why is it that we parents think that, no matter how unskilled we are at hair, we can successfully cut our children’s locks? Sure, it saves a few bucks, but the humiliation they don’t know they are enduring is not worth the money.
Case in point: I spent my entire childhood with bangs that started on the left at my eyebrow, and then took a steep slope up to the top of my forehead on the right.
The curse of the crooked bangs, and you’d think I’d learn a lesson, but no. Just like millions of other unqualified parents out there, I catch myself saying those tragic words, “C’mon, kiddo, let’s just give you a little trim.”
We sit them outside, draped in a garbage bag, and use our sewing scissors to trim, trim, and then re-trim some more.
By the time we’re finished we could have practically just gotten out the clippers and preformed the old standard buzz cut.
My son, with his beautiful red hair, got his first buzz cut recently. You guessed it, outside, draped in a garbage bag, and while he thinks he can run faster with his new aerodynamic do and my husband is happy that he saved some cash, I know that he looks like a giant bald head sitting on a little body.
Such unfair things we do to our kids.
If it’s not the cutting that gets them, it’s the actual styling. There needs to be an extra chapter in parenting books telling us rookies how to do things like put clips in that won’t fall out, or how to make a ponytail on a girl who is dancing in front of the mirror. Maybe there could even be a bonus section on braids that aren’t crooked or lumpy?
I could really use something like that. It’s especially hard to get a ponytail straight when you’re the one who has been trimming and re-trimming their hair.
So maybe moms only spend 4.2 minutes (or 4.5 in my sorry case) on our own hair, but I know that I have put what seems like countless hours trying to figure out what to do with the hairs on the tiny heads that live in this house.
Poor things, with their bald heads and cock-eyed braids could really use some help. And so could their mother.
Maybe with all of the time we spend prepping meals (87.9 minutes), I could trade casseroles for cuts and soup for styles. Any takers?
Feminism is all well and good until you hit a bunny nest
By Karrie McAllister
Whether you believe that we were created by God or evolved through nature, there is one thing we can all agree on: Women are completely lacking the gene that allows us to easily light a grill with a match.
No matter what color, race, creed or age we are, there’s not one woman that can turn on the gas and strike a match without trembling hands, a pounding heart and beads of sweat.
This past weekend, while at a friend’s house, we decided to enjoy the warm weather and treat our children to a cookout. And, like most early cookouts go, there were technical difficulties with the grill. The first grill we tried was out of propane, and because neither one of us was absolutely sure how to change the tank (surely there’d be an explosion), we headed for her mother’s nearby grill.
But the automatic starter wasn’t working.
And like we were performing a bypass with a Idiots’ Guide to Heart Surgery, three very intelligent women read the directions word for word and practically had to draw straws to see who would get stuck with striking the match.
A little cringing and finger crossing, and we actually had a splendid dinner. Not only had we fed our families well, but we also conquered the grill, something that for generations has been “man’s work.”
The next day, feeling quite powerful because we lit the stupid grill, I took on some yardwork without the help of my husband. He was away for the day, and I thought it’d be just dandy if he came home to a spiffed-up yard.
So in the warm air, I mowed and raked and even used a hatchet! Joan of Arc would be proud!
And so was I. Then, while beaming in my toughness, my shovel discovered none other than a nest of baby bunnies in my flowerbed. The mother had obviously abandoned them.
Small and furless, they weren’t moving.
And in their complete sadness and stillness, I ran screaming like a little girl and threw my shovel in to the woods.
(Faithful readers and friends know that this is yet another chapter in my never-ending run of bad luck with dead animals.)
So I ask you, what would you do? Without the aid of my husband, who would normally handle things like this, I did what any smart person would do, which would be to call on the help of my neighbor.
“Are you man enough for this?” I asked.
And with nearly a dozen neighbors outside, I tiptoed up to the nest and pointed out where it was, babbling on and on to help compensate for my girly insecurities.
Apparently I was talking too much and not paying attention, because my rambling speech was broken by my son.
“Mommy, you’re standing on the dead bunny.”
AND I WAS. My super-feminine big honkin’ work shoes had squished one bunny that had gotten out of the nest (but was already dead before I squashed it.)
Once again, I ran screaming like a little girl.
Thankfully, my neighbor came to my rescue and disposed of the little guys while I recovered and took deep breaths on the front porch.
In just a few minutes time, the simple satisfaction I had from lighting the grill the night before had completely worn off.
These days there is such a contradiction in feminine rolls. Women are expected to play traditional rolls as well as have that little bit of toughness, to ignore the fact that we’re missing that gene for lighting grills and just buck up and do it anyway.
And I will agree to that. I’m willing to light grills and mow lawns and even chop wood if I need to, just so long as there are no bunny nests involved.
