Sick son = good parenting?

My six-year-old Carson got stomach sick at school today.  On a field trip at Woodward Park.  While I was helping a friend by babysitting her little boy, 25 minutes away in Broken Arrow.  And hubs was out of town.

But that’s not the story here.

When I finally got Carson home, after much help from family and friends (who moved their feet just in time), I settled him on the sofa where he appeared to pass out.  But his breathing was normal and deep so I knew he was sleeping.  I put a blanket over him and spread a towel on the floor in front of him.  I positioned a trash can next to the sofa and I stroked his forehead, trying to detect any sign of a fever.  Then I stroked it some more just because I felt so dang sorry for him.

Then I realized that when my boys get sick, I actually feel like a pretty good parent.

It always takes me back to when I was a little girl, and when I was sick I felt like I suddenly ruled the world in my house of many siblings.  Only I didn’t enjoy ruling because I was…well…sick.

But my mom, she’d sit with me and bring me a cool cloth for my forehead and make me a tray of yummy bland food.  And I never really felt that bad when she was there with me.

So when my boys get sick, I find myself doing and saying the same kinds of things to them.  I want them to feel safe and not anxious and comfortable and loved.  And yes, I’m sad they feel bad, but as a little girl I remember thinking, hey, this being sick isn’t the worst thing in the world if I’m gonna get all this lovin’!

And their sickness, it seems to bring out the softer mom in me.  And the protective mom.  And the smart mom because I can usually figure out what to do for them.

I NEVER wish my kids to be sick.  And when they are, I wish it like heck to be gone.

But for me, as a mom, it also reinforces to me that I’m getting through some parts of parenthood in okay fashion.

And it’s those areas I hope my kids remember the most vividly.

 

Credit/debit card fraud: happened to me

About a month ago our credit card number was stolen and the thieves attempted to make a purchase using it in Florida.  They were thwarted and we got a new card and all is fine.

Today I got a call from a nice lady at a fraud protection company who told me our BANK CARD number had been stolen, and there were two attempts to use it in Houston.  Both times the card was declined, red flags on our account went up, and the card was completely canceled.  We'll be getting a new card in the next few days.  She did not assume, by the way, that it was stolen...she just said there was suspicious activity and called me to verify it.

In both these instances, the red flags on our accounts were one-time charges to our cards for a dollar or two.  It is a strategy thieves use in order to make sure the card they've stolen actually works.  Once they're able to use it for that small amount, they go for larger purchases.  In the case of Florida, a large grocery store order.  In Houston, gasoline.

The whole thing feels very creepy, but Dwayne and I know we haven't done anything irresponsible with our card numbers.  Today I asked the lady with fraud protection services if she had any advice for us.  She told me the obvious points: don't give your card number over the phone to someone who's called you, don't respond to any email asking for your card number, etc.

The other advice we got in both instances was that restaurant servers could be recording the information from our card when we use it to pay our bill.  After all, who knows where they take it when it disappears from our sight while we're finishing our meal?  Maybe we should lower our restaurant standards and only go to places where we pay on our way out...  Or just pay cash.  Now there's a idea.

Anyway, I'm just writing about this so ya'll will be on your guard, too.  I hope you also have a credit union or bank who keeps a close eye on these...um...bandits.  And you watching your account activity all the time isn't enough.

For your reference, here's some official advice on protecting identity and account theft:

Clark Howard, one of my favorite financial geeks.

Federal Trade Commission. 

Fleeting.

My moms and I just got back from our annual (annual!) trip to not-where-our-kids-are.  It's two nights about four hours in any direction, and it usually takes us to some shopping mecca.  This year: The Plaza in Kansas City.

And I bought this:

...plus two of its cousins.  The three bowls were beautiful and I got them at Anthropologie...a wonderful and heavenly store where everything has "Christine" written on it.  Except their $165 jeans...those had "Amy" on them.  But I digress...

It wasn't easy for me to buy these bowls.  They were not cheap and I wasn't really keen on babying them all the way back to Tulsa.  So I carried them around the store for 20 minutes before I finally pulled the trigger.  And then I carried them around for the next six hours as I shopped The Plaza.  And then I nestled them amongst the luggage in the back of the car to keep them safe.

Then when I got home I presented them to Dwayne to his delight (or maybe the delight was just that his three-day shift was over).  And we marveled together (or just me) about how perfectly they'll go on the shelf I'd hung a few days before.

