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I Was Blind But Now I See — Literally

by BethMay 24, 2017Family / Health / Where Do I belong?

Kyle, Bern-Gurten Park, Bern, Switzerland with the Alps in the background

I had no idea. Sure, I kind of knew I was depressed. I just thought it was my typical Seasonal Affected Disorder. Winter grey is no fun every single year. As a result of my malaise, I was not correlating that the darkness I was feeling was because of my eyes. And because I am pretty farsighted, I figured my bad eyesight was a result of my inability to read tiny ingredient labels. And for some reason I attached my tiny label issue to my utter inability to read larger font restaurant menus. I gave up and Dave always pitched in. I neglected the constant blur in the center of my vision field and we adjusted. Still, I was not connecting that not being able to read up close had nothing to do with my world going dark. Again, I adjusted. I turned all my electronic screens to their brightest setting, read under very vibrant lights, and dealt with the daily fact that I literally could not see my left eyelid as I tried to apply mascara and eyeshadow (even with a magnifying mirror in the morning sun). Further, I did not think twice that my freckles were fading out of view.

“I am getting older and that is what happens.”

Me and Big Daddy, The Moran Eye Center, Salt Lake City, Utah

I also thought that the infamous Utah winter smog caused by temperature inversions is what caused the mountains and my background to blur, and it never occurred to me that writing was becoming a task and that images are not supposed to disappear when you look toward the light. It all seemed normal. In all truth, in spite of the profound loss of my once very clear vision, I had no idea I was going blind.

Snowbird Ski Resort, Park City, Utah — Eli after his crash, Snowbird Ski Resort, Salt Lake City, Utah

The only reason I did something is because we met our deductible. In January Eli had a horrible ski accident, which resulted in a seriously fractured jaw, which required a titanium plate, tooth extraction, and having his jaw wired shut. He could not chew food for two months and lost thirty-five pounds. With our deductible met, Dave suggested we see the doctor for anything we thought we might want to take care of. I knew I had not had my eyes tested in a while and the blur was a little bothersome. With risk of pre-existing conditions soon counting against me, I decided to get my eyes checked out. Mind blown. I have a traumatic cataract. And understandably, my diagnosis caused some confusion, especially with me. See, several years ago I thought it was strange when a cornea specialist said that I had cataracts, or better, said that he could see my cataracts. He suggested it would be a several years before I needed to address “them.” Herein lies the confusion. The specialist was expert in corneas, not cataracts. There is not a “them.” There is a, “one.” And one blinding cataract may have a different diagnosis. In my case, it does. Still I was caught off guard, he explained my scans and explained my diagnosis. Still did not make sense.

“Don’t cataracts come in two?” I thought.

Thankfully the surgeon realized that my processing speed needed a minute as I absorbed the shock. That is when he asked me to come back before surgery.

“Seriously. Look it up. Think of questions. Research. I can answer any of your concerns. And yes, the diagnosis is a classic traumatic cataract. Oh and by the way, when did you hit your head?”

Information on Traumatic Cataract from Google

I did hit my head, and hard. Nearly ten years ago I went airborne and fell down my friend’s stairs. It was an unfamiliar house and completely dark. I went over a baby gate and landed on my face. I broke my nose, ruptured a cyst in my wrist, and damaged my optic nerve. In fact, even now the skin sensation on the left side of my forehead feels different than the right. And no, I was not drinking. Crazy!

Easy E long boarding at the house where I broke my nose, Park City, Utah, November, 2007

You still may doubt or have questions. I did too. So before I go any further, let me clear some things up. Yes. It is true: everyone will eventually develop cataracts. If you’re reading this, you probably have them this very minute, and if you live long enough, you’ll probably need surgery to address them. Normal cataracts tend to affect both eyes. When vision is bad enough, surgery is performed on one eye and after that eye heals, surgery is performed on the other. My mom recently had cataract surgery and her mom, mom grandma, had cataract surgery too. And it is possible that one eye may need surgery a year or two before the other, but they are close.

The boys and Wawa (my mom), May, 2017, Salt Lake City, Utah

It is my understanding the cataracts are a natural product of the aging eye. My doctor put it this way:

“It is like every year someone puts a dropper of milk in a glass of water. Eventually the water becomes too foggy. And because the glass is yours, you get to decide when has become too foggy.”

Ultimately, it is our ability to see through foggy-water combined with the speed in which the fogginess impedes our vision that dictates when we are ready. As a result of these factors, not all of us will have surgery. We may die first (for real).

In my case, my left eye has a barely noticeable and typical cataract. It will probably be many years before it gets bad enough to fix. On the other hand, my right eye looked like a firework exploded in my lens. When given a glare test, I was completely blind. I would get my questions answered, yet surgery needed to happen regardless. Deep breath!

Even though it was confirmed that I could not see, I was crazy terrified the week before surgery. I was anxious. The risk of losing my eyesight altogether weighed heavily on me. I tried talking myself out of the surgery so many times, and I tried to cancel the day of. I convinced myself that I needed to be at the boys’ track meet. I even told the nurse,

“I should reschedule. They both run today. I do not want to be a bad mom.”

The nurse was kind and accommodating and told me that I had until 1PM to let them know. I waited until 12:50 PM to give them go ahead and I needed to be at the hospital by 2:15 PM. At that time, I walked onto the set of the 1980s movie, “Cocoon.” That is, I walked into the Moran Eye Center at the University of Utah. In a sea of delightful old people facing the same surgery, I waited. Because I barf 100 percent of the time after having morphine, the anesthesiologist opted not to give me pain medicine. Instead she used topical numbing and anti-nausea medicine. Of course they give you anti-anxiety medicine too, considering the fact that you’ll be awake while they poke your eye with sharp things. At approximately 3:30 PM MST, the surgeon began. He and the male nurse covered my head in a big white sheet with a hole. As the sticky parts around the eyehole adhered to my top lashes, I heard the doctor say,

“Let’s do this again. We don’t want to hurt those lashes.”

They lifted the sheet off of my face and repositioned the big white cover. Then they attached something to hold my eye open.

“How are you doing?” the doctor asked.

“I am good. This is so weird. Really weird.” I responded.

He cut into my right eye. I was awake. No. Really. I was awake for the entire surgery. And I remember it. About five minutes in, the doctor asked me,

“Beth, can you feel anything?”
“Yes.” I said and followed, “Is it supposed to hurt like this?”
“No.” he responded and then asked the anesthesiologist to give me more numbing medicine.