For that, I’m glad to be the girly girl that lies within this tough woman.
Whether you believe that we were created by God or evolved through nature, there is one thing we can all agree on: Women are completely lacking the gene that allows us to easily light a grill with a match.
No matter what color, race, creed or age we are, there’s not one woman that can turn on the gas and strike a match without trembling hands, a pounding heart and beads of sweat.
This past weekend, while at a friend’s house, we decided to enjoy the warm weather and treat our children to a cookout. And, like most early cookouts go, there were technical difficulties with the grill. The first grill we tried was out of propane, and because neither one of us was absolutely sure how to change the tank (surely there’d be an explosion), we headed for her mother’s nearby grill.
But the automatic starter wasn’t working.
And like we were performing a bypass with a Idiots’ Guide to Heart Surgery, three very intelligent women read the directions word for word and practically had to draw straws to see who would get stuck with striking the match.
A little cringing and finger crossing, and we actually had a splendid dinner. Not only had we fed our families well, but we also conquered the grill, something that for generations has been “man’s work.”
The next day, feeling quite powerful because we lit the stupid grill, I took on some yardwork without the help of my husband. He was away for the day, and I thought it’d be just dandy if he came home to a spiffed-up yard.
So in the warm air, I mowed and raked and even used a hatchet! Joan of Arc would be proud!
And so was I. Then, while beaming in my toughness, my shovel discovered none other than a nest of baby bunnies in my flowerbed. The mother had obviously abandoned them.
Small and furless, they weren’t moving.
And in their complete sadness and stillness, I ran screaming like a little girl and threw my shovel in to the woods.
(Faithful readers and friends know that this is yet another chapter in my never-ending run of bad luck with dead animals.)
So I ask you, what would you do? Without the aid of my husband, who would normally handle things like this, I did what any smart person would do, which would be to call on the help of my neighbor.
“Are you man enough for this?” I asked.
And with nearly a dozen neighbors outside, I tiptoed up to the nest and pointed out where it was, babbling on and on to help compensate for my girly insecurities.
Apparently I was talking too much and not paying attention, because my rambling speech was broken by my son.
“Mommy, you’re standing on the dead bunny.”
AND I WAS. My super-feminine big honkin’ work shoes had squished one bunny that had gotten out of the nest (but was already dead before I squashed it.)
Once again, I ran screaming like a little girl.
Thankfully, my neighbor came to my rescue and disposed of the little guys while I recovered and took deep breaths on the front porch.
In just a few minutes time, the simple satisfaction I had from lighting the grill the night before had completely worn off.
These days there is such a contradiction in feminine rolls. Women are expected to play traditional rolls as well as have that little bit of toughness, to ignore the fact that we’re missing that gene for lighting grills and just buck up and do it anyway.
And I will agree to that. I’m willing to light grills and mow lawns and even chop wood if I need to, just so long as there are no bunny nests involved.
For that, I’m glad to be the girly girl that lies within this tough woman.
Tuning out for little prizes and lots of pride
By Karrie McAllister
Before me sits an ominous piece of paper. Actually, two pieces of paper, one for each child. My heart knows that we need to sign them and follow through with what we pledge, but my head thinks I’ve completely lost my mind and in one week’s time there’s a good chance that I might be totally bald from pulling my hair out.
Today, April 23, 2007, marks the beginning of a week-long challenge. Seven very long days of no background noise or animations. It is TV Turnoff Week.
We are no stranger to the television. I fully admit that my children watch plenty of it. In fact, in their innocence and total incomprehension of time, they ask me how long one hour is.
“Two TV shows,” I answer.
And sadly, they understand.
I am not unlike other mothers who use the TV to help rear my youngsters. I carefully choose the most educational programs that I can, but all too often I am pleading with them ever so nicely to “SIT DOWN and WATCH YOUR SHOW so I can get something done!!!” Not one of my better parenting moments.
On goes the TV, and for a short while, no one is fighting and I can hear myself think.
But there are times, too, when I catch them playing games and reenacting their favorite characters, and I think that TV isn’t all that bad. Their creative sides get a nice boost, and some shows even help teach things like vocabulary and manners.
It comes to no surprise that for me, the television is a rather bittersweet electronic device.
But a couple of days ago, I realized that it was getting a little more bitter than sweet when my daughter sat and colored and sang, “Sunnyside, Sunny will save you money!” And then, not but a few hours later, my son broke into another advertising jingle.
Oh no. Not only has TV programming rotted their brains, now it’s commercials, too!
So it was with good fortune that I found that TV Turnoff Week was coming up soon, and even better that one of my family’s favorite stores was offering prizes for days when the mighty picture box was ignored. Children simply sign their names on that ominous paper that they will pledge to have TV-free days, and trade cartoons for goodies.
