Obamanomics Explained

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Don't Give Me Perfection, O God

Don't give me perfection, O God, gift me instead with the imperfect.
So that from the flawed and the broken, I may learn to seek your healing love.

Don't give me calm, O Lord, gift me instead with chaos.
So that in the midst of tumult, I may learn to seek your peace.

Don't give me certainty, O God, gift me instead with confusion.
So that in my uncertainty, I may learn to rely upon your wisdom.

Don't give me wealth, O Lord, gift me instead with want.
So that in my poverty, I may learn to rely upon you to sustain us.

Do not give me family, O God, but make of me an orphan.
So that in my loneliness, I may learn to turn to You for comfort.

Do not give me strength, O Lord, but make me weak.
So that in my powerlessness, I may learn to rely upon your might.

Thank you, O Mighty One, for hearing my prayer in this season of heartbreak.  I know it is only your strength and your wisdom and your courage which carry me from day to day.  Thank you for the gift of faith and a calm heart, so that I may rest in You to find respite from the storm.  Amen.

Peace at Any Cost?

Our sweet boy who chews has been undergoing extensive psychological testing in an effort to figure out how to help him.  I'll admit to hoping for a magic pill.  Every time I dropped him off or picked him up from the office, I would pray quietly "Just let there be a pill, an easy fix.  Please let there be a magic bullet.  I know his life never works this way, but just once let it be simple. Please, please, please."

We got the results yesterday, and for part of it there is a little magic pill.  A pill, or combination of pills, which will calm down the worry and anxiety in his young mind.  It works on the part which causes anxiety which is the part which causes the chewing.  It's never that simple.  The part of the mind which causes anxiety is also the area which houses the imagination.  To calm the worry would quiet the wonder.

He is my imaginative child.  He's the boy who takes a box and builds a castle, takes some old clothes and a cape and becomes Zorro, takes paper and assorted odds and ends and creates an elaborate collection of toys and scenery.  You cannot separate the boy from his imagination.  I simply cannot envision #3 without a cape.  He would no longer be the boy we love.

There is a magic pill, but it would take away from him all that he is.  We refuse to live without him. There is no magic pill for him.  He will have to work at it.  But he will have the help of a family who loves him and thinks that all that he is is too wonderful to live without.  We will have to help him to work at it, all of us together.  Please pray that we will be enough.

Cautious Hope, Moderate Excitement

Today, I spoke with the illustrator of my first book.  I should get to see rough sketches soon.  I was a bit breathless at the thought of it actually becoming a reality. 

Illustrations.  For something I wrote.  Can you imagine people actually wanting to read what I wrote?   I mean, except for you, of course. 

I Guess He Has Those Days Too

I was in the kitchen yesterday afternoon with the 3 year old.  He was trying to explain to me in his own patois what he wanted to eat for a snack.  The poor kid has me for a mom, and I only speak English( and the bad words in Spanish and French.)

He stood in front of me patiently jabbering and then ending each sentence with "eat that."  "Eat that" was all I understood.  I smiled apologetically at him and shrugged.  "I'm sorry, #5, I just don't understand.  Does it have another name?"

He stopped and stared at me for a moment, he couldn't believe how dumb his mom could be.  Was he not speaking English?  With a shake of the head he turned to the cabinet and pulled out a small bowl, walked back over to the pantry and pointed.  "(Something unintelligible) in the bowl.  Eat that."  You have no idea how dumb I felt as I shook my head.

"Cheez its?" I asked him.  He shook his head in disgust.
"No.  (Unintelligible sounds.)"
"Yeah," I answered him.  "I got that part.  I just don't know what it is.  Is it cereal?"
A tearful voice answered "No."  I honestly was beginning to feel badly for the kid with the stupid mom.

"Can you show me one more time? I just don't know what it is that you want."
"That.  (Unintelligible sound).  That in the bowl.  Eat that.  Pleeeeeeaaaasssse."
Hopefully, I asked, "Is it popcorn?"

He looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt.  He shook his head and dropped his bowl on the floor.  He hung his head, paused for a moment to sigh, before he walked over the wall and banged his head against it twice.  Then the kid with the world's densest mother walked slowly away muttering to himself about dumb grown-ups and his plans for world domination.

The Best Compliment Ever!!!!

