In between Pop's chores and various activities of the day he makes sure that he includes making his rounds from one member of the family to the next; sort of like the surgeon who visits his patients in their hospital rooms post op to see how everyone is doing.
Once he has concluded his major surgeries of the morning -- made his bed, dried some dishes, swept and maybe vacuumed the floors, he drops in on all of us at our various locations of work around the house. Then later after he has had his numerous tea times, walked his numerous loops outside and made his numerous searches for things that he has lost, he may drop in on us again, just to touch base and make sure we are OK.
Entering our son's room where he is working at his computer, Pop will pat him on the shoulder and in a loud whisper say, "How you doin' Bret!?" Pretty soon he is at my back patting me on the shoulder with a similar cheery query, "How is your day going, honey!? Is your day turning out the way you'd hoped?" Turning to my husband, who is also busy at his computer, he