I could see colors. I heard the surgeon as he worked my busted cataract out of my eye.

“We are ready to put the new lens in.” the doctor said.

As he placed in my new lens it became stuck at the edge. “
“We need to fix this part. It is getting stuck on the edge.”

We were at minute ten. The doctor asked again, “Beth, can you feel that?”
As I looked at the bright whites, reds, blacks and blues reflected in the mirror above I said, “Really, is it still supposed to hurt?”
“No. It is not.” He responded and continued. “Please give her more medicine.” He instructed.

Me, post surgery, wearing my "Hannibal Lecter" Eye Mask, Salt Lake City, Utah — Me, post surgery, wearing my “Hannibal Lecter” Eye Mask, Salt Lake City, Utah

In twelve minutes my surgery was complete. The average time for cataract surgery is ten minutes. I’ll give the extra two minutes to the snag in my lens. When I came back for a follow-up the next day the doctor asked me about my experience. I asked him,

“Is it normal that I remember the surgery?”
“Yes.” He responded.
“Even all that pain.” I asked.

“The numbing medicine is supposed to last 15 – 20 minutes. Yours lasted five. Some people metabolize medicine really fast. You are one of those people.”

After surgery I was traumatized. I could remember the pain and remember the procedure. I could not get over the fact that I was awake while the doctor sliced into my eye. As a result of my processing overload, I asked Dave to drop me off at home so I could catch my breath. I assured him I would be ready to go to the boys’ track meet after he returned with my prescriptions. Yes, I was still trying to make the track meet. Three hours later I woke up. The track meet was over and the boys were on their way home.

Me, post surgery, May, 2017, Salt Lake City, Utah

As I kept opening and closing my right eye, my blind spot was gone. My vision is crystal clear in my right eye and a bit duller in my left. The boys were back home. They were kind and grateful I was ok.

Before I left for my check up appointment the next day, after about half of the way in, I realized as I put on my eyeshadow that I could actually see my left eyelid. I looked closer and kept thinking about all the freckles on my face.

“Wow! I love my freckles. Man, I have a lot of them.” It honestly took me a few minutes to connect the dots as I thought to myself, “It is my new robot eye. It is allowing me to see. My freckles have always been this bright. Wow!”

The boys and I on our Mothers Day Adventure, Liberty Park, Salt Lake City, Utah — The boys and I on our Mothers Day Adventure, Liberty Park, Salt Lake City, Uta

Later that day Kyle and I went on a walk. I kept staring at the mountains to the east. I saw contrast. I saw peaks. I saw canyons. I have not seen the mountains like this in years. Then I saw the leaves on the trees. No longer were they a blend of greens. In high contrast I saw each leaf. From blur to high definition in twelve minutes, I still cannot believe it. By the way, I also noticed my bathroom is much dustier than I imagined and that I have a lot of wrinkles. Nevertheless, I am grateful.

Trust Me

by BethMay 22, 2017May 23, 2017Family / Health / mommy blogs / Where Do I belong?

CrazyUs.com Travels — Us, Citadel of Besançon, Besançon, France

A friend recently suggested I listen to Brené Brown’s talk entitled, “The Anatomy of Trust.” I was like,

“Who is Brené Brown? And why do you always refer to her?”

Apparently I am nearly the last people on Earth who has not heard of or listened to Brené Brown, or at least, I am the last of the subset of those who listen of those who watch Oprah, listen to the Ted Radio hour, and/or read transcendent personal essays, such as the ones found in The Atlantic Monthly. In truth, I was listening to another podcast recently (Amanda Palmer on Design Matters) when Amanda Palmer, formerly of the cabaret-punk duo, “The Dresden Dolls,” quoted Brené Brown. I figured if cabaret-punk can coexist with Dallas mom, then well, I can listen to Brené Brown.

So, between avoiding my online French class and booking summer travel I decided it was time. Immediately Brené encoded the definition of trust into a most awesome mnemonic device. Yes, awesome, because I still remember the word: BRAVING. I will not break it down for you now. I suggest you listen to her entire podcast. Right now I want to focus on the “v” in her memory acronym. No. The “v” is not referring to a 1980’s alien invasion reboot, or to lady parts. The “v” in BRAVING refers to the trust concept of a Vault, which by Brené Brown’s definition means: “what I share with you, you will hold in confidence. And what you share with me, I will hold in confidence.” Feeling confident with my ability to keep confidences, I almost missed the next crucial advice Brené gave, which is the idea that we are not trustworthy when we participate in salacious behavior. Meaning that “in our relationship I need to see that you acknowledge confidentiality and I need to do the same.” Nevertheless, in an attempt to “hotwire connections,” simply put, we gossip.

Easy E and Me, tonight, Salt Lake City, Utah

As a result, instead of healthy, trusting connections, Brené Brown suggests that “our closeness is built on hating the same people.” She calls this, “Common Enemy Intimacy.” Ouch! I get it. How many times am I silent, ultimately complicit, as I listen to the rumors. My excuse: I want to feel a part, especially when it comes to the other moms. Why can’t I be brave?

With thoughts simmering, I finished the twenty-four minute podcast (of course I took notes). And I continue to simmer. I am trying to process the concept that an aspect of trust is our ability to keep our mouths shut, or better, “not sharing something that is not mine to share.” As I think, I want push further and suggest that Common Enemy Intimacy is a pervasive societal condition. For instance, socially we reject those who do not act like us. Religiously we fear those who do not believe like us. Politically we hate those who do not think like us. Deep breath. I am not going to talk politics or religion. I am going to speak to the social component, specifically regarding parenting as it relates to my relationships with other moms. And here is my conundrum: How do I quickly engage you without betraying trust? I need help.

First, I could totally rationalize. I agree. Gossip does hotwire a connection. Sure, telling you about a bitchy mom may build closeness with you, but at what cost? I would even argue that talking about someone else in an attempt to heal is a form of gossip. In defense of healing, my story includes other people and my opinions of them. I know if you understood the details you would gain greater perspective. As a result, I am sure my full disclosure would allow for better advice. At what cost? What about trust? Where is the line? Is it worth breaking someone’s trust? Ah! What do I do?

