Dear Zoey,
I love you. Of course I do. One of the things I had always loved about you, in fact, was your hesitation when it came to showering. You are a good old-fashioned soak-in-the-warm-tub kind of gal. Or, you were. As of last week, the shower--that beloved realm of the house you never set foot in, thus ensuring me at least ten minutes of uninterrupted semi-peace per day--has become your new playground. Just when I think you are content to work your puzzle or color a picture or even sit happily in front of the TV so I can sneak off and inhale the scent of my Dove body wash, I can hear you coming down the hall, yelling out 'I have a surprise for you, Mommy!'
'Great! Is your surpise that you are going to get dressed while I'm in the shower, like I asked you to? I left your clothes in the hallway and--'
Before I can finish calling out directions from the steaminess that is my shower, the curtain is yanked back and with all the flexibility of a track star clearing a hurdle, here comes your tiny naked body yelling 'SURPRISE MOMMY! I'M GETTING IN WITH YOU!'.
Surprise indeed.
And, for as anti-relaxing as the entire experience ends up being for me, I can't help but watch you and smile. Or maybe I'm crying and almost banging my head against the wall, it's hard to tell. I want you to leave me alone and yet I don't mind that you are here. You request shave gel for you legs and rake a plastic toy, standing in as a safety razor, through the foam. You shiver and accuse me of hogging all the hot water. MY hot water. You set up elaborate scenes on the ledge of the tub, involving toy frogs and washcloths and full cups of water that are bound to spill all over the floor. And finally, when I wave the white flag and trip over you as I leave the comfort of the warm water, you announce you will stay in the tub 'just to warm up, and I'll get out after you get dressed'.
Ten minutes of peace while showering quickly morphs in to ten minutes of peace while getting dressed and brushing my teeth.
You hop out sooner than I would like you to, actually, and shiver your way out the door to find your clothes. You leave your towel on the floor and don't even get me started on the underwear that are still lodged inside your dirty pajama pants. You trail a mess and plenty of chatter and love and joy everywhere you go, and despite the fact that I can not escape you even for one second, I would not trade you and the magical age you are right now for anything in the world.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Finish this sentance: 'Zoey was running across the playground when...'
My cell phone rang while I was on my lunch break yesterday. The name of Zoey's daycare came up on caller ID.
Fever, vomiting, or head injury?
Head injury. Black eye, to be more precise.
The all-too-familiar opening line: 'Zoey was running full-steam across the playground when...' This time, she managed to connect her face with the side of Donovan's skull at a speed of, guessing by the swelling, at least 30 mph. I promised to run across the street to take a look at the damage. I love it when these phone calls coincide so easily with my lunch break.
So, I zipped over to daycare and found Zoey waiting in line for the bathroom with a huge ice pack covering the right side of her face. Ms. Yvonne, the bathroom supervisor, looked grateful I was there, especially as Zoey tripped over her own two feet getting out of line and over to Mommy. I'm not sure if it was the tripping over the feet or the Mommy sighting that did it, but I could tell it was Game Over for Zoey's day at preschool. Over. Done. Hosed.
I sat down with her to assess the damage. The entire right side of her face was puffy and a nasty shiner was already forming over and under her eye, halfway down her cheek.
Me: Zoey. Honey. Tell me what hurts.
Zoey: *sobbing* Mommy. My whole face. It just hurts.
Me: No kidding...what does Donovan look like?
Zoey: I don't know! (Shooting me a look that says 'Who f***ing cares, lady, could you get me some Tylenol? I have a little headache here.)
So I collected jacket, artwork, and a child who looked like she had been in a bar fight and headed for the car. Back to work, so I could at least clear my spot at the lunch table and clock out.
Turns out, a whopper of a black eye is nothing a large ice pack and a dose of Motrin can't handle. By 4 pm, we were out at the playground and Zoey was happily riding her Dora bike with the neighbor boy. She was sound asleep by 8 pm and I only woke her up once to make sure she knew who I was and where she was at. (She was not impressed by this.) Satisfied she probably wouldn't suffer brain swelling during the night, I was asleep shortly after 9 pm.
This morning, there seems to be a lingering headache and, apparently, the force of the trauma to her head has knocked loose her need to sleep in until 7 am. 6:15! It's when all the cool kids get up. And ask for ice packs.