And then I arranged them on the shelf and stood back and thought how perfect they looked up there...all kitchen-y and ready to hold sour cream dips or fresh strawberries or Cheetos.  They were all set to get shuffled about in the sink where I'd wash them by hand and return them to rule our kitchen from the shelf.

In fact I almost grabbed my camera to take a photo of my shelf/bowl display.

Turns out that would have been a good idea.

Since my shelf-hanging abilities SUCK.

And two days after I brought the bowls home, the nails holding the shelf slipped out of the wall.  And the whole thing crashed to the floor in a million Anthropologetic pieces.

I suppose I could have photographed the mess...but I didn't want to remember my material obsession like that.  All...dead.

So I cleaned up the carnage and Dwayne rehung the shelf and suggested that anything else we put up there should not be breakable.  Thanks, honey.

Maybe after I stop cringing from the whole experience we'll have a nice place to store napkins.

When your friend leaves

I got a call a few weeks ago from my friend Carol.  She told me she's moving to St. Louis since her husband's been transferred there.  It's taken me this long to feel like writing about it, but I knew I would.  Even with my willy-nilly attitude toward this blog, I knew I'd have to write this down.

Carol and I have been friends for our lives.  Our mothers were friends before we were born.  At four months old she was toted to the hospital to see me when I was born.  We went to the same church, the same schools until college, and have always, always, always, lived in the same state.  Other than my family, Carol has been the person who has known every stage and aspect of my life and has been there for me without fail.

And now she's leaving the state.  I don't even know what to do with that right now.  My whole life she's been in my backyard and now everything will change.  I don't even know what to expect.  I know we'll talk on the phone all the time and email and Facebook and all that.

But that's not like seeing her whenever I want.  It's not like having her stand by me when I got married, or at my bed when I was in labor with my first baby.  I could name a hundred other events in my life and hers that phones and email and Facebook can't touch.  And not all major things, either.  Just...things.

I know she has some anxiety about leaving, but wouldn't anyone moving to a new state?  Yet she and her husband of 24 years are happy about the idea and ready to take on the challenge of starting everything new.  People do it all the time, she says.

But for me?  Self-centered me?  I feel like a big chunk of my childhood is just...leaving. I already feel a little lost.  Is that terrible to say when I have a husband and a lot of family in the area who will do anything to support me at any time?  Maybe.  Certainly, it's not that I will be alone without Carol...it's just that I won't be with her.

She's leaving in just a few weeks.  I don't know what to say to her when I tell her goodbye.  She's not too mushy-gushy and she's going to be wrought with all her other goodbyes so I will try to keep the emotions to a minimum for her sake.  But right now I'm bawling as I write this so I'm not sure saying goodbye to her in person is even a good idea.  And luckily she's not a blog reader so she may not even read this.  I don't really know...

I do know it's not about me...I know I have to grow up and realize people don't always stay where I want them to just because that's how I want it.  And I know it'll happen one day that I can think about her living so far away and not be sad.

But it's not today.  I assure you...it's not today.

Denver. At last.

I've made so many verbal promises lately you'd think I was President.

I've promised at least five people I'd have pics of such-and-such up soon. My talk is getting cheaper by the minute.  But here's a start with the Denver photos.  Hey, I don't recall any of you giving me a deadline.  That'll teach ya.

The first batch is from my recent trip to Denver to surprise my sister and her daughter at the daughter's baby shower.  Oh, the scheming was so much fun!  But when it got to the big reveal I was found out by my ever-so-efficient sister who was putting her things away in a bedroom...my hiding place!  I'd hidden behind the door and she turned around and saw me.  She just started laughing...and I stood stock still thinking maybe she just does that all the time and she really hadn't seen me.  But that wasn't the case.  Oh, well...

My sweet niece Tracy.  That's her first baby she's carrying...due May 5.

I took this photo from behind the bedroom door of my sister Theresa.  Her first words...or thereabouts: "Did you bring anyone with you??"

Tracy's sister Holly.  Yes, she really is that cute.  She was in on the scheme but at the last minute she left her mother unattended in her apartment.  But our botched plan wasn't her fault!  I forgot to sling myself out the window at the last minute...

The new mom, the new dad and the new grandma outside Holly's condo.

