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The Confession

I had decided last week that I was going to start participating in the Writer’s Workshop on Thursdays that Mama Kat hosts, but as I read over the writing prompts for this week, I drew a blank.  I couldn’t’ think of a story to go along with any of her prompts.  A time I stood up for a friend–nothing!  A time I didn’t follow my intuition–nope.  A time I put off something until the last minute–I’ll think about that one later.  I know I have a story to go with each of these prompts, but I also have a bad memory.  The bad memory was winning.

Then there was the prompt ‘my confessions’–umm, no. I mean, I’m already pretty transparent on my blog.  Everyone knows more or less about my parenting failures, those days I’m a less than stellar wife, and areas of my faith in which I’d like to improve.  Shouldn’t I have a little privacy?  Besides, I really don’t have any deep dark secrets.  The Jennifer V. Davis who blogs is essentially the same woman whether or not she’s typing on the computer.

And then I had a dream, a dream where I had to come face-to-face with the truth, a dream where I had to fess up.

In my dream, I was Jack Bauer’s wife.  Not Kiefer Sutherland’s, but Jack Bauer, the character he played on 24. I was madly in love with him in my dream, but to complicate things, I was one of three wives.  Even more awkward than being one of three was being one of three with a woman who attends the same church small group as I.

But I was his favorite, and he showed me his love by letting me share his bed. In my dream, ‘sharing a bed’ was not a euphemism for sex; I literally got to share the bed with Jack.  The woman from small group  slept on a mattress on the floor of the room, and the third nameless wife slept in the den.

I wasn’t comfortable in my status, however, and for a majority of the dream, I dealt with my insecurities, keeping my eye on Jack’s other two wives who were vying for my top position.  But Jack assured me with his crooked smile that I was his Rachel, the other girls, Leah.*

When I woke up from this stupid dream, I immediately thought, “Why in the heck am I dreaming about Jack Bauer?” Part of the dream I can explain: The previous week at small group, the sister of the woman in my dream made some comment about the TV show Sister Wives of which I was not familiar and still have no intention of viewing, especially if the show will cause me to dream about being in a polygamous relationship.

But that fact doesn’t explain why I was married to Jack Bauer, and if I’m going to confess everything, why I have dreamed about him once (okay, twice) before.  Or why each time I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but I have to face the facts.  I have to confess:  I have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

I never realized my feelings.  I’m not a fan of Kiefer Sutherland, and in all honesty, I was happy when 24 finally ended–I could  have my Mondays back.  But, obviously, Jack means more to me than even I knew.

Maybe the dreams aren’t about Jack.  Maybe they represent the time that my husband and I spent together for the last seven seasons as we shared each ridiculously unbelievable episode together.  They represent our weekly dates on the couch as we watched with bated breath to see how Jack would save the day again.  They represent something we enjoyed as a couple, and I’m a little sad that the tradition has ended.

Or maybe I just have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

Perhaps Matt could yell, “Jennifer, Get out of the car!  GET OUT OF THE CAR!!” and take care of my longings.

Mama's Losin' It

*In Genesis 29 of the Bible, Jacob promises to work for seven years for Laban if he could marry Laban’s beautiful daughter Rachel.  After seven years, Laban tricks Jacob and sneaks Leah, his firstborn, into Jacob’s tent on the wedding night.  Jacob works another seven years in order to get Rachel, his true love.

A Woman of Many Trades

I sat in my aunt’s wheelchair, embracing the character I had created.  Grandma Ann, the judge, sat directly in front of me, overhearing the case.  My aunt sat to my right with a sour look upon her face as I railed charges against her, claiming her negligence led to my life-altering injury.  I had seen one too many daytime TV court dramas, and there was no turning back.

There was yelling and cussing, all in the name of good acting, reprimands for the cussing, and more acting.  For the first time as an actress, I was able to shed real tears, and my cousin worked up so much emotion during her own performance that she caused herself to throw up.

Visits with Grandma Ann were never boring.

When the cousins all got together with Grandma, one could be sure we’d put on a play.  Grandma was always the director, and we’d race around the house looking for the perfect costumes to illustrate Cinderella’s transformation from a woman in rags to a stunning beauty touched by the wand of a fairy godmother.  We could hear the collective sigh in the kitchen as Grandma put an end to the adult’s visiting and ordered them to watch yet another performance.

