When It Hits Home: Part II

I would have taken the birds and the bees question over this one any day.

"Mommy, who will our parents be if you die?"

I put down the dish towel and set the pot I'd been drying down on the counter. The question came from our four-year-old. 

I was stumped, so I tried to buy myself some time. 

"Well, Jos...why do you ask?"

She looked up at me with guilty eyes. "Because of the marathon,"she whispered back. As much as I'd hoped that my running in the Boston Marathon on Monday and our proximity to the bombings was lost on Josie, I realized it wasn't.

Time was up. I had to give her an answer. 

My husband was sitting at the dinner table, so I turned to him. "Do we tell them?," I asked. 

"Uh...yeah," he said, nodding his head. "Might as well."

Problem was, I didn't know what to say. My audience was our four-year-old and our six-year-old. Neither of them knows what a living will is. Or what a trust is. But they know what death is -- when we had to let our dog go last fall they saw that it was permanent. 

I gave myself a minute to think. How the hell do I explain a contingency plan to a preschooler and a kindergartener?

I gave Tony a wide-eyed look. He shot me the same one back. 

Rainy day...rainy day...rainy day... I kept repeating the words over and over in my head. Suddenly, an answer. It was the best I could do.

"So, Josie, sometimes you have to have two plans for something," I began. "Like say we decide that this summer on Thursday, June 16th, we're going to Kings Island."

The kid likes herself an amusement park, so I had her hooked. "Thing is that we don't know what the weather's going to be like on June 16th because it's so far away. So I tell you that if it rains, we'll go for ice cream instead," I explained. 

I wanted to know that she and her sister understood, so I asked them, "OK, so what do we do if it's sunny?"

"Kings Island!!," they said in unison.

"And what if it rains?"

"Ice cream," Josie answered. She got it. 

"Well, you do the same thing when you become a mom and dad," I explained. "We like to figure that we're going to be around for you guys, but like with Kings Island, we don't know for sure. So we have to make another plan for someone else to take care of you just in case. You understand?"

They both nodded. Amusement parks and ice cream was something they understood. It may not have been the best comparison, but in a pinch, it worked. 

"But just so you know, we'll always be your parents, whether we're here or not...OK?"

The girls looked at me and then at Tony, who nodded at them with a smile. 

"OK," they both said. 

"That answer your question?," I asked, hoping I had. 

"Uh-huh," Josie answered. End of conversation.

So I picked up the towel and finished drying the pot. And I figured I'd better start coming up with a better idea for the birds and the bees.

When It Hits Home

I had only been home from Boston for a half hour or so when Olivia leaned her hands on the counter, shoulders stiff, and began gently kicking her feet around.

Her eyes cast down, our eight-year-old hesitated when she spoke. 

"Mommy, are you going to run the Boston Marathon again?"

I sat at the kitchen table, just across from her. The kicking stopped.

Her head still down, she looked up at me. It was clear she had been just as scared to ask the question as she was to hear my answer.

"Oh Liv, honey," I began. "Well, I'd like to, yes..."

She scrunched her brow and pressed her lips together hard. The corners of her mouth turned down.

It wasn't the right answer. And it was the one she was afraid of. So I spoke for her.

"...but you don't want me to. Right?"

Holding her breath, she could only nod her head and reach out for me. I collected her on my lap and gave her a tight squeeze. She exhaled into my shoulder and then pulled away, eyes damp. "I don't want you to because I'm scared it'll happen again," she said.
She'd seen the evidence on TV that evil exists in her largely blissful world. And she didn't like that the two worlds converged. Or that both of her parents were so close to it.

Until that moment, I'd been remarkably unaffected by the bombing. On Monday, my friends and I had finished a half hour before the blasts and were walking back to their Copley Square hotel when we heard a noise that sounded like motorcycle kickback. We didn't flinch at the sound or realize anything had happened until ambulances and police cars raced past us toward the finish. Then, a passerby mentioned a bombing.

From the hotel lobby televisions, we watched the video taken only a few blocks away. The whole thing was surreal. What I saw on the TV wasn't at all a part of my experience -- which was supposed to be the same experience for everyone else. All I'd seen was an overwhelming show of grit, happiness, support and determination. It just didn't make sense.