I think my little disposable camera got me some very not disposable photos...

My chewy blog

Is there such a thing as a little overwhelmed?

Because to me, either you're calm about stuff or you're Calgon-take-me-away.

But there are times I feel overwhelmed and yet I'm not too worried about it.

Like now.

Because the things I've committed to and can't seem to accomplish lately are not life and death situations, or omigosh I have to do these things or I'm going to lose my job situations.

But this blog, and you readers, I like you.  And I don't like to tell you something and then not follow through with it.  I'd surely lose both of you and then where would I be?  Lost, I tell ya.

So I'm sorry for the mistreatment.  I know it's slightly disappointing when you come here expecting something new and see a stale post.  I know because I read a blog or two myself, and then ones that keep me comin' back are the ones that are made fresh daily.  Or at least every couple days.  Not the ones with stale material that starts getting a little tough to take.

I've got several posts in my head, though, and I'm trying to make the time to get them out here where they belong.  Just scrape together some patience and I'll be with you soon with fresh material.

And this stale junk will get shoved to the side.  I hope.

Just plumb dumb.

(For those of you waiting for pics of my Denver trip, please be patient!  I'm going to pick them up today...I had to take my disposable camera to Walgreen's since I'm still camera-less except for The Sony Behemoth which I didn't take with me since it would require its own plane.)

When I got home from Denver I had to scurry around a little to get ready for The Plumber.  (I give him caps because he and his company sure acted like they were sumpin' special and they deserve it.)

On The Plumber's to-do list for the Home Team were the following: install new sink and faucet in kitchen, fix lack of water pressure in kitchen, and adjust water temp in the upstairs bathroom.  Translation: fix all the things that have been driving us crazy for months.

So when I called The Plumber last week to set up an appointment, I was told he would show up "Tuesday between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 12 noon, with a phone call 30 minutes prior to arrival."  I'm thinking don't put yourself out, now.  But this seems to be SOP with The Plumber and any other person who shows up at my house with tools, so I said fine.

Tuesday morning I went about my business of getting people out the door and where they need to go, making sure my phone was on super annoyingly loud so I wouldn't miss The Plumber's call.  I had no idea how long this job was going to take and I didn't want to be late for him.

Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  Pretty soon it was 11:45 and no phone call.  They did say "between 8 and 12."  But I was getting a little antsy so I called The Receptionist for The Plumber and told her that if I didn't get a call within 15 minutes she could cancel the order.  I know...she was scared.  But really I was praying she didn't call my bluff because then guess who gets to hunt down another Plumber and wait three days before he calls and I get to wait for him "between the hours of..." all over again.  While the water coming out of my faucet is barely a drip by then.

So, 11:59 a.m. my phone rings and it's The Receptionist saying The Plumber's on his way and he'll be there in 30 minutes.

And 29 minutes later I answered the knock at the door.  What service!

By this time my schedule for picking up the boys at their respective schools is tightening.  Around my neck, it feels like.  Dwayne's got meetings and other commitments in the afternoon (dang jobs) and we don't want to leave The Plumber in the house by himself to steal all my diamonds.

Cooper needed to be picked up by 2:30, so Dwayne rearranged his schedule to go get him and take him back to the office with him for a bit.  Carson's school lets out at 3:05.

Knowing Cooper was covered, I set about to get an answer from The Plumber about how much longer he would be (this was at 1:30).  "Oh, 45 minutes should do it," he says with all the confidence of...a plumber.

Great!  I thought, I'll still have time to get to Carson's school, then go to Dwayne's office and pick up Cooper who will be on his third pad of separating Post-It's by then.

So 40 minutes comes and goes and I emerge from the office to ask The Plumber "how's it going?  Done in five minutes?"

His response: a nervous laugh.


Thankfully that husband of mine was intuitive enough to...um...not believe The Plumber and his 45 minute estimate.  He ran to pick up Carson and brought them both to me at home, then I'm quite sure two-wheeled all the turns back to his office.

And The Plumber was still working an hour and a half after his 45 minute estimate.

When he finally finished (not without assuring me that the new fancy faucet I bought was "decent" but not as good as the one he took off) and asked for payment, I told him he would get it sometime today between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.  And I gave him my phone number so he would have someone to call at 4:55 when his check wasn't there.

Not really.  Tempting, though.

