Lawyer Mama

Elements of a Toddler

Surf:



Sand:



Adventure:


And dirt:


Ah, it's rough to be two!




****************************
If you use Bloglines, I apologize for all the "new" posts that popped up over the last week. I was using Clubphoto for my photos, which has recently gone away into the blogging ether, and when I reposted my pics all the posts showed up as new. Sorry for the confusion.

If Justice Is Blind, She's Also Deaf & Dumb

A few weeks ago, an interview question from Mary-Lue, to Julie at the Raven Picture Maven brought up a great topic of discussion. After all of the insightful comments, Julie decided to pose the question to the blogosphere as a whole: Which is of greater necessity - justice or forgiveness? The Justice and Forgiveness Roundtable discussion was the result. I was moved by all of the posts in response. In fact, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the question. So, when Julie posed a follow on question, I had to participate. I was, frankly, completely intimidated by the posts I read last week and I am NOT easily initimdated. But I'd still like to offer my views on the subject. This week the questions are about choice:

I think we need to next talk about choice. You asked earlier which we would choose. But deeper, right, is how and why we choose.
And what choice really means. Do we all have the same ability to choose? Is it really a present tense concept?
How do we choose anything (forgiveness, justice, compassion)if we don't know why or how choice is really made?

I'm sure I've overlapped the questions a bit, but I'm sure you will all forgive me. I'm also a bit late, but I hope I don't need to remind you that real moms procrastinate!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.

- Abraham Lincoln

Justice.

When I think of justice, I think of the rule of law. I'm a lawyer, how could I not? But justice is not necessarily something we choose, and when we do choose justice, justice is not necessarily served.

When I think of justice, my mind does not jump first to my more recent legal practice, but to the victims of domestic and sexual violence that I counseled during and after college as a volunteer for the YWCA. I spoke with hundreds, if not thousands, of men and women anonymously over the phone. Some were truly looking for a way out and a way forward, many weren't ready for that yet and just wanted someone to listen. As heartbreaking as those many anonymous callers were, those that I met in person still haunt me. As an advocate, I met victims in the emergency room after physical and sexual assaults. I gave them their options for restraining orders, prosecution, housing and counseling, and I listened. I hugged some of them as they cried. I watched them as they stared blankly into space. I held their hands through medical exams.

Lady Justice is pictorially represented in nearly every courtroom in the United States. She carries a balanced scale in one hand, a sword in the other, and wears a blindfold. Lady Justice is intended to represent the fair and equal administration of the law, without corruption, avarice, prejudice, or favor. But justice is not truly blind. I think most reasonable people can agree simply by looking at the prison population and sentencing statistics in the U.S., that justice sees race, income, social status, and gender far too clearly. There is often no fair and equal administration of justice for perpetrators of crimes.

Back to the victims. Some of the victims I met chose justice. Police were called, restraining orders were issued, arrests were made. And then the blind Lady Justice took over, in the form of brutal interviews, painful cross-examinations, and, usually, a plea bargain and a slap on the wrist. There is often no justice for victims of crime, even with a full sentence.

How about murder? Is putting a killer to death justice? Some would say yes, but can it ever really make the scales balance again? No. No, it can't.

I can see both sides of the scale.

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
- Mahatma Ghandi

Forgiveness.

I have less to say about forgiveness, but that doesn't make it less important or necessary. Forgiveness is something we must consciously choose. And it's not easy. I can't help but think of all of the victims in the Virginia Tech shootings last week. How will their families forgive? I have difficult forgiving the guy who cuts me off in traffic or my husband for hogging the bed, how on earth could I ever forgive a crime so horrible? I don't know. But I sense that the only true way to internal balance and calm is forgiveness.

Choice.

But I still haven't really addressed Julie's questions above regarding how and why we choose and if we all have the same ability to do so. I "choose" to see this question less in terms of free will and more in terms of class, culture, and society. How and why we choose to forgive or to seek justice I believe is largely a product of our upbringing and our experiences.

Some people see justice and the law in terms of black and white. If it's wrong, it must be punished without consideration of mercy or extenuating circumstances. But people who render judgment in such a stark manner cannot see themselves as wrongdoers, feeling safe and secure in their world view by happy accident of birth. They see the world as Us and Them. From my vantage point, people who can't see shades of grey are broken in some way. They can't see themselves choosing the wrong path. They lack the ability to show mercy, or are perhaps too angry to care.