Even on the way back home Tuesday, I'd said to my friends how strange I'd felt. How odd it was that we were so close to the bombing -- we all agreed it could have been any one of us if we'd had a bad race -- but that I just didn't feel like I was as emotional as I should have been. I just didn't feel much of anything except anger that the day didn't pan out for everyone else the way it did for me. It wasn't fair.

"You think it's a coping mechanism?," my friend Heather asked. Together, she and I ran the race with our friend, Maureen.

I wasn't sure. I really didn't know how I felt.

But when I saw the fear in Olivia's eyes, I knew. I was sad. Sad, just like everyone else who watched the tragedy unfold. And sad that our oldest daughter is now keenly aware of her parents' mortality and realizes, for better or worse, that bad people aren't just in the movies. That sometimes, they share the same space and walk the same streets as the people you love.

It was a lesson she'd have to learn sooner or later -- I'd just wished it had been under different circumstances.

As much as she hated to hear it, I told Olivia that I was going to continue running marathons. I told her that running is what I like to do and that while an act of terrorism certainly could happen again, it could happen again anywhere. Anytime. I reminded her that if you live your life in fear of what could happen, then you don't appreciate what really does happen.

So I told her what really happened for me at the 2013 Boston Marathon. That I ran the whole thing with two of my best friends. That I had the treat of having her dad, Uncle Steve and his girlfriend, Shannon, cheering me on at mile 8 and 24. That I exchanged a sweaty hug with a former teammate at mile 19 and another former teammate at mile 21. That I high-fived a good percentage of the under-10 spectators who watched from the north side of the course. That I heard "Go Jen!!" so many times and with such sincerity that I could have sworn I was a celebrity. And that I crossed the finish line with one of my friends, arms raised, feeling like finally, finally, finally, I'd reversed my own Boston curse.

I could tell that my stories made her feel better, but they didn't wash away all her misgivings. She'd connected the dots for the first time ever and didn't like the picture they made.

My hope is that with time, she'll be less fearful and she'll come to see for herself how good and kind most of the world's folks really are. And maybe some day, she or one of her sisters will come to cheer me on at Boston, or better, we'll cross the finish line together.

Sweet Little Lies

THUMPeta...wuh-THUMPeta...wuh-THUMPeta. 

Our youngest two thundered up the basement steps, responding to the call that dessert -- pink-frosted Valentine’s Day sugar cookies -- was ready on the table.

“Did you guys pick up the basement and shut off the lights?” 

I ask the same question at the end of every day. Mostly because their response isn’t always in the affirmative. And also because when the response is in the affirmative, oftentimes the evidence in the basement indicates otherwise.

Eyes locked on the plated sugar discs resting too few arm lengths away, Anna and Josie both nodded. Anna even tossed in an enthusiastic, “Yep!”

Her conviction made a believer out of me. In fact, I didn’t even bother with my “so-you’re-telling-me” test, as in, “So, you’re telling me that if I went down to the basement playroom right now, I’d find everything back in its place?” 

I’ve been invoking the test a lot lately. White lies have become a recent problem for the youngest two. It has become a big enough problem where Tony and I threatened that any lie of any shade would result in a dessert- and candy-free existence for the rest of the year. We figured it an effective deterrent.

I pointed to the cookies and they filed into the bench side of the kitchen table. “Mmmmmm! These cookies are AWWWWWWESOME!,” Anna sang. Josie’s mouth was too full to agree with words. Instead, she bobbed her head vigorously toward Anna, eyes wide.

I turned to the stove to heat up the water in the kettle. By the time I’d turned back around, both girls were scooting out of the bench, nothing by a few crumbs on their napkins. Olivia, just home from swim practice, was late to her cookie but she finished it just as quickly and we hustled the girls to bed. 

Lights out, I headed to the basement to put in a load of laundry. As I rounded the second floor landing, I felt glad that we put everyone to bed happy. Not that the girls go to bed unhappy, but I’ll admit that by the time the end of the day rolls around, my parenting could channel a little more Carol Brady and a little less Betty Draper. 

The light to the basement steps was still on and I sighed: Let it go, Jen. You only asked them to turn off the lights in the playroom. So, technically, no lie. I kept on down the stairs and turned to the laundry without even looking at the playroom. One load into the washer and another out of the dryer, I headed back toward the stairs with a hamper on my hip when I noticed the pile of blankets inside the playroom door. On the floor. 