Plumbers and contractors of any kind: I feel like the minute I call them up I am saying "I really need this work done but you come at your convenience and not mine.  Amen."

But the work is done now...except for the old sink and faucet he removed.  They're still adding character to our house by sitting on the front porch.  Maybe I should move them to Craig's list sometime today.

...between the hours of...

Surprise for my surprise

I'm headed home from a trip to see my sweet pregnant niece and her sister and my sister.  I'm getting ready to board a plane to Tulsa and I am only an hour or so away from laying eyes on my three favorite people in the world.  I did not need three days away to confirm my love for these guys, but lordy it sure does amplify the situation!

I'll be posting more later, but in a nutshell:  I went to Denver to surprise Tracy at her baby shower.  And my sister who was also in the dark about my visit.  Oh, the fun of plotting...er...planning a surprise.

But in spite of Holly and I replaying the "reveal" over and over, experts at covert missions we are not.

So our surprise was busted. 

Details to follow...right now I have to wiggle down the tiny aisle of a Southwest plane and try not to think about the smell of my little one's neck.

The weirdness that is me

Who doesn't love a little Ree-cipe every now and then?  Even if you don't cook a lot, or at all, the recipes at Pioneer Woman are usually fun to read and of course the photography of the process is wonderful
Today's recipe is Springy Flower Pot Desserts.  Click over and read it, then come back here.  I'll wait...

See?  It's ten kinds of cute.  Big wow factor.  And looks easy.   Not too expensive, either.

But I'll never make it in a million years.

Why?

It's the clay.  The pot.  And dipping my spoon into the dessert in the clay pot.  And risking my spoon...ssscraaaping...the side of the clay pot.  I can barely write the sentence.

Hearing this sound, feeling this feeling in my hands, would cause my face to contort at the table. Like when I was a kid and the eraser on my pencil was down to the nub, and the metal of the pencil met with the paper.  That kind of contortion.

And that would be embarrassing.  And painful.

And somehow, making the dessert using a different container, one without so much risk involved, would take away at least five of the ten kinds of cute.  And I wouldn't want to do that.

So this'll have to be one I don't try.

Oh, and if you're my friend or sister, and you happen to make these when I come over, don't get your feelings hurt if I step out of the room while everyone scrapes to their hearts' content.

I'll be in a corner somewhere rocking back and forth.

And eating the uncrushed Oreos.

Go ahead, send it in...

I just completed my 2010 Census.  It took me four minutes...one for each member of my household.

It was very specific about making sure that these people lived here.  At this house.  All the time.

"Does this person stay anywhere else at any other time?"  I almost wrote by Dwayne's "Not if he knows what's good for him..."

Census takers are bound to need a light-hearted moment from time to time.

There's lots of spaces on the form for lots of kids.  But if the form was the same for the 1970 Census, my mom and dad would have run out.

Now there's a light-hearted moment for ya...

(Probably not for my mom and dad.)

Progression. Or deterioration.

My boys.  They love each other.  They hug and cuddle and it's the cutest thing...

 ...and then the hugging, ever so gradually, turns to squeezing.  Notice the crowded nose.  Notice the very faint tinge of pink on Cooper's face.  Both still smiling, but just a lil' bit tighter.

And then it's on.  Full-blown squeeze-me-like-a-boa-constrictor ON.  Must.  Get.  Away.  Now!

Such is the progression..  Without fail.

It's okay.

As long as they always start again.

Overheard: inspired Cooper

I read to the boys tonight from a sweet book called Goodnight God.  The book has little two-page stories that are like little inspirational stories for kids and they follow with a related prayer.

Tonight's story was about a boy imagining he was wearing magic pajamas...pajamas that made his brain swell with knowledge, his legs strong and muscular, and his hands large and encompassing.  At the end of the story they boy imagines "what would I be if I took off these pajamas..."

Yep.

After my dramatic pause.

Cooper:  "You'd be naked."

Beth and 2 Bird Designs!

So?  Ya'll like it?  I think my new design is awesome...and I think it fits me: just the right amount of floral and some sporty stuff, too.  I didn't ask my designer if she'd ever mixed baseballs with flowers for a client.

In fact, if you are considering, even a teensy-weensy bit, starting a blog or doing a redesign of your existing one, consider Beth at 2 Bird Designs.  She was absolutely heaven to work with, for three big reasons:

She showed up on time.  Beth's turnaround time on getting a comp ready and implementing whatever changes we talked about was...in a word: fast.  In another word, prompt.  I never had to wonder when I was going to see her response emails or ping her for an update.  Nice!