Fever, vomiting, or head injury?
Head injury. Black eye, to be more precise.
The all-too-familiar opening line: 'Zoey was running full-steam across the playground when...' This time, she managed to connect her face with the side of Donovan's skull at a speed of, guessing by the swelling, at least 30 mph. I promised to run across the street to take a look at the damage. I love it when these phone calls coincide so easily with my lunch break.
So, I zipped over to daycare and found Zoey waiting in line for the bathroom with a huge ice pack covering the right side of her face. Ms. Yvonne, the bathroom supervisor, looked grateful I was there, especially as Zoey tripped over her own two feet getting out of line and over to Mommy. I'm not sure if it was the tripping over the feet or the Mommy sighting that did it, but I could tell it was Game Over for Zoey's day at preschool. Over. Done. Hosed.
I sat down with her to assess the damage. The entire right side of her face was puffy and a nasty shiner was already forming over and under her eye, halfway down her cheek.
Me: Zoey. Honey. Tell me what hurts.
Zoey: *sobbing* Mommy. My whole face. It just hurts.
Me: No kidding...what does Donovan look like?
Zoey: I don't know! (Shooting me a look that says 'Who f***ing cares, lady, could you get me some Tylenol? I have a little headache here.)
So I collected jacket, artwork, and a child who looked like she had been in a bar fight and headed for the car. Back to work, so I could at least clear my spot at the lunch table and clock out.
Turns out, a whopper of a black eye is nothing a large ice pack and a dose of Motrin can't handle. By 4 pm, we were out at the playground and Zoey was happily riding her Dora bike with the neighbor boy. She was sound asleep by 8 pm and I only woke her up once to make sure she knew who I was and where she was at. (She was not impressed by this.) Satisfied she probably wouldn't suffer brain swelling during the night, I was asleep shortly after 9 pm.
This morning, there seems to be a lingering headache and, apparently, the force of the trauma to her head has knocked loose her need to sleep in until 7 am. 6:15! It's when all the cool kids get up. And ask for ice packs.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hug Time
Zoey and I curled up in bed tonight to read Hug Time, by Patrick McDonnell, together. An extension of the Mutts cartoon strip my sister Abby got me hooked on, I had forgotten I even owned a copy of this book until Zoey pulled it off the bottom shelf of a bookcase in the hallway.
'Mommy! Let's read this!'
A very, very sweet tale of a small kitten named Jules who travels the world in an effort to hug everyone and everything, he cozies up to great blue whales and tigers alike.
"But in the North Pole, Jules sadly found
What it would be like with no one around."
Zoey: Mommy? He's sad.
Me: He is. He feels all alone, but look! (Next page.) See the polar bear who comes out to give him a hug? That must make him feel better.
Zoey: Oh yes. He's on an ed-benture! (Adventure)
Me: You're right.
Zoey: But an ed-benture by himself is sad.
Me: Sometimes.
We finish the book and I massage Zoey's head and back, like every night. Curled up tight under my quilt, she is quiet. I think she has drifted off when I hear 'Mommy?'
Me: Yes?
Zoey: (sleepy and sweet) I would never go on an ed-benture without you.
Me: Thanks, bug.
And this? Is why I do what I do, every day, all day, forever and ever amen.
'Mommy! Let's read this!'
A very, very sweet tale of a small kitten named Jules who travels the world in an effort to hug everyone and everything, he cozies up to great blue whales and tigers alike.
"But in the North Pole, Jules sadly found
What it would be like with no one around."
Zoey: Mommy? He's sad.
Me: He is. He feels all alone, but look! (Next page.) See the polar bear who comes out to give him a hug? That must make him feel better.
Zoey: Oh yes. He's on an ed-benture! (Adventure)
Me: You're right.
Zoey: But an ed-benture by himself is sad.
Me: Sometimes.
We finish the book and I massage Zoey's head and back, like every night. Curled up tight under my quilt, she is quiet. I think she has drifted off when I hear 'Mommy?'
Me: Yes?
Zoey: (sleepy and sweet) I would never go on an ed-benture without you.
Me: Thanks, bug.
And this? Is why I do what I do, every day, all day, forever and ever amen.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Lights out
Zoey: MOM. You are leaving lights on everywhere!
(In my own defense, it was bath time. Lights were on in the hallway, bathroom, and her bedroom. Pretty much the three areas we frequent this time of night.)