Not a chance anyone attempted to fold the blankets. And an even lesser chance that anyone had so much as lifted a finger to put away any one of the 6,725 toys that littered the playroom floor. 

Betty was gone. Carol had already fled the country. Joan Crawford texted and was a mere 30 seconds away. 

Muuuuutherrrr EFFFFFF-errrrr!!!!! 

I was livid.

I could believe that the basement was a mess. What I couldn’t believe was that Anna and Josie lied about it -- again -- and then happily polished off a dessert. How lucky for them that I’d seen Mommie Dearest one too many times as a child. I decided to sleep on my anger, rather than yank them from their beds and douse them in talcum powder, among other things.

Breakfast Friday morning seemed to be as good a time as any for the ambush. “Hey guys,” I started, eyes locked on Anna and Josie. They were seated across the table in the same place where they’d eaten their last dessert for 2013 just hours before. “So, I went down to do laundry last night in the basement...”

Their response was almost Pavlovian. Heads hung low, eyes looked up. They knew.

“What do you think I saw?” Oh, the faces of shame. Rhetorical questions are condescending, I realize, but so is being lied to.

Josie was first, “We didn’t clean the basement...”

“Do you remember what I asked you last night before you had dessert?”

Anna was next, “You asked us if we’d cleaned up the basement.”

“And did you?” 

This time, in unison: “No.” 

“And you both understand the punishment for lying, yes?”

They both nodded. “No more desserts or candy,” Anna muttered.

They’d come full circle. First, partners in crime, then partners in truth. And, sadly for them, now united in punishment. 

What followed was me explaining that lying is hurtful and, more importantly, it makes Tony and I less likely to believe them when they are telling the truth. I told them I was disappointed -- something I’ve found motivates my kids more than my anger. 

Then, I had to remove the sugar cookie half from Anna’s lunch -- a special treat I’d packed, knowing she thought the cookies were songworthy. The whole scene was borderline theatrical, but necessary nonetheless. 

It was time to walk to school and Anna, who was remarkably silent -- except for Olivia who said, “Geez, telling me that I couldn’t have dessert for the rest of the year if I lied would be enough for me to tell the truth!” (I reminded her that she’d had her own issue with lying when she was six) -- put on her snowpants and jackets. Josie stayed behind with Tony.

Halfway to school, I broke the silence. I wasn’t about to capitulate, but I know that kids are kids. And I also know that for the most part, the girls are well-behaved. So I told Anna that I loved her, but I wasn’t all that fond of the lying. I also told her that if we see that she’s being more responsible, cleaning up without a daily reminder and, most importantly, starts being truthful all the time, that we’d let up a bit eventually. 

“We need to see a change, though,” I said. My look was tender, but my voice was stern. A little bit of Carol. And a little bit of Joan. 

For three days now, Anna and Josie haven’t fallen off the truth wagon. But until we see some changes in behavior, I won’t stop baking. Not because I’m mean. But because it’s something I like to do. 

In the meantime, they’ll do without desserts and candy and we’ll hope for consistent truth. And while it might not be as true for them as it is for us, nipping a lying habit in the bud tastes a lot sweeter than a sugar cookie ever could.

Jump Right In

"No, no, no, girls," I said today, shaking my head, frustrated. I was up to my shoulders in water, standing in the deep end of our community pool. "Sit up on the side there and watch my legs under the water."

I was doing my best to demonstrate to the seven- and five-year-old how to tread water without looking like a soon-to-be Jaws victim who was having her toes tickled by a sinister shark.

"You gotta do it like this," I told them. "See how I'm kicking my legs out to the side slowly and bringing my knees together? See? Anna...ANNA are you even WATCHING?"

She wasn't. My five-year-old was too focused on the prize: If she could tread water for a minute and swim the length of the 12-foot-section, the lifeguards would give her the all clear to jump off the diving board.

"Mommy, did you just see what that boy did?" Her eyes widened with disbelief as she watched a mop-headed teenager dash to the board's end, bounce once, shoot straight up in the air, then hurl his body over in a flip. She couldn't take her eyes off the board. "That was so COOL!"

Damn those teenaged boys...


"Honey, look here," I demanded, kicking like a frog and scooping water with my arms. "Look HERE!!"

She turned her head to oblige me. "Yeah, Mommy, I got it," she said, eyes back on the diving board.

I turned my attention to Olivia and told her to hop in and give it a try. She floundered for a bit, her head bobbing up and down, sometimes with her face barely out of the water. My doubts soared. But not hers.

