First off, I come to you with an interesting follow-up to Monday’s post.  As it turns out, I was (at least in one person’s opinion) way off base in my criticism of Madonna as the Super Bowl halftime act.  After reading this article I have a new appreciation for the relevance of her performance, and why it carried more weight given by a 53-year-old than it would have if given by a much younger performer.  It’s definitely worth a read.

If you hang out around here very much you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m a regular reader of The Huffington Post.  It is my first source for headlines (though I tend to then go to more substantive sites such as the NYT when I want a deeper dive on any particular topic), and I also enjoy its topical entries on subjects ranging from politics to health and wellness to celebrity fashions.  By and large I think the content is pretty solid.  So I was really disappointed when I came across this article about parenting boys.

I am one of two sisters.  My dad was the only guy in our family, and after 36 years of going it alone (happy anniversary, Mom and Dad!) we’ve pretty well indoctrinated him too.  So when IEP was born and the doctor said those three little words (“It’s a boy”) I had to start learning everything from scratch.  Thankfully, it came quite naturally – the trucks and trains and tiny football jerseys.  All these things that once were foreign became instantly familiar.

Nevertheless, as a woman who has never been a little boy and did not grow up around little boys I am always interested to learn more about the trade to which I have become the most eager apprentice – raising boys.  So I was excited when Monday’s headline article in the parenting section of HuffPo was one about the author’s experience parenting boys.  …  And then I read it.  And disappointment ensued.

My first and most immediate frustration was that author Devon Corneal went straight for the stereotypes – penis comparisons, peeing on the floor, broken windows, flatulence jokes, and roughhousing.  Yes, these are real aspects of raising boys (luckily I still haven’t been faced with a couple of them), but we all know that.  There’s nothing new in the acknowledgement of some of these down-and-dirty elements of having sons.  But there is so much more to raising boys.

This is important because my second, and more significant problem with Corneal’s position was that because of all of these male-centric traits she believes that she is effectively neutered as a parent to her boys.  She writes:

I’m slowly learning to stop myself before interfering with my husband’s parenting, because, even though the way he does things are different, sometimes they’re better. As much as I’d like to think I know it all, and as much as parenting magazines, websites and bloggers (this one included) focus on mommies, when it comes to boys, daddies might be the experts.

IEP loves it when his dad body slams him into our big bed.  He frequently runs around saying, “Daddy, knock me over!”  And GAP is a more effective partner for playing imaginary games of football and baseball.  But IEP needs more than that.  All boys need more than that.  All boys ARE more than that.

When IEP isn’t playing with his imaginary friend Ray Rice he’s giving his baby brother kisses and snuggles.  Or he’s making a grocery list and carrying it around in an old purse of mine that he pulled out of a Goodwill donation pile.  Or he’s pulling the tiny butter warming pot off of the baker’s rack, requesting a wooden spoon and whisk, and pretending to make his umpteenth batch of carrot stew.  These are aspects of his more feminine side, and they need every bit as much cultivation as his traditionally masculine traits.

It’s true, I can’t roughhouse with him as well as GAP can.  But I’m more of a conversationalist.  And sometimes GAP just can’t go the full nine rounds of talking about every street sign we pass as well as I can.  (And I’m not a half-bad infielder or tickle monster myself, and Daddy’s kisses give just as much love as Mommy’s.)  We each bring different strengths to the table, and each set is valuable.  This is what I have to give, and I don’t discount it; not ever.  I may not be a boy, but I know my boys.  And I know that they need me, my perspective, and my touch just as much as they need their father’s.  They need us both in equal measure.  And I’m sorry for Devon Corneal that she seems to have forgotten that.

“Madonna?  Really?  They couldn’t get somebody more current?” I asked.

“There aren’t really any big rock stars anymore.  None of the current people could carry it.”

“But isn’t she over 50?”  I asked.  (Fifty-two, it turns out.)

“Yeah, but she’s definitely a big enough star.”

This conversation between GAP and me went back and forth for a few minutes.  He contended that today’s Top 40 artists just don’t have the star power or gravitas to headline a Super Bowl halftime show.  He conceded that a few of my suggestions were valid – Lady Gaga, Beyonce, and Justin Timberlake (though lately you’re more likely to see Justin on a movie screen than hear him on your weekly countdown).  But beyond those three, I agreed, it was hard to come up with someone who had a substantial enough reputation to carry the weight of the performance.