This is so going on my sidebar.  A regular reader of my blog, and Facebook friend said this week, "When you write, I breathe.....sigh."

Isn't that the best ever?  Thank you to Ellen who made my day, and someday is going to come over for lunch.

Three Evil Words

"I just can't stand going to Church because of my claustrophobia...God will understand."
"I can't put as much as I usually do into the collection plate because I had to hire a plumber...God will understand."
"I have two children.  I don't want anymore.  Who wants stretch marks?...God will understand."

God will understand.  God will understand.  God will understand.

I have heard this platitude used so many times that it fails to register for what it truly is, an attempt to ease the conscience over bad and sinful behavior.  God, in His infinite wisdom, has given us the gift of reason and too often we use it to convince ourselves that we're not really so bad.  We decide what it is that we  want and then reverse-engineer our logic to fit our own selfish desires.  That's what "God will understand" is, the mark of selfishness.

This short and simple three word phrase betrays the truth about us more than almost any other.  It says to the careful listener, and to God Himself, that we have placed ourselves above Him.  We have deified ourselves.  In allowing our own personal judgment to be the arbiter of right and wrong, we have placed our own minds on par with or above the mind of the Almighty.  If God is reasonable, then it is logical that He can be reasoned with, doesn't it?  And so it follows that if I have been given the gift of Free Will, then it would almost be wrong not to exercise it.  Wouldn't it?  The mental gymnastics inherent in this simple phrase are monumental.  They require the elevation of the speaker and the diminution of God, all in the name of self-interest.

"God will understand" is used as a stand in for "God will excuse," but without its courage of conviction.  Expecting understanding is akin to expecting a free pass, a Get out of Hell free card.  It is said with a forlorn hope for forgiveness without the necessity of changing our ways.  It would be more honest to say, "I hope that God will understand and forgive," but that would require a level of honesty with which most of us are not comfortable.

The truth is that God does understand.  He understands that we are sinful, that we are prideful, that temptation encourages us to place ourselves on a footing equal with God.  He understands that we, in our lowly state, imagine that we know what is best for ourselves, and that we are often willing to risk eternal damnation in exchange for being momentarily "right" and getting our own way.  God sees the truth of the evil encapsulated in this one common phrase even if we do not.  It is precisely because he understands how sinful we can be that He sent his Son to redeem us, to save us from our own nasty natures and stupidity.  He was hung on a tree for us.  Isn't it long past time that we stopped demanding His understanding and started begging His forgiveness?

Happy Birthday #5

I can still remember so clearly the day I learned that you were coming.  You were our gift of joy out of sorrow.  Our lives had been shattered by the death of your sister six weeks before that positive pregnancy test.  I can still feel the stunned disbelief in my memory.  How could there possibly be you?

What an unexpected surprise you have been to us.  You were the healing calm that God gave to us, the unexpected laughter sprung from our tears. God knew exactly who we needed when He gave us you. You often remind us of the wonder in mud and water puddles and help us to remember that happiness is often a messy business, it is sorrow which is clean. 

Your flashing blue eyes show the delight you take in the world. You see your surroundings with an honest clarity which grown ups too often miss. I see bird feathers on the ground and think of insects, you see a tickley thing which is a whole day's worth of fun.  I see a long walk home from the park, you see a winding path to run down while screaming in laughter.  I see that old nasty truck book which we read ten times a day, you see an excuse to climb on my lap and snuggle in with your head under my chin and your little hand in mine.

How I wish we could hold on to the innocence and laughter of your being 3.  It is such a time of laughing joy and wild discovery.  You are finally big enough to walk a few steps ahead of me and begin to explore things on your own.  Just know that with every step you take my heart with you, my son.  Soon enough, some other girl will come and take my place in your life, and that's as it should be.  But right now, you are still my own sweet baby and I am grateful everyday for the gift of you.

15 Years Ago - A Remembrance

15 years ago today, I was not yet "the Mom".  I was not yet "the Wife."  I was simply a newly engaged girl, much in love with my fiance.

!5 years ago this morning, I can tell you exactly where I was .  I was standing behind the front desk of the high-end hotel where I worked.  I was checking-out guests and joking with the manager.  It was a quiet and easy morning at work and there was a chance of my going home early.  Then we heard a loud boom and every door in the hotel flew open.  It sounded as if a semi truck had hit the side of the building.  The manager vaulted over the desk and ran outside, only to return a moment later white-faced and shaken.

