Tag Archives: son

Motivation

Sometimes we all just need a little push from a big supporter.

“I don’t want to do it” she said. “ I have been too busy”.

“but you love to do it!” I exclaimed!

I told her to think about how much she loves to do it. If you love something you will work hard to do it. It teaches us a lesson to do what you love and work towards that. If there is something you love to do, your life should include that in it.

Even if things aren’t working out for you in this thing, you love it. You will work hard for it even when you are busy. It is so important! No matter how hard it is, it is important to your life. Think about this thing in your life, Just think.

This was a recent conversation with my mom. She has been behind on blogging. I helped her stay motivated.

- Levi Rich Gettleman (Age 12)

5 Comments

In search of a plot

“I need a plot! What if I die?” this is the text I received Thanksgiving night from my 12 year old son, Levi. He’d finally left the table and was worriedly texting me from the next room.

It all happened because we were enjoying some post repast conversation at my mom’s house. One of the guests, a long time family friend, works at the Jewish cemetery in town. The discourse had shifted to her work and she was astounding us with stories about elderly people who simply refused to contemplate death, funerals and anything associated with burials. My brother-in-law, an uber-responsible physician, chimed in, “It’s just idiotic not to take care of these things ahead of time. Idiotic and irresponsible.”

Suddenly I look across the table and I see Levi, his head in his hands, prone for an anxiety attack. “Why don’t you go play with your cousins,” I suggest.

“No, mom. I want to stay with the adults,” he insists.

“Well, are you sure you can handle this conversation?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” he replies, “I’m sure. But mom, how much is a plot? Because I need to save up and get one.”

Conversation halted and everyone looked at Levi. Several of the adults started to roar with laughter.

“Levi,” I tried to explain, “You really don’t need to worry about that right now.”

“But I’m going to die,” he matter-of-factly refuted, “I don’t want to be stupid, or irresponsible.”

Suddenly I was transported into the celluloid world of my all time favorite Woody Allen movie, “Annie Hall.” I morphed into Alivie Singer’s kvetching Jewish mother and insisted my 9 year old son, Alivie, tell the psychiatrist why he was so depressed.”

Alvie’s mother:
Tell the Doctor why you’re depressed, Alvie. It’s something that he read.

Alvie:
The Universe is expanding.

Doctor:
The Universe is expanding?

Alvie:
Well, the Universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything.

Alvie’s mother:
He stopped doing his homework.

Alvie:
What’s the point?

Alvie’s mother:
What has the Universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not expanding!”

Doctor:
It wont be expanding for billions of years, Alvie. And we’ve gotta try to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.

Why is it that some kids burden themselves with thoughts like these while others are content to stuff themselves silly with turkey, corn and mashed potatoes? I so want to be one of those care-free people who raises easy, playful youngsters who throw spitballs into the unsuspecting heads of classmates and giggle gleefully when the teacher accidentally strings together words like “under” and “where.” But alas, that’s just not who we are.

I actually remember my first 100% sleepless night. I was about my son’s age and was convinced that the angel of death was coming that very night to take me away. My poor father tried everything to get me to go to sleep. Finally, with a tear in his eye, he implored, “Please, Debbie, just close your eyes. I’ll stand guard all night and I promise not to open the door if he comes. Just go to sleep!”

I guess the sad thing here is that this whole experience just confirms what I’ve known all along; that children really are just mirrors that showcase every flaw, fault and foible of our own misguided psyches. Genetics, my friends, are inescapable.

It’s all kind of depressing. In fact, sometimes I find it so disheartening that I relate completely to Annie Hall’s brother, Duane, (played eerily by a young Christopher Walken), who behind the wheel of his automobile,
confesses to Alvie while speeding down a darkened freeway, “Sometimes I have a sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into an oncoming car. I anticipate the explosion, the sound of shattering glass, the…flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.”

Alvie is stumped for a reply but spits out, “Right,” just as they pull to a stop, “Well, I have to — I have to go now, Duane, because I’m due back on the planet earth.”

Sometimes it sucks to be me. I desperately want to see myself as Audrie Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” or Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa.” But no matter how hard I try, my true alter ego wont let me forget that I’m really just a female version of a Jewish, neurotic, anxiety-ridden Alvie Singer.