But why is this?  The music industry is still cranking out hits.  We’re still buying their music.  I still turn on the radio almost every time I get into the car.  I wonder what’s wrong with today’s stars.  And yet there’s something about, “And now your Super Bowl Halftime show starring TAYLOR SWIFT!!!!” that just doesn’t quite do it for me.

Out of curiosity we Googled the recent halftime acts.  For the past ten years they have been:

• 2011 – Black-Eyed Peas, Usher, and Slash
• 2010 – The Who
• 2009 – Bruce Springsteen
• 2008 – Tom Petty
• 2007 – Prince
• 2006 – The Rolling Stones
• 2005 – Paul McCartney
• 2004 – Janet Jackson, P. Diddy, Nelly, Kid Rock, and Justin Timberlake
• 2003 – Shania Twain, No Doubt, and Sting
• 2002 – U2
• 2001 – Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler, Chris Rock, Aerosmith, N’Sync, Britney Spears, Mary J. Blige, and Nelly

The sweeping majority of these were nostalgia acts.  But why?  Not everyone who watches the Super Bowl is over 45.  In fact, it’s probably got the most diverse demographic of viewers of anything on television.  Young, old, rich, poor, male and female.  There is very little filter.  So why the trips down rock and roll’s memory lane?

My theory is this: Madonna wasn’t always Madonna. Twenty-five years ago she was a punk girl from Michigan with bleached hair, lace gloves, and a dream of making it really big.  It took a long time for her to become the legend that she is today.  Twenty years from now Katy Perry may be an intergenerational pop music icon.  But for now she’s a cute girl with a string of hits.  We’ll have to wait and see what her staying power is like.  It takes a bigger and more lasting career than most “of the moment” stars have to offer.

The other reason I think most of these acts are a generation old?  Remember what I said about the Super Bowl being the great demographic equalizer?  The event planners have to cater to a huge range of people.  If they put Katy Perry up there my mother would say, “Who’s the girl with the blue hair?” and head into the kitchen for some friendly chit-chat between halves.  But even your average 12-year-old knows who Madonna is, and might stick around to watch.

I think it would be a fascinating job choosing the Super Bowl halftime act.  Who’s big enough and has broad enough appeal?  Who is available and whom can we afford to pay?  Which songs from their catalog will they play?  And so on.  Usually I just sit there and eat more guacamole while I watch.  But last night I started thinking about the strategery behind it all and it got interesting.

There once was a blogger named Gale
Who posted each week without fail.*
But try as she might
she just couldn’t write;
last evening her efforts did pale.

So I come to you now with a limerick.
Please don’t think that I’m playing a trick.
For I earnestly thought,
“Make an effort, or not?”
And this is what I could pen real quick.**

But I still bring good wishes for Friday.
And I trust that big thoughts will come my way
over the weekend,
so come back here, my friend,
for something worthwhile on Monday.

Last night the creative juices just weren’t flowing.  I joined all of the boys to walk the dogs.  Then I went out for a run on my own.  Then I came home, bathed and fed SSP, ate a sandwich, watched an episode of Modern Family that was saved in our DVR, made my lunch for today, showered, and went to bed.  Blogging just didn’t figure into the mix.  I hope you’ll forgive me.

Have a happy and safe Super Bowl weekend, and I’ll see you back here next week!

————————————————————–

*I realize that this is a stretch – especially coming on the heels of my hit-and-miss posting during maternity leave – but sometimes we must sacrifice the truth to save the rhyme.

**And sometimes we must sacrifice the grammar to save the rhyme.  For all you adverb mongers (Hi Granddaddy!), I’m fully aware that this should read “really quickly.”

My favorite part of any romantic movie is the moment right after one person drops the “L” bomb for the first time.  “I love you.”  In that split second when you’re not entirely sure how the other person is going to respond my heart does a tiny tap dance.  These moments are only good when you’re not sure; when you lean forward just a bit waiting to learn if the vulnerable fool is going to be showered with the other person’s affections as well, or left to slink off in a state of awkwardness.

