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Because Alan Thicke Was Tonight's Gateway Drug
Terry is playing a Super Mario Brothers game on Wii while I'm on the computer reading your blog. The repetitive game music has begun to brand itself onto the left lobe of my brain, as I've been listening to him play for almost 45 minutes.
I say, "Doesn't this sound like the theme song to Perfect Strangers?"
And he's all, "Standing tall, on the wings of our dreams... Rise and fall...", followed up with his worst Balkie imitation, "oh, don't be ridiculous."
I'm impressed.
So, that's when I say (thinking I'm the only person on the planet who's made observation about ugly 80's pop culture), "Isn't it funny how every theme song from the sitcoms of our childhood sound like they were written by the same person?"
And he, "Uh, Alan Thicke?"
And me, "I knew he wrote the opening to Growing Pains, but all of those sitcoms?"
To which he replies, "I think so. I think he was the dude in the day. Family Ties, Diff'rent Strokes (wrote and sang actually), Wheel of Fortune. I dunno, IMDB him." (Another website that has ranked verb status in our home.)
So I do... while simultaneously singing my favorite theme song of all time:
Me and my dad used to sing the melody and harmony parts to this song when it would come on our fuzzy, cable-deprived set at 8:30 in 1988. So sad, so nerdy, and so wonderful a memory.
Terry pokes his head out of the laundry room just as I hit the high "Ooooh ooh, what will we do, baby... without loooove... sha-la-la-la." And it's at that point that I realize that had he heard me do that 7 years ago he may not have married me.
To my disappointment, Family Ties was actually not in Thicke's repitoire. (Trust that if you were here with me tonight, I'd be saying Alan Thicke over and over again, as it has to be one of my favorite names in history.) But, I still say the man should be knighted for his contribution. He hosted Wayne Gretzky's wedding, he's hosted pageants, he used to DJ in college, he was ranked #37 in TV Guide's List of the "50 Greatest Fictional Dads", and he wrote this classic:
Just IMDB him. Or better yet, just YouTube (another website verb) your favorite theme songs from your favorite childhood tv shows. It will make your night.
Punky Brewster
Silver Spoons
Mr.Belvedere
Webster
(are you ready for this?) Small Wonder
Out of This World (holy cow!)
Benson
My Two Dads
Just the Ten of Us
Head of the Class
227 (snap)
The Facts of Life
and when my mother wasn't watching:
I wanted to be Shera.
(None of the above had anything to do with the Thickster, by the way.)
I must say, my fingers were crossed that his birthday would happen to be today, in the hopes that this post would be a more meaningful tribute. But it's not. Hey, you know you're a great guy when you get a blog tribute outside of your birthday and death day.
I say, "Doesn't this sound like the theme song to Perfect Strangers?"
And he's all, "Standing tall, on the wings of our dreams... Rise and fall...", followed up with his worst Balkie imitation, "oh, don't be ridiculous."
I'm impressed.
So, that's when I say (thinking I'm the only person on the planet who's made observation about ugly 80's pop culture), "Isn't it funny how every theme song from the sitcoms of our childhood sound like they were written by the same person?"
And he, "Uh, Alan Thicke?"
And me, "I knew he wrote the opening to Growing Pains, but all of those sitcoms?"To which he replies, "I think so. I think he was the dude in the day. Family Ties, Diff'rent Strokes (wrote and sang actually), Wheel of Fortune. I dunno, IMDB him." (Another website that has ranked verb status in our home.)
So I do... while simultaneously singing my favorite theme song of all time:
Me and my dad used to sing the melody and harmony parts to this song when it would come on our fuzzy, cable-deprived set at 8:30 in 1988. So sad, so nerdy, and so wonderful a memory.
Terry pokes his head out of the laundry room just as I hit the high "Ooooh ooh, what will we do, baby... without loooove... sha-la-la-la." And it's at that point that I realize that had he heard me do that 7 years ago he may not have married me.
To my disappointment, Family Ties was actually not in Thicke's repitoire. (Trust that if you were here with me tonight, I'd be saying Alan Thicke over and over again, as it has to be one of my favorite names in history.) But, I still say the man should be knighted for his contribution. He hosted Wayne Gretzky's wedding, he's hosted pageants, he used to DJ in college, he was ranked #37 in TV Guide's List of the "50 Greatest Fictional Dads", and he wrote this classic:
Just IMDB him. Or better yet, just YouTube (another website verb) your favorite theme songs from your favorite childhood tv shows. It will make your night.Punky Brewster
Silver Spoons
Mr.Belvedere
Webster
(are you ready for this?) Small Wonder
Out of This World (holy cow!)