These people will never choose to forgive and may in fact state that they choose not to forgive. But the truth may be that they cannot, because of who they are, ever choose forgiveness.

Memories

When Hollis was 14 months old, he tossed his pacifier over our fireplace gate and into the flames. I guess he wanted to see what would happen. I discovered the little pyromaniac's sacrifice later that day when I asked him where he'd put his pacifier and he kept dragging me over to the gate. I looked in and all that remained was the charred tip of the silicone nub. I guess he learned his lesson because no more toys, or pacifiers, have been tossed into the brink. (At least not by Hollis.) I didn't think much about the pacifier toss until recently, when Hollis, now 30 months old, proceeded to tell me about the pacifier that had "all burned up" in the fireplace. I was actually shocked that he remembers torching his beloved "Phi" at such an early age. But even so, I was simultaneously disturbed and reassured by the thought that Hollis may remember some of this early time in his life.

I have an undergraduate degree in psychology. The joke goes that my degree qualifies me to ask, "Do you want fries with that?" and not much else. Even so, at times I am comforted by the little psychological training I have if only because I am intimately familiar with the areas of behavioral psychology (I can train our cats to do anything), abnormal psychology (entertaining if I want to diagnose strange co-workers), developmental psychology (useful when hubby freaks out because our 2 1/2 year old enjoys playing with poo), and memory and cognition (I make a great study buddy). Trust me though, spending a semester training a rat to push on a bar, turn on lights, and swing in a Skinner box was easy peasy compared to trying to get a 15 month old to eat peas.

Despite my knowledge of developmental psychology, I still have all the usual mommy fears about development and child rearing, no doubt brought on by the prevalence of MensaMommies and SanctiMommies in our society. I still have the usual mommy paranoia that I will horribly scar my children before the age of 2 by allowing them to watch Finding Nemo for 25 days straight. But that's the small stuff and I try not to sweat it. My biggest fear, that cognitive psychology cannot dispel, is the fear that if I were to die now my children would not remember me.

Memory is a funny thing. It's inexact, inaccurate, and sometimes inaccessible. For a long time, psychologists and other scientists believed that infants were not capable of forming true memories. The theory was that the infant brain was only developmentally mature enough to begin to form memories at about the age of 3. There are three processes that occur to form a "memory": (1) encoding; (2) storage; and (3) recall. If any one of the three breakdown, memory fails us. Now, we know that between 6 and 18 months, babies are capable of receiving information, processing it, storing it, and retrieving it in much the same manner as adults. Small children can form memories, but they lose them at a much faster rate than adults. The belief is that memories are overwritten as new connections are formed in the developing brain and that smaller children simply the lack language skills necessary to properly encode and retain memories for long periods of time. But some of it still sticks.

My earliest memories start at about the age of 4, although I have flashes of events in my head that I know took place a bit earlier. The earliest event I recall happened when I must have been about 3. My pre-school and Sunday school teacher had come by to pick me up for Sunday school. I was dressed in my Sunday best and I remember a yellow dress, although I have no idea if I was wearing that particular dress that day. I do, however, remember refusing to get in the car. I was generally a compliant child, but I held onto the outside of the car door and held on for dear life. I was not. getting. in. that. car. My mother gave in and I honestly don't remember ever being sent off to Sunday school again. Like my memories of many early childhood events, it's hard to know if those flashes are true memories or simply a recall of family stories and photos. But when I look back on that event, or the telling of it, I recall feeling incredibly loved. Loved because my mother understood and she listened. Of course, it took physical resistance, but my mother didn't force me to her will.

Albert Schweitzer once said that happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. Maybe my memory has been a bit too accurate lately. Maybe I need to "forget" a little more to get my happy equilibrium back. But I don't want to forget these years when my children are small. I want to remember the way Holden's forehead wrinkles up when he's screaming his head off. I want to remember Hollis's soulful eyes searching my face when he thinks I'm not looking. I want to remember the good and the bad, the infuriating and the wonderful. I want to remember every moment. I just hope and pray that when my children are grown, the good outweighs the bad in their fleeting and changing memories. And that they remember feeling loved.

What Next?

Melt downs, Virginia Tech, and....

What's next?