Here is a thought. I would like to push further on the concept of trust. In what we share with others, I would like to consider a line of thought, which is that women (in general) are culturally taught to accommodate. As a result, I would suggest that our society does not enable us to ground ourselves in our own space or our own stories. Because we are taught to tether to our relationships to an exterior world, we become dependent on the opinions of others. And as accommodators, I would argue that gossip is a natural form of this exterior connection (intimacy). Sure, I could also have an entire conversation regarding the idea that patriarchy and how women treat one another is because they feel the only power they have is within their own gender and that creates inequitable trust, but I won’t, at least not right now. Ultimately, women who try to break the societal cycle and who are “grounded” in their own narrative can actually be viewed as self-absorbed or narcissistic. Because we do not want to appear self-centered or self-absorbed, the accommodating feedback loop persists. That is why I push back. I may not like or condone gossip. In fact I pretty much hate gossip in all its mean-girl forms. Nevertheless, I have compassion for the women who do. And maybe it is because women who gossip are not trying to break trust. Perhaps they gossip because they are not comfortable standing in their own space, or they do not feel they can. (By the way, self trust is half of the equation: You “can’t ask people to give you something you don’t think you are worthy of receiving.”) In the end, we become more of the wind and less of the tree. And as the wind, it is not about trust, it becomes about fitting in and holding on.

Alas, all this exposition simply to ask,

“How do I stand in my space and tell my story while holding everyone’s trust, including my own?”

Keeping it Real As We Make Our Way Home

by BethApril 27, 2017Family / Itineraries / Travel / Travel Photgraphy / Travel Tips / Travel With Teens

Our Flight Seattle, Washington to Salt Lake City, Utah

[Be warned: Not only did we cover a lot of physical territory on our return flight, my words here are all over the map!]

It is 6:30 AM. We are on the last leg of our epic adventure, traveling on an Alaska Airlines flight from Seattle to Salt Lake City. The sun is shining through the window bright. I am sitting in seat 17A. The middle seats are empty, and our family has the entire row. Seconds ago I stole my neck pillow back. I feel a little guilty. Dave really seemed comfortable.

Us on our flight from Seattle, Washing to Salt Lake City, Utah

Over the intercom I hear a voice. It is the captain:

“We are at a cruising altitude of 39,000 feet …Mad props (yes, he did say ‘mad props’). The captain continues, “We are going to be on time, or very close to it. We are lucky to have four of Alaska’s top flight attendants with us today…Enjoy the flight.”

Kyle at the Liechtenstein Main Square, our last day, April, 2017

The return travel portion of our journey home began approximately thirty-four hours ago when I heard the beep, beep, beep of my alarm. I had no idea what was happening. Confused, I said,

“Stop that noise! Seriously, turn it off. Whose alarm is that?” (It was mine.)

It was 3:30 AM — Zurich time. Somehow we showered, packed, ate breakfast, and made our way to the airport. I was patted down in Seattle. At the Zurich airport, both Kyle and I had our bags searched. Then the sweet Swiss airport security agent lady held the two tiny jars up high.

“That is my jam for the plane.” I said, and then I looked at Kyle and mumbled, “Not music, but like real jam.”

Examining them she mumbled, or better, spoke German, “[insert German words here].” I listened incomprehensibly. Then smiled when I heard the word, “marmalade.”

“Yes, the marmalade.” I proclaimed.

“Marmelade. Yes. Marmalade.” She laughed and concurred.

She placed the marmalade with my little toothpaste as she crammed all of my small items into one plastic bag. Finally, she instructed me to keep all items in that bag. As I watched her, all I could think was,

“my jam is with my toothpaste. That’s weird.”

A picture of one of my little jams that made it home from Zurich, Switzerland, April 2017

We made our way to the gate and as we were boarding, I heard,

“If your name is called, please come and speak to a gate agent.” I heard the name “Adams,” and said, “Dude, they just called our name.”

Uncertain, he listened again, “Adams.”

Sure enough, his name was called, which ultimately meant he was bumped to first class.

Kyle piped in and said, “Mom should get the seat.”

Let me preface this next part and to tell you that in all the years of flying, flights and upgrades, I have never taken the first class seat. Nevertheless, Dave always offers. And yes, on occasion, we have upgraded together. But, because I seem to be allergic to all food, which means I would not fully enjoy the luxury of a first class meal, and because I am also small in stature, which means I fit in a middle seat between the boys more comfortably, I always feel guilty taking the upgrade. The closest I came to taking him up on his offer is when I suggested we give the upgrade to his mom, who was traveling with us. (*Hold up! Do not think I am a sweet daughter-in-law because I suggested Dave give his mom the upgrade. Sending his mom to first class was as much as a gift for me as it was for her. We were at the end of a long journey, a journey, where, for two weeks, I listened to her talk at great length as she detailed her previous trips to England including, but not limited to, things such as the intricacies of every meal, a full-blown accounting of where she ate, details such as how the restaurant was decorated, how many people were also eating at said restaurant, then an exhaustive listing of what she and her companions ate, how the food was prepared, and how long it took for her to eat compared to everyone else. **By the way, I bumped her to first class in the van too. Of course and in truth, I wanted her to be comfortable as we traveled across the country. As a result, I insisted she sit in the front passenger seat. I sat in the far the back. It was great. Dave drove. She talked. I hid. *Please be hard on me and not her. For more than forty years she was an English professor. And is much more accustomed to an audience. When it came to our return flight, I knew I had no more energy to listen so I insisted she have Dave’s first class upgrade.)

Dave and his mom, DeAnne, Hampton Court, England, July, 2014

Me in the back of our rental van somewhere between London and Brighton, England, July, 2014

Of course Dave happily obliged.

Yesterday was different. A voice screamed. Ok, my voice screamed,

“Beth, take the seat!”

I was exhausted. I needed a break and I really needed a moment alone. So I took a deep breath and I took the seat. Of course I immediately offered to split the time with Dave. (You can check my text messages for proof. It was sort of ridiculous actually.)

Dave insisted,

“I think you should stay there the entire time.” Then he demanded, “But you’d better sleep.”

I did. I slept. Even after two flight attendants woke me up, I forced myself back to sleep. Sure, I went back and visited Dave and the boys a few times. Of course I had moments of lonely. I hate being alone all those hours. But people it was awesome.

Dave in Toronto Airport's Plaza Premium Lounge -- the only picture I took, April 2017 — Dave in Toronto Airport’s Plaza Premium Lounge — the only picture I took, April 2017

Dave & the boys at the Zurich Airport Aspire Lounge, April 2017.

