"This will hurt me more than it hurts you."

We had returned two days before from a 3,861 mile road trip to see some sites, visit some friends, and mostly spend some time with grandparents…not mine, my son’s. It was a fantastic trip with more than one or two truly horrible nights sleep. It was hard enough adjusting to only two people entertaining him as opposed to the hoards he had grown accustomed to during our road trip, but he was also cutting five teeth at one time. After weeks of people thinking absolutely everything he did was adorable and/or hilarious, he was feeling pretty full of himself. He decided hitting mom’s face was just as cute as could be. Thus the very first battle of wills began, 10 months and 10 days into his very precious life.

            It was not that he hit me in the face that gave me the intense wake up call to the fact this wonderful, charming little boy who I remember thinking was perfect the first time I held him in my arms, was indeed fallen like the rest of us. It wasn’t even that after three forceful and clear instructions to not hit mommy, or anyone for that matter, in the face and a clear threat of a spank. It wasn’t that he did it again. We all have to learn, especially with the first boundaries we ever encounter, no means no, and threat of a spanking means ABSOLUTELY NO. It was the look on his face after the one rapid fire pop to the thigh and the initial cry of shock. The look said a million things, none of which I seem to be able to capture with pen and paper (or fingers to keyboard – since that old expression doesn’t seem exactly correct while blogging). But all of the things the look said, every last one of them, were shocking to me. This sweet child had a temper. This cherub of a boy could get nasty. Further evidence of said nastiness immediately followed the look –rapid fire pounding of my face.

            As this was my first encounter with discipline of this nature, at least from the “this will hurt me more” side of spanking. I was torn between wanting to hug him and comfort him and knowing the best course of action was to tell him I loved him but it was bed time. To tell him I knew he was upset, but that it was time for him to sleep and since he couldn’t control himself I was going to put him down and leave him alone in his room to go to bed. Whew. It took a few minutes and admittedly another pop or two to my face, before I realized my intense desire to hug him was doing no one any good…and probably doing the boundary I was trying to build some harm.

            For the first time in my life, I believe my parents were right. Their discipline – in all of it’s forms was most assuredly more painful to them than it was to me. The proof of that being that I will never forget that night and he is almost guaranteed to never remember it. 

Five years ago Today.

            During the five months that my husband and I were engaged, we had quite a few books suggested to us as ‘must reads.’ I cannot for the life of me now remember what any of them were, just that I read or skimmed at least three or four. One thing I remember almost all of them said, is that it is important for your own personal romance and for your children for you to tell the story of how you fell in love often. I came to think of it as one of those stories that you love to hear, but you know almost every word. In the first year of our marriage we told the story tons, and I remember I wrote it out in a journal I can’t now find. But at some point in the last couple of years, I have tired with the story. There might be a line or two I find embarrassing. In the first year I assumed everyone wanted to hear it, and now I assume when folks ask, “how’d you two meet?” they want the quick one sentence answer – “At a St. Patrick’s Day party.” I do not assume they want the long version which starts something like this (Note: if “At a St. Patrick’s Day party is enough for you – stop reading here).

            It was St Patrick’s Day 2007. A friend of mine from law school and I had become entrenched in a group bible study that had lots of Naval Academy graduates in it. We might have been a Bible study but we were also a social network and spent many evenings and almost all weekends hanging out. As single females in law school, we had realized that the moment we started studying law we shrank the pool of available men to an almost invisible puddle. After two years of it, we had determined engineers, doctors,  lawyers, and naval officers were about the only available men who had enough… we’ll call it moxy to deal with ‘strong’ women.

            I had gone out the night before to celebrate with another friend and had admittedly had too much of the best alcohol Ireland had to offer, so I volunteered to be the designated driver. We were excited because one of the Academy grads was throwing a party at his house, and it would be one of the few times he would invite the guys from his submarine to come over. In other words, new meat, I mean men.

            SPD (St. Patrick’s Day from here on out b/c it is way too long to keep typing – I know lazy millennial) is also in the middle of March and as any basketball fan knows, that means the only college basketball worth watching is on tv – March Madness. I was sitting on one of the sofas talking with a friend about a dinner party I was going to come co-host at his house to show the Yankees some good Southern food when some guy started wrestling with Brandon Webber (another friend) in the corner right next to us. I believed he was trying to get my attention. Later I moved to another spot to be able to focus on the game (Florida was playing and would later make the SEC proud and win the whole thing). The mysterious wrestling gentleman in a green shirt (imagine that) wound up sitting next to me. I don’t remember much of our conversation or how it started. But then he said he was converting to Catholicism. I was intrigued. I had never heard of much less talked to someone who grew up a protestant Christian converting in adulthood. He knew the word transubstantiation. I was impressed.