Well, we just found out that B., my brother, is going to Iraq later this year. I knew that ditching all that guilt was going to bite me in the ass.



Edited to add this LINK for your reading pleasure.

Mom Mistake #248 and Other Random Stuff

Thank you, everyone, for your thoughtful and supportive comments after my lovely melt down last week. You could have all run screaming from my blog, slamming the door behind you, but you didn't. You listened and then you told me that you were listening. And that I'm not a freak and I'm not a bad mom. While intellectually I always know that, I don't always know it deep inside my skin the way I should. I know that my current funk has been brought on by the stress of having 2 kids back to back, work, sleep deprivation, and hormones. Lately my me time has been under assault and I'm fighting to get it back. But in the meantime, I have discussed this with T. and we have a plan. There couldn't be a more supportive guy on the planet. I am so incredibly lucky, even if I don't always realize it.

I have to give special thanks to Queen of the Mayhem. She implemented a full frontal assault on my funky mood and self doubts by nominating me for a Thinking Bloggers Award and for a Bloggers Choice Award. I have two measly votes for Hottest Mommy Blogger. One is from me and I think the other is from my mother in disguise. So if you are feeling altruistic, feel free to go over and bump up my point total. You can vote for as many blogs as you like in each category. I voted for everyone I know! Because it's been more than a month since my last Thinking Blogger Award, I'll nominate 5 more people some time this week.





On another, completely unrelated note, let me tell you about my oh-so-fun Saturday. The hubs is in the Navy Reserves. So one weekend a month, he goes off to play sailor and leaves me and the kids to fend for ourselves. (Well, he's actually never really set foot on a Navy vessel aside from tours, so he was really off playing geek/intelligence weenie for the weekend.) When I'm on my own with the kids, I frequently get together with L, a mom friend of mine, and her almost 2 year old. It is usually an unmitigated disaster, leaving me (and my poor friend) completely exhausted after trying to keep all 3 toddlers from killing themselves, each other, or random passers by. You would think I would have learned my lesson by now, but nooooo. L and I decided to take the kids bowling at Oceana's bowling alley on Saturday morning. On the way there, there was an accident on the interstate on the friggin high rise bridge. We were trapped on the bridge for 92 minutes while they cleared the accident. I know, because I timed it. The kids ran through my stash of Goldfish crackers in about 2.3 seconds. The other 91 minutes and 57.7 seconds were just thrilling. After we finally got off the bridge, I didn't want to waste the time I'd already invested and didn't go home.

The bowling was fine. Hollis didn't even have to take turns with anyone because Holden was only interested in eating and L's son, C., had already had his fill while they waited for us. L & C, however, had to leave after about 30 minutes because C was just done. I'm impressed that he lasted as long as he did. I stayed at the bowling alley with H&H for what felt like 5 hours after she left, but it was probably only about 15 minutes. Holden was a nightmare. He kept performing his patented Squirm, Twist, and Scream whenever I: (a) prevented him from eating fries off of the floor, or (b) prevented him from running into the other lanes. At one point during the STandS routine, he bashed the back of his head up against my lip and teeth and drew blood. At that point, I was seriously tempted to toss him javelin style down our lane. That isn't the worst part of it though. The worst was the judgment. The women in a lane 2 down from ours kept staring at us and shaking their heads and whispering to one another. I'd like to think they were just thanking their lucky stars their kids were past that stage, but it felt like judgment to this tired and frustrated Mama.

In all fairness to L and me, we all probably would have had a great time if I'd gotten there on time. I mean, after 2 hours trapped in a car, what kid wouldn't want to run amok? But I've given T permission to smack the crap out of me the next time I mention a desire to attempt an indoor outing like this on my own.

Finally, I leave you with this video that explains exactly why second kids tend to have thick skin. Ah, brotherly love.

Dark and Stormy Seas

When I was 13, we went for a family vacation in Denmark. We stayed in an adorable little beach cottage with a thatched roof not far from the North Sea. We could walk to the water every day. B., my 10 year old brother, and I spent hours each day bobbing around in the water, dunking one another, splashing our father, and trying to coax our mother out from under her jacket, long pants and blanket. Summer on the North Sea is not an exceptionally warm affair, and not many people would venture into the frigid water for long. We, however, didn't care if our lips turned blue while swimming. Aside from my mother's death threats when Dad used our camera's telephoto lens on the topless sun bathers, most of our stay was fairly uneventful. One day it stormed. I don't recall what we did the day of the storm but I do know that the next day, my brother and I were clamoring to go back to the beach, despite the choppy waves.