Benson
My Two Dads
Just the Ten of Us
Head of the Class
227 (snap)
The Facts of Life
and when my mother wasn't watching:
I wanted to be Shera.
(None of the above had anything to do with the Thickster, by the way.)
I must say, my fingers were crossed that his birthday would happen to be today, in the hopes that this post would be a more meaningful tribute. But it's not. Hey, you know you're a great guy when you get a blog tribute outside of your birthday and death day.
The Hat of God
Neve and I are on our way to the grocery store. Windows are rolled down, and we're stopped at a red light. We are at the "crazy corner" in Atlanta. (I'll let other Atlantans guess which one, as there are a few.) It's not the first time I've heard people yelling, holding signs, asking for money, boldly washing your windshield before asking if you'd like their service, or doing homeless hankerchief dances.
Today there is a man with long dark brown scraggly hair with a trucker's cap perched on top preaching his delusions of grandeur.
"I AM GOD! I MADE YOU, THEREFORE I LOVE YOU. BUT I CAN ALSO KILL YOU! YOU CAME FROM ME!"
Luckilly, the light turned green before I had to do the embarrassing window-roll-up or car-door-lock. In front of God, no less.
One-Mississippi.
Two-Mississippi.
Three-Mississippi.
Four-
Neve: "Mom?"
Me: "Yes?"
Neve: "That man said he was God." (confused grin on her face)
Me: "Yeah. That's pretty silly, huh?"
Neve: "Yes. He's not God!"
Me: "Nooo."
Neve: "Why?"
Me: "Why isn't he God? Um, well, because he's not- well, you know..."
Neve: "Because God doesn't wear hats?"
Me: "Mmm hmm. Does that cloud look like Dora?"
Another toddler theolgy case closed, just like that.
Today there is a man with long dark brown scraggly hair with a trucker's cap perched on top preaching his delusions of grandeur.
"I AM GOD! I MADE YOU, THEREFORE I LOVE YOU. BUT I CAN ALSO KILL YOU! YOU CAME FROM ME!"
Luckilly, the light turned green before I had to do the embarrassing window-roll-up or car-door-lock. In front of God, no less.
One-Mississippi.
Two-Mississippi.
Three-Mississippi.
Four-
Neve: "Mom?"
Me: "Yes?"
Neve: "That man said he was God." (confused grin on her face)
Me: "Yeah. That's pretty silly, huh?"
Neve: "Yes. He's not God!"
Me: "Nooo."
Neve: "Why?"
Me: "Why isn't he God? Um, well, because he's not- well, you know..."
Neve: "Because God doesn't wear hats?"
Me: "Mmm hmm. Does that cloud look like Dora?"
Another toddler theolgy case closed, just like that.
Limbo
It's raining here, and I'm hanging with the wee one. Tomorrow's the last day of school, and then we'll all be home together once more. I'm looking forward to our summer, but enjoying my last couple of days of being home alone with Neve. It's been so great.
I woke up earlier than the rest of my good-for-nothin' family this morning, which gave me time to start (never finish) a project. I was hoping to change out my blog header, but one thing leads to another and then I'm rummaging through virtual file after file, rediscovering artwork that me and Terry did 6 years ago. It was fun, but I accomplished little. So, until I have time to finish this can-o-worms project, I will keep Terry's drawing of the hitch hiker up.
Also, if you notice that your link is gone, it's temporary. I've discovered so many new favorite blogs lately, I'm waiting for that proverbial opportunity to update my link list as well. I kept Fiona's Blog, Sam up because she is the fruit of my loins.
I will say goodbye on the note of my loins. Besides, I've got some playing to do with Neve. Have a wonderful day!
(One more thing... I found this drawing Terry did of Colin Newman [for Chunklet perhaps?], and I love love love it.)
I woke up earlier than the rest of my good-for-nothin' family this morning, which gave me time to start (never finish) a project. I was hoping to change out my blog header, but one thing leads to another and then I'm rummaging through virtual file after file, rediscovering artwork that me and Terry did 6 years ago. It was fun, but I accomplished little. So, until I have time to finish this can-o-worms project, I will keep Terry's drawing of the hitch hiker up.
Also, if you notice that your link is gone, it's temporary. I've discovered so many new favorite blogs lately, I'm waiting for that proverbial opportunity to update my link list as well. I kept Fiona's Blog, Sam up because she is the fruit of my loins.