We landed in Toronto, where we had a six-hour layover, a layover where I sat in the exact same chair in the Plaza Premium Lounge for exactly five hours. For the past few days prior Eli had been bugging me because he wanted to download some Netflix shows. Apparently you can only download Netflix shows on one device at a time and my iPad had the shows. So to help out a brother, who is really my son, I sat and watched my remaining downloads, which were the last three episodes of the teen-suicide drama “Thirteen Reasons Why.” See, I have been watching the show in tandem with Eli. He read the book in 7th grade. And after watching the show, I am now retroactively questioning another parenting choice. I can’t change the past, but I can address the now.

I finished the last episode, and with our food-stained yet comfortable airport lounge chairs facing each other, I announced,

“I am done.”

Like the great literary deconstruction specialist he is, Kyle asked, “What did you think?”

“I have mixed feelings.” I responded.

He shook his head affirmatively and asked, “Like what?”

“For starters, Hannah, the girl whose suicide was graphicaly depicted, announced her despair throughout the show. She clearly stated that she felt: flat, hopeless and apathetic. Consequently, I would argue that it seems a little incongruous that in her hopeless state she had enough energy to make thirteen, very detailed, sixty-minute cassette tapes — not to mention the fortitude it took to procure a cassette recorder … That is a lot of energy.”

“I agree,” Eli piped in. “And to tell 13 specific people why they played a part in her suicide, well, that is a lot! Mom, there were so many things that did not make sense.”

We continued talking about things like teen suicide, rape and why we think narrow literary stereotypes are lame. Through our analysis we compared the merits of real life versus making a best-selling teen novel turned Netflix-binge watch. We all agree. Reality and being yourself should win, including the dirty, less glamorous parts. We also concluded (again), that suicide and suicide prevention was not portrayed accurately or well in this Netflix series.

Our conversation wound down and soon we were on our way to our next flight: Toronto to Seattle. I convinced a tiny, curly haired, and very entertaining teen to trade seats with us. I noticed he was flying alone. I convinced him by telling him he would be sitting behind my sons who would both be happy to talk with him about Pokémon or whatever. He agreed and probably would have moved regardless. But he did move with a lot of back and forth regarding Gameboy Pokémon compared to travesty that is Pokémon Go. And yes, as a level twenty-four Pokémon Go player, I participated in the trash talk. (I am not kidding. In fact I leveled up on this trip.) Huzzah!

When I noticed no one was sitting in the seats in front of Dave and me, I urged Kyle to move so both boys could have their own row. As they stretched out, I asked Dave, “should I have offered the Gameboy kid the empty seats?”

To which he said, “No way! If he’d stayed in the seat he was given, he’d still have someone sitting next to him.”

View from a plane at the Toronto, Canada International Airport, April, 2017

I let it be, wrapped my clean (because I keep it in a backpack) neck pillow around my neck and turned on a video on the in-flight entertainment system. Ben Affleck was saying words and I could not stay awake. We landed in Seattle delirious and moments later we met up for a quick bite with one of our favorite humans, Justin. And because it was Seattle and because I stated out loud that I have celiac, the Cheesecake Factory wanted to get my order right. They re-made my dinner three times. I did not ask them to keep remaking my food. It was Jen, our waitress, followed by her manager. They insisted.

“We are closing down our kitchen, but we want to get you something you can eat.”

It was a moment of kindness after a very long flight. I was grateful. They continued,

“We don’t want you to get sick or have some weird allergic reaction.”

The food was good. We ate up, found our way back to our hotel. Said goodbye to Justin and found our way to our room.

Here I sit. Around my neck, my pillow snakes. I am wearing noise-canceling headphones, listening to my Spotify Mix and typing away. Now hovering over Salt Lake City, I feel super reflective. I feel reflective as a means to distract me from the mad, turbulence. Our flight path had us do a bunch of wide circles before we finally came in to land. As I cross my fingers and hold a hand to the ceiling (not really), I feel grateful. Truthfully, I am grateful we have embraced the what-you-see-is-what-you-get aspect of life, especially as far as travel goes. As such, I own the moments like when I bring marmalade on a plane, or that I would selfishly help my mother-in-law as a means to help myself, or that for my boys I would totally sit in a seat for five straight hours (because I did) and binge watch Netflix. Instead of shame, I think it is cool that the boys and I have played Pokémon all over the world. And finally, I am so glad that I have learned that profound experiences do not need to be orchestrated by, say, taking the kids to every self-important, humble-brag-to-your-friends museum such as the Louvre or the Prado, unless, that is, you can run them through said museum in less than an hour on “free” museum days.

Easy E outside of the Prado Museum, Madrid, Spain, November, 2016

Kyle in the Prado during our "free last 2 hours of Sunday" visit. We did the museum in under an hour. I surreptitiously took this photo. I am not a fan of "no photo" policies. — Kyle in the Prado Museum, Madrid, Spain, during our “free last 2 hours of Sunday” visit. We did the museum in under an hour. I surreptitiously took this photo. I am not a fan of “no photo” policies.

Dave & I outside of the Prado Museum, Madrid, Spain, November, 2016

I feel like a poorly made Gluten Free waffle.

by BethApril 24, 2017April 27, 2017Family / My Three Cents / Where Do I belong?

Yes. I have photographic evidence of said waffle. I made it this morning. Each Sunday morning, for our family breakfast, I follow the exact same recipe, which is located on the back of the gluten free Bisquick baking mix. I measure. I stir. I blend. I pour the batter in and then I wait. Gently I nudge open the waffle iron. If I feel any sort of tension, I wait some more. Today I was able to open the iron. As I urged my waffle out, I noticed it was sticking.

When I see my waffle fall apart, silence escapes me. I am loud. No. I do not need anyone to fix it. I just need to vent.

Like the boys say,

“Mom speaks out because she does not want to feel so alone. She wants you to know she is having a hard time…That is all.” (Pro Tip: raise your children to speak and translate Mom.)

They continue to reassure,

“Dad, mom is really ok.”

The boys, Chillon Castle, Montreux, Switzerland, April 2017

The boys, Gruyères Castle, Gruyères, Switzerland, April, 2017

By the way, I always vent. My vent is often packed with colorful feelings. I vent for the waffle crumbles. I vent because extricating a gluten free waffle from any pan is a pain in the ass. I vent for my jealous heart, because come on, we all know that eggs and white flour make everything easier. Mostly, I vent because I feel like a character in the Sesame Street skit, “One of These Things is not Like the Other.”