She listened to me.  She really tried to interpret what I was saying I wanted...even though I didn't really know myself.  We did the entire process from start to finish via email...I thought it might be kind of hard to do but it was really easy!

Her work is worth more than she charges.  'nuff said.

In addition to 2 Bird Designs, Beth authors an amazing personal blog called I Should Be Folding Laundry.  Now's a good time to tune in to it, too, since she's 38+ weeks pregnant!

So...in the next few days and/or weeks I hope to have all those fancy buttons she put on the right-hand side of my page actually doing something.

However, I believe my readers know well enough, though, that when I put a timeline on something it's really just filler.

(Time for some new digs...)

I'm trying on a new blog look and spinning around in front of the mirror, so pardon me as I do some cinchin' up and accessorizing over the next few days.  I can tell you right now, though...this feels goooooodddd!

Two kinds of pain

One mile.
5280 feet.
Doesn't sound like much.

Well, it is.  It is if you haven't actually tried to cover a mile, let alone run one, in about five years.

I know this because my legs still hurt from attempting it three days ago.  Carson (the six-year-old) wanted to run the St. Patrick's Day Fun Run last Saturday.  Let me just state the obvious: it was fun for him...I wanted to sneak off onto a side street and lay down.

Oh, I thought it would be fun to do the run with him...he's a jackrabbit of sorts but I figured I could stay up with him for at least 100 feet or so before I bid him "go on without me!!!!"  But the starting gun cracked and I glanced to my left in time to see a blur of the list of sponsors on the back of his T-shirt, and he was gone.  I watched him in the crowd of runners as long as I could and then he disappeared.

I lumbered on without him, running, then walking, then jogging a little, mainly just keeping my head down so as not to see other six-year-olds blowing my doors off.  When several minutes had passed and I looked up to see the first of the pack already on their way back, I was thankful to see Carson holding his own among the first fifty or so runners.  I called to him as we passed "Keep going!  Don't stop!"  But he didn't even look at me!  Maybe he didn't realize he'd see me on his way back...I don't know, but he must have had the eye of the tiger goin' on because I got no acknowledgment whatsoever.

I'd trudged on.  I'd given him strict instructions to wait for me at the end of the race.  I told him sit on the curb and don't go anywhere else and don't go with anyone.  I hoped he'd be fine for the one or two minutes I'd be away from him.

But as I ached my way through the mile I realized it would be more like seven or eight minutes.

Or more...I really couldn't be sure.

Finally, the finish line in sight, I engaged what little adrenaline I had left and sprinted (read: didn't walk) to the end.  Like all good wannabe runners who feel they bitten off more than they could possibly chew, I'd done my walking early so as to keep from looking too disheveled in front of all the cheering people.  I'm sure I had them fooled.

At end of the finishing area was a sea of people.  I slowly turned in circles trying to see Carson through the crowd and after two or three minutes finally found him sitting calmly on the curb like I'd told him.  He was holding an empty water cup and not breathing hard.

"Where were you, Mamma?" he says.

"Trying to catch up with you!"  I said between breaths.

Then..."Did you stop to walk?"

"No," he said.  "I really wanted to but I decided not to."

Oh.

We held hands on the way back to the car and I told him I was proud of him for running the whole way.

"Thanks.  Next time I want Daddy to run 'cause he can keep up with me."

Birthday boy

My brother-in-law.

Today is his birthday.

Wow, he really used to give me a hard time when he first married into our family, when I was a kid (a very young little kid).

Time I paid the man back, don't you think?

Maybe I should make this lil' pic of him a little more, um, shall we say, public.

Do you know what Twitter is, Roy?  Facebook?

Good.

Cookie fever

It's March now...a whole three months since I made any sugar cookies so I'm starting to get the urge to break out the cutters again.  Unlike my fondant creations, I can do some mean sugar cookies without crying at the end.

But are ya'll ready for this?  How would you like to roll out your dough with NO flour, with no sticking, and keep your counter top and your rolling pin completely clean?

I know, too good to be true.

But maybe not...check out this technique from Bake It Pretty, a site I'm lovin' lately.  I haven't tried it yet but oh, man, I'm planning to.