Leave a comment

So, what do YOU do?

Political correctness has paralyzed me! Last night we were at a party. I was excited to meet a slew of new and interesting people. It was a family event at someone’s home so kids were happily racing around, playing Wii, watching videos, etc… Someone asked my husband what he did? “I’m a Pediatrician,” Mark responded. Then I piped up and asked the inquiring man what kind of work he did. He answered with a complex I.T./consulting/mathematical response that left me speechless. Then I looked at his wife and wanted desperately to know what she did “for a living.” But something inside me said, “no. That’s not an okay question to ask.” But I wanted to know. The potential to meet a new friend who might have similar interests, might share a common language, might connect to me at a deeper level was impelling me forward.

“Do you work outside the home?” I thought about asking. But her children were older and of course she worked outside the home at this point in her parenting career. Something must be wrong with her if she didn’t work outside the home I surmised. But I couldn’t be sure. “And what kind of work do you do?” I toyed with asking. This way I could leave her the out to say she chose to volunteer or offered aide at her children’s school instead of punching a clock at some corporate warehouse or laboring menially in a cubicle under fluorescents.

She looked at me inquisitively. She’s probably wanting to ask me the same thing, I mused. Finally I came up with, “So do you exercise?” Why I asked that I have no idea. She smiled genuinely and shared that she was training for the Komen three day breast cancer walk. She walked nearly 20 miles a day she told me. Hmmm? I thought to myself. That takes an awful lot of time. Must not work outside the home. Good thing I didn’t embarrass myself by asking. Later I followed up on a clue she let slip about working with children.Turned out she was a preschool teacher. But by the time I realized that, it was too late to delve into the details.

Throughout the night I found myself in similar situations with numerous women. No one asked me what I did. I asked no one what she did. It was as if we had all signed a tacit agreement upon entering. We will not ask about careers, professions, or achievements because somehow the mere asking about these things suggested some type of judgement. But in failing to ask, I failed to find a path inside these women’s souls. I left at the end of the night feeling as if I hadn’t really met anyone, hadn’t really shared any part of myself, hadn’t really explored or revealed anything to anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if we, as women, miss out on genuine connection because we are working so desperately to avoid offending one another. I have met very few women who actually do nothing all day long. But the delicacy required to inquire about a woman’s daily activities seems almost paralyzing. The fear of insulting or sounding judgmental freezes us and renders us completely inept at conversing. It keeps us locked up inside ourselves and isolated.

Does anyone know the right way to forge ahead in these types of situations?

1 Comment

Nepotism

Nepotism? Don’t be silly.

Ah nepotism, the practice among those with power or influence of favoring relatives or friends, especially by giving them jobs. I used to lament the fact that my parents were the least connected people on the planet when I was ambitiously pursuing an acting career in Chicago and Los Angeles. I remember thinking how much easier my life would have been if I’d been sired by Aaron Spelling or been the lone Baldwin sister. The closest I ever got to either was a guest starring role on Melrose Place and a film part in “Fall Out” with Daniel Baldwin. Neither of the patriarchs opted to employ me full time or adopt me after my stellar performances.

So when my twelve year old son, Levi, asked if he could audition for a role in the holiday play I had written for Theatre Artists Studio this year, I leapt at the chance to help him move ahead in his acting career. “I will ask the director if you can audition,” I told him, “But don’t get your hopes up. There’s really only one role for a child.”

Levi did audition and was immediately cast in the role. He did an awesome job reading for the director and I doubt anyone would have been better. After all, I had written the role of the bike-pedaling tween using him as inspiration. But I made it clear to the director, who is a colleague and friend, that I had no stake in how he cast the show. It was his job to put the best actors in the roles and create a cohesive ensemble. Whether or not Levi fit into that mix was entirely his decision.

All that being said, I know that realistically it would have been awkward had he chosen to bypass Levi and cast another child in the role. It would have hurt Levi, and although I tried not to care, it would have hurt me too. There was just something silently implied by the fact that I had written the play and had requested an audition slot.