            Somewhere at this point in the conversation, Ray (a friend of the wrestler) came in from the ping pong table, which was set up as beer pong for the night, to retrieve the wrestler for his turn. He politely waved Ray off. Ray came back. He waved him off. Ray returned for his beer pong partner a third time, and this time I said “Beer pong with Ray or cute girl and basketball, I think he’s going to choose the girl.” I believe I may have done my hands as scales and implied that hot girl obviously out weighed beer pong. Ray replied that the hot girl could come watch beer pong, and I said “The hot girl is watching march madness, thus making her hotter.” Wrestler smiled and Ray left tail between his legs.

            Shortly thereafter, the now inebriated friends I was driving were ready to leave, and I jumped up to follow them out to my car. They had somehow obtained my keys. Wrestler stopped me and asked for my number. I, being genuinely interested, pointed to my friend Deb (who later married the guy who threw the party) and said she could give him my number. A little while later Deb texted and said “I gave that guy your real number, hope that’s what I was supposed to do.” Good ‘ole Deb.

            The next part of our romance was a whirlwind. There were all of 6 or 7 weeks before he left to meet a submarine in the Middle East and ride it back to the states, not returning until I had graduated and moved back to Alabama. There are a few more crowning moments that led to our engagement on August 4 and subsequent marriage in late December. I shall give them to you in brief and leave the engagement for another day.

            Lets see. Our first date, he made me stuffed shells for dinner. He did not know they were my favorite. We also watched Florida win yet another game in the march madness tournament. I spent the first few hours of the evening trying to figure out how to get him to ask to take me to a Ball I had the next day. He asked. He came. He got ignored. I was one of the folks who had planned it and was in charge, so I was constantly being called away for one thing or another. He was not mad, quite the opposite in fact, he was impressed that I was important. Quite the man, I thought. We didn’t get to dance so afterwards I followed him back to his condo and he sang to me while we danced together in front of the fireplace for the first time. We fell asleep talking in front of the fire.

            We spent at least some time together every day thereafter until he took me to the airport so I could fly across the country to visit an ex boyfriend. I know – not my brightest moment, but it obviously worked out. I spent the weekend dodging kisses and texting with him (the wrestler).

Before I got back to Virginia, he had left for the Middle East. As much as I liked this guy, I rationally believed we might keep in touch for a while and then things would fizzle and I would end up working at a law firm in Alabama and joining eHarmony to find a mate.

For the most part our only form of communication was email for the rest of our relationship leading up to our engagement. There were a few phone calls and one 36 hour visit. He never met my parents and asked for my hand in marriage essentially in an email from the submarine somewhere under the Atlantic (at least I assumed they were under the Atlantic).

In the end we were married nine months and eleven days after the “hot girl watching March Madness” won out over beer pong. He hasn’t made stuffed shells since.

Pediatricians and a Risk of Death

            I promised a blog about my horrid pediatrician experience a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve decided, as I sit watching my very happy and not burning with a fever ‘under vaccinated’ child play, that now is as good a time as any. Directly after all of the events when my emotions were raging might, arguably, have been the most amusing time for me to write...

I was providentially prevented from having my baby boy vaccinated before we left Tennessee (thanks Tricare). Thus I found myself with more than a month before we could get an appointment with the new pediatrician and tons of time on my hands. In that time, I found myself in a new town with nothing to do except read posts on facebook and catch up on all the correspondence and thinking that an impending move with a 6 week old baby had left me no time to do. That’s right, being pregnant, giving birth, and having a new born had left my brain at a depleted capacity – incapable of multifaceted thought.

With all this time I found myself watching the long YouTube video a friend posted to my Facebook wall about vaccines. I was skeptical, but I did know a kid when I was younger who was severely mentally handicapped because of a vaccine gone awry. The aluminum content argument intrigued me if not convinced me, thus I read a book – The Vaccine Book – by Dr. Robert W. Sears. I am sure I wouldn’t agree with everything the man has written (he is indeed prolific), but this book laid out the facts, some of which I will relay here.