"Mommy! I'm doing it!"

Apparently, the settings of our bars were mismatched: I was more concerned with technique and Olivia just wanted to keep her breathing orafices out of the water.

I rethought my position -- the kid was right. They didn't have to be perfect. They just had to survive the test.

"All right, guys, let's find a lifeguard and take this test," I said, clapping my hands together. Best case scenario, one of them would pass. Worst case, neither would and they'd just keep taking the test until they could.

The girls hopped out of the pool, giddy with excitement. Clearly, I'd underestimated (and forgotten) the pleasures of jumping off a sea foam-colored piece of flexible aluminum into deep, clear blue water.

Minutes later, two lifeguards stood at opposite ends of the 12-foot-section, ready to supervise my oldest girls' deep water swim test. Olivia went first, jumping in and swimming freestyle (something I thought for sure she'd forgotten) to the opposite side. Next, Anna pushed off, swam halfway across and started to run out of steam.

Turn onto your back, kiddo. Just roll over...  I thought.

Turns out she listens better when I don't say anything because that's exactly what she did before she kicked and floated the rest of the way across.


Josie (watching her sisters patiently) and I walked around the deep end to meet Olivia and Anna at the other side. Walking closer, I could see they were both beaming.

Next up was the minute of treading water. I took a deep breath.

Both girls pushed off. About halfway through the minute, Olivia figured out how to tread the way I'd shown her and finished the last 30 seconds effortlessly keeping her head above water. Anna treaded the entire minute Anna's way, which is to say it was a bit unconventional, but she got the job done.

I went to give them both a high five, but it was clear there was no time for celebrating. Seconds later, they were heading for the line at the diving board.

I couldn't resist one last piece of unsolicited advice as they walked away. "Now girls, PLEASE be sure that you put your toes to the edge and jump straight out. I don't want you hitting the back of your head on the diving board," I said, all the while replaying in my head the dive that earned Greg Louganis stitches in the back of his head.

Josie and I picked a chair opposite the board and watched, as both girls spent the next 45 minutes jumping, cannonballing and helicoptering their way off the diving board. I hadn't seen delight like that on their faces in a long time.

Turns out Anna was right: it was cool. And I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

When Mommy's Help Isn't Enough

"Mommmmeeeeee???" 

The new smile

I let out a deep sigh from the driver's seat. I hated it when the kids used my given title less to get my attention and more as a request for unnecessary assistance. 

"Whaddya need, kiddo?," I asked Anna, annoyed and not particularly interested in her answer. After all, it was 6:05 p.m. Saturday and Tony had just returned from the hostess stand of a popular local burger joint with bad news: the wait was 45 minutes. The kids would never make it. We'd have to eat somewhere else. 

I put the car in reverse and started to back out. 

Then louder, again from the back corner of the minivan, Anna wailed, "I just lost my TOO-OOOOOTH!!!"

I hit the brakes and turned around. Our five-year-old was slumped over in her pink booster, sobbing, stunned and frozen stiff. 

"AHHHHHHHH!!!!," she cried on, a bloody stream of drool spilling over her bottom lip. 

I pulled back into a parking spot. With Christmas morning excitement, Olivia turned to her sister and said, "Anna! Hey! You lost your tooth!!!" Tony and I shared a simultaneous, "Wow, Anna!!"

"AHHHHHHH!!!!!" Anna didn't share our enthusiasm. She was inconsolable.

"Want me to drive?," Tony asked. I unbuckled and hopped into the back. 

"Hey, sweetie," I said, squeezing between the two booster seats, "It's OK! Wow, you lost your tooth! You're a big girl now..." 

Tony passed back a tissue and I wiped Anna's chin and eyes. "Do you have the tooth?," I asked. 

She looked down at her empty hands. In her panic, she must have dropped it. Thank God I just cleaned out the car, I thought. Anna was still speechless and crying, too scared from the blood, but not at all hurt. 

"No worries, kiddo," I said, giving her a squeeze and a smile. "But we have to find that tooth!" I commenced my search. Anna cried on.

Olivia more than compensated for her sister's lack of happiness. "Now the tooth fairy will come and you can use my tooth case!," she offered. Then, gently putting her hand on her younger sister's shoulder, she comforted, "You'll be all right." 

With her sister's touch, Anna began to calm down. 