The ball is entirely in Levi’s court now. It’s up to him to show his hard working ethics, his memorization skills, his willingness and ability to follow direction. I will be noticeably absent from rehearsals and readings, opting only to drop him and pick him up at the theatre door when he’s called for rehearsals. I may have opened a door for him. But it’s up to him to step through that door and make the most of that opportunity.

I don’t feel guilty about helping my son achieve something he really wanted. I believe it will be a great experience for everyone involved. And if it isn’t, it’ll be one heck of a learning experience. A few years ago, Levi was cast as the lead in another production and got fired two weeks prior to the opening because he was having trouble staying focused and attentive on stage. It was a business decision . But that didn’t ease his or my wounded spirit. He was devastated, I even more so.

But that experience of failure taught him a lot. It taught him that I can’t make everything right all the time, that people aren’t always forgiving, that life sometimes hurts — a lot. It’s taken a while for Levi to want to be on stage again. I’m proud of him for getting back on the horse. And I pray every night that this experience will go well for him.

So here’s to nepotism! May it be employed cautiously. May every one of us have some opportunity to help out our kids at some point along their career paths, and may we all have the wisdom and self restraint to let our kids fail or succeed based on their own performance.

Leave a comment

Bus #108

What would happen if you took the school bus home ?
The police would make you bring it back ! (Well, we all need a little levity these days.)

As a parent, one tries to prepare her kids for everything. Especially if you have one of those kids for whom spur of the moment adjustments can be earth-shatteringly upsetting. Take the first day of third grade for example. New school. New teacher. New kids. New campus. But the biggest anxiety; taking a bright yellow school bus for the first time ever.

Who knows why certain things are scarier than others. But for my 8 year old son, Eli, his fears seemed to circle around taking that bus. There was the question of which one to get on, which one to take home, who will he sit with, what if he misses it? There were countless worries and fears floating around his new school mode of transport.

So what did I do? I was determined to prepare him accordingly which I knew would allay all of his fears. I checked the written parent packet and it was bus #108 that would daily carry my boy to and from his new school. We drilled the number into his head. We played silly games to test his memory. “Should you get on bus #115?” we’d ask, trying to light-heartedly trick him. “What about #37?” “Let’s say there’s a pink school bus and the number is #138 and the driver, whom you’ve never seen, says, ‘come on the bus, little boy. I have candy.’”

We did a couple of dry runs to school from the bus stop and taught him where to meet the bus after school so he’d have no concerns whatsoever. We even practiced walking to and from the bus stop, even timed it so we’d know what time to depart each morning. I was pretty proud of myself. But as all good mythologists know, it’s always pride that comes before the fall.

First day of school and we wait for nearly a half hour at the bus stop. The bus never arrives. We drive Eli to school and he ends up being tardy on his first day, which freaks him out and raises his anxiety level exponentially. After calming him, straightening out the tardy situation, and getting him situated in class, the day went surprisingly well. That is, of course, until it was time to come home.

They shuttled the bus-riding kids out to the parking lot and guided Eli right to bus #105. That’s when all hell broke loose. “I can not get on bus #105!” he insisted. “I’m supposed to be on bus #108.” Bus number 108, however, had broken down earlier in the day (which was why it didn’t come in the morning) and was in the shop torn up and awaiting repair. Bus #105 was taking its place. Of course that didn’t sway my son who had been practicing this drill for over two weeks. I can only imagine his focused little mind as he walked out to the bus. “Bus #108, bus #108, bus #108,” he likely repeated like a mantra as he headed out of school that first day. It eventually took two drivers, the teacher, the vice principal and finally the kind and compassionate principal himself to convince Eli that it was okay to take bus 105 to get home.

“Why was he so upset?” my 11 year old son, Levi, asked. “Because,” I answered, “He did everything right, just the way we practiced. Only sometimes, life changes the rules on us in the middle of the game. And it just isn’t fair.”
So here’s to a new school year filled with busses that will break down, schedules that will be changed, and routines that will be altered. But hopefully, amidst all the chaos life throws in his path, my youngest will learn to sway in the wind like a sturdy Elm and not snap at every formidable gale.

1 Comment

Devoted mom or sinister stalker? You be the judge.

“If you become a crocus in a hidden garden,”
said his mother, “I will be a gardener. And I will find you.”

I call my 8 year old son, Eli, “my little bunny.” Today I tossed out the endearing appellation and he looked at me askew and said, “Why do you call me that?”