His book lays out each vaccine. He starts with an explanation of the disease the vaccine is intended to help prevent including whether it is common and what the chances are of your child actually contracting the disease if unvaccinated. He goes on to discuss when the vaccine is given, how it is made, what ingredients are in the vaccine and the known and reported side effects of the vaccine from common (things like low grade fever and grumpiness) to the more severe (paralysis). He then outlines reasons to get the vaccine, why some choose not to get it, things to consider, and finally a small section on how he sees it. I found all the information incredibly helpful.

After devouring this book one afternoon, I came to some conclusions. First, the argument made for an alternative vaccine schedule in which all the vaccines are given but the child does not receive more than two shots in any given month/visit seemed reasonable. IF the amount of aluminum in vaccines can cause damage to my child’s brain then taking a simple step to reduce the amount of aluminum his system has to deal with at one time thus alleviating any potential side affects is only logical – WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD I NOT DO THAT? There is absolutely NO study, much less a definitive one, showing the aluminum is not harmful. And there is abundant other evidence to suggest it might very well be harmful – I see no need to blindly trust that it isn’t harmful and proceed as the government suggests when there is a perfectly acceptable alternative which seems to eradicate most of the risk. Thus we chose an alternative schedule.

Our good ole pediatrician is not a fan of our alternative schedule because she believes it is leaving our child open to catching deadly diseases while he is an infant. She refuses however to be straight forward about her dislike of our schedule instead couching everything in subtle and not so subtle innuendo, that is until the email after our last appointment – more on that later. Here I would like to note that the vaccines the suggested schedule front loads are the ones he is at a higher risk of actually catching and the ones with the greatest risk of doing him harm if he catches them (also a bit of genius in Dr. Sears’ plan).  Delayed are things like polio, hep A and B, flu, and the chicken pox.  Polio is delayed by a couple of months – NOT YEARS.

The real issue for our pediatrician (I guess I should call her our ex pediatrician, but I’ve not been assigned a new one yet so I’ll hold off) is that we have further chosen to ‘under vaccinate’ our child . Her words, not mine. The vaccines we are declining are chicken pox, Hep A, Hep B, and flu. The only ones he would have actually had by now are Hep B and the flu. That’s only here in RI – back in TN we aren’t behind at all.

At this juncture I would like to point out that at no time has our pediatrician tried to talk to us about why were are declining or delaying. She has only wanted to tell us we are being irresponsible and putting our child at a risk of death. Oh and that I have to be hyper vigilante should he go to the ER because he is under vaccinated – they will assume he is better vaccinated than he is and will take extra precautions if I tell them…(now that I know this – I would be tempted to lie so they’ll take the extra precautions).

I explain as briefly as possible why we are declining the four above mentioned vaccines at this time. Flu – it is NOT recommended for children under 2. Many other countries have actually banned the use of the vaccine we have available for children under 2 because of the very real risk of stroke. Need I go on?

 Hep B. We are declining it because many states no longer give Hep B to all children at birth. It is deemed unnecessary unless the mother has Hep B or one of the close family members to whom the child will frequently be exposed has it. Also it is a good idea for children who will be in day care and potentially exposed to Hep B from other children and child care professionals. I do not have Hep B. Hubby does not have Hep B. As a matter of fact no one we are related to or in regular contact with has Hep B. I am a stay at home mom and it will be years before he is left anywhere other than with a friend or family member. I guess I should also point out that another factor in our decision is that only 30 cases were reported in children under age 6 last year and most of those contracted it from their undiagnosed mothers at birth.

Hep A. It is a mild disease for young children. It has little to no risk of death. If exposed (which is improbable though not impossible) there is an immune globulin shot which can prevent contracting the disease. The potential side effects of this vaccine, though rare, when put up against the risk of not having it push me as a parent towards not getting it. The risk benefit analysis is just not there. Those potential side effects – seizure, bleeding disorders, Guillain- Barre – just to name a few.

Chicken Pox. The people at the highest risk of not just being itchy but actually dying are older teens and young adults – essentially college students. Having chicken pox and fighting through it as a kid gives you the best and longest lasting immunity. Far superior to the vaccine. Again the risk benefit analysis is not here for me on this one either. The known severe reactions are pneumonitis (severe inflammation in the lungs) and seizures due to fever. The risk of having one of these reactions is higher than the rare risk of death.