Moments later, I found the jagged white tooth between the seats and Anna inspected it. The corners of her mouth started to lift. There was pride in that emerging grin. 

With everyone in better spirits, Tony started the car and I sat in the back row, snapping pictures of Anna's new smile. Olivia continued to boost Anna's mood. "This is great! You'll start losing other teeth," she told her. "Maybe you'll lose one on your birthday like I did!"

I sat in the middle of the two sisters on our way to another restaurant. They passed the tooth back and forth, now both of them sharing in the excitement and more importantly, the experience.

As they giggled and speculated on what the tooth fairy would bring, I considered one of the inherent limits of adulthood: sometimes, an empathetic word from another child is considerably more effective at soothing than a comforting squeeze from a parent alone. So yes, Tony and I will always be our daughters' parents, but we won't always be the ones who can help the most.

Ouch. 

It's a realization that's bittersweet, for sure. It might even sting more than Anna's lost tooth. 

But at least I know now that in another ten years, when the girls stop calling "Mommy" for help, they won't have to look any farther than each other to get it. 

Dancing Through an Easy Time

Perched on the counter, I turned around to check the time on the microwave behind me: 6:29 p.m. 

"Only an hour and a half left," I reported to Tony. The two of us were hiding out in the kitchen with Pandora Radio, killing the last 90 minutes of the day before the girls went to bed. 

 

Our brood giggled and squealed their way through another Sunday night round of post-dinner  slap happiness in the living room. Back in our kitchen bunker, James Taylor serenaded us with "Fire and Rain."

"Wait...," I scrunched my face and turned my head. "I could never get that lyric. What'd he say?"

"Been walking my mind to an easy time," Tony sang. 

"Been walking my mind to an easy time," I repeated. Tony was always good with hearing lyrics. "Ohhhh...I see," I said, nodding my head, finally understanding the words. And this time, really understanding the words. 

Crosby, Stills and Nash's "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" came next. I attempted to impress Tony with my ability to recall all the song's lyrics. 

"Ooooh! This is the best part," I prepared him, holding my hands up, before belting out, "...willllll you come see-ee me-e-e? Thursdays and Saturdays...days DAYS DAYS, what have you got to loo-oo-oo-oo-oose?"

He smiled, but more for my benefit I could tell. 

The song played on and the girls thumped their way through the dining room and into the kitchen. 

We'd been outed. 

"Whaddaryou guys dooo-ing in heeee-re?" Anna asked, leading her sisters and shaking with silliness. 

"Just listening to music," I sighed, knowing our kitchen quiet time was done. Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonized on in the background, the song's tempo picking up.

Then, it occurred to me that the girls might like the upbeat end of the song. "Hey, you'll like this part," I told them, much in the way I may have tried to convince them that chia seeds are, in fact, tasty. They looked at me with what I swear was a glimpse of teenage skepticism.

Then it came: Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, doot-doot, doo-doo-doo-doo...

Our trio huddled and started bouncing to the catchy tune. I was right: they liked it. 

They liked it so much, they stayed in the kitchen to listen. And never before have Tony and I been so happy to have been ambushed. 

For the next half-hour, the five of us danced in our cramped smallish kitchen to a series of songs so perfect that they only could have been hand-selected by a Hollywood music supervisor.  

We cha-cha'd and twirled through Billy Joel's "Don't Ask Me Why." I shared an overdue tender moment with Anna, as I carried her, swaying and spinning our way through Kenny Loggins' "Danny's Song." Josie showered me with kisses and gentle nose nudgings during The Beatles' "In My Life." Steve Perry gave us a fitting coda as we air-guitared and air-drummed our way through "Don't Stop Believing." 

When the song ended, Tony announced that it was bathtime. 

"Just one more!" Olivia pleaded. 

I secretly wished for one more, too, but I figured it was better to end it so that our night would end just the way it had: perfectly. I'm a seasoned enough mother now to know that times like tonight are few and far between. 

I'm also sentimental enough to know that in another 50 years, when I might be inclined to romanticize or embellish our girls' early years, that this one night really happened. And that will make walking my mind to an easy time all the more enjoyable. 

A not-so-good night. Hopefully, a better tomorrow.

The girls' bedrooms doors were already closed when I decided to return upstairs. I hadn't wished them a "good night" yet.