I told him it was from one of my favorite children’s books, “The Runaway Bunny,” that I used to read to him when he was a toddler. He had no recollection of the book. “Oh, it was such a sweet book,” I recounted. “It was about this little bunny who wanted to run away from his mother.” Hmmm…in this instant it didn’t seem all that sweet to me. “And no matter how he imagines himself running away, his mother always finds a way to hunt him down and drag him back to their sheltered little bunny hole.” OK, I didn’t actually say that last part. But it’s the truth. Suddenly I am not sure what was wrong with me that I not only read that book to my little boy countless times, but that I dubbed it my favorite and actually took to calling him “my little bunny.” OMG, I’m a monster.

I went back and reread the book. My greatest fears were confirmed. Talk about helicopter moms. Everything was starting to make sense; Eli’s intrepid approach to social situations, his continued vows to not attend  overnight camp, his insistence that he will never (ever) leave home. It was all my fault. The poor boy thinks that if he even ventures a few miles away from the homestead, I will come after him like some kind of vicious Cassowary and forcibly “guide” him back to where he “belongs” and where I’ll be best able to keep my Machiavellian claws dug deep into his stifled spirit.

Oh, how horrific. “If you become a sailboat and sail away from me,”says the fictitious rabbit, “I will become the wind and blow you where I want you to go.” This mother will stop at nothing to get her wayward youngster back. The saddest part of the whole story is that by the end, the poor hare, whose only goal was to get away from his domineering matriarch, gives up entirely, and resigns himself to an Oedipal life with mama rabbit, eating carrots and believing himself incapable of ever venturing into the world on his own.

Eli starts at a new school next week. I think I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’s excited to meet his teachers and a whole new cadre of potential friends in the neighborhood. I’m petrified.

Letting them “run away,” even if it’s just to a new school, is harder than you’d think. Maybe I’m being too hard on Mama Rabbit.

1 Comment

Parental wisdom

So we’re dropping my 11 year old son, Levi, off at overnight camp in Northern California, (We should all be so lucky), and I find myself lamely trying to instill upon him every life lesson I can think of in the two hour time span it takes us to drive from Oakland airport to Sonoma.

“Levi, this is Berkely, California. This is where UC Berkely is. It’s a great University; a bastion of political liberalism though. You know it’s important to educate yourself on the issues and never blindly follow anyone else’s rigid political agenda.”

“Levi, are you going to scale that huge climbing tower this summer? Remember, just one foot in front of the other. Even trying something that terrifying counts as a success. You have to constantly push your boundaries. Only by stepping outside your comfort zone can you ever truly grow as a person.”

“By the way, make sure you write back at least once to everyone who writes to you at camp. People need to feel like their efforts are appreciated. Positive reinforcement goes a long way to securing the behavior you want to encourage.”

“And I did mention that your body is yours and yours alone to control, didn’t I? You’re a very handsome young man and you look much older than 11. No one should ever touch you in a way that feels weird or uncomfortable.”

“Don’t forget to share your things with your cabin-mates. Never let someone else go without when you have more than enough.”

I think I blathered on incessantly the entire ride up to camp. I’m pretty sure I threw out a few sincere “Don’t worry about anything!” and “Just have fun!” comments from the window as we were pulling away. About a mile up the road I started weeping inconsolably. After my husband reminded me that this was why he normally did camp drop-off duty solo, I managed to pull myself together.

“Do you think anything we try to teach him will ever matter?” I ask, not knowing whether or not I really want to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” my husband assures me. “But we just don’t know which lessons will stick. Some will mean a great deal and save him a lot of pain and heartache. But there’s no way to know which ones will resonate and which never penetrate the surface.”

I suddenly think about my own dad and all the things he taught me. How to accept everyone, no matter what they believed or where they came from. That it was always better to be over-dressed than under-dressed. That what was sexy was what wasn’t revealed. Never to salt your food before tasting it. Read ingredients in medications. If they’re the same, choose the generic. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. It’s always okay to ask for what you want, as long as you do it with grace and humility. Be true to yourself. Mix your wasabi into a smooth paste by adding drops of soy sauce slowly while rapidly mixing with a chopstick (some pharmacist mumbo jumbo about solvents/solutions). Never let the weather discourage your adventures. It’s always darkest before the dawn…

The list goes on seemingly forever. I think it grows exponentially as I narrow the gap between my middle age and his final 68th year. I suddenly remember the Mark Twain quote he recited at my Grandfather’s 70th birthday party.