Grandma Ann’s imagination ran wild.  With the heart of an eight-year-old, she had a knack for creating the most depressing ‘children’s’ stories one had ever heard.  Her characters all had the odds stacked against them–a single mother working in a hotel, collecting scraps from the garbage to feed her kids; a wheelchair-bound young man who didn’t have a family of his own; a scroungy dog kept apart from the love of his life (maybe if his name weren’t ‘Spitball’ he would’ve had more luck)–and every story contained at least two episodes of the main character crying. One had a dog run off a cliff.

That imagination that created stories I can remember 20-plus years later also created details about Grandma’s life that I stopped believing.  As a child, Grandma Ann would make comments about her time as a waitress or a beautician–believable enough as she cut her own hair and gave me a perm.  Apparently, she was also a doctor and a lawyer and any other profession that fit the conversation.  Grandma was a woman of many trades, and she loved to share her experiences over and over and over.

The stories I loved to hear as a child weren’t nearly as endearing as a teenager, especially when Grandma came to live with us.  My tolerance for hearing details of Grandma Ann’s life wore thin, and I didn’t want to hear the same stories over and over.  I didn’t want to hear how Woodstock started the downward spiral of society, and I wasn’t interested in learning about Grandma’s different professions, especially since I was old enough now to know these stories weren’t true.

Grandma was born in Puerto Rico, had an eighth grade education, and gave birth to my father at age 20.  She raised a family, not a gavel as a judge.

Last night, I gave Caleb a haircut.  I’m always nervous when I undertake to shape his thick locks of hair, but I proceeded, anyway.  I watched the black comb in my hand pull out each section for me to trim, and I gave a nervous laugh as Caleb asked how his friends would know it was him.  And when I was finished, I looked over my work and smiled. “I could be a cosmetologist,” I thought.  And I thought of Grandma.

Grandma, I was a jerk.  You were the beautician you claimed to be, just as I am now.  We both earned our law degrees the day we stood up to defend our kids, and we became doctors the first time we took care of a sick child.  And of course, Grandma, you were always a writer.  You will always live in the stories you created, and a piece of you is in the writing of your son, and the words of your granddaughter.

I didn’t understand, Grandma, but I know now your many talents.  And I know that through our stories, we can create the happy ending that maybe we didn’t have or the unwavering protagonist that we hoped to be.  I know now that as old age grips our minds, our works of fiction might be all we have to keep us sane.  And I know for as difficult as you were in your old age, your heart was always for your family.

Thank you for your stories, Grandma, and for passing on the love of creating.  And thank you for your expert hair-cutting skills that you passed down; you’d think Caleb’s hair looked nice.  If only you were here today–I could save a lot of money on doctor’s copays.

To Speak Blessings

Many times, I’ll hear a sermon at church on Sunday, and by Friday I have forgotten the topic.  Other times, however, the message won’t leave me, and weeks later I am still pondering its significance in my life.

A few weeks ago, my pastor preached on the events in Genesis 27.  Jacob deceives his father, Isaac, into giving him the blessing that was actually reserved for his brother Esau, the firstborn.  When Isaac discovers his mistake, he trembles, and Esau cries out like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum, “Bless me—me too, my father!” (Genesis 27:34).

I’ve always found this passage peculiar.  Isaac doesn’t actually give anything that exchanges hands with Jacob, and God, knowing everything, knows that Isaac had never intended, in fact, to bless Jacob.  Why couldn’t Isaac simply fess up, “My bad, Esau.  I thought Jacob was you.  Here you go,” and bless him instead?

My pastor provided the answer that has wrestled with me for weeks: The ancient people believed that what they said mattered.  When a person asked for God’s blessing, he couldn’t simply undo those words; the words carried meaning and power and were not spoken lightly.  And this truth is no different for our generation, either.

Two thoughts continue to race in my mind.  First, I’ve continued to think about my pastor’s sermon, the power of a blessing.  As a Christian, I believe in God’s supernatural ability to take my words, the blessings I would speak on my children, and make them true.  I believe in the power of touch, the power of taking my children by the hand as I speak words of confidence in what they will do and God’s presence in their life.  And I believe when they hear these words, something will change inside of them, as well.