Less than an hour before, I ensured at least one of them would have anything but. Tomorrow wasn't looking so good, either.

I walked halfway down the hall and paused. All was quiet. Instead of peeking into their rooms, I decided to check in on Tony. He'd just gotten home and was in our bedroom changing clothes.

I tapped on the bathroom door. "Your dinner's ready," I told him, before blurting, "I hate being mean. I wish there was another way, but I can't think of one... ." My voice trailed off.

"No, you're right," he said, sympathetic. Then, "Anna wanted you to say, 'Good night.'"

I exhaled and slumped my shoulders.

Earlier, I was cleaning up the dishes from dinner and found The Little Mermaid DVD on the kitchen table. It wasn't there during the meal, so I knew it had been transported to the dining room by one of our lassies. I picked up the movie and turned it over. The mirrored surface was scratched and smudged with fingerprints.

Seriously? AGAIN? How many times do I have to tell them that we have to take care of the things we have? That we're lucky to have what we have? That we need to TREAT THINGS WITH RESPECT????

I swung around to the living room. All three of them were playing on the couch.

I held up the DVD. "Who was playing with THIS?" My speech was deliberate.

Four eyes locked on mine. Two didn't.

"It wasn't me," Olivia reported.

"Idwaahzuntme eeder,"Josie said, matter-of-factly. Then she widened her eyes, flared her nostrils and with witch-trial theatrics bellowed, "Idwaahz ANNA!"

To our five-year-old's credit, she didn't deny it. But I still glared.

"Were you scratching it on the table?" I wasn't asking. I was accusing.

"Yes..." Anna answered. She flashed a smirk.

And I got hot.

"It's not funny, Anna. If you want to watch The Little Mermaid again, it'll probably skip and it will be because you were playing with it like it was a piece of garbage! I mean, what do I have to do so that you take care of things?"

At that point, I could have walked away. Instead, all those times before that I'd said the same thing pushed me ahead. I'd had enough. I fastened my helmet for a ride down the slippery slope of materialistic guilt. And I was determined to take Anna with me.

I started by asking Anna how she would feel if something that was special to her was ruined. I reminded her that there are plenty of children who aren't showered with nice things and may only have one DVD, if they've seen a movie at all. I threatened to march her upstairs to find something special of hers that she could donate to a little girl who would take care of it.

Anna stopped smiling. Her eyes met mine. You wouldn't...

I did.

And every last second of it was as terrible as I expected. From watching Anna reluctantly opening her clothes-filled drawers to her selecting a princess nightgown once adored by Olivia and now by her to my decision to open the closet door, revealing the cerulean velour hand-me-down dress she so happily wore to Christmas Mass.

She started sobbing.

I bent down and put my hands on her shoulders. I needed to know that she understood.

"Anna, I don't like going through this, either. This makes me sad, too. But I need to know: do you understand what you've done wrong?"

Of course, she did.

"I wasn't being respectful to our things," she muttered, face wet and puffy.

I wanted to go another direction. To let her keep her special nightgown or her special dress. To not somehow make donating something seem like a bad thing.

But seven years into this job and I know that going back on your word usually means more of the same going forward.

Back in our bedroom, I took a deep breath as Tony put his work clothes away. Anna and Josie's room was next to ours. I walked into the hall and nudged open their door.

Anna was sitting up on her top bunk. I climbed the ladder.

"Honey, I'm sorry to do this. I don't enjoy it, but I've had to say this so many times, I don't know what else to do. Now I know that you'll think next time," I said, trying to be gentle.

She was quiet. And cold to me. I couldn't blame her. Then again, I could.

I kissed her, said "I love you" and left the room.

I realize that our girls aren't to blame for all they have. As far as material things go, they are children of wants, not needs. Tony and I recently discussed how we could start exposing the girls to ways we could give our time to help in the community. After this, it's safe to assume that we'll start in 2012.

To be fair, our girls aren't spoiled. And they're not ungrateful. But they are growing up in a world that seems to be uncomfortably (for me, at least) repeating a cycle of accumulating the latest and greatest and then chucking it aside for the next latest and greatest. I'm guilty myself at times.

The lessons of moderation, humility and respect are hard to teach and harder to live. And, in Anna's case, it also made for one loaded, hard night.

The best I can do is hope that with a little planning and a lot of motivation, I can turn an otherwise not-so-good night into a better tomorrow for us, and more importantly, for someone else.