"I think a plane crashed in downtown," he said.  "There's a huge plume of black smoke. God bless all those who died."

We, the front desk girls, got misty eyed at the thought of such a tragedy.  A plane crash how sad that would be.  Then the General Manager staggered out to where we were.  He looked shaken.  It was no plane crash he told us.  Someone had set off a bomb downtown.  The doors had flown open when the shockwave had hit us.  We just stared at him, dumbfounded.  This is Oklahoma City.  Things like that don't happen here.

They do.

The early news reports said that the Journal Record Building had been the target.  The building where my sweetheart worked.  The building where my future went to the office everyday.  Numb shock spread through my body.  Was I widowed before I was even a wife?

One of my co-workers walked me down to the workout facility where those who were waiting on news of their loved ones were gathering.  It had the large TV so that we could watch the news and wait for word.  It was just after 9:30 in the morning.   Within 20 minutes, the kitchen staff started bringing in comfort food for those of us waiting.  The building engineer brought us a dedicated phone line.  There were 5 of us huddled together.  Not one of us spoke.  We sat together for hours and said nothing, too horrified for words.

My love's relatives kept calling me, asking for news.  I had none to give them.  He had not called me, and I didn't know if he could call me.  The phones were down over much of the city, and in the era pre-cell-phone, that meant no news.

After 5 1/2 hours of sitting in the gym, eating macaroni and cheese, and watching the news, at last a call came for me.  It was my sweetheart's aunt.  She had driven past his house and his car was in the driveway, but she had knocked and there was no answer.

I flew to his house.  I flung open the door without stopping to knock and ran into the house.  He was standing in the long hallway.  All of the doors were shut and it was dark, but he just stood there.  I knew instinctively that he had been there for a long while.

"My love," I asked, "why are you standing in the hallway?"

He looked at me with haunted eyes and replied, "There are no windows in the hallway."  Flying glass, he had seen horrors created by flying glass, the hallway was safe.

He was filthy, covered with dirt, sweat and other unknown substances.  I forced him to take a shower, and then I put him to bed.  He looked at me with his sad eyes and began to tell me of the things he had seen that day.  He vomited up the details in painful and graphic detail, and when he was done he fell immediately to sleep.  It was 4:00 in the afternoon.



He will not discuss these things now, except rarely with me.  There are details which I know he has forgotten.  I remember them all, just as he told me.  I am his memory, his witness. We have not been to the memorial museum.  He doesn't want to see it, and I have his memories burned into my brain.  I would never go without him, and he won't go.  My sweet husband's name is on the survivor wall at the memorial downtown.  We've never seen it.  People make rubbings of it and give them to us.  I put them away in a drawer.  I am proud of the things he did that day, the heroism and the calm in the face of calamity.  He was and is an amazing human being.

15 years ago today I almost lost him.  A mad man with a truck and a bomb shattered the peace of our city.  Some people would be bitter, but the people here are not.  We have learned that tragedies can happen anywhere, that our loved ones can be gone in an instant, that tragedy is not a respecter of age or social standing.  Today, we will hold our loved ones a little tighter, make sure we tell them we love them, and thank God for the gift of one more day with them.

I am one of the fortunate ones.  I lost nothing that day but a little naivete.  But every year this date rolls around and calls to mind all that I have and reminds me to be grateful

Assimilation

My almost 5 year old nephew is still with us, and will be for a while longer.  The infection in my brother's hand is MRSA, so even though he's looking better, he's not safe for his son to be around yet.

The little guy seems to be folding himself into the fabric of our lives without much trouble.  That's a tall feat for a boy with some special needs.  I credit the kindness and patience of my own children as well as a steady routine for his easy acclimation to our household.  He still looks unsure when we say Grace over dinner or pray at bedtime, but he no longer tries to talk all the way through it either.  He's learning that a loud verbal correction doesn't mean that he's in trouble, but that he just needs to correct what he's doing.  He's learning to run with the pack around here.  He's settling in.

Yesterday on our walk, we rounded the corner to come home and #4 said "There's our house."  The nephew shook his head and said, "No, that's everybody's house."  He's not calling himself one of us, but is one of everybody.  He's making sense of where he is.  He's at the house that belongs to everyone who needs a place to go, the house of safe, the house of routine. (As a teenager, I dreamed of finding this kind of house.) For a little boy who needs a little extra help, those things are wonderful.  I'm glad he's finding them here.