I love this moment because I know what a big deal it is to cross that bridge.  I’ve crossed it a few times, but I usually let someone else lead the way.  That is, I was not often the one to say it first.  I bring this up because this article from The Huffington Post discusses several aspects of love – the fact that it reduces our stress levels, the way it causes us to act toward potential romantic rivals, and the economic pros and cons we weigh out when deciding whether or not to tell another person that we love them.  But the thing that struck me most about it was the finding that men are most likely to say “I love you” first.

This caught my attention because I have a theory about it.  My theory is that in most relationships (not all, mind you, but most) the woman actually wants to say “I love you” first.  She feels it earlier and wants to express it, but resists for fear of her statement not being reciprocated.  Much like most women wait for their boyfriends to propose marriage, we also wait for the man to take the lead in other relationship milestones.

I have no idea why this is.  In point of fact, I’m just theorizing here, so I could be completely wrong, but let’s pretend I’m right.  Why women aren’t more assertive in our expressions of affection?  Why do we wait for the man to say it first?  Is it because we want to make sure that the man has had time for his romantic feelings to fully develop?  Or is it because we fear that we will jump the gun wanting something to be love sooner than we know whether or not it really is?  And if we know it’s love, why aren’t we strong enough to risk our pride and say it?

Love is a tricky business.  Especially in the beginning of a relationship we constantly teeter between exposing and protecting ourselves.  It’s a highly personal decision to tell someone you love them.  We each must choose what’s right for us.  But I wonder about the calculus that factors into that decision.

I will go ahead and say it: I tend to bounce back from pregnancy pretty quickly.  Many women spend months – or even years – trying to reclaim their pre-pregnancy bodies.  And now for the second time, I have thankfully gotten back into my old wardrobe by the time I returned to work.  I am lucky.  I realize this.   And I do not take it for granted.  But it brings with it a question for me.  And that question leads me to a larger question.  The first question is, what should I say when people comment on my weight?  The second question is, are there social rules around these things?  And if not, are there sweeping social preferences?

Last week was my first full week back in the office, and with it came a number of comments about my weight that left me feeling a bit awkward.  Naturally I said thank you.  But each comment seemed to come with the expectation of an explanation; like I was supposed to substantiate myself somehow.  Usually I just chalked it up to nursing (which burns beaucoup calories) but, like most things, there is more to the story than that.  That “more” is threefold.  1) I went to painstaking lengths to manage my weight gain during pregnancy.  And 2) as soon as I got the all-clear from my doctor, I resumed my normal workout routine.  And… 3) I am lucky.  But which answer do I  give?

This conundrum reminds me of interviews I’ve read with Gwen Stefani and Sarah Jessica Parker.  When asked about her (literally) rock star body, Gwen Stefani always states quite plainly that she works for it, and hard.  Those abs are the result of intense effort in the diet and exercise arenas and she doesn’t try to hide it.  SJP, on the other hand, is much more evasive about her svelte (sinewy?) figure.  She usually claims that she’s just been blessed with a thin frame.  I recall one interview I read wherein she claimed to have eaten steak, mashed potatoes, creme brûlée, and myriad other indulgences in a single meal for dinner the night before.  (“Yeah, right!” I thought.)  Of course there are women who have won the genetic lottery and came out with lithe figures and fast metabolisms.  But I would wager that most women who have bodies that qualify as enviable do so because they work for them.  Even the Heidi Klums of the world maintain a regular exercise regimen.

But which version would we rather hear such people lay claim to?  What is the most socially acceptable answer?  When one person compliments another’s body it almost always comes with either the explicit or implicit desire for more information.  What is her diet like?  What is her exercise routine?  And how unrealistic would it be to incorporate such (presumably intense) measures into our own lives?  Or, did she just luck out?  Which answer would we rather hear?  Each one comes with implications that we may or may not like.

If the answer is Gwen’s – “I have this body because I work my tail off for it” – then are we relieved to know that we too could have abs and shoulders like hers if only we were willing to put in the gym hours?  Are we relieved to know that this beautiful and successful woman at least has to sweat it out like a normal person to look like she does?  Or do we take it as a referendum on ourselves in the vein of, “You could look awesome too if you were willing to work for it, but you’re not.”

Conversely, if the answer is Sarah Jessica’s – “I was born with this body and it’s just my natural build” – do we hate her for it?  Or are we relieved to learn that we can sit on the couch guilt free knowing that she drew the long straw, we did not, and we will never look like that so we’d might as well just enjoy our bon bons?  (Side bar – what exactly is a bon bon?)