I will say goodbye on the note of my loins. Besides, I've got some playing to do with Neve. Have a wonderful day!
(One more thing... I found this drawing Terry did of Colin Newman [for Chunklet perhaps?], and I love love love it.)
I Heart Hallmark Holidays
Mother's Day. Big 'ole mixed feelings about this day. On the one hand, yes, it's a Hallmark holiday. On the other hand, who cares if it's a commercially-inspired holiday or not? Mothers can use all the help they can get. So if Hallmark or American Greetings wants to have my back one day a year, then by all means, pressure husbands around the world to celebrate mothers for their calendar-illiterate children. I won't protest that.
But, being that Terry and I also have mothers, we must pay homage to their matriarchy this day as well. And where did our children inherit their calendar-illiteracy? From their parents, of course. So, in order for me to want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a beautiful card on M.D., I better be prepared to give a little to my mama as well. And if I happen to drop the Mother's Day ball (for the 28th year in a row), I like to think it's only because it's just a Hallmark holiday. (By the way, your birthday's week-proximity to Mother's Day does make things a bit more difficult, Mom. Jeez.)
So, with that said, if my mother is absent from all of my Mother's Day photos, don't think I'm the worst daughter on the planet. Confession: I did not see her on Sunday. Instead, imagine family gathered around a birthday cake in honor of her birthday (and her motha' flippin' hood too) only days before. Not to mention that my mother is the leader in the anti-commercial holiday revolution. You've not heard of that? I just made it up.
As for the mama at Casablanca, she did get just what she wanted on Sunday. I had breakfast served to me. Coffee. This awesome card. Fiona deciding that she likes her name spelled with a "y", rather than an "i". Happy Mother's Day!
I had the opportunity to go grocery shopping alone. And this truly a luxury when there aren't children [wanting to be into and then out of carts] in tow.
And then the simple pleasure of emptying out packaged goods into my own jars and canisters, post-grocery shopping. I love doing looking at everything through glass.
And some of us celebrated Mother's Day with a nap. That'ah girl.
Meanwhile, Terry was thoughtful enough to tackle the nasty job of clearing out the aggressive wisteria that has taken over the chicken run in the back yard. There's not nearly enough pretty purple blooms to make up for it's choking ability.
Fiona and I played together. Playing "Pony on Pillow Mountain" is the perfect way to celebrate Mother's Day in my opinion.
And we ended our day with dinner al fresco. Life can't get much better than this. Being a mom is as good as it gets.
But, being that Terry and I also have mothers, we must pay homage to their matriarchy this day as well. And where did our children inherit their calendar-illiteracy? From their parents, of course. So, in order for me to want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a beautiful card on M.D., I better be prepared to give a little to my mama as well. And if I happen to drop the Mother's Day ball (for the 28th year in a row), I like to think it's only because it's just a Hallmark holiday. (By the way, your birthday's week-proximity to Mother's Day does make things a bit more difficult, Mom. Jeez.)So, with that said, if my mother is absent from all of my Mother's Day photos, don't think I'm the worst daughter on the planet. Confession: I did not see her on Sunday. Instead, imagine family gathered around a birthday cake in honor of her birthday (and her motha' flippin' hood too) only days before. Not to mention that my mother is the leader in the anti-commercial holiday revolution. You've not heard of that? I just made it up.
As for the mama at Casablanca, she did get just what she wanted on Sunday. I had breakfast served to me. Coffee. This awesome card. Fiona deciding that she likes her name spelled with a "y", rather than an "i". Happy Mother's Day!
I had the opportunity to go grocery shopping alone. And this truly a luxury when there aren't children [wanting to be into and then out of carts] in tow.
And then the simple pleasure of emptying out packaged goods into my own jars and canisters, post-grocery shopping. I love doing looking at everything through glass.
And some of us celebrated Mother's Day with a nap. That'ah girl.
Meanwhile, Terry was thoughtful enough to tackle the nasty job of clearing out the aggressive wisteria that has taken over the chicken run in the back yard. There's not nearly enough pretty purple blooms to make up for it's choking ability.
Fiona and I played together. Playing "Pony on Pillow Mountain" is the perfect way to celebrate Mother's Day in my opinion.
And we ended our day with dinner al fresco. Life can't get much better than this. Being a mom is as good as it gets.
*What do Dora, Magellan, the Fugitive, and Fiona All Have In Common?