It is important to note here that we, as parents, have agreed to not give these shots at this juncture. However, we will give him the chicken pox vaccine if he hasn’t had it by the middle of high school naturally. Hep A and Hep B are on the table for him again as a teenager or should we travel to the third world before then. It is my understanding that the older he is the lower the risk for many of the harmful side effects – also refer back to the aluminum thoughts earlier mentioned.

My biggest frustration with the pediatrician is her inability to have an open and honest dialogue with us about our decisions. I would have happily shared our decision making process with her and would have been happy to hear her thoughts. HOWEVER, when you do not engage me in conversation and then accuse me of putting my child at a serious risk of death, I question your medical ethics. I am considering reporting her to the medical board of Rhode Island. She insinuated while we were in the office that we were taking a great risk. Her nurse actually said to us in a very dramatic and almost tear filled way that her least favorite part of her job was when “infants come in BURNING, just BURNING up on fire [b/c they are under vaccinated]. Those children always end up at the children’s hospital in Providence and we have no way of knowing how it will turn out” Implication that all of those things are because of a lack of a vaccine. Then to have our visit followed up with an email in which she corrects my vaccine schedule (helpful information about # of vaccines b/c of the brand – info I had asked for) condescendingly, and then followed with a clear statement that we are putting our child at a high risk of death because we are declining these vaccines. A lesser person might be intimidated to do it her way. I thank God I’m a stubborn pain in the butt at moments like this.  

The things we Southerners do for a story...

             Every year, the State of Alabama has a gator raffle. For $6 you buy a chance to win the opportunity to kill an alligator. It’s genius really. The game wardens have convinced random thrill seekers to pay for the chance to have the opportunity to do population control for them. This year Dad entered the competition for the elusive gator tag.

            How, you might wonder, do you find out about something like a gator raffle. My dad is a dentist in a largely rural southern Alabama county. His patients are the salt of the earth. Anyone looking to be cultured in any and all things Southern would enjoy a day spent in his waiting room. One of these patients owns an airboat and convinced my dad to enter the raffle offering to take him if he won. Low and behold despite the low odds of only buying one ticket, Dad won!

            The last time Dad suggested we do something involving an air boat and a swamp we went frog giggin’.  I have since learned that to most of the world giggin’ seems to be an imaginary word. I won’t waste time with definitions here, but suffice it to say, frog giggin’ is one of the highlights of my not so boring life; right up there with horseback riding in a rain forest and swimming beneath a waterfall in the wilderness of Costa Rica.

The places the air boat took us on that frog giggin’ trip appeared to have been newly discovered. It was as if I was Lewis or Clark entering these parts of the delta and discovering them for the first time. No need to worry, I’m not an idiot just a romantic. The birds were hunting and fishing, bathing and playing. The frogs were performing a perfect symphony. The gators lurked and stared as equally amused by our presence as we were by theirs. Not one of these creatures seemed at all flummoxed by our presence in their abode.

The hours we spent in the remote delta were filled with a silence only nature can present. So when I was presented with the opportunity to spend another evening in the swamp hunting an alligator this time, I was not going to miss it.

            In preparation, Dad dutifully attended his gator hunting class, and I bought a three day out of state large game hunting license. The original airboat captain fell through because his engine had blown up while taking a dying woman on an airboat ride. I would mock her dying wish if I had not experienced the captivating allure of a lonely swamp by air boat myself. Another air boat and captain were located, and with this initial setback overcome we were ready to go.

The weekend for our hunt arrived. Now the only thing standing in between us and our trophy was a looming tropical storm dragging itself along the entire gulf coast at a tediously slow pace dropping inches if not feet of water as it went with gusting winds making a trip into the delta tricky if not impossible by airboat.

            However, we were motivated, and on a deadline. The gator hunting season closed Monday morning at 7 a.m. It was Friday evening. The possibility of the winds exceeding the speed of the boat thus stranding us in the delta was our main concern, though it would not be the first time we were stranded in a delta in an airboat. We watched the weather and stared out at the water until finally we determined Sunday evening as soon as the sun set, because legally you cannot hunt a gator until then, we would venture out on our quest.