Dave is standing over the waffle iron now. He insists:

“Stop using a fork to get it out.” [insert short pause here], “You are ruining the waffle iron!” [now insert a long pause] Dave continues, “You just need a new waffle iron.”

This is our routine: I perfect my waffles as Dave successfully makes fancy European pancakes (with eggs and whole wheat flour, of course). I often tell him that it is not the waffle iron, but the “stupid” waffles. It is not lost on any of us that my waffles are without gluten, which means they will not have the stick-togetherness of Dave’s beautiful pancakes. Nevertheless, I am a fighter. When presented with failure, I will always make another batch. It the next batch fails, I will persist. At times I feel like a failure as I watch them as they eat their high-achiever-styled pancakes. Then I remember it really is apples and oranges, or better, glue vs. acetone. Then I cover my my waffle crumbs with perfectly sliced strawberries (that is another story) and whipped cream.

Some might suggest I pack it in or give up. Nope. Please know that my complicated gluten free waffles are always worth it. They allow me to feel like one of the others. Even when they are a disembodied mess, they taste really good. Mostly I know that once in a while I am able to produce a gluten free waffle masterpiece. In those moments, I gently open the waffle iron. As I marvel, I swear I hear a choir of angels sing. Then I easily remove my beautiful creation.

Today I said nothing when my waffle fell apart. Then I extracted it with a fork.

The remains of my gluten free waffle, Salt Lake City, Utah

I am sure I remained quiet because even though a crumbly waffle has nothing to do with my birthday, my birthday is tomorrow, and crumbly is definitely how I feel. I dread my birthday. Like I told Dave,

“I do not want to be remembered, yet I do not want to be forgotten.”

“I get it.” he responded.

As my birthday rounds the bend, I ponder, I loop. I always loop. My failures amplify and wasted moments shout,

“Beth, live in the now!”

See, for as long as I can remember, I have become consumed with reflection the closer the calendar nears. When the week hits (because yes, it is a week), I always hope things will be different. Unfortunately, this year is no different. It is April 23. I am at the beginning of a tailspin. I am still in the place where every single resentful, shameful and angry I-thought-I-had-resolved-this-already feeling is screaming its way to the surface. My self doubt is obliterating every cognitive behavioral therapy technique I have been taught. Doubt is crushing my empathy, and fear is suffocating my voice. Finally I scream,

“CINNAMON!” (which is our family safe word, by the way).

No one hears me.

Me, Chillon Castle, Montreux, Switzerland, April, 2017

Feeling both worked up and defeated, my despair paints the air I breathe. I always see the times I stepped aside, stepped back and was afraid. Usually, and for no real reason, I get frustrated with my mom for placing so much value on birthdays while simultaneously becoming irritated that my mother-in-law is not naturally considerate. I wonder if these two amazing women realize they are part of my birthday psychosis. (Shh. Maybe it is better if we left them out of this.) And speaking of Dave, he is never off the hook. Pre-any-holiday, he always gets on my nerves. We always fight. We most often misunderstand. Nevertheless, he does not throttle me. Instead he stands by my side.

Alas, I am no a victim. I own my pre-holiday moodiness and I am lucky that I can indulge and work through it. In fairness, I also give Dave a clear heads-up and say things like,

“Seriously dude, if you do not order me a gluten free birthday cake, I will lose my mind.” (ha ha, irony. I am already losing my mind.)

Gruyères Castle, Gruyères, Switzerland, April, 2017

I would argue that together Dave and I are our best hope for surviving these dark moments. Instead, my despair crushes him too. I have an idea for both of us. I am starting to think that to survive these moments Dave and I should go all “Freaky Friday” on each other. In fact, I think we would be better off if flip flopped our strengths. He could “Beth” me all up while I “Dave’d” him.

In truth, with my hopes high, our weekend began well. Dave and I ran errands Friday night. Then we binge-watched season 6 of “Homeland.” Before we started our binge watch and errands, Dave had a plan. He sweetly wanted suggested we do something for my “birthday weekend,” and that is when he said,

“Hey, let’s leave town tomorrow morning…Just grab a change of clothes and go.”

Kyle is currently out of town and off the grid with his environmental science class. I thought it would be too much to get us ready and be back before Kyle returned so I said,

“Let’s just spend Saturday together doing fun stuff.”

I happily assumed we would. I also happily assumed Dave would cheerlead us out the door. Meaning he would not wait for me to make the plans. We ran our errands and that is when it happened. As we walked in the door Dave said something like,

“I was talking to the bike guys. Tomorrow afternoon we are talking about a ride.”

There was no asking. With jaw agape, I said,

“I think I am going to be upset.”

“Really?” he responded — indignant.

I walked away.

Big Daddy at Gruyères Castle, Gruyères, Switzerland, April, 2017

Aside from asking Eli and Dave to have lunch with me, (when they already were full), the weekend took a nosedive. And really, since Dave told me about the bike ride, I have waffled. And by waffled, I mean, waffle like my poorly made, finesse-less, gluten free waffle.

Anyway, the weekend moves forward. I have completely bailed on my self-worth and my parenting. When Dave and I do engage, I vomit my feelings, which are of course, riddled with barf-y explanations. I know. Feelings talks are hard on anyone. At one point I used the following, yet “gentle” (not gentle) metaphorical experience:

“Dave, you know how when I make a really good dessert and I can’t stop eating it, so I just put it down the garbage disposal? That is how I feel about this weekend.”

At this point Dave is somewhere working on house projects. I am sure he is looping, or I secretly hope he is. To me that would imply he also wants things to be better. Do not worry. I am a long processor. Usually by the end of said holiday, I get over myself. I stop being mad at my mom and mother-in-law. They have done nothing wrong. My mom is the most thoughtful human I know. I am forever grateful she taught me to compassionately think of others. My mother-in-law is a bit harder. As she often tells me, “we are nothing alike.” Regardless, she is the reason for Dave, and well, Dave is my world. Eventually I forgive Dave for being Dave. (I did last night.) He forgives me. And ultimately it is Dave who swims by my side and helps me come up for air. Please know that after this weekend Dave totally earns extra good-husband points. (And yes, there is a great big jar where all those good-husband points go. When Dave fills the jar, he can use his accumulated points pick from several prizes)…

Me and Big Daddy, Gruyères Castle, Gruyères, Switzerland, April 2017

[insert robust and thoughtful conclusion here]

Here it is. Dave thinks my ending is too abrupt. I am not sure. When I ask, he suggests I sum it all up more completely. I honestly thought I did, but can see his point. I guess if I were to add anything, I would conclude this conclusion by saying that things like birthdays, or better, expectations, are not a waffle fail. And if we can move beyond the said birthday anxiety or waffle fail, we might see the is beauty. See, crumbly or not, each Sunday morning our family makes and then sits down for breakfast together. Dave and the boys always wait until my waffle is ready. And when we are done, we do the dishes — together. Sure, Eli may all of a sudden need to use the bathroom and yes, I may remind them to push their chairs in. In the end, we are team, and being a team is pretty awesome. I am lucky.