Nothin', just planning my future thoughts

We recently found out the fate of Cooper's preschool situation next year.  He'll be going to Carson's school. 

The pre-k program there is wonderfully led by Ms. L, who I've been working with on a project for several weeks.  I've gotten to know Ms. L.  I've visited her classroom during the day many times.  Cooper comes with me sometimes and Ms. L. lovingly welcomes him to join her class in whatever they're doing while I'm there.  And then Cooper temporarily forgets he has a mother in the room and happily dives in.  He was born in September of 2005 so he's too young to be in a pre-k class, but that's hardly noticeable to him or the other kids in the class.

And people talk about Ms. L.  Oh, do they talk.  "You'll be so happy in her class!"  "She does the most incredible art projects with the kids..."  Sometimes moms just get a winsome look on their faces at the mere mention of her name, as if they wish their child could remain in Ms. L's class forever.

I got it people.  I'm thrilled for Cooper to be in her class.

But does it have to be all day?  Every day?  From 8:15 to 3:05?

'Cause that's a long time to be without my baby.  And I know he's not a baby, and he loves being in a classroom, and he's thrilled at the prospect of going to Carson's school with him.

But it's still all day.  Part-time maybe?  I've already asked...it's an all or nothing deal.  I suppose they don't keep track of absences in pre-k so I wanted to keep him home some days I could.

And then I'd probably hear all day about how much he wants to be with Ms. L.

As sure as I'm writing this I know I'm going to look up one day from his fifth grade classroom and see pre-k kids walking by, and my eyes are going to tear up at the memory of Cooper ever being that small.  I know it's going to happen.  And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

But I can make sure that when I do see those kids and remember him being small, it's a feeling that warms my heart and not a feeling of regret at not cherishing the moments now.

So now, I can savor him while he's little.  And savor him when he's driving me crazy with his questions.  And when I know I'm going to be late but he wants to sit in my lap in the chair.  And when we grocery shop together and he zig-zags the cart down the aisles.  And when he asks perfect strangers if they have any games on their I-Phones (surely I'm going to look back on that and laugh.  Someday.)

And when he goes to school next fall, I'll be ready for it.  I'll be ready for him to venture into school life.  I'll have savored him all I can and I'll be ready for him to be in school for seven hours every day.


Maybe.

If I start preparing for the moment now.

If ugly crying were an Olympic sport, I'd lose, then win

Joannie Rochette.


This morning just seeing her name can bring tears to my eyes.  But nothing like last night.  (Joannie is the young Canadian figure skater whose 55 year-old mother had a heart attack and died three days ago at the Olympics.)

So last night Joannie skated her short program.  And I watched it and just had to keep taking deep breaths to avoid a flood of tears.  How this girl mustered the composure to skate was beyond me.  And I'm one of those people who can cry on command while viewing any emotionally charged sporting event, especially when there's heartbreak involved.  So I knew watching Joannie's performance would be a challenge.

Dwayne was watching, too, only he also picked up my Weight Watchers magazine.  I think he was desperate for anything to avert his attention from Joannie's skating…I’m just guessing since he’s never read WW mag before in his life.

So I made it all the way through her intro and the shots of her father in the stands and all the way through every stuck landing and I was still taking deep breaths because I knew that I was going to cry if she fell or if she didn’t fall: either way I was a timebomb.

And then I start noticing the crowd…I knew there was not a dry eye in that whole place and I could just imagine being there watching her and how I’d be out of control.  More deep breaths...

So then she takes her final bow and I’m like screw it and I bawled nearly to the point of the ugly cry and by the way Dwayne’s asking me FROM BEHIND THE PAGES OF WW MAG “how’s she doing?” because I know him and if he takes one look at her he is toast.  And I’m like “she’s…doing…fine…” and I'm still trying not to ugly cry.  So then I think I’m okay and she’s leaving the ice and I think I'm ugly-crying-home-free, and then...then I hear Scotty Hamilton’s voice crack.  And I just give up and let the ugly cry take over our living room.  Then she got her wonderful score and I finished up the cry and got it together.

And then Dwayne still holding WW magazine:  "How exactly do you say chamomile?"

It was a touching moment...

Favorites

His favorite puppy.

His favorite pajamas.

His favorite person taking photo (Daddy).

My favorite way to start Monday.