The water was dark that day. There was no cheerful foam dancing across the water. The surf was grey and solemn and cold. Still, B. and I were determined to enjoy the water while our parents sat on the beach soaking up what little warmth the sun could give. We splashed and swam around, slowly working our way out further and further into the storm tossed sea. I swam out far into the waves and B. followed. As always, he was tailing after the big sister he adored. I was a strong swimmer. At that point, I had been swimming competitively for about 5 years, but even I was having a bit of trouble with the undertow. I decided to swim back and when I turned around, I saw my brother to the side of me about 15 feet away and far too close to the rocks jutting out into the water. I could see B.'s mouth gulping and then moving as if to call for me, but I don't remember hearing him. He was struggling to tread water and to keep from moving closer to the rocks. I don't remember how I got to him. But when I did, he threw his arms around my neck and I could feel his panic through my arms. I started to swim and yelled at B. to kick as hard as he could. My arms were straining through the water and my legs were frantic as they scissored away. But we weren't moving. I was swimming as hard as I could just to stay in place, to keep us from being smashed against the rocks.

I was terrified.

I somehow finally felt the water catch and move through my cupped hands and bent legs. We slowly, struggled forward, inch by inch, to the safety of the shore. Our parents never noticed that we were in trouble. I'm sure they thought we were playing and we never told them anything. B. and I have talked about that day on the beach in Denmark many times. Each time it's been clear to me that B. never doubted that I would save him. He put his arms around me and put his faith in me. I don't think he's ever realized just how scared I was and just how close we both came to drowning. I've never told him.

That's me. The protector, the rock, the peacemaker, the balance in everyone's life. I have a role to play and I do it well. I never let anyone know when I'm in trouble or floundering. Very, very few people ever get inside. I am closer to my brother than anyone in the world, aside from my husband, and even he doesn't know. I can't let anyone see my weaknesses. It's not some flaw in my family, my brother, my friends. It's just the way I am. The only one who ever sees my tossed and turbulent waters is T. And even he has to fight to get a glimpse.

Since my second little boy was born, I've struggled with this whole motherhood thing. I love my children with an ache I didn't know I could have, but sometimes I feel as if they are devouring me. Their wet sloppy toddler kisses are so sweet and uplifting, but they suck my energy dry. I'm always tired. I'm always frustrated. I'm always angry. I play with my beautiful boys and I know how lucky I am. But this feeling is always there lurking. This feeling that I'm swimming and swimming as hard as I can away from the rocks. And I'm not moving. I'm not moving! If I stop swimming for even a moment, if I let my guard down, the undertow will pull me out to sea or the waves will dash me against the rocks.

I know that I can't make it to the shore by myself. I need help. I need to put my arms around T. and kick for all it's worth. But for some twisted reason it's easier for me to keep frantically treading water than to open my mouth and scream.



Edited to add - It was very hard for me to hit the publish button on this post. This blog is not anonymous. My family, a few friends, and some co-workers read this. If you Google my real name, you'll find my blog. But I need to write this somewhere. I need to write the words. But just because I do, does not mean that I want to talk about it. Does that make sense? I'd like to pretend for this post that I really am anonymous, so I ask that people who know me in real life please respect that.

Interview 2.0

CPA Mom played the interview game too recently. Even though I've already been interviewed once, I figure twice is even better. So once again I give you a completely narcissistic post with questions from CPA Mom:

1) Name all the places you have lived and which was your favorite?

Alexandria, LA
Sacramento, CA
Shreveport, LA
Grand Forks, ND
Orenhoffen, Germany
Bellevue, NE
Coral Gables, FL
Omaha, NE
Fairfax, VA
Falls Church, VA
Chesapeake, VA

Well, that wasn't as many as I thought and, yes, I am a military brat. My favorite was Falls Church. We had the most adorable little house, were in a fantastic school district, and were a short metro ride or drive from D.C. I like the weather in Chesapeake better though!

2) Where/How did you meet your husband and how long after that were you married? Have you been married before?