*They are all messily referenced in this hodge-podge that I call a blog post. Enjoy.
Although not yet as funny as I'd like this story to be as I type it, I am ready to air some dirty little five year old laundry. My daughter- kindergartner, pony and puppy lover, Dick and Jane enthusiast, bubble blower, fugitive.
Although kindergarten is still relatively new to her, Fiona has been going for almost 3 months now. 3 months may not be long enough to return double-digit addition and subtraction flashcard answers, but it sure is long enough to offer this structure-hungry family a routine. If nothing else has been accomplished by enrolling her 3/4ths through the school year, I can at least say that we are all going to bed earlier, we're waking up earlier, we're practicing some much-needed rules of organization and order (that I'm embarrassed to admit I bucked for so long), and we all assume our individual roles, whatever they may be. Daddy: hunter/animator. Mommy: gatherer/shopper and furniture re-arranger. Neve: the little lamb that is always underfoot. Fiona: the other little lamb that goes to school/ boundary-pushing extraordinaire.
Just like every day before this, I pack Neve into her car seat at 2:10. We arrive at the school's car rider lanes by 2:15. I flip through a magazine as I wait another 10- 15 minutes for Fiona to skip to the car door, and wait while an over-eager 5th grader practically catapults her inside. Seriously, every day. It's become one of my favorite times of the day; my intermission before entering Act 2: Playtime, Homework, Dinner, and Dad.
This particular day, however, I waited a little longer than usual. The school's P.E. teacher doubles as a walkie-talkie man, calling out the numbers of each child who are waiting to find out if they've made bail, er, I mean, are ready to get into their car seats. On Friday, Coach Walkie-Talkie had to call Fiona's number 5 times before going inside to see where she could be. Seconds later, through my rear view mirror I see him dart towards my door. I immediately realize something's wrong with the feel of all this, so I jump out, prepared for whatever news I'm about to get.
Him: "They said Fiona walked home."
Me: "WHAT!? WE LIVE 4 MILES AWAY! IN ANOTHER CITY FOR THAT MATTER! SHE'S 5!!!"
Him: "Hold on." (He presses some button that calls the front office.) "Front Office, Front Office. Are you there? Come in, Front Office."
Me: "Do I have time to wait for the office? What if she's on the street trying to walk home?"
Him: "Hold on. We'll find her. FRONT OFFICE, FRONT OFFICE. DO YOU COPY?"
Me: "I'm going to the office myself."
By the time I get to the front office, my mind has thought of every last awful scenario a mother can allow herself to assume could happen outside of her control. I'm in a full-blown panic mode.
The principal is sitting at the front desk.
Me: "I'm Fiona's mom. Do you know where she is?! They said she WALKED home? But she couldn't have... someone would have stopped a 5 year old, right?"
Her: "Who's her teacher?"
I give her the name, and ask if I can run back to the classroom myself. She tells me to relax as she asks the woman to report to the front office over the intercom.
Waiting. Waiting.
Me: "I can't wait any longer. Could she have left school grounds?!"
Her: "I hope not." She slowly begins filling out some neon visitor sticker, which is about to send me over the front desk in fit of rage.
I grab the sticker and run back to the classroom. I meet coach Walkie-Talkie who's been running through the school himself, yelling Fiona's name. The intercom calls for both Fiona and her teacher. The classroom door is locked and the lights are out. I begin that hysteria cry that has been known to send almost every man in my life into a fetal position. At that point, I see her teacher running towards me.
"Mrs. White, Mrs. White! I've made a huge mistake! Hop in my car and I'll tell you what happened!"
Through sobs, pounding heartbeats, and shock, I gathered that Fiona informed her teacher that she would be walking home that day. And for whatever reason, her teacher was convinced enough by her lie to let her do just that. Without a note from me or a verification call from her. Just a 5 year old out the front door.
3 months is also not long enough for my child to know the ins and outs of how to get home. There are busy streets for her to cross without sidewalks, there are traintracks to cross, there are shady Industrial Parks and vacant lots that I cut through... it's no set to Leave It To Beaver, that's for sure.
I picture her thinking this was like some Dora the Explorer adventure, where she consults her friend, Map, who says, "Fiona and Boots need to go ooooover the busy highway, crooooss the train tracks, aroooound the unkept cemetary, and throooough the neighborhood of crack houses. And then you're home!" Seriously, I wouldn't even take that walk.