Me: Oh man. What are you going to do with me?
Zoey: (Impatient sigh) WELL. I guess I will keep you. Just because you are my mom.
I thought this was quite generous of her, as it would have been a cold evening to be kicked out on front step.
(In my own defense, it was bath time. Lights were on in the hallway, bathroom, and her bedroom. Pretty much the three areas we frequent this time of night.)
Me: Oh man. What are you going to do with me?
Zoey: (Impatient sigh) WELL. I guess I will keep you. Just because you are my mom.
I thought this was quite generous of her, as it would have been a cold evening to be kicked out on front step.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Eye exam
I knew that taking my three-year-old along to Costco for my eye exam was a risky endeavor. But my appointment was at 4:20, and what was I going to do, leave her at daycare for who knows how long? I had an extra day off this week, and spent it doing nothing but boring errands. Still, I felt the pull to pick her up early, knowing full good and well she had enjoyed herself far more than I had all day.
So it was that, at 3:45ish this afternoon, we found ourselves wandering the aisles of Costco, waiting for my appointment. This turned out to be sheer genius on my part, as there are snacks lurking around every corner, for free! Philly Cheesesteak? Sure, try it. Apple granola bar? Even better. Vienna sausages, BBQ spareribs, wee little pumpkin bread offerings? A shame I defrosted chicken stock to make soup for dinner! Let's just graze the aisles of Costco and get a full meal!
Tummies sufficiently stuffed, we hit the potties on our way to the waiting room. As we sat in chairs in the hallway, I produced a brand new coloring book and a Highlights magazine from my purse. Parenting at it's best. And Zoey? Was being remarkably well-behaved.
They called my name and it was immediately obvious that nobody was taking kindly to my preschool sidekick. Which I could totally understand if, say, she was in the midst of a raging tantrum. But when I sat in the stool for my 'pre-exam' right in the reception area, the only words uttered by Zoey were 'Mommy, where can I color at?' She cozied up on the floor, out of the way of foot traffic, and colored to her heart's content as, I'm sure, her digestive system worked hard to stabilize her blood sugar.
Back to the waiting area chairs. Blessed art thou, oh holy trinity of Crayola, Elmo, and Look-and-Find.
Finally, we were called back to the exam room. Zoey was fascinated with all the equipment, yet did not touch a thing. The optometrist, a woman who clearly has no children of her own, appeared confused. 'Oh...is this appointment for you? Or your daughter?'
Well. According to the paperwork right there in front of you, with my name and birthdate, I think it's reasonable to assume I am the 32-year-old here for an eye exam.
I sat in the chair with the funky glass examiner pulled to my face, which Zoey immediately decided made me look like a great big owl.
Funny! Or...not. Okay, lady. Let's just get on with it.
I covered my left eye with the pirate eye patch and read the smallest print on the eye chart across the room. Then, the tedious part of the exam '...is this better? Or this? This...? Or....this?'
Boring.
Then we moved to my left eye, which has failed me on every occasion in the past and today was no exception. In fact, today was the first day I've ever been asked 'oh, is this your lazy eye?' I don't think so...IS IT?!? Anyway. I could barely see any of the print on the chart in front of me. It was embarrassing. Maybe I do have a lazy eye?
Which is promptly when Zoey jumped in to help me, calling 'oh Mommy, that's an E! And that's a G! Oooh, and a number 3!'
Now, while I understand this is on the same level as my sister Alisa standing behind our dad and flashing the correct number on my addition flash cards that I sucked at in first grade, I still thought it was sweet that she was offering to help. The optometrist? Not so much.
'Oh, sweetheart, don't help your Mommy. She needs to do this on her own.' Kind of tight-lipped and hissy, like maybe I was waiting for Zoey to jump in and help me. Right, lady. She's my seeing eye dog. It's why I had her--for her 20/20 vision.
Shortly after it was established that I am near-blind on my left side, I was able to talk Snarky Lady out of dilating my eyes. Honestly. I can't stand the staggering around in pain for hours after those horrid drops (another problem, the drops...anything near my eye freaks me out), when even the dimmest light can be migraine-inducing. I'd rather have my teeth drilled, and we all remember what a pleasant experience THAT was back in August, right? Anyway, maybe she let me off the hook because she figured a woman who lets her preschooler read her the eye chart might be the same crazy person who tosses that preschooler the keys to the car and shouts 'hey, Zoey, my eyes hurt! You drive!' Maybe she just wanted me out of the office. Who knows.