How many of these stories start with drinking? Isn't it like 75% or something? Anywho, T & I met at a friend's house for an Orange Bowl party on January 1, 1994. T was drunk and amazingly I took his call 3 days later, despite the ass grabbing that occurred at the party. We were engaged 10 months later, and married by July of 1995. Yes, we were obscenely young (22 & 25) and we've been lucky. Many people we know who married around the same time are no longer together. I still love my husband more than life itself. (Cue sappy music.) No, I've never been married before.

3) What skill do you not have and wish you did?

I wish I could write. I mean I can write, but I can't Write. I guess that's both a talent and a skill.

4) What are your hobbies? What do you wish you had more time to do (and perhaps did it much more before you were a mom)?

Reading, scrapbooking, sleeping. Does sleeping count as a hobby? I wish I had more time to do that. I wish I had more time to scrapbook too, but I only started that after Hollis was born.

5) Have you ever met anyone famous? Who would you most like to meet?

Why, yes, I have, but B-list people only. T & I met Dr. Ruth in a hotel in Tobago once. She looks and sounds exactly like she does on TV. She was very sweet and smiled a lot. I've met various politicians who don't know me from a hole in the wall - Orin Hatch and Barney Frank are two that immediately come to mind. There are lots more but, hey, I lived in D.C. Oh and I was at a wedding with Clarence Thomas once. I didn't speak to him because if I can't say something nice, I'm not going to say anything at all.

Let's see, I also went to high school with Leisha Hailey and Eric Strickland. One of my sorority sisters from college has been a sports "reporter" for CBS, FOX, and ESPN and another is a reporter for the D.C. local Fox News. That about covers it.

Who is Your Google Twin?

A couple of weeks ago my local paper did a story about Google twins. (Your Google twin, for the uninitiated, is a person you locate by Googling your own name.) Admit it, we've all egosurfed before. It's right up there with stalking old boyfriends and girlfriends on the list of high ranking Google entertainment. And it's a good way to kill time. If you have a somewhat unusual, but not too unusual name, you can find some interesting twinnage.

I have to cheat to find my Google twin. I have a hyphenated last name and my maiden name is fairly unusual outside of the State of Louisiana. I am reasonably well assured that no one else in this world shares my legal name. My first name and maiden name, however, yield far more interesting results. My Google twin lives in Hawaii, is ten years older than me, and belongs to several motorcycle clubs. I've been following her since 1996. The other Lawyer Mama is like my own digital doppelgaenger. By following her online progress, I can see what my life could be like ten years into the future if I chose a different path. I'm not raring to move to Hawaii, and motorcycles scare me, but it's a nice little fantasy. My Google twin helps facilitate the fantasy by revealing only bits and pieces of herself online. I, on the other hand, am a cyber-exhibitionist. If you Google my name you get all sorts of stuff that gives you a pretty clear picture of my life: career, kids, political leanings, and my blog. There are even pictures to spell it all out.

My husband, on the other hand, has this almost pathological need to keep his name off of the Internet. He also has a very unusual first name. Until very recently, the only Google hits for his name involved birth and death announcements. Whoopee. I am constantly disappointed by T's Google information. It's almost as if he doesn't completely exist without a complete cyber-profile. T is amused by my disappointment and actually takes great pride in giving any potential cyber-stalkers almost no discernible information about his life.

Last week, however, I hit pay dirt. While wasting away a few hours minutes on the Internet, I discovered that T now has a Google twin. In fact, he has TWO! And, man, are they good ones. One of the top hits for T's name was a runner up in a state level Miss USA pageant. Yep, she's a woman. That really chaps T's ass because one of his pet peeves is the recent trend of using boy names for girls. You can practically watch him turn purple if you happen to mention that your cousin's friend's second daughter is named Hollis. It's a sure way to turn his crank. So that one is gratifying, but the other Google hit is even better. The first hit for T's name is now a profile on IMDb. A fledgling director sharing T's name has burst onto the movie scene ... with soft porn. As I'm sure you can guess, T is thrilled! To make it even better, the Google T appears to have no photos online, so an old girlfriend or acquaintance will never be entirely sure that the director of, say, Forest Hump isn't my T. Baaaahaaaaa!

OK, yeah, I'm sure I could make this into a serious post. There's lots of material there: fantasizing about a freewheeling life in Hawaii, my husband's pathological need for privacy and my need to vomit my life details all over the Internet, but I'm just not going to go there today. Sorry. Maybe another time.