So, I'm in her teacher's front seat, Neve is in the backseat. The teacher's chanting, "Oh, Jesus, dear Lord. Oh, dear Jesus, I'm an idiot. Lord, what have I done?"
Through a series of hearsay accounts by construction workers, crossing guards, and city workers, I'm told that a little short-haired blonde girl is with 2 police officers in the parking lot of an old pizza place. I know the place (I couldn't believe how far those short legs walked), and we zip over there.
An entire hour has passed by this time. I'm ready to simultaneously spank and kiss the living Magellan out of her. I see her big head and white skinny legs off in the distance. The two police officers are squatting as they talk to her.
If she had a tail, it would have been tucked under body, the moment we pulled up. She knew what she had done. The male police officer that was squatting asked me to put Fiona in the car so that he can talk to me. To further complicate matters, to further scare the begeegees out of me, to further paint this awful moment in a COPS-esque light, Fiona lied again! She told the police that she walks home every day. And why wouldn't he believe that same sweet convincing face that had just allowed her to make the perfect jail-break? I was about to be in trouble.
In no time, Fiona confessed that she wanted so badly to walk home "like a big girl does", that she was willing to lie to every authority that exists in Atlanta. The cop explained to her that her lies put her in danger (as well as her mother- had they believed that she really did walk home every day alone, I could have had DFCS after me). Apparently, the police were called when another crossing guard saw her cross the street on a green light. She could tell that Fiona didn't know where she was going or what she was doing.
All this goes without saying just how terrifying it is to not know where your child is for even a second, let alone an entire hour. But my mind has yet to really wrap itself around the bigger fear here- the fear of letting go of my children one day. While instances like this may not be the norm, this was only a glimpse at the heartbreak in knowing that we won't have as much control as we'd like in days to come. Ultimately, my children are His. There are too many horrific alternate scenarios that God spared us from for me to even allow myself to go there.
(Uncle Joey with Neve, Easter Sunday 2009)
Although not yet as funny as I'd like this story to be as I type it, I am ready to air some dirty little five year old laundry. My daughter- kindergartner, pony and puppy lover, Dick and Jane enthusiast, bubble blower, fugitive.
Although kindergarten is still relatively new to her, Fiona has been going for almost 3 months now. 3 months may not be long enough to return double-digit addition and subtraction flashcard answers, but it sure is long enough to offer this structure-hungry family a routine. If nothing else has been accomplished by enrolling her 3/4ths through the school year, I can at least say that we are all going to bed earlier, we're waking up earlier, we're practicing some much-needed rules of organization and order (that I'm embarrassed to admit I bucked for so long), and we all assume our individual roles, whatever they may be. Daddy: hunter/animator. Mommy: gatherer/shopper and furniture re-arranger. Neve: the little lamb that is always underfoot. Fiona: the other little lamb that goes to school/ boundary-pushing extraordinaire.
~Friday afternoon~
Just like every day before this, I pack Neve into her car seat at 2:10. We arrive at the school's car rider lanes by 2:15. I flip through a magazine as I wait another 10- 15 minutes for Fiona to skip to the car door, and wait while an over-eager 5th grader practically catapults her inside. Seriously, every day. It's become one of my favorite times of the day; my intermission before entering Act 2: Playtime, Homework, Dinner, and Dad.
This particular day, however, I waited a little longer than usual. The school's P.E. teacher doubles as a walkie-talkie man, calling out the numbers of each child who are waiting to find out if they've made bail, er, I mean, are ready to get into their car seats. On Friday, Coach Walkie-Talkie had to call Fiona's number 5 times before going inside to see where she could be. Seconds later, through my rear view mirror I see him dart towards my door. I immediately realize something's wrong with the feel of all this, so I jump out, prepared for whatever news I'm about to get.
Him: "They said Fiona walked home."
Me: "WHAT!? WE LIVE 4 MILES AWAY! IN ANOTHER CITY FOR THAT MATTER! SHE'S 5!!!"
Him: "Hold on." (He presses some button that calls the front office.) "Front Office, Front Office. Are you there? Come in, Front Office."
Me: "Do I have time to wait for the office? What if she's on the street trying to walk home?"
Him: "Hold on. We'll find her. FRONT OFFICE, FRONT OFFICE. DO YOU COPY?"
Me: "I'm going to the office myself."
By the time I get to the front office, my mind has thought of every last awful scenario a mother can allow herself to assume could happen outside of her control. I'm in a full-blown panic mode.
The principal is sitting at the front desk.