He is trying to understand the rules and the whys of what is going on, and becoming one of us makes the most sense to him now.  As my beloved younger brother said, "We are Borg.  Resistance is futile."  Who would resist this kind of wonderful?

(I don't know about you, but I think the Computer Guy looks kinda hot in this picture.)

A Homeschooling Moment

I went on a walk this morning with the four littlest ones: #4, #5, #6 and the nephew.  We headed out this morning down the nature trail in our neighborhood toward the lake.  There are ducklings and goslings at the lake, and I thought we would enjoy an hour or two of bird watching interspersed with chasing each other around in circles.  Then, the plan went, we would come home and read "Make Way For Ducklings," and do a few fowl-ish crafts.

We got 5 minutes down the path when my nephew squealed in delight and started running forward.  There were construction trucks on the path ahead of us.  A house in our neighborhood burned three weeks ago, and today they were tearing it down.  In an abrupt change of plans we spent half an hour sitting on the opposite curb and watched as a bulldozer pushed the walls down and an excavator tore up the foundation.  We made our way home and read "Mike Mulligan's Steam Shovel" and drew pictures of burning houses and big yellow trucks.

I love homeschooling.  It allows us the freedom to find educational value in everyday life, because how often does everyday life give you huge yellow trucks and cool demolition a mere 5 minute walk away?

Show of Hands Please

This is shaping up to be an interesting and difficult week, a week of personal and spiritual growth.  With my brother in the hospital, my nephew living with us, the rest of my family, and interesting news from the doctor about #3....I have all of this great stuff to offer up and no one to offer it up for.   That's why I'm coming to you.  Who needs it?  This is some heavy duty stuff and could really be powerful prayer for someone.  If you need it, or know someone who does, let me know who and what and I'll offer it up for you, the readers and all your special intentions.  I have buckets-full of offerings...show of hands...who wants 'em?

Our 4 Year Old Houseguest

My brother is still in the hospital with a staph infection in his hand, so tonight his 4 year old son is sleeping at our house.  He's the only child of a single father, and I briefly feared that our controlled chaos would overwhelm him.  Silly me.  He fell in with the crowd, one of the few times that peer pressure is a good thing, and followed our routines as if he were just one of our own.

I forget sometimes about the resiliency of children.  How God has gifted them with more strength than many adults can ever imagine possessing.  They change and adapt to fit the moment and their surroundings.  They are situational chameleons.  It is a gift.

It is also a reminder of the fragility of them .  How little of who they are is permanent at this young age and how everything and everyone with whom they have contact changes them a bit, even in imperceptible ways.  Every child we see is forever changed by our presence.  What kind of impression are we making on them?  Is it one of which we can be proud?

Emergency Prayer Request

My brother, a single dad of a 5 year old, called me first thing this morning from the hospital asking for prayers. He broke one of the small bones in his hand this week and it has become infected. The doctors are calling it a "hand threatening infection." He is going into surgery now to drain the infection.  Please pray for my brother.

So You've Had a Bad Day

Either this is spiritual warfare, or God is just messing with me.

Here's how today has gone for me:
1. I pulled out some old math workbooks for #3.  He's finished his book for this year, but his shrink says he's way remedial.  I don't want to believe her, so we try to do last year's work.  He can't do it.  I realize that I've been over-helping and all the work we've done this year has accomplished nothing more than me re-learning 2nd grade math.  I don't even have words to describe the heartbreak.  We're considering public school for him next year.  I no longer know what to even try to help him. 

2. While fighting tears of frustration over the math thing, I get an e-mail from the RE director at our parish reminding me that the stupid felt banners for First Communion are due this weekend.  I thought we had another week.  Somehow, #3 and I managed to slap together a respectable banner. (I used to be clever and creative.  Now I just hate arts and crafts)

3. I realized that the stupid banner hanging was at the same time as my irl friend Peace's Baptism for her 7th baby.   I cried when I told her we wouldn't be there.  (She's a good friend.  She cried with me over #3 and told me to not worry about the Baptism.)

4. I got a call from the bank.  My check card took a vacation to California without me.  I hope it had a good time as it racked up $2500 in charges.  (Over $400 to a liquor store!!!!  I could at least get an invite to the party.)