Us, Gruyères Castle, Gruyères, Switzerland, April, 2017

Houston, Texas A Happy Accident

by BethJanuary 10, 2017August 28, 2017Family / Itineraries / Travel / Travel Tips / Travel With Teens

One idea. One moment. One thought. One place to start.

Before my life is over I want to make sure I do my part. I have a lot to say and a lot of observations to make. But then I get stuck in my head — waylaid.

Saturday night, as we literally flew through smog layer (the notorious Salt Lake City temperature inversion), my heart sank, or better, as we entered the inversion, my heart immediately covered itself in a misty, ugly grey. Grey is what I see outside. And as my head and my heart fill with gloom and doom, I try to escape to the rivers and roads I have seen around the world. I want to be in Italy. Last night Dave, Kyle & I went on a wintery walk. As we walked down our slippery street, we talked about magical Italy and the nuances of traveling there.

“We ate such an unregulated amount of gelato on our second Rome visit that by our third visit, even our favorite gelato place in the world, Giolitti, began to lose its luster. I know. I cannot believe I am actually saying this.” [insert long pause here] “I am certain the long absence will renew my half-blueberry-half-dark-chocolate-sorbetto love.” [insert short pause here] “And the whip cream on top does not hurt.”

The Boys inside Giolitti on our second visit to Rome, February, 2015

Us outside of Giolitti on our third visit to Rome, Italy (Dave's second), November, 2015 — Us outside of Giolitti on our third visit to Rome, Italy (Dave’s second), November, 2015

Italy is special and we cannot wait to go back. I find excuses and reasons like what is it with those two gentlemen? I am consumed and now convinced we must see Verona. As we walked, we agreed that travel, and preparing to travel, gets me out of my head. Thoughts of Italy are a great distraction on these grey days.

Wait.

Ok. I can just imagine Dave reading what I have just written. Better, I can actually see his face. It is quizzically blank.

Then I ask him.

“Hey, what do you think?”

“You are all over the place.” He says.

“That is how I feel.” I shoot back and continue, “Dave, transitions are hard. Coming home is hard. I am trying to reset. I see the grey sky. I read the hate online, and I see a life where Princess Leia dies. And of course, the next day her mom dies too. I think Debbie Reynolds must have died of a broken heart.”

I would pause and make sure he was listening. I am certain he would be Googling something like, “Singing in the Rain,” or “what year was Carrie Fisher’s novel ‘Postcards From the Edge’ published?’” Once our eyes locked, I would continue,

“My heart would break too if I had to watch my child go.”

Us at arepa class at Chao Pescao at the Andaz Papagayo Resort, Costa Rica

This past weekend, on our way back from Costa Rica, we had an unexpected layover in Houston. We arranged to meet with our friend, Doug. Doug arranged a spectacular off-the wall-and-outsider tour of Houston. We saw a beer can house and some awesome art cars. And a super bonus: we started our tour at the Rothko Chapel.

Mark Rothko is one one of my very favorite artists. When I saw the room of Rothkos in London’s Tate Modern Museum I wept. No. Seriously. Tears actually filled my eyes and rolled down my freckled face. Then I sat on a bench in the middle of the Rothko room and took a flurry of pictures. How magic is it that Houston’s Rothko Chapel was our meeting place? We arrived on a freakishly cold Houston morning. We saw Doug’s Prius parked up the street. He was standing at the back of his car, grabbing a camera out of the trunk. As we stood there shivering, Doug warned us that the security guards were a bit persnickety and do not allow photography.

“As if.” I thought. “Didn’t he just grab his camera out of the trunk?”

Before I could as those very words out loud, Doug assured us he had a plan:

“Let’s make a game out of seeing how many pictures we can take. There are five of us and only one security guard.” (There were actually two, and they were planted on opposite ends of the round room.)

In the front of the Rothko Chapel, on the floor, were four evenly spaced black cushions. Dave sat on one. I sat on another. I whispered and encouraged him to take some photos. We were both nervous. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Doug holding his phone. He snapped three excellent shots.

Dave and I inside the Rothko Chapel, Houston, Texas

The boys outside of the Rothko Chapel, Houston, Texas

Soon the boys and I were back in our rental car, following Doug and Dave to The Beer Can House. Yes. Long ago a man made a house out of beer cans. The house is stunning. Really. At one point Eli quipped,

“What if he had made the house out of one beer can?”

To which our Texas friend responded, “That would be very Texan of him.”

Kyle & I, The Beer Can House, Houston, Texas

The house is closed for remodeling, I believe, and wonder what that means. We took pictures, noticed beer cans entombed in cement, were off to Buffalo Bayou Park Cistern. In the warm, damp cistern we saw a flickery light, and heard the snappy-fingered thunder that accompanied the “art” rain. I wanted to take a picture in the bathroom afterward, but I didn’t. Then we walked the Buffalo Bayou Park trail to the red button. Finding the button was not easy, but was interesting. Once found, I pushed it as all four boys watched the river. I could not see, but heard them as they exclaimed:

“Wow! Did you see that? Look at the water!”

I quickly pushed the button again. Then I stepped away. I saw it too. In one specific spot, just past the bridge, the water was rumbling. Freezing, we walked on. Up a hill from us we noticed a large statue. It was President Bush. Before I could process that indeed there are two President Bushes, I had already run up to give President George W. Bush a kiss (for my friend Rachael).

That is when someone shouted,

“That’s the older Bush.”

I haltingly stopped myself and simultaneously asked if there was a statue of the younger.