Me: "I'm Fiona's mom. Do you know where she is?! They said she WALKED home? But she couldn't have... someone would have stopped a 5 year old, right?"
Her: "Who's her teacher?"
I give her the name, and ask if I can run back to the classroom myself. She tells me to relax as she asks the woman to report to the front office over the intercom.
Waiting. Waiting.
Me: "I can't wait any longer. Could she have left school grounds?!"
Her: "I hope not." She slowly begins filling out some neon visitor sticker, which is about to send me over the front desk in fit of rage.
I grab the sticker and run back to the classroom. I meet coach Walkie-Talkie who's been running through the school himself, yelling Fiona's name. The intercom calls for both Fiona and her teacher. The classroom door is locked and the lights are out. I begin that hysteria cry that has been known to send almost every man in my life into a fetal position. At that point, I see her teacher running towards me.
"Mrs. White, Mrs. White! I've made a huge mistake! Hop in my car and I'll tell you what happened!"
Through sobs, pounding heartbeats, and shock, I gathered that Fiona informed her teacher that she would be walking home that day. And for whatever reason, her teacher was convinced enough by her lie to let her do just that. Without a note from me or a verification call from her. Just a 5 year old out the front door.
3 months is also not long enough for my child to know the ins and outs of how to get home. There are busy streets for her to cross without sidewalks, there are traintracks to cross, there are shady Industrial Parks and vacant lots that I cut through... it's no set to Leave It To Beaver, that's for sure.
I picture her thinking this was like some Dora the Explorer adventure, where she consults her friend, Map, who says, "Fiona and Boots need to go ooooover the busy highway, crooooss the train tracks, aroooound the unkept cemetary, and throooough the neighborhood of crack houses. And then you're home!" Seriously, I wouldn't even take that walk.
So, I'm in her teacher's front seat, Neve is in the backseat. The teacher's chanting, "Oh, Jesus, dear Lord. Oh, dear Jesus, I'm an idiot. Lord, what have I done?"
Through a series of hearsay accounts by construction workers, crossing guards, and city workers, I'm told that a little short-haired blonde girl is with 2 police officers in the parking lot of an old pizza place. I know the place (I couldn't believe how far those short legs walked), and we zip over there.
An entire hour has passed by this time. I'm ready to simultaneously spank and kiss the living Magellan out of her. I see her big head and white skinny legs off in the distance. The two police officers are squatting as they talk to her.
If she had a tail, it would have been tucked under body, the moment we pulled up. She knew what she had done. The male police officer that was squatting asked me to put Fiona in the car so that he can talk to me. To further complicate matters, to further scare the begeegees out of me, to further paint this awful moment in a COPS-esque light, Fiona lied again! She told the police that she walks home every day. And why wouldn't he believe that same sweet convincing face that had just allowed her to make the perfect jail-break? I was about to be in trouble.
In no time, Fiona confessed that she wanted so badly to walk home "like a big girl does", that she was willing to lie to every authority that exists in Atlanta. The cop explained to her that her lies put her in danger (as well as her mother- had they believed that she really did walk home every day alone, I could have had DFCS after me). Apparently, the police were called when another crossing guard saw her cross the street on a green light. She could tell that Fiona didn't know where she was going or what she was doing.
All this goes without saying just how terrifying it is to not know where your child is for even a second, let alone an entire hour. But my mind has yet to really wrap itself around the bigger fear here- the fear of letting go of my children one day. While instances like this may not be the norm, this was only a glimpse at the heartbreak in knowing that we won't have as much control as we'd like in days to come. Ultimately, my children are His. There are too many horrific alternate scenarios that God spared us from for me to even allow myself to go there.
I don't know what's to come for Fiona's teacher. Any time one adult (in this case the principal) uses the word "discipline" as a course of action for another adult, I cringe. She did a dumb thing, believing my kid and all, but Fiona's safe and that's what matters.
As for Fiona's discipline, after the weekend she had and the week of hell that she's in the midst of now (imagine the entire family eating ice cream in front of her), I feel confident that there will be no more jail breaks and (hopefully) fewer lies. At least less lying to law enforcement. Jeez-o.
As for Fiona's discipline, after the weekend she had and the week of hell that she's in the midst of now (imagine the entire family eating ice cream in front of her), I feel confident that there will be no more jail breaks and (hopefully) fewer lies. At least less lying to law enforcement. Jeez-o.
Fiona, how many times do I have to tell you? There are weirdos everywhere!
(Uncle Joey with Neve, Easter Sunday 2009)
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