            At last we were putting our rain gear in the car and heading to the boat launch. The team consisted of my father – the great white hunter, Brian – the trusty good ole boy, the boat captain – the experienced gator hunter, his assistant, and myself – the designated photographer. Picture three guys in their late 30’s and a 50-something white haired man – every one a good ‘ole boy through and through, and a 25 year old wearing pearl earrings and J. Crew jeans toting a camera.

            As soon as the boat hit the water, the captain shinned the spot light out into the delta and pairs of red eyes appeared everywhere. It did not take 20 minutes for us to find a gator to dispatch. Dispatching is apparently the technical gator hunting term for killing them – I guess it sounds more humane.

We approached the gator and he sank below the surface of the water. We pulled the boat just alongside of him and believe it or not the ferocious king of the swamp swam straight to the boat. As a matter of fact, he swam straight towards my feet.

            If you are not familiar with airboats, they tend to sit low in the water. It was not too fanciful a leap for my imagination that this prey could have easily gotten into the boat and made me the hunted. 

Dad got off his first shot with the crossbow, but missed. For his first shot at a gator completely submersed in water, he only missed by a mere centimeter at most - impressive. Being shot at did not make our new friend quite so friendly. I had lost site of him when our intrepid leader pointed the light at a stick in the water and said, “There he is doc, I’ll get closer and you can spear him.” Brian and I both exchanged a “Do you see the gator?” look and the next thing you know that stick was moving.

                         As Dad shoved the spear very forcefully down towards the ‘stick’, there was a brief moment when I thought he might follow the spear into the water. He would later admit he had shared my fear, not as much resistance as he anticipated. No one realized before the expertly executed spearing that the rope attached to the spear was not tied off, and it almost completely ran out before anyone grabbed it.

            For those of you not educated in the methods of dispatching a gator, spearing him is only the first step. The rope previously mentioned is used to pull the now very angry gator right up to the edge of the very low to the water boat.  There was some momentary concern this seriously pissed reptile was not the legal limit, so while it hissed and snapped with its intimidating jaws wide open and pointed in our direction we were going to have to measure it.

For the second time I thought we were going to lose a man overboard when our captain leaned so far over the front of the boat I truly believed he was a goner. I inquired of Brian who was going to go in after him or if we were letting the gator have him? I believe the unspoken consensus was that the gator would get a free meal.

Before too many moments passed, the captain had a hold of the gator’s tail and was holding him very close to the boat, pissed off, hissing, and mouth in the “I dare you to get closer position.” A noose was put on his upper jaw and a tape measure appeared. It was soon discovered he (or as the game warden would determine – she) was indeed long enough and we could dispatch it.

            The dispatch involved Brian – who bravely volunteered to hold the noose -  allowing a little slack so as to allow him, or rather her, to sink just below the surface.  Now it was time for the ‘bang stick’. The bang stick is essentially a shot gun shell at the end of pole. You take this shell and smack the gator just behind the eyes in the soft spot. It causes instant death.

Allowing the gator to sink also means allowing him to back further away from the boat. Enter third opportunity for becoming gator bait. As Dad leaned out with the bang stick, I hoped that he would at least place his shot well before he fell in.

            As the shot went off, a shower of water covered me despite being safely placed with all four good ole boys between me and the king of the swamp. I might have squealed but I promise no matter what they say it was only very slight and not by any means shrill.

Death was, as predicted, instantaneous. At least I hoped so, because before you knew it the captain was elbow deep in gator infested water reaching for the back foot of our haul while someone else grabbed his jaw and they hoisted him onto the boat.

Gators like snakes keep moving after death. The newly acquired sixth passenger on our boat was no exception. Our friend was missing a back claw and stank to high heaven. Dad’s expert spearing had pierced the gut, and the stench was exactly what you would think partially digested fish and other animals would smell like. His good claws kept scratching at the boat. His jaw was  quickly tapped shut, so apparently I wasn’t the only one who feared the involuntary jaw movements. For the rest of the time in the boat, he seemed more subdued than dispatched.

Despite having our quarry in tow, we decided to take this opportunity – in a tropical storm mind you – to explore the delta a bit further and see if we could just see one bigger.  We saw upwards of 100 alligators, and that is not a hunter’s tale. In one area, I called it the gator nursery, there were literally 30-40 baby alligators, not one more than 2 feet long. Maybe they thought there was strength in numbers; it conjured up images of a gator drive through for the larger of the swamps inhabitants to get a quick bite.