Me inside the Buffalo Bayou Park Cistern, Houston, Texas

Buffalo Bayou Park, Houston, Texas — Buffalo Bayou Walk, Houston, Texas

The Red Button at Buffalo Bayou Park, Houston, Texas — The Red Button at Buffalo Bayou Walk, Houston, Texas

The guys looking at the water below as i push the Red Button at Buffalo Bayou Park, Houston, Texas — The guys looking at the water below as i push the Red Button at Buffalo Bayou Walk, Houston, Texas

We never found the younger Bush and found our way back to our cars. Eli was hungry. Of course Dave chose barbecue. We ate barbecue at Goode Co. Armadillo Palace, and of course saw a large, metal armadillo (with horns). I have a thing for jumping pictures. The large metal armadillo seemed the perfect launching point. And because we had a fifth wheel, Dave, the boys and I were able to jump together. As he looked at all four of us perched on the Armadillo’s ledge, our friend, Doug, pointed at my phone and said,

“Hold the button down, right?”

“Yes. Take as many as you can.” I responded and we jumped.

Then we jumped again.

Doug and Dave, Goode & Co. Armadillo Palace, Houston, Texas

A goodby selfie with our most awesome tour guide, Doug, Houston, Texas

Now at Houston’s Art Car Museum our friend Doug had to go. We requested a group selfie. In every direction, the sun was wrong and fiercely bright. The moment was right so we snapped away. In seconds Doug was gone. That is when decided we would go inside the museum if it was free. It was free.

Inside, the woman at the front told us that they were also having an art exhibit that day.

“There was no jury and we accepted art from the first 100 people who entered. You can see by the work here that Houston has a lot of talent.”

(Ok. Of course there were some pieces of questionable quality. I would argue that those pieces made it even better and the show was a delight.) We walked through the museum. I took pictures of cool art pieces, confusing exhibits, and crazy art cars — all entertaining. Then we met Gary, a man with a ZZ Top beard, wearing a cowboy hat and wearing a grey shirt with the name “Gary” embroidered on it.

“Is your name really Gary?” I asked.

“Yes it is.” He responded.

Then Gary told us it would only cost us $30.00 to enter a car in the Art Car Parade. He continued. “And that includes your entry fee, tickets to the dance, and a t-shirt.”

“Of course it includes a t-shirt.” I said as we laughed.

I asked Gary if I could take a picture with him and Dave. He obliged and stood proud. I took three.

Easy E, Viewing the "Open Call" Exhibit at The Art Car Museum, Houston, Texas — Easy E, Viewing the “Open Call” Exhibit at The Art Car Museum, Houston, Texas

Dave and Gary, The Art Car Museum, Houston, Texas

It was time to go. We had a flight to catch. We said goodbye to Gary and were on our way back to the airport, returning our rental car and checking our bags. We were on the plane. I didn’t mind that Dave was bumped to First Class. The boys and I laughed as we listened to another family of boys argue about whose turn it was to sit by the window. They were persistent. We laughed even harder when we heard their dad insist,

“You now have lost the internet for the rest of the weekend.”

Kyle and I laughed again (empathetically, of course). I felt happy. I was sitting with my boys on each side. We were on our way home. Sure, I knew that I would be hitting the grey Utah winter. My friend, Rita, even texted me, warning me about the bad air. Of course I knew the boys would struggle returning to their routine. (They have.) I knew Monday would come and I would feel that achy loneliness I feel each day as Dave leaves for work and the boys leave for school. (I did.) Guess what? I also knew we had this moment.

The boys and I flying from Houston, Texas to Salt Lake City, Utah — The boys and me flying from Houston, Texas to Salt Lake City, Utah

I suck at Christmas and am even worse at gift receiving.

by BethDecember 22, 2016December 22, 2016Family / Health

I think Dave would agree as represented in what he said earlier today:

“Beth, I love Christmas, but each year you make me want to kill myself.”

I would go as far as to argue that together Dave and I are clearly a gift giving mess.

Kyle and Eli, Christmas 2003, Salt Lake City, Utah

It is 2016. Here is where we are at. According to Dave, I should shut my mouth, open my heart and exude excitement over each gift I am given. I not only think he is on to something, I think he is right. We should be gracious. We should empathize. We should consider the receiver as much as the giver.

Of course as I consider a bigger reality, I feel compelled to push back and ask, what do you do if you hate the gift? Should you pretend? Ok. That is too easy. Yes. Of course you should act grateful. Let’s complicate things. What if the gift is between husband and wife? What should you do then? Again Dave is correct when he asserts that one should act excited. And in truth, Dave always and absolutely properly exudes. Let me present another scenario. How deal with the non-grateful actions after the actual present-opening moment? What if your partner was less than honest about loving (what you believe is) a thoughtful gift? As a result, they leave said unloved gifts in their box, untouched? What is worse? The unused gifts, gifts your partner surely sees, or your your ungrateful expression, otherwise know as, A.B.F.? (*By the way, A.B.F. is the active form of R.B.F. [resting bitch face]).

Eli, Kyle & Dave, Christmas, 2004, Salt Lake City, Utah

To solve the unused gift issue, over that time I found that if l buy Dave exactly what he wants and asks for, he is more likely to take his gift out of the box. It is a process. Well before the holidays, I ask Dave to add his choices into an Amazon Shopping Cart. Then I buy away. It always warms my cold, dark heart when he ups the ante by sending me other links and specific suggestions. Last Christmas was a coup. If Dave had not sent me a link to Traeger’s special Christmas offer, I would have never known he wanted a Traeger Grill. I even think Dave would say his Traeger Grill was the best Christmas gift ever. We have all benefited from Dave’s perfectly roasted chickens and astutely seasoned brisket. I think it is as much fun for Dave to prepare and grill as it is for him to watch how we receive his heavenly creations.

Kyle and Eli, Park City, Utah, December, 2007

Nevertheless something upsets the balance, each year, even last year’s Traeger Grill year. Then panic sets in and misunderstanding runs rampant. And because I think we live in a world of greys not black, I think our issue goes beyond helping me Botox-up my Active Bitch Face and helping Dave be honest about gifts he is less pleased with. And once the shift in the force happens, I know we have entered the dark side. Obviously Dave is General Grievous and I am Count Dooku. Darth Vader would be too easy.

[begin scene]

Picture this: It is Christmas morning. We are on the Death Star. As Dave, General Grievous, hands me a gift, my hands will break into sweat. My heart will race, and my vision will blur. I sense, because obviously I have the force, albeit dark, that Dave will be waiting in rapt anticipation for my smile to crack. I already know I will disappoint. Likewise, before his gift ever reaches my sweaty hands, I become manic making sure his Amazon cart is full.