I think for me I’d rather have this conversation with Gwen Stefani than Sarah Jessica Parker.  I’d rather know that she’s a human being who works and struggles along with the rest of us.  I’d rather know that I’m not utterly devoid of the chance to achieve a rock star physique, even if I never avail myself of the opportunity.  But I don’t know if I’m in the majority here.

So what about you?  Would you rather hear about hard work or good luck?  Or do you just avoid such topics altogether?  I’m not sure there’s a right answer here.  But I’m curious about the nature of our gut reactions.

In mid-December I got a text message from my work friend Layla* asking for prayers for her brother’s family, as his pregnant wife had been diagnosed with pre-eclampsia at 32 weeks and was having to be induced.  The next day another text told me that the baby had severe health problems (entirely unrelated to the pre-eclampsia).  Layla and the rest of the family convened in her hometown where her brother and his family still live.  Shortly thereafter the baby was airlifted to a larger city with a larger hospital for more advanced treatment.  It was also there that they learned the baby’s diagnosis: Trisomy 13.

Apparently only 10% of babies with Trisomy 13 survive pregnancy and make it to birth.  Of those that make it to birth, only 10% live a single day.   The doctors told Layla’s brother Jack and his wife Meaghan early on that their little boy wouldn’t be able to overcome his conditions, and so they treasured every day they had with him, knowing that the end would come soon.  This little boy fought for his life for nine days.  He was truly amazing.

It is worth nothing that December is an emotionally grueling month for my friend’s family.  Her birthday falls in December.  One of her niece’s birthdays falls in December.  And her youngest sister Catherine’s birthday is in December.  Two years ago Catherine was home for Christmas and out of the clear blue died of an undiagnosed heart condition.  She was in her mid-twenties.  They buried her on Christmas Eve.  And then again this past December tragedy struck again.  Indeed, December is filled with heartache for this family.

Jack and Meaghan have two beautiful little girls, May and Emily, who are about four and two years old, respectively.  When their brother was born they were told that he had arrived, but that he was very sick.  After he passed May asked her grandmother what had happened to him.

“Well, you know how your Aunt Catherine went to heaven and now she flies around with all the angels?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your brother went to heaven to become an angel too.”

And then May said the thing that makes this whole, miserable, heartbreaking story worth reading.  She hollered to her little sister, “Hey, Emily!  Did you hear that?  There are baby angels flying around all the time and our brother gets to be one of them!  Isn’t that wonderful?!”

What a gift it is to see the world the way a child sees it.  What a gift it is to see joy where we only saw pain.  Whether you believe in heaven and angels or not, there is something inspiring about the way these children experience loss – with a silver lining that not only softens the blow, but supersedes it altogether.  What an incredible gift it is.

*All names have been changed.

If you were on Facebook at all last week (and if any of your friends are of the Mommy set), chances are good that someone you know posted a link to this article about cherishing every moment of parenthood.  It’s worth a quick read, but to summarize, author Glennon Melton states that while she is out in public wrangling her three kids she is often told to “cherish this moment” by older women whose children are grown.  She posits that this well-intentioned advice actually has an adverse effect on her, leading her to live in a state of constant paranoia that she isn’t savoring her role as a mother enough because parenting small children is an incredible amount of work.

As I read the article Melton’s words rang true to me – so much so that my response was something along the lines of, “Well, of course it’s hard!  Doesn’t everyone already know this?”  As I watched the Internet explode with re-postings of her piece what struck me most was that the article was causing such an uproar.  (It garnered more the 1,500 comments on The Huffington Post.)  Any parent will tell you that parenting is hard.  Any parent will tell you that there are days when everything seems to go wrong and all you want is for the sun to set and your kids to go to bed.  Any parent will tell you that there are moments when the only way to get even 30 seconds of peace and quiet is to go to the bathroom.  This is not novel information.  So why all the kerfuffle?

I think it’s due to a serious lack of both honesty and understanding.