I paid my $65 for the exam and thanked everyone profusely for their help. I did not press my luck by taking Zoey to the optical counter to order my new frames.
She would likely pick the set that really does make me look like a blind owl.
So it was that, at 3:45ish this afternoon, we found ourselves wandering the aisles of Costco, waiting for my appointment. This turned out to be sheer genius on my part, as there are snacks lurking around every corner, for free! Philly Cheesesteak? Sure, try it. Apple granola bar? Even better. Vienna sausages, BBQ spareribs, wee little pumpkin bread offerings? A shame I defrosted chicken stock to make soup for dinner! Let's just graze the aisles of Costco and get a full meal!
Tummies sufficiently stuffed, we hit the potties on our way to the waiting room. As we sat in chairs in the hallway, I produced a brand new coloring book and a Highlights magazine from my purse. Parenting at it's best. And Zoey? Was being remarkably well-behaved.
They called my name and it was immediately obvious that nobody was taking kindly to my preschool sidekick. Which I could totally understand if, say, she was in the midst of a raging tantrum. But when I sat in the stool for my 'pre-exam' right in the reception area, the only words uttered by Zoey were 'Mommy, where can I color at?' She cozied up on the floor, out of the way of foot traffic, and colored to her heart's content as, I'm sure, her digestive system worked hard to stabilize her blood sugar.
Back to the waiting area chairs. Blessed art thou, oh holy trinity of Crayola, Elmo, and Look-and-Find.
Finally, we were called back to the exam room. Zoey was fascinated with all the equipment, yet did not touch a thing. The optometrist, a woman who clearly has no children of her own, appeared confused. 'Oh...is this appointment for you? Or your daughter?'
Well. According to the paperwork right there in front of you, with my name and birthdate, I think it's reasonable to assume I am the 32-year-old here for an eye exam.
I sat in the chair with the funky glass examiner pulled to my face, which Zoey immediately decided made me look like a great big owl.
Funny! Or...not. Okay, lady. Let's just get on with it.
I covered my left eye with the pirate eye patch and read the smallest print on the eye chart across the room. Then, the tedious part of the exam '...is this better? Or this? This...? Or....this?'
Boring.
Then we moved to my left eye, which has failed me on every occasion in the past and today was no exception. In fact, today was the first day I've ever been asked 'oh, is this your lazy eye?' I don't think so...IS IT?!? Anyway. I could barely see any of the print on the chart in front of me. It was embarrassing. Maybe I do have a lazy eye?
Which is promptly when Zoey jumped in to help me, calling 'oh Mommy, that's an E! And that's a G! Oooh, and a number 3!'
Now, while I understand this is on the same level as my sister Alisa standing behind our dad and flashing the correct number on my addition flash cards that I sucked at in first grade, I still thought it was sweet that she was offering to help. The optometrist? Not so much.
'Oh, sweetheart, don't help your Mommy. She needs to do this on her own.' Kind of tight-lipped and hissy, like maybe I was waiting for Zoey to jump in and help me. Right, lady. She's my seeing eye dog. It's why I had her--for her 20/20 vision.
Shortly after it was established that I am near-blind on my left side, I was able to talk Snarky Lady out of dilating my eyes. Honestly. I can't stand the staggering around in pain for hours after those horrid drops (another problem, the drops...anything near my eye freaks me out), when even the dimmest light can be migraine-inducing. I'd rather have my teeth drilled, and we all remember what a pleasant experience THAT was back in August, right? Anyway, maybe she let me off the hook because she figured a woman who lets her preschooler read her the eye chart might be the same crazy person who tosses that preschooler the keys to the car and shouts 'hey, Zoey, my eyes hurt! You drive!' Maybe she just wanted me out of the office. Who knows.
I paid my $65 for the exam and thanked everyone profusely for their help. I did not press my luck by taking Zoey to the optical counter to order my new frames.
She would likely pick the set that really does make me look like a blind owl.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Happy Birthday. Sort of.
I think I was born at 6:36 a.m. Or 6:46? Something like that.