Until this point, there had not been much rain. But as we were exploring, the wind began to pick up and the rain began to fall, until we came to a stop in our return trip because the captain couldn’t see to drive. Alligators were everywhere. I have no problem whatsoever believing there are even more gators out there than the official count estimates.

I cannot report on much of the scenery as we struggled back across the swamp. The wind and rain picked up and each drop of water began to feel like a needle piercing my skin. I buried myself in my raincoat until the dock was in sight and the rain once again slacked.

When we got her back to check in, the game wardens took the necessary measurements and determined sex. Did you know that an alligator’s sex is determined by giving him or her what would resemble a prostate exam in a human? Neither did I, until I naively asked how they knew if it was a boy or a girl. The game warden grabbed a rubber glove and snapped it on like you seem them do in the movies before some uncomfortable scene, and shoved his fingers right up the poor dead animals rectum. He happily announced only seconds later that ‘he’ was actually a she. Any thought I may have ever had about how great a game warden’s job must be ended right there.

She was 8 feet long and 112 lbs. and still moving reflexively as we took our trophy pictures before we sent her off to be processed. No Dad wouldn’t put his head in her mouth, nor would he let me get a pair of alligator skin shoes.

            I grew up being jealous of all my dad’s great hunting and fishing stories always wishing I had cool stories about snakes in boats and freezing to death in the swamps of Arkansas just to kill a duck. I always wished I had stories like that to tell him, but I realize now that instead of having stories to tell him I have become a part of some of his greatest stories (including the one about the 20 lbs. bass) and for that I will be eternally grateful.

All in all I believe entering the gator raffle is going to become a yearly tradition in our family. I just hope next time we don’t have to brave a tropical storm to get one.  

An Introduction

My name, for our purposes, will be JK. I am not quite 30 years old, that’s a hurdle we can cross together. I am a new mom, a navy wife of  four years, and a licensed attorney – who does not actively practice. I have lived my life until now exclusively beneath the Mason-Dixon line, though I have been blessed to travel fairly extensively. I have been told many times by various people that if I wrote a blog, they would definitely read it…let’s see how many of them still think my thoughts are worth reading after a few posts.

              It is my intention at the outset of this blog to not bore you with the every day comings and goings of my life. However, since most writers say their lives inform their writing, I cannot promise this won’t mostly be about my life, thoughts, experiences, or questions. I can and will promise to try to make it informative, interesting, and hopefully at least a little humorous. I think I shall make it a goal to not have more than two posts in a row without at least one laugh out loud moment.

            I am writing now at the urging of my beloved mother. I think she is right that it will be good for me to have something to occupy the grey matter – as Hercule Poirot would say. And so I begin….

            Where to start. I hesitate to give you a detailed description of my life because that seems boring, but moving around and continually meeting new people has given me a great appreciation of how very interesting a life I have gotten to lead. Not, I dare say because I am necessarily interesting, but the experiences I have been afforded – and not by being part of the 1% - have been interesting.

            Some of my first memories are of using a cinder block for a toilet outside because I did not want to be bothered with halting play to go indoors; or of my dad calling me over to see the copperhead he had just beheaded only to have the disembodied head chase me. I’ve been frog giggin’ and I’ve asked directions of a transvestite hooker in Athens (Greece that is). I collected cicada shells for a year or two. I mastered spotting flounder during a Jubilee and went gator hunting during a tropical storm. I attended a private non-religious school, an Episcopal school, a Southern Baptist school, a public boarding school, and was home-schooled for a year. I was christened a Methodist, have my first memories of church in a Church of God, was fully dunked a Southern Baptist, and settled on the Presbyterians by adulthood. I’ve been accused of being a conservative wacko and a liberal nut all in the same year. I’ve helped on two gubernatorial campaigns, assisted the first Pilipino elected to the VA house of delegates (by 13 or 16 votes, I can’t remember which), and worked as a lawyer on election day in 2008. I’ve studied FISA under Ashcroft and interned for my Congressman. I saw Regan interred in the Rotunda and ran in heels in a stampede when the Capitol Hill police yelled bomb when what they meant was plane.  These are some of the things that jump out at me as I sit here and scan through my life without a near death experience driving my recollection.

            I look forward to sharing thoughts and stories, quests for answers, frustrated rantings, and hopefully some helpful tips about housewifery, motherhood, and life in general. Stay tuned for another installment, probably could be called my first, soon.