The honesty problems belong to us parents.  As parents (especially as mothers) we feel compelled to address our children’s behavioral imperfections in one of two ways.  1) Don’t really talk about them at all.  Or 2) Talk about them with a self-deprecating humor that suggests we aren’t ever actually driven to our limits.  But this isn’t true, is it?  IEP (whom I love to the ends of the earth) can make me crazy faster than anyone else I know.  In a couple of years SSP (whom I also love to the ends of the earth) will fit that bill as well.  And I would wager that this is true for all parents.  So why can’t we say so?  I don’t know the answer to that question, but the mere fact that Melton’s piece created the dust storm that it did indicates to me that not enough of us are.

The understanding problems belong to the people who question us.  Just because our children can run us ragged doesn’t mean that we are in over our heads or that having them in the first place was a mistake.  In her article Melton likens parenting to climbing Mount Everest.  People don’t climb Mount Everest because it is easy or relaxing or enjoyable.  They do it because it is an unparalleled challenge, the completion of which is enormously satisfying.  This isn’t to say that parenting is merely one grueling step after another or that there is only a single, fleeting moment of accomplishment when they graduate high school.  Obviously there’s more to it than that or we wouldn’t do it.  Even climbing Mount Everest doesn’t take 18 years.

For me, though, the biggest take-away from this whole thing is that we each parent in our own way.  We each enjoy different things about parenting.  What one parent sees as drudgery another parent may see as a delight, and there is incredible freedom in that.  No one can (or at least no one should) tell us which aspects of child-rearing ought to be enjoyable to us.  For Melton navigating three kids through an afternoon’s worth of grocery shopping and other errands might be a chore.  For another parent it might be an adventure.  And that’s okay.

We can wish away the moments of the things we find maddening.  And we can relish in the moments that we love.  And we should never have to justify any of it.

1. Be more thoughtful.  This is something that I used to be very good at as a kid and in my teens and early twenties.  Then when I was 27 I took a job that required me to travel three to four days each week.  At the same time I enrolled in an MBA program that was almost exclusively night classes.  My bandwidth was at capacity.  As soon as I finished my MBA I got pregnant with IEP and with motherhood my spare time continued to diminish.  And one of the things that has been negatively impacted by all of these other obligations is my thoughtfulness toward other people.  So, this year I want to do more that falls into this category.  I want to make small but thoughtful gestures that let other people know that I care about them. 
2. Read more.  I’ve been veryspecific about my reading goals in past years.  In 2010 it was to read more nonfiction and I knocked it out of the park.  Last year it was to read classic works of fiction I’d never read and I struck out majorly, not making it through a single classic.  (Again, I blame pregnancy.  I’d get into bed at 9:30 and facing a choice between sleep and Tolstoy, sleep won every time.)  So this year my goal is to read, period.  I’d like to work some classics into the mix, specifically A Tale of Two Cities. But I’d also like to mix in some modern fiction (perhaps the second and third titles in the Stieg Larsson trilogy), and some nonfiction (Moneyball and Kitchen Confidential are on the docket).  I’d like to average more than a book a month, and am shooting for at least 15 total.
3. Get out of my workout rut.  I spend way too much time on the elliptical machine.  I usually run about one day a week.  And I do weights three days a week, rotating between arms, legs, and core.  But that’s not enough variety.  I would like to work swimming and rowing into my regular workout routine, as well as shaking up things in my strength training routine.
4. Learn to use Photoshop.  I got Photoshop Elements for Christmas a year ago.  I can use it for some basic exposure corrections and cropping, but it is capable of much more than I know how to do.  I’d like to learn to create layers and use opacity, to download and run actions, and figure out what other key features I’m overlooking.
5. Send birthday cards.  This is a repeat from last year.  This is such an easy thing to do, and I’m woefully bad about it.  It dovetails with being more thoughtful, but this is a very specific thing that I want to do a better job of.  This shouldn’t be a difficult one.
6. Grow an herb garden.  Another 2011 repeat.  I was in the midst of first trimester misery (that’s the last time I play the pregnancy card, I promise) when it should have been planted, and by the time I got my head above water again we were about to leave on vacation and by the time we got home it was really too hot for seedlings to survive.  This year I’m committed.  I will grow parsley, chives, basil, and thyme.

And there we have it.  I’m trying to harken back to 2010′s list a bit by choosing goals that are attainable, but still challenging.  I think this list meets those criteria.  I will be back with bigger thoughts on Wednesday, but wanted to get these resolutions into the archives before any more time passed.  I enjoyed my time off from blogging, but I’m also looking forward to getting back into the swing of thinking Ten Dollar Thoughts.  I hope you’ll join me.