So maybe it was Zoey's goal to wake me up at the PRECISE moment I turned 32, to kick me out of bed and demand hot milk.
And then proceed to whine and fuss until I actually DID remove myself from bed. Grumpily.
Although she did run out to the kitchen to start the coffee pot.
Then I asked her 'hey, what are you supposed to say to Mommy first thing this morning?'
'Sorry?'
*sigh*
Never mind.
So maybe it was Zoey's goal to wake me up at the PRECISE moment I turned 32, to kick me out of bed and demand hot milk.
And then proceed to whine and fuss until I actually DID remove myself from bed. Grumpily.
Although she did run out to the kitchen to start the coffee pot.
Then I asked her 'hey, what are you supposed to say to Mommy first thing this morning?'
'Sorry?'
*sigh*
Never mind.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Not fun.
Guess who decided to try coloring on the carpet last night, because she thought it might be fun?
Not me. Not the cat. He has a hard time opening the Rubbermaid bin of crayons.
I was picking up toys last night pre-vacuuming, while Zoey was or wasn't putting on her pajamas, when I saw what looked like a blue and yellow rainbow on the gray carpet right near the sliding glass door. Not an oops-I-colored-off-the-page scribble, but a pre-meditated rainbow.
Me: ZOEY. Get out here. NOW.
Zoey: (Skittering around the corner and stopping short when she sees me standing over the evidence) What, Mommy?
Me: What? WHAT? How about WHAT IS THIS?
Zoey: It's color crayon. On the floor.
Me: I see that! How did it get there?!
Zoey: I did it... (large brown eyes beginning to fill with tears as she watches me swoop up her beloved coloring book and crayons)
Me: *pointing*
Zoey: *wailing all the way to the time-out chair*
After a time-out lasting long enough for me to cool down and spray a generous amount of Resolve on the carpet, Zoey tip-toed back to the livingroom to hug me around the knees.
Me: What do you need to say?
Zoey: I'm sorry! I'm sorry I colored on the floor!
(This I considered to be progress, since her standard line following any time-out is 'I'm sorry for not listening'. While it applies to a vast majority of visits to the chair, it doesn't cover them all, and I get annoyed when she seems to be apologizing for whatever she thinks will get me off her back.)
Me: That was a bad choice, Zoey. I thought you were big enough to have your color crayons out in the livingroom, but I see I was wrong. From now on, you're only allowed to color at the table.
Her little face fell, totally crestfallen. One tweak to the rules, and she was heartbroken.
Motherhood brings with it so much power.
I'm kidding. It was actually a little sad to see her so broken up over not being allowed to color any place she chooses. But also reassuring, in a way--she knew she screwed up, and she felt bad.
Me: (after hugs and Kleenex) Zoey? WHY did you color on the carpet? You know that's naughty.
Zoey: Oh. I thought it would be fun. That's why.
At least she's honest.
Not me. Not the cat. He has a hard time opening the Rubbermaid bin of crayons.
I was picking up toys last night pre-vacuuming, while Zoey was or wasn't putting on her pajamas, when I saw what looked like a blue and yellow rainbow on the gray carpet right near the sliding glass door. Not an oops-I-colored-off-the-page scribble, but a pre-meditated rainbow.
Me: ZOEY. Get out here. NOW.
Zoey: (Skittering around the corner and stopping short when she sees me standing over the evidence) What, Mommy?
Me: What? WHAT? How about WHAT IS THIS?
Zoey: It's color crayon. On the floor.
Me: I see that! How did it get there?!
Zoey: I did it... (large brown eyes beginning to fill with tears as she watches me swoop up her beloved coloring book and crayons)
Me: *pointing*
Zoey: *wailing all the way to the time-out chair*
After a time-out lasting long enough for me to cool down and spray a generous amount of Resolve on the carpet, Zoey tip-toed back to the livingroom to hug me around the knees.
Me: What do you need to say?
Zoey: I'm sorry! I'm sorry I colored on the floor!
(This I considered to be progress, since her standard line following any time-out is 'I'm sorry for not listening'. While it applies to a vast majority of visits to the chair, it doesn't cover them all, and I get annoyed when she seems to be apologizing for whatever she thinks will get me off her back.)
Me: That was a bad choice, Zoey. I thought you were big enough to have your color crayons out in the livingroom, but I see I was wrong. From now on, you're only allowed to color at the table.