[end scene]

I have always been partial to a Charlie-Brown-style tree. We found this one in our backyard, Park City, Utah, December, 2011

Now back in our human reality know that our gift-giving nightmare is always made worse because I vomit honesty. Meaning, I cannot keep my truthy mouth shut. Consequently, acting like I love my new white long underwear is an epic feat. Spoiler Alert: I failed. In fact I am certain those long white underwear are where our selfish hell began. It was twenty years ago. For Christmas, Dave invited me to his Washington DC home. At that time. I had more money than I had ever had. I had never been asked home to a boy’s house for Christmas. I was touched, enamored and over the moon. Soon I would realize that our expectations were not aligned, yet I did what any good girlfriend would do and bought Dave a crap ton of gifts. By the way, I had so much fun buying those gifts. I even made him a stocking. I remember my eager anticipation as I handed him gift after gift. Alas, here is when I realized our disconnect. I could see it. I could see Dave’s shock as he opened those gifts. Disappointed, he said, “Why did you give me so much?” (Note* Dave also does not hide his A.B.F. well either).

Dave excitedly handed me one gift. As I unwrapped, I eyed a pair a long underwear. I was flooded with thoughts and a variety of emotion.

“Underwear?” I thought.
“We camp so much and I know you get cold.” he said.
“Underwear?” I thought again.

Ironically the framed picture behind the boys is one of the presents I gave Dave during the Washington DC Christmas, Park City, Utah, December 2013

Faster than I could catch my breath, the Christmas stocking now seemed silly, so did everything else. We were sitting next to his bed and all I wanted to do is hide under the Star Wars-sheets. (Yes. his bed was covered Star Wars sheets. How awesome is that?) Instead, as I looked at those utilitarian body warmers. I burst into tears. I let my insecurity take over (obviously). I felt a rush of stupid, shame, and neglect. I could not catch my breath. Instead I opted to try to explain. I know, dudes love a lady who explains stuff. Nevertheless, it’s what I do. And I am sure that Dave was delighted to spend the next four hours having me create my very own very of Dickens’, “A Christmas Carol.”

Of course I kept explaining.

“Long ago in a galaxy far, far away, Christmas was the only time of year I did not have to use my own money to pay for something blah blah blah.”

And in that moment our dysfunctional Christmas feedback loop began. I wish it did not matter, but somehow the moment we exchanged our first Christmas gifts has informed every Christmas ever since. Both of us were brats. Both of us could not see past our own strong wills. As a result, we still struggle and Christmas is not what Christmas should be.

Our loop is simple. I cry, express defeat, and couch my criticism in rationalization. Dave snaps and criticizes.

“I do not know why you gave me so much.”

An interesting side note: Those long underwear were not only thoughtful, they were practical. Had Dave given me a moment to catch my breath, and had I held my tongue, I think he would have seen that. Yes. I cried, but those long underwear never remained in a box. In fact. I still wear them today.

Us, Play Del Carmen, Mexico, Christmas Day, 2015

Back to my story: There is some good. It also took me years not to take Dave’s intent as a slight. I learned to appreciate Dave. First, he wants to (a.) Surprise you. Meaning, if I tell him I have a bunch of stuff in an Amazon Shopping cart, I will kill the surprise. What I need to do is let him surprise me. And (b.) Dave feels compelled to buy you something practical. I get it. I am practical too. That is why I hate seeing those presents sitting in their boxes.

Further, I think it is important to explain my crazy. See, for me half the fun of Christmas has alway been my ability to return presents. Meaning, I don’t get upset when someone is not elated with what I give them. It really is the thinking-of-them that counts. Nevertheless, sometimes in the moment I forget that everyone does not see the world like I do. As a result, I too easily dismiss someone’s need for me to want their gift. I come by this behavior honestly. I clearly remember my mom attaching gift receipts to each and every present. On December 26, I remember gathering all the unwanted pajamas and sweatsuits, driving over to our local Target and standing in a long return line. Once we returned our items, my siblings and I would compare our cash and then go shopping for day-after-Christmas markdowns. It was a special time. always knew I could get more-for-my-money the day after Christmas. In fact, returning became such a sport that I almost looked forward to the return more than the actual present. (Yes. I just said that). And before you completely hate me or judge me too harshly, I would ask you to consider the following: My family was not wealthy. I began babysitting full time during the summers at age eleven and worked full time hours. I paid for most everything. Christmas was that time of year I could bank on a little more. As such, Christmas for me was always of giving me a financial break. So stretching my gifted-dollar was the gift. And having the ability to return presents allowed me to buy more things I actually needed like underwear.

Then one day I married a super cool dude and he gave me the gift of staying home to raise Kyle and Eli. All of a sudden Christmas meant something different. And as much as I want to escape my history, navigating Christmas is filled with two people who literally grew up on opposite sides of the track. Dave did not live with scarcity. It really was about appreciating and finding joy out of both the practical and obscure. We are mostly at cross purposes except for the practical part. As a result, Dave was now in a position to buy me something I did not have to return. Oh, the pressure! So,combined with our new ability to buy the gifts we wanted and our practicality, it never occurred to me that my gift receiving behavior would actually ruin Christmas. I simply assumed Dave would admire my my need to return, or understand why I was not over the moon with say a rape whistle, a pair of long underwear or a Homer gift. In truth, and when it is not Christmas, Dave is actually delighted with my what he calls my “hobby” of buying and returning items and seldom keeping anything.

Ultimately, I know Dave and I fight and disagree because we deeply care about each other. We are blessed to indulge such selfish considerations. I am humbled and sorry that have spent time worrying about receiving the right gift, or better, the right gift to return [wink wink]. Nevertheless, here we are. Dave wants to kill himself because I kill Christmas. I think we both know we need to get a grip. We have been talking and being silent for days. We want to move past this. We need to move past this. We need to move past our high expectations, unfair judgements, and resentment of one another. We need step aside and remember that for starters, we have lasted almost twenty-one years. Valentine’s Day 1996 was our first date. We are blessed. I do not have to work. Our boys are healthy. We love each other. Utah is currently bursting with homelessness. I bet if we redirected our gift-giving disconnect to a family in need, they would not care what color of toothbrush we gave them, if the sleeping bag we provide is down-filled or synthetic, if we gave them ten presents or just one. In the end, I think instead of giving each other a panic attack each year we should do what Eli suggested and give our money and love to those in need.

CrazyUS.com

Category: Family