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

Parental wisdom surely grows stronger with age. I just hope I live long enough to see my boys recognize and acknowledge some of my own.

1 Comment

A field trip to make a mom proud!

Levi at last year's "Clean up the park day."

My 11 year old son, Levi, is a worrier. I have to admit he comes by it naturally. But he’s always been this way which makes it hard to determine whether it’s hard-wired into his DNA or just the product of an overly dramatic, catastrophizing mother.

One of the things he’s always been concerned about is the environment. So when, as a four year old, he approached his preschool teacher with a “clean up the park” scheme, I didn’t really think twice about it. Luckily his teacher was a creative empowering woman who believed in following her students’ leads whenever possible. Thus was born the first annual “Levi Gettleman Clean Up the Park Field Trip.”

I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that at four years old, he created permission slips, presented to his classmates on the importance of caring for the community, and led the kids in gathering and recycling all the garbage they could collect at Police Park in Phoenix. We were proud of him and his determination and happily popped for a pizza party in the park after all the work was completed.

I was surprised when the following year came and my little kindergartener reminded me that he needed to return to his preschool and start preparing for the second annual event. He called his teacher, met with her to plan the trip, and once again, with her help and encouragement, pulled off a fabulous and meaningful field trip that taught the kids experientially how to honor their environment and strengthen their community.

Yesterday, I’m pleased to tell you, was the 7th annual “Levi Gettleman Clean up the Park” day. Things are pretty similar from year to year. The apple core, peanut butter, birdseed feeders are still joyfully configured and hung from the trees. Every trace of garbage, litter and refuse is carefully removed by tiny, gloved fingers who take a sense of pride and ownership in the task at hand. And the work of separating regular garbage from recyclables is the final act of the day. A little park play time is allowed and the pizza arrives just in time to fill the little bellies that have put in a hard day’s work.

I’m not invited to tag along anymore. So I drop off and pick up and hang around just long enough to accept a few kudos about my boy from parents and teachers who’ve watched him grow up over these years. And I feel proud — of him, of what he believes, of his tenacity, commitment and honor.

Once in a while it’s nice to bask in the feeling that we may actually have done something right as parents along the way. Although truth be told, most of his gifts probably did come directly from the factory :)

3 Comments

T.M.I.?

If I'm so sure of myself, why do I have this idiotic expression on my face?

This morning I discovered my 11 year old son, Levi, curled up in our big King size bed, both dogs on either side of him, with my laptop open and a smile from ear to ear.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Reading all of your old blogs,” he announced proudly. “I love this entry from Passover last year.”

I suddenly got nervous and wondered if there was anything I’d written that I’d prefer him not to read. Of course that was an inane concern, considering I’ve never stopped him from reading the blog before. But somehow, the idea of my entire blog retrospective felt alarming to me.

I’ve been told, on more than one occasion, from more than one concerned observer, that I ought not to allow Levi to read my blog. The issues are often personal, often focused on my insecurities, my inner conflicts about motherhood and life and love. People have vehemently argued that this is not appropriate reading material for my children.

Well, I agree that there are several I’d prefer Eli, my 8 year old, not yet have access to. But since he’s shown zero interest in reading them up to this point, I’m not terribly concerned about him. But I like having Levi read them. It gives him a window into my soul that allows him to know me at a much more meaningful and personal level; in a way most children never know their parent. It lets him understand why I love him and his brother so much, why I’m proud or angry or frustrated by their behavior, why I struggle so desperately to do right by them. And while today a blog entry might seem little more than a silly story to him, the older he gets, the more meaning he’ll derive from some of these pieces. That will be of great value when he’s older, when I’m not around anymore, when he looks back to unravel the threads of his childhood and see how they fit together to comprise the tapestry of his adult life.