Her little face fell, totally crestfallen. One tweak to the rules, and she was heartbroken.
Motherhood brings with it so much power.
I'm kidding. It was actually a little sad to see her so broken up over not being allowed to color any place she chooses. But also reassuring, in a way--she knew she screwed up, and she felt bad.
Me: (after hugs and Kleenex) Zoey? WHY did you color on the carpet? You know that's naughty.
Zoey: Oh. I thought it would be fun. That's why.
At least she's honest.
Whiners: They're Everywhere
Alternate title for this post: GI Nurses Stand All Day. It's Just What We Do.
There's a highly annoying subset of the human species I work with on a daily basis. They possess the standoffish demeanor that implies they were born just slightly better than everyone around them, and it rubs me the wrong way. They walk in to a room and, no matter that you were talking to the patient on the stretcher first, they merely shoulder-check you and interrupt to start their own conversation. When a procedure room needs to be turned over, you can find them in the break room--pushing stretchers and bringing patients in to the room is for the lower class, after all. And please, don't interrupt them while they're surfing the internet on their iPhones! They might be getting an important message on Facebook!
And, above all, they were meant to sit down all day. Their holy tushies need padding, didn't you know?
Yes. Yesterday I was informed 'providing a rolling stool for us is really, like, the standard'. As in, standard of care. Right up there with infection control and ensuring correct narcotic counts at the end of the day.
The conversation went something like this, right around 3 pm:
Her Royal Highness: Wow...I'm glad I just work here per diem! If I were going to work in this facility full-time, I'd really need a stool to sit on during the day! (She says, as she stretches her young, athletic, limber legs up to the top of a stretcher.)
Amy: (leaning over a patient, applying abdominal pressure for what feels like the 40th hour in a row) Hmmm. We all stand up in the procedure room. You get used to it after awhile.
(Implied tone: GET OVER YOURSELF.)
HRH: But it's just so hard, standing all day! 10 hours is a long time to stand on concrete!
Amy: Yes. You people seem to really struggle with that.
HRH: Well. You know. Providing a rolling stool for us is really the standard.
Biteyourtonguebiteyourtonguebiteyourtongue.
See, some people just aren't worth the sarcastic comebacks you have at the ready, you know? Because they just don't get it. They truly believe they came in to this world as God's gift to creation, and we can't require God's chosen few to stand around like the common people, now can we?
Because it's just so hard, you know? To STAND? All day?
Yeah. We know.
There's a highly annoying subset of the human species I work with on a daily basis. They possess the standoffish demeanor that implies they were born just slightly better than everyone around them, and it rubs me the wrong way. They walk in to a room and, no matter that you were talking to the patient on the stretcher first, they merely shoulder-check you and interrupt to start their own conversation. When a procedure room needs to be turned over, you can find them in the break room--pushing stretchers and bringing patients in to the room is for the lower class, after all. And please, don't interrupt them while they're surfing the internet on their iPhones! They might be getting an important message on Facebook!
And, above all, they were meant to sit down all day. Their holy tushies need padding, didn't you know?
Yes. Yesterday I was informed 'providing a rolling stool for us is really, like, the standard'. As in, standard of care. Right up there with infection control and ensuring correct narcotic counts at the end of the day.
The conversation went something like this, right around 3 pm:
Her Royal Highness: Wow...I'm glad I just work here per diem! If I were going to work in this facility full-time, I'd really need a stool to sit on during the day! (She says, as she stretches her young, athletic, limber legs up to the top of a stretcher.)
Amy: (leaning over a patient, applying abdominal pressure for what feels like the 40th hour in a row) Hmmm. We all stand up in the procedure room. You get used to it after awhile.
(Implied tone: GET OVER YOURSELF.)
HRH: But it's just so hard, standing all day! 10 hours is a long time to stand on concrete!
Amy: Yes. You people seem to really struggle with that.
HRH: Well. You know. Providing a rolling stool for us is really the standard.
Biteyourtonguebiteyourtonguebiteyourtongue.
See, some people just aren't worth the sarcastic comebacks you have at the ready, you know? Because they just don't get it. They truly believe they came in to this world as God's gift to creation, and we can't require God's chosen few to stand around like the common people, now can we?
Because it's just so hard, you know? To STAND? All day?
Yeah. We know.
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