It’s amazing what they’ll do for a little piece of plastic.
Meanwhile, while they are daydreaming about all of their earnings, I’m in a full-panic sweat wondering how we’re going to survive an entire week without my best rectangular babysitter.
I’m going to have to pull every last thing out of my bag of tricks to keep my children happy, only because I’m afraid that without the hum of PBS in the background, my family room will be less like a media room and more like a wrestling ring.
Not only that, but I can already feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, thinking about how many times I’m going to hear those three terrible words: Mom, I’m booorrrred.
Did I mention that I’m not allowed to watch anything either?
So while their trading their cartoons, I’m trading my sanity.
But they get prizes. What do I get?
I’m hoping I get to spend some focused quality time with my family. I’m hoping to make crafts and play board games and build forts and sing songs—basically all that good stuff that gets lost with the remote control.
I’m also hoping to be able to say with pride that, while the battle was rough, we prevailed in the mighty challenge of TV Turnoff Week.
I’m hoping my kids realize that they are actually allowed to play by themselves without fighting, without the aid of the television, and that they are proud of their accomplishment.
But in reality, I’m just hoping to survive. If this column isn’t in the paper next week, you’ll know why.
Before me sits an ominous piece of paper. Actually, two pieces of paper, one for each child. My heart knows that we need to sign them and follow through with what we pledge, but my head thinks I’ve completely lost my mind and in one week’s time there’s a good chance that I might be totally bald from pulling my hair out.
Today, April 23, 2007, marks the beginning of a week-long challenge. Seven very long days of no background noise or animations. It is TV Turnoff Week.
We are no stranger to the television. I fully admit that my children watch plenty of it. In fact, in their innocence and total incomprehension of time, they ask me how long one hour is.
“Two TV shows,” I answer.
And sadly, they understand.
I am not unlike other mothers who use the TV to help rear my youngsters. I carefully choose the most educational programs that I can, but all too often I am pleading with them ever so nicely to “SIT DOWN and WATCH YOUR SHOW so I can get something done!!!” Not one of my better parenting moments.
On goes the TV, and for a short while, no one is fighting and I can hear myself think.
But there are times, too, when I catch them playing games and reenacting their favorite characters, and I think that TV isn’t all that bad. Their creative sides get a nice boost, and some shows even help teach things like vocabulary and manners.
It comes to no surprise that for me, the television is a rather bittersweet electronic device.
But a couple of days ago, I realized that it was getting a little more bitter than sweet when my daughter sat and colored and sang, “Sunnyside, Sunny will save you money!” And then, not but a few hours later, my son broke into another advertising jingle.
Oh no. Not only has TV programming rotted their brains, now it’s commercials, too!
So it was with good fortune that I found that TV Turnoff Week was coming up soon, and even better that one of my family’s favorite stores was offering prizes for days when the mighty picture box was ignored. Children simply sign their names on that ominous paper that they will pledge to have TV-free days, and trade cartoons for goodies.
It’s amazing what they’ll do for a little piece of plastic.
Meanwhile, while they are daydreaming about all of their earnings, I’m in a full-panic sweat wondering how we’re going to survive an entire week without my best rectangular babysitter.
I’m going to have to pull every last thing out of my bag of tricks to keep my children happy, only because I’m afraid that without the hum of PBS in the background, my family room will be less like a media room and more like a wrestling ring.
Not only that, but I can already feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, thinking about how many times I’m going to hear those three terrible words: Mom, I’m booorrrred.
Did I mention that I’m not allowed to watch anything either?
So while their trading their cartoons, I’m trading my sanity.
But they get prizes. What do I get?
I’m hoping I get to spend some focused quality time with my family. I’m hoping to make crafts and play board games and build forts and sing songs—basically all that good stuff that gets lost with the remote control.
I’m also hoping to be able to say with pride that, while the battle was rough, we prevailed in the mighty challenge of TV Turnoff Week.
I’m hoping my kids realize that they are actually allowed to play by themselves without fighting, without the aid of the television, and that they are proud of their accomplishment.
But in reality, I’m just hoping to survive. If this column isn’t in the paper next week, you’ll know why.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Queen thanks Uncle Shelly for a speedy recovery
By Karrie McAllister
I guess technically it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even really avoiding the truth. It was just a simple statement that, while true, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
But it was all for the good of my family.
Today, my five-year old daughter had a tonsillectomy.
And trying not to scare the living daylights out of her, I told her all about what her hospital visit would be.
I told her that she would be treated like a real princess, because when she walked in they would dress her in a gown and give her jewelry—namely, a bracelet.
OK, so a rear-flapping cotton gown is hardly ball worthy, and a hospital ID bracelet is hardly jewelry, but you can see where I was going with this.