Real Moms Cry

When my oldest was born, I had it so easy. My husband was truly an equal partner. T hadn't been all that involved in my pregnancy, but he adored Hollis from the moment he came out screaming. Before Hollis began sleeping through the night, T took half of the night for all wakings and feedings. He would fight me to change diapers, take Hollis out to give me time to myself, and otherwise dote on both of us. While it seemed difficult at the time, it was a dream compared to my post-partum life after number 2.

When my second son was born, everything was so much harder. I had a 15 month old toddler and a newborn who wouldn't sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time and we were struggling with that whole breastfeeding thing. Rather than pump for night time feedings like I had with Hollis, I was determined to establish an exclusive breastfeeding relationship. Well, I did, but I can't help but think that in doing so I cut my husband out of the picture. For the first 9 months, T wasn't nearly as engaged with Holden as he had been with Hollis. Don't get me wrong, he adored him and still does. But Holden clearly had a favorite and it was the parent with the milk jugs.

The whole thing came to a head when Holden was 3 or 4 months old. I had gone back to work full time and Holden still wasn't sleeping. In fact, he was spending much of his time at night nursing to make up for his loss of Mommy time during the day. The only way I could get any sleep, was to have Holden in our bed. One evening, exhausted beyond all reason, T attempted to decamp to the guest bed room. As you can imagine, WWIII ensued. I accused him of being selfish and disengaged. He just wanted some sleep. But at the end of all the screaming, T did move into the guest bedroom. And he stayed there for 3 months. When he left, I sat there with my adorable, demanding, overwhelming, little bundle of joy and frustration and sobbed into his sweet little head. I cried like I hadn't cried in years. I cried because no one had warned me that being a mom would so hard. I cried because I loved my husband, but I realized that at that moment in time, Holden was more important. I cried for the change in my relationships and the loss of my freedom. I cried because I wanted to be all things to all people and I couldn't. I cried because I wanted to do it all and I was failing miserably.

I wish I could say that my flood 'o tears gave me some sort of epiphany, that I realized that many women feel this way, that an identity crisis of sorts is normal after having children. It didn't happen instantly. There were a lot of tears over the next few months, no doubt brought on by hormones, sleep deprivation, stress, and a touch of PPD. Eventually, Holden became more enamored with big people food than my ta-tas. At 8 months, he began sleeping through the night and I slowly started to regain my sanity. Now my littlest man is 15 months old and is starting to become a "real person." (T's term for the emerging toddler personality.) And we feel more like a real family than the Sane Parent, the Crazy Parent, and 2 kids. I still cry when I have those days. You know, when Big H does nothing but whine, Little H is a little teething crank, T wants more of my attention, I have work I need to do, and I truly cannot watch Cars one. more. time. But I try to give myself a break and not pretend to everyone that I'm some sort of perfect supermom. I think I do a disservice to all mothers when I pretend that it's easy for me. I'm not advocating scaring the crap out of every pregnant woman, but I don't want to pretend that everything must be perfect for me to be happy. Real moms cry and I want everyone to know it.



Yes, I think I must be the last woman in the blogger world to get around to doing Kristin's wonderful meme, but what can I say? Real moms procrastinate! Check out the rest of the Real Moms posts if you have some time.

On an unrelated note, does anyone else have problems leaving comments on Word Press blogs? I've discovered I can't leave comments on any Word Press blog. It acts like it's been saved and then it just doesn't show up. It's quite frustrating. Anyone else have this problem?

I'm Going to BlogHer!

Well, it's official. I'm going to BlogHer! (Well, it's been official for a few days now but I'm just getting around to posting it.) I can't say that T understands why I want to go, but he was all for me having some time to myself and I don't even have to earn my trip. Although, to be honest, I think T realizes that he really had no say in the matter anyway!

As a bonus, CPA Mom and I managed to get flights to Chicago together and we'll be rooming with Amy W. at the W Sheraton. I know a few of you are going for sure, but please drop me an email if you'd like to get together. I'm sure we can find a lunch table that will fit everyone.



Angela - I still can't seem to post on your blog, but I did read your post. As I've said before, I'm great at hand holding and am impervious to drama. Hang in there, sweetie.