Second, I began to think about another lesson that wasn’t in my pastor’s sermon.  If my words really matter, if I can speak blessings on my children that God brings to fruition, wouldn’t the opposite hold true?  All those careless words, the negative thoughts that enter my mind and leave my mouth, do they hold power as well?

Since becoming a parent, I’ve tried to give extra hugs and kisses to my children, knowing that showing physical affection isn’t the first way that I show my love.  I tend to be better at praising my children for their kind hearts, for their good character, for a task successfully completed.

However, after this sermon, I began to listen to my other words. What words am I using when I discipline?  In an attempt to correct my children, am I actually heaping curses on their shoulders? Are my children inwardly crying out, “Bless me–me too, Mommy!” when my words sear their soft skin?  Not only do my praises matter, but so do my criticisms.

I want my children to remember a mother who blessed them with her actions and her words. I want my children to remember my words for their ability to inspire creativity, to bring  joy, to cause laughter.  And I want to remember how much my children matter to me so I will choose wisely those words I want to matter to them.

A Vote of Thanks

Last Friday, Chloe greeted everyone with a warm, “Hi-iiii!” as I sat at a little table filling out my information.  I had done my research and was ready to cast my vote.  I walked up to the little voting booth, inserted my card, and touched the boxes next to the candidates of my choice. About five minutes later, Chloe and I stuck our stickers on our shirts and headed towards the van.

Wednesday morning, I read friends’ comments of frustration and depression and others’ of pure elation as the election results were known to all those who cared.  And I felt grateful. I felt hopeful.

I am so spoiled to live in a country where I can vote without having to fight for it.  Others already paved that road for me.  I am privileged to live in a country where I can voice my support or dissent for candidates or choose to remain silent. I don’t have to fear the consequences of my voice or lack thereof.

I am thankful for a process that, regardless of how I voted during any particular election, does hear the voice of the majority and responds, and I am thankful for the gridlock which helps protect the ideals of the minority, as well. And after this election, I am hopeful for another chance for our government to work together, where our president and all parties can emerge as winners come the next election.

It’s not  a perfect process, but amidst the mess and slinging of mud, there is beauty in a government that is by the people.  And I will never forget that I am part of that people and will exercise my vote of thanks each change I get.

For what are you thankful this week?

The Hair Disaster

A few days ago I was faced with an ethical dilemma.  A few days ago I sat down to write a letter of recommendation for my sister to enter a cosmetology school’s hair design program, and that still, small voice of my conscience asked this question: Is witholding information lying?

Typically, I am a patient person.  Typically, I am under control.  Until having three children in three years, typically, I never lost my temper.  Well, almost never….

I had just graduated college and secured a job as a teacher at a local high school and was anxious to get started.  The following day, the English department was hosting a cookout, and all of the new teachers were invited.  I wanted to look responsible and professional since, at the ripe age of 22, I looked more like a student than the teachers.  And even though we were only meeting for a cookout, this cookout would be the first time I had met most of the teachers who would be my colleagues, and I wanted to make a good first impression.  Why I decided I needed to dye my hair for this occasion, I do not remember, and why I thought having my sister do it was a good idea, I will never know.

I should’ve pulled the plug on the operation when my sister whipped out a box that clearly said ‘black’ on it.  I should’ve trusted my instincts, but for some strange reason, I put faith in the person who had a recent interest in cosmetology and not yet a license. I believed the claim that if we only let the dye sit on my head for five minutes, the color would look dark brown, not black. Even if I allowed the dye to sit on my head, I should’ve pulled the plug when I felt my sister massage my temples and my forehead and not my hair.

When the five minutes were up, I ran to my shower to rinse out the dye.  As soon as the water hit my head, I noticed the black liquid running down my legs and down the drain, but I had faith.  After all, if I couldn’t trust my sister, whom could I trust?  I scrubbed and scrubbed shampoo throughout my hair until the water had begun to run clear, and then I got out of the shower.

As I wrapped the towel around my body, I noticed a problem–a big problem–in the mirror.  I had a ring of black around my forehead, and my left cheek had at least a quarter-sized dye mark.  On my cheek!  I frantically grabbed the soap and started scrubbing my face but to no avail.  She had dyed my freakin’ face!  And while I was scrubbing my face, I couldn’t help but notice that my hair looked pretty darned dark.