I also mentioned that while she got to lie in a bed and be treated like royalty, I had to sit in a chair next to her dad for five whole hours.
Needless to say it worked. The night before the operation she was actually dancing around singing “I get to have my tonsils out!” and taunting her brother with the fact that he couldn’t go to the hospital.
The morning of, her tune hadn’t changed much. Her gown was blue, just like Cinderella’s, even though it looked more like Cindy’s work clothes than her fairy godmother’s fashion. And she was the biggest little girl I have ever seen.
She didn’t cry in pre-op.
She didn’t cry in the operating room.
She didn’t laugh at her mother who put the scrubs on backwards.
And as I held her little hand and she drifted off to La La Land, I didn’t cry either. For that I am extremely proud because I would have bet money that I’d have been a blubbering idiot and a nurse would have had to escort me out.
But I sat tearless in the waiting room until the doctor came and told us that everything went well, and that her enormous tonsils were gone.
We rushed back to recovery where she was hysterical, partly from the anesthetic, and partly because a little person had just gone through a big ordeal.
Seeing her upset, a mother does the only thing she can think of, which is focus all her attention on comforting her child. So I held her close and told her how proud I was and, grasping for ways to calm her down, told her I’d brought Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends.”
“Want to hear a poem?”
Yes, she nodded.
And so I started in on page one.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, every time she came to, she mouthed the word “poem” or just made the sign language sign for “more” that she was taught as a baby.
In the course of her recovery, I read the entire book. And if you aren’t familiar with that particular book, it’s quite long.
I read everything from Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too to the Crocodile’s Dentist to the one at the end where the little naked guy wraps his extra long beard around his body and runs down the road.
In a way, the constant of my voice reciting those silly verses must have giving my kid the comfort she needed to rest and recover, maybe even more than the medicine flowing into her IV.
The funny thing is that when I was a little girl I read that book non-stop. I could recite most of the poems, and reading them all again today in the hospital brought back memories of my own childhood.
What’s even funnier is that reading them all again next to a princess, dressed in her gown and jewelry, made a new set of memories all its own.
And for those memories and for a healthy daughter, Uncle Shelly, wherever you are, I thank you.
I guess technically it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even really avoiding the truth. It was just a simple statement that, while true, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
But it was all for the good of my family.
Today, my five-year old daughter had a tonsillectomy.
And trying not to scare the living daylights out of her, I told her all about what her hospital visit would be.
I told her that she would be treated like a real princess, because when she walked in they would dress her in a gown and give her jewelry—namely, a bracelet.
OK, so a rear-flapping cotton gown is hardly ball worthy, and a hospital ID bracelet is hardly jewelry, but you can see where I was going with this.
I also mentioned that while she got to lie in a bed and be treated like royalty, I had to sit in a chair next to her dad for five whole hours.
Needless to say it worked. The night before the operation she was actually dancing around singing “I get to have my tonsils out!” and taunting her brother with the fact that he couldn’t go to the hospital.
The morning of, her tune hadn’t changed much. Her gown was blue, just like Cinderella’s, even though it looked more like Cindy’s work clothes than her fairy godmother’s fashion. And she was the biggest little girl I have ever seen.
She didn’t cry in pre-op.
She didn’t cry in the operating room.
She didn’t laugh at her mother who put the scrubs on backwards.
And as I held her little hand and she drifted off to La La Land, I didn’t cry either. For that I am extremely proud because I would have bet money that I’d have been a blubbering idiot and a nurse would have had to escort me out.
But I sat tearless in the waiting room until the doctor came and told us that everything went well, and that her enormous tonsils were gone.
We rushed back to recovery where she was hysterical, partly from the anesthetic, and partly because a little person had just gone through a big ordeal.
Seeing her upset, a mother does the only thing she can think of, which is focus all her attention on comforting her child. So I held her close and told her how proud I was and, grasping for ways to calm her down, told her I’d brought Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends.”
“Want to hear a poem?”
Yes, she nodded.
And so I started in on page one.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, every time she came to, she mouthed the word “poem” or just made the sign language sign for “more” that she was taught as a baby.
In the course of her recovery, I read the entire book. And if you aren’t familiar with that particular book, it’s quite long.
I read everything from Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too to the Crocodile’s Dentist to the one at the end where the little naked guy wraps his extra long beard around his body and runs down the road.
In a way, the constant of my voice reciting those silly verses must have giving my kid the comfort she needed to rest and recover, maybe even more than the medicine flowing into her IV.
The funny thing is that when I was a little girl I read that book non-stop. I could recite most of the poems, and reading them all again today in the hospital brought back memories of my own childhood.
What’s even funnier is that reading them all again next to a princess, dressed in her gown and jewelry, made a new set of memories all its own.
And for those memories and for a healthy daughter, Uncle Shelly, wherever you are, I thank you.
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