Levi giggles at some of the stories I share about him and his brother and their daily antics. He was moved to tears by one piece I’d written about my father. He loves that his life is chronicled, along with my own, in this easily accessible written format that he can sign onto and read whenever he feels the desire. Sure these tales are revealing. But I’m not trying to fool him or anyone into believing that I’m some sort of maternal caricature who makes perfect chocolate chip cookies, knows exactly what to do at every parenting juncture, and never loses her temper during a tot’s temperamental tantrum. That’s just not who I am. He obviously knows that from real life observation, why futilely attempt to snow him into believing otherwise?

My boys will have to accept me for who I really am. And I’m fully prepared to disclose that reality to them every day we’re together. And since I also happen to be extremely introspective, self-critical, and neurotic, a combination of traits that allow me to obsess, judge and analyze every maternal action and personal foible on an ongoing basis, they get a glimpse inside the maternal mind that may, one day, help them as they embark on their own parenting journeys.

I may have blown it on the baby book thing. Might have forgotten to religiously mark the giant Sunflower growth chart on the wall by the laundry room every six months. I might even have failed to bring the video recorder to more than one school play, pageant or parade. But when my kids look back at their lives, they will know, from my writings, who I was, what I believed in, and how their extraordinary presence brought meaning, joy and magic to my world.

Leave a comment

Happy New Year?

This week, most Jewish people ignored the minor holiday of Tu B’Shvat. Unlike the biggies, like Rosh Hashana, Chanukah and Passover, Tu B’Shvat has always occupied a spot on the sidelines, kind of a red-headed step-child kind of holiday.

In part, it’s because it’s a complex festival that has to do with tithing and farming and a lot of technical “arboreal-related” issues. Most of us think of it as some sort of birthday celebration for the trees. Beyond that, we can’t really see the forest.

I would’ve missed the holiday completely this year had it not been for my 11 year-old son, Levi, who came home from school on a mission. It was 4:00 and I was rushing to get ready and get out of the house by 5.

“Mom,” he started in a determined tone that clued me in immediately that I was in for trouble. “I have to go to the grocery store right now.”

“I’ve already gone shopping today,” I assured him. “I’m sure whatever you need can wait till tomorrow.”

“But it can’t,” he bemoaned. “Tomorrow will be too late.”

I explained calmly that no amount of whining would sway me on this issue and sent him on his way. A few minutes later he re-emerged with a grocery list and a very rational request. He had $15 in tow and announced that he was going to pay for his items himself if I would agree to let Gabi, our nanny, take him to the store. He assured me that they would be back in plenty of time to get Eli, his brother, to Karate.

“Levi,” I finally inquired, “What is so important that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m making a Tu B’Shvat seder and we don’t have all the items I need.”

Now I believe in consistent discipline. I also believe in sticking to my guns. If I say something, I try very hard to follow through with it. But the requested grocery trip had suddenly taken on a new perspective. Sure it was still inconvenient. But why was I sending my boys to Jewish Day School if I wasn’t going to support the important and thoughtful lessons they were learning? I agreed to the bargain, delayed my dinner date and handed Levi a 20 dollar bill.

About an hour later, Levi called the Seder to order. He had set out bountiful platters of pomegranate seeds, nuts, dates and olives. There were avocados and plums, fruits with inedible peels, seeded berries, pitted fruits, and a few Fig Newtons to stand in for wheat, barley and figs. I was taken aback by the beauty and effort involved in creating this meaningful display.

Then Levi taught me about Tu B’Shvat, the New Year for the trees. He explained the significance of eating each of the food items he’d prepared and told me stories of what the holiday meant spiritually as well as literally and religiously. I have to say I was in awe of his expertise and the facility with which he handled the information. We sat together for nearly an hour, me listening to him, reciting prayers, and even asking follow up questions to gain better understanding of his teachings.

It was an unusual opportunity for me to take off my parental hat and see my son for the bright, thoughtful and passionate person he’s becoming. It is truly an honor to be able to step back and appreciate your child for who he is and what he believes in and cares about.

Sure, we’ll still fight about his forgetting to put his dishes in the dishwasher, and his failing to put away his folded laundry as promised. But in between those minor altercations, I’ll try to remember just how amazing this strong, independent young man is, and how grateful I am for all that he brings to our lives.

Happy New Year, trees!

1 Comment