The story below came to me in a Christmas letter from a dear family friend.  This story is a true one from her childhood.  She wrote it down for her own children about 15 years ago.  She tries to share it with new people each year and this year included it in her holiday mailing.

It was early December in 1942 in a little copper mining town in Southern Arizona when my dad sat my little brother and me down tot ell us there would be very little money for Christmas gifts that year.

Our mom and dad had come to Arizona from Arkansas because friends from their hometown sent word that jobs were plentiful in the underground copper mines.  That wasn’t the case in depression era Arkansas.  So my mom and dad boarded a train that brought them to this mountain community, and my dad did indeed find work in the copper mines the very first day.  But what he really wanted was to work in the accounting offices of Phelps Dodge Mining Company and applied for every opening.  Each time he was passed over by someone with a college degree.  He finally convinced Phelps Dodge to give him a chance. He offers dot work for 30 days for free and at the end of that time if they didn’t like his work, he’d go back in the mines.

Daddy began his trial run in the accounting offices on December 1st – and there would be no paycheck that month.  He was understandably concerned about how he could provide for his young family that Christmas.

My brother and I assured him he didn’t have to worry about us.  We’d written to Santa and we knew Santa would come through.  My brother had asked for an Army Jeep – one you could sit in and drive – with a big silver star on the side.  This was World War II every day we went outside and played War.  And I wanted a doll with long blonde hair and a black net dress trimmed in pink ribbon – exactly like the one my mother wore to her meetings of the Order of the Eastern Star.

Easter Star was my Mother’s big night out.  Once a month, Mama would don this beautiful gown and my brother and Dad and I would diet on our front porch on the side of the Bisbee mountain and watch my mother until we lost her from view.

I can see her still as she was then – a beautiful young woman, sweeping down the side of the mountain in that glorious dress.  She had made her dress.  Mama was a wonderful seamstress and since Christmas was coming she was at her Singer sewing machine constantly, crafting gifts for family and friends.  My brother and I “helped.”  He worked the pedal and I would turn the wheel that drove the needle as Mama guided the fabric.

My dad was busy getting ready for Christmas as well.  He and a friend were meeting in the friend’s garage most evenings working on some book shelves that would be a surprise for our mother.  My brother and I were sworn to secrecy.

Finally the preparations ended and it was Christmas.  And when my brother and I walked into the living room that Christmas morning, it was just as we had known it would be.  There beneath a sparkling tree was a little wooden Army Jeep with a big silver star on the side that my brother could sit in and drive.  And right next to it was the most beautiful doll in the world.  She had long blonde hair and a black net dress trimmed in pink ribbon, exactly like my mother’s dress.

It was a magical morning, and at one point my brother magnanimously offered to let me take my doll for a ride in his Jeep.  So I gathered my doll and we settled into the little Jeep.  I put my hands on the steering wheel – and froze.  I knew that steering wheel.  It was unmistakably the wheel form my mother’s Singer sewing machine.  I sat there stunned.  It wasn’t too great a leap to put this together with my dad’s carpentry project and realize our dad and his friend had built more than a bookshelf – they had built the little Jeep.

But that didn’t explain my doll – and I so wanted Santa to have had a hand in that.  I thought I knew how to find out, so I marched into my parents’ bedroom and opened the closet door.  To my great relief, there, hanging where it had always hung, was my mother’s black net dress.  But something was different.  The pink ribbon was gone and it had become a short dress.  It was then that I knew how my doll’s dress had come to be.

I also knew what it had cost my mother.  In that place and at that time – and perhaps still – you couldn’t attend a meeting of the Eastern Star in a short dress.  This had been her only long one.

I try to share this story with someone every Christmas, for two reasons:

1. It’s my way of honoring two wonderful parents who tried so valiantly to preserve the magic of a Christmas morning for their small children.
2. It is a personal reminder to me of the profound truth I learned – that the most previous gifts are born of sacrifice.  These gifts need no wrapping paper.  They come wrapped – in love.

I was very moved by this story, that I thought I would share it here as well.  I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season, in whatever way you celebrate it.  With that, I will be on a blogging vacation for the rest of the year.  I’ll be back sometime after January 1st with my thoughts and plans for the New Year.

After sitting naked in our house for more than a week, our tree is finally trimmed.