5.  While I was on the phone with the bank, #5 threw up in the entry way.  You can't eat Easter candy without unwrapping it first.  Who knew?  (I'm tired of bodily fluids.  Really tired.)

6. As I mopped the floor and took towels to the laundry, #6 fell down the stairs.  He's fine.  He only rolled down two, got a bonk on his head, and scared us both pretty good.  But, are you kidding me?  (Yes, we have baby gates, but they don't fit  these old style stairs.)

7. I gave up inside the house and went outside to mow the lawn.  I like to do it.  It's something I can do that actually lasts a while.  I reached down to pull the cord and it came away in my hand. (I've had it with this day)

8. I came inside and curled up in a chair because reading is safe, isn't it?  A dumb bird flew into the window and knocked itself loopy.  My daughter's dog at it.  (I laughed out loud as I cried.  Is that evil?)

This has been a bad day, but at least I'm not the bird.

A Lesson From My Boys

I cleaned my boys' room yesterday.  Three garbage bags of trash, a big box of winter clothes, a giant box of costumes and two bins of legos hauled out just to find the floor.  I expected tears and complaints at the loss of their toys and favorite playthings.  I got, instead, relief.  They were so happy to find a room which was suddenly manageable for them.  The mess which had made me crazy and their father a lunatic, was truly beyond their capability to clean.

I had considered myself a benevolent dictator who allowed them to keep all they possessed as long as they kept it the way I wanted it kept.  They were drowning under the weight of the responsibility and didn't know how to ask for help.  My trash-purging tirade was not the punishment I had feared it would be, but was an act of mercy and a release.

How many times have I found myself in that same position in my own life?  Weighted down by responsibilities and exhausted by the weight of the burdens I shoulder.  They wear on me and wear me out.  They are the source of my mental fatigue at the end of every day.  These useless pointless, and truly unwanted, burdens.  I keep asking for God to give me the strength to carry them all, the ability to do everything, be everywhere, and live up to an unrealistic vision of success.  I am like my own children; they have learned it from me, this never-give-in attitude.  This unwillingness to admit defeat even when it becomes so apparent to everyone else.

I am asking for the wrong things.  I do not need more strength and greater ability.  I need fewer burdens and greater humility.  I need to learn to admit that I can not and do not want to do it all.  I need to ask my Heavenly Father to come in with His trash bags and clear out the garbage and the unnecessary which are weighing down my life.  I need to follow the example of my own sweet sons and learn to revel in the freedom which is mine if only I can learn to let God take out the trash.

I Don't Feel Even a Bit Sorry Now

"I have a business meeting for lunch almost every day this week and won't get to come home and see you and the kids at lunchtime."  So began the tale of woe of my beloved husband this past Sunday night.  I felt so guilty.  We get to spend our days with each other, watching our stories and eating bon bons (it's really stolen Easter candy, but bon-bons sounds better), while he has to work through lunch and doesn't get to take a break at all.  I honestly did feel badly for him and began to brainstorm all the ways I could make it up to him or reward him for all of his hard work. (I'm not telling you.  This is a G-rated blog.  So, don't ask me!)

Last night, he dragged himself through the door, slowly and painfully.  "He needs a shoulder rub and brisket for dinner." I thought to myself.  The poor dear works so hard.  We are so lucky....

"Did you hurt yourself moving stuff today?" the loving wife asked.  "You really do work too hard."

"No.  Our lunch meeting was at XYZ Pizza, the one with the go-karts? We spent the last 30 minutes of the meeting racing around and I hurt my back on the last curve," the wicked husband replied.

Guess who no longer feels guilty?  Guess who's not feeling guilty all the way to the store to buy a cute pair of sparkly shoes.  I'll give you a hint.  She had to wipe noses and bottoms yesterday while some other people were having "meetings", eating free pizza, and racing go-karts.

Thinking Big Thoughts

I listened, this weekend, to a sermon on the resurrection of the body at the end of time.  When I was younger, this was a joyous thought.  I moved easily and gracefully through life, striding easily, walking tall.  It is now something I wish we could do without.  I'd rather just get to heaven and stay non-corporeal.  I'd rather be light and floaty and just gliding about among the clouds and what-nots.