I whipped out that hair dryer and prayed that the heat would reveal a different product.  I prayed and prayed that as my hair dried it would turn into the dark brown that I wanted.  Blue-black, everyone.  That was the color of my hair.  Have you ever seen a beautiful Asian woman with long, luscious locks flowing down her back, hair so dark that it looks like indigo ink?  Yeah, that’s what color hair I had, except I’m not Asian, and my locks didn’t look quite so beautiful.  I looked more like Wednesday Addams.

And now I know that out-of-body experiences are possible.  I ran out of the bathroom in a state of absolute fury.  Typically, I don’t yell.  I yelled. Typically, I don’t curse.  I cursed. Words left my mouth that I didn’t  even know I knew.  I couldn’t stop them; I wasn’t even thinking them, and they came out.  They came out all over my sister and my grandmother and her friend who were visiting. The two older ladies decided to run to the staircase where the show was happening.  The show where I cursed and I kicked and I punched.  Not my proudest moment, but then again, I wasn’t in my body, so I couldn’t be held accountable.

After eight more hair washings and numerous applications of cold cream to my face, I went to meet the English department the next day with blue-black hair and a giant scab on my cheek from where I actually scrubbed off my skin.

I didn’t include any of this information in my sister’s letter of recommendation. I figure, she was probably just getting me back for all the times I tattled on her.

*This post published with my sister’s permission who, since this incident, has many times dyed my hair perfectly.

I’m linking this post for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  Click on over for other hair disasters and responses to her weekly writing prompts.

Mama's Losin' It

Ten Clues Halloween Was This Past Weekend

10. Your four-year-old decided his new bedtime was 9:45, yet he happily awoke for you at 6:30 a.m..

9. Your three-year-old has had a sugar-induced meltdown for a straight 24 hours.

8. You found your paranoid son sleeping with his bag of treats.

7. You’re pretty sure your toddler has never had candy, yet you noticed her walking around the house with a lollipop hanging out of her mouth and three packages of M&Ms.

6. There’s a carved pumpkin sitting outside of your door that very well could sit there until Thanksgiving.

5. You discovered your little girl on top of the refrigerator looking for the hidden Halloween candy.

4. You then located your daughter ‘hiding’ under the dining room table eating some of this candy.  She has yet to understand that you can totally see her under that table.

3. You turned into a a crotchety old person over the weekend, grumbling about children who don’t say ‘thank you’ and teenagers who still dress up to ‘steal’ your candy.

2. You are normally an honest person, but you have taken to catching your children in the act of sneaking their treats so that you can eat whatever you confiscate.

1. You saw the cutest cowboy, cat, and butterfly in existence and have taken every opportunity to show everyone that you know (or don’t know).

I’ve linked up at Ohamanda’s Top Ten Tuesday.  Click over with me for more fun!

Top Ten {Tuesday}

The Crazy Old Bat and Amish Friendship Bread

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Mrs. Davis’s three grown children came to visit her at the retirement home.  They left their own families at home this time and were seated in their favorite section of the meeting room, on the left side closest to the windows.  Mrs. Davis sat in the green recliner that reminded her of one she and Mr. Davis had owned many years prior, and her two girls sat to her left while her son was to her right.  Across the room an old man sat in a chair snoring loudly as a football game played on the TV in front of him.

“Would you listen to him!” Mrs. Davis huffed.  “Every day it’s the same thing.  He comes to this room to watch his show, and he goes to sleep as soon as his head hits the back of the chair!”

“Sounds like my husband,” her oldest daughter, Hannah Grace, said out the side of her mouth.

“Sounds like me!” Chloe, her youngest, laughed.  Chloe had a new baby, and these visits were hard for her.  Her emotions were out-of-control anyway, and seeing her mother so different than the mother she knew for all these years was especially difficult.  Today was different, though.

Mrs. Davis was having a good day, and her children were enjoying the chance to talk to their mother while she was more herself.  They laughed a little as Mrs. Davis gave them the scoop on the other inhabitants of Sunny Valley, how Mr. Peterson threatened to rent a separate room for himself after his wife told him to lay off the chocolate syrup at the ice cream social, how she and Ms. Lowery went for a walk through the garden yesterday with her favorite nurse Elizabeth, how she was so grateful for her three children who never failed to visit.

The sun streamed through the windows behind Mrs. Davis, and Caleb, her son, followed with his eyes the path of dust dancing in the light beam from his mother’s shoulder back to the window.

“Do we need to close the blinds, son?” Mrs. Davis asked catching Caleb’s glance.

“Oh, no, Mom. I’m fine,” he assured her.

“I enjoy the warmth from the sun, if I do say so myself,” she said, uncrossing and recrossing her legs at the ankles.

The girls smiled as they look at their mother, so alert and unusually amiable on this particular day.

“Kids, I need to tell you something.”

Mrs. Davis’s sense of urgency caused all the kids to lean forward.

Hannah Grace uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on her mother’s knee.

“What is it, Mom? ” she asked as she furrowed her brow.

“I want you all to know something, and I’ve been waiting to tell you until we were alone.”

“Well, what is it, Mom?” Caleb asked, very concerned.  Caleb was the worrier of the group, especially concerning his mother.  He didn’t enjoy the suspense.

“I know you all must wonder if you’re going to end up like me someday when you’re older…”

“Oh, Mom, don’t worry about that,” Caleb sat up, waving off her concern.  He wouldn’t have his mother feeling any guilt for her condition or the worry that it may cause them.

“…let me finish, dear,” she continued.  “You don’t need to worry,” she began, “because you won’t, at least you shouldn’t end up like me.”

The children were silent waiting for their mother to finish.

“This condition isn’t hereditary,” she continued.

The children all stole quick glances at one another.  They had done their research, talked to the doctors; they knew the odds of them getting their mother’s condition when they were older were slightly increased due to their mother having it.

“You see,” she went on, “you won’t inherit what I have because you gave it to me.”

“What?” Chloe asked, confused by this assertion from her mother.

“You did this to me,” replied Mrs. Davis, looking right at Chloe to answer her question.  “You and your brother and sister made me crazy.”

“Oh, Mom!” Hannah Grace sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Here we go!” Caleb exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air.

Chloe’s lower lip began to tremble.

“I can tell you the exact day,” the crazy old bat went on with her story.  I was trying to make Amish Friendship Bread.  It was my turn to bring a snack to Bible Study. I had the starter mix on the counter.  I had to use the bathroom–heaven forbid!–and I was in the bathroom for 33.3 seconds!“

She had begun to speak louder now, spacing her words more carefully for effect.

“I heard yelling, and I cracked the door to see what was happening.  Hannah Grace was running full speed toward the bathroom door”–she paused to turn toward Hannah Grace and then continued–“carrying the open bag of starter.  She obviously smelled the sugar. Caleb was running after her in pursuit of the bag.”

At this point in the story, Caleb began to shake his head, unclear as to where his mother was going with this story but not sure that he wanted to hear the end.

“Caleb, you always had to be the little informant. I’m surprised you didn’t go to work for the FBI!” She changed positions to stare at her son who looked back at her with a straight face.

“As Hannah Grace was fleeing from you, she left a trail of starter running from the kitchen to the bathroom, somehow even getting the bread starter on the walls!”

“Mom, I’m sure I spilled lots of things.  My kids spill lots of things.  How in the world could this be the cause of your condition?” Hannah Grace inquired, her shoulders moving up to her ears.

“I’m not yet finished.” The crazy old bat emphasized each word.

“Hannah Grace, I gave you a paper towel to begin cleaning up the mess you made while I tried to get back to the dinner I was making.  What was I making? I can’t remember…it’s not important…”

“As if any of this is important?” Chloe asked under her breath.

“I saw you were doing a terrible job, so I grabbed the paper towel from you so I could clean the mess myself.  Chloe, you, of course, woke up from your nap because it was the most inopportune time, and you were crying.  I didn’t want you to get in the mess, so I tried to clean faster. Then, I heard the dinner sizzling, so I went back to the stove to check on it.  I still had the paper towel in one hand as I was stirring with the other, and the next thing I knew, the paper towel was on fire!  On fire, I say!

“I ran to the sink, the towel aflame, and I turned the water on as quickly as I could.  As the water began to put out the fire, sparks flew up in the air and floated down on my hair. My hair!” She shrieks.  “What could I do? What else could I do?  I wasn’t going to let my whole head go up in flames!  So I began banging my head, beating my own head with my hands like a stinkin’ chimpanzee!  I was reduced to a chimpanzee!” she shouted.

The man who had been snoring across the room gave a loud snort and sat up sharply.

“And I’m sure I gave myself brain damage as a result of the incident,” Mrs. Davis said, her voice lowered, as she sat up primly and properly in the chair.

Mrs. Davis’s three children looked at each other, and then their mother, not sure of what to say next.

“Well, now, kids, what do you have planned for the rest of your Sunday?” she asked after a moment.

The rest of the afternoon visit was spent amidst one-word answers and somber faces until Caleb finally ended the visit.

“I love you, Mom,” he said getting up and giving his mother a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll see you next Sunday with the kids.”

“I’ll look forward to it, dear,” Mrs. Davis answered with a smile.

Chloe and Hannah Grace followed their brother, hugging and kissing their mother, squeezing her hand before letting go and walking away.  The three siblings spoke quietly as they made their way to the door letting them out into the fall breeze under a beautiful blue sky.

“Mom certainly has a way with words, doesn’t she?” Chloe offered to the group.

“I’m always amazed at how quickly she can make me feel guilty,” Hannah Grace admitted.

Caleb stopped and looked at his sisters.

“Well, today’s visit taught me one thing. Apparently Mom was crazy a whole lot earlier than we realized.”

The three siblings continued walking, three bodies in a line, until they reached their cars and drove home.

For more encounters with “The Crazy Old Bat,” click here.

Grocery Bags and Construction Paper

When Caleb was seven months old, I didn’t take him to the pumpkin patch to snap some Halloween pictures.  At the time, I didn’t realize that I had violated some law for what mothers are supposed to do with their children, but I was informed of that fact after Halloween had come and gone without a cute pumpkin picture of my son.  Nowhere in my house is there a separate section for arts and crafts supplies complete with a stash of those googly eyes and various buttons necessary to create animals and insects for any occasion.  And my daughters will never have matching frilly hair bows with darling pillowcase dresses unless someone gives them such a present.

When it comes to creativity, arts and crafts, anticipating projects for the upcoming holiday season, or anything along those lines, I have failed.  It’s not so much that I’m against projects; it’s simply that my mind would never even think to do some of the artsy projects other parents undertake. And I had started to get a little insecure about my inability to ‘create’ with my children.

The other day I was at the store when I noticed a huge display of plastic pumpkin pails intended for children to store their Halloween candy.  I grabbed three remembering how I didn’t remember the last two years when the kids had to throw their candy from the Fall Festival in the bottom of our stroller.  Suddenly, out of the blue, my mind had an ingenious idea–we’ll make our own bags!  Okay, I’ll be honest; I didn’t get this idea in a quest for creativity.  I simply didn’t want to spend money on three pails and then find a place to keep those bulky pumpkins after Halloween was over.

That afternoon, I set out two little grocery bags for Caleb and Hannah Grace, and I drew a pumpkin for each of them on a piece of orange construction paper.  They were so excited and focused as they sat at the kitchen table ready to begin their project. The kids colored and cut and then glued their pumpkins on the bags, and as I watched and helped them work, I felt a little ashamed.  Maybe if my mind worked this way, if I thought about crafts to do ahead of time, I could give them something better.  I pushed away the thought as we put the finishing touches on the bags.

While I picked up scraps of paper from the floor, the kids admired their work until Caleb suddenly spoke:

“Thank you, Mommy,” he said.

On his own, without any encouragement from me, he offered his thanks.  And I knew from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t merely thanking me for the bag–he was thanking me for thirty minutes we spent together creating–creating pumpkin bags and a memory that will last longer.

Caleb then made his way across the kitchen to where I was crouched on the floor and put his arms around me.  “I love you,” he gently spoke, and my heart melted. Any insecurities I was feeling were immediately washed away.

Caleb didn’t care that our craft didn’t involve fabric and a hot glue gun–he doesn’t want any of those frills–he just wants me.

I had to write about this moment because I know how easily I will forget; I will forget that my children don’t need paper mache and glitter.  They need something more precious–me, my attention–and they will take all they can get of it, even if my attention comes bearing paper grocery bags.

For what can you be thankful on this ‘Focus On It Friday’?