The truth is that I hate my body.  H-A-T-E it .  It's heavy and cumbersome and slow.  It's tired and sluggish.  There are weird aches and joints which lock up, and that strange poppy noise in my left knee when I squat.  Throw in a healthy dose of stretched out, saggy, and floppy, and I'm thinking Purgatory sounds good if it means I can leave this body behind.

I know that our bodies will be perfected, but I'm not sure I want it back even if you fix the stuff that's wrong with it.  It's like taking your car to the mechanic, he can fix it up so that it runs like new, but it won't have that new car smell.  How do you sell getting your own body back to people who are aged or sick or fat and uncomfortable and just want to leave this shell behind?  If people are eager to be free, why are you offering them a cage?

I count my blessings daily.  Everything works, for the most part.  This body has been the means of production of all of our beautiful children.  I am so grateful for them, but I hate what it has done to me.  I long to feel strong and beautiful, but the tale of my life is written in every sag of flesh.  (That's a lovely image, isn't it?)

The solution lies with me, and I know that.  Run more, exercise more, eat less, pray unceasingly.  I know all of these things in my mind, but I have tried them before and they haven't worked.  Perhaps the solution is acceptance.  Learn to love that which I find imperfect in myself.  Frankly, I don't see that happening, but I can work on it.  Or I can let go of my image of perfection and trust God that what he has planned is better than being able to wear a size 4.  He's never lied to me before.  Please, oh please, let this one be true.

**Edited to Add** Don't feel sorry for me, or think I am being hard on myself.  I think that I am fabulous.  I love my brain, my soul, my wit.  I'm pretty darn cute and a great friend.  I just happen to not be too fond of the body that holds it all together.  I was pretty spoiled by what I had pre-children and the memory of it haunts me.  I want my 16 year old pre-baby body back.  Is that too much to ask?  I think not.

In Which My Bubble Is Burst

I've taken over coaching #4's soccer team.  Their coach had something come up and I'm the only parent willing to take it over.  When push comes to shove....well, look at the title of the blog. 

I played soccer for years and was a pretty good player.  We lost the first game with me as coach 14-2. 

Today was my first practice as the boss.  I had a game plan.  I was prepared.  Heck, I've even lost 8 pounds and have been running.  Ready as ready can be.

The girls got to practice and ran and hugged me.  There's nothing sweeter than 5 year old girls.  Then one of them buried her face in my stomach and blew a raspberry on my belly fat.  She looked up at me with an angelic face and said, "I love your baby belly.  When will it be borned?"

Yeah.  I was feeling hot because I lost 8 pounds, then a little person came along and reminded me that I still have 20 something to go.

Easter Prayer Buddy

I had the incredible privilege this Lenten season to pray for Hafsa at The Peace of Christ.  It was she who got the benefit of allergy testing, sleepless nights and two rounds of stomach viruses and a boy in the hospital.  She kind of lucked out in the "offer it up" lottery, and it was my pleasure to get to do it for her.  Stop over at her place and peruse her old blog posts.  She is sweet and funny and darned smart.  I like a girl like that.

Happy Easter, Hafsa.  I'm so blessed to have gotten to "know" you.

Now can I maybe get into the password protected baby blog?  Please?

Oh My Goodness, I Love This Boy

I just want to kiss his cheeks.  What a sweetie.

Really The Perfect Mother's Day Gift.....Really

All moms love pictures of their children.  We love to put them up in the house and gaze lovingly at pictures of our beloved little ones.  We just hate to drag the whole group in to the studio and get the pictures taken.  It's a nightmare, a necessary evil.

Please, please do this for us.  I don't even have words to tell you how big of a hero you could be if you showed up on Mother's Day morning with pictures of the children that mom didn't have to organize or schlep children to get.  You should be canonized if you do this.  Ladies, am I right?

You don't have to go anywhere fancy or spend a bundle.  Sears has all these great coupons for portrait packages starting at $7.99.  Cheap, cheap, dirt cheap.  Here are some tips to make your portrait experience go better and make you feel as if you have a clue in the portrait studio.

Oh, and guys, let's be honest here.  You have a difficult time dressing yourself.  Please don't try and dress the whole family.  That's what teenage daughters or sisters in law are for.  Let them handle the clothes.  Your wife will thank you for it.

She'll be thrilled.  You'll be the best husband ever.  You're welcome!

*I have not been paid for this endorsement.  I just would love, love, love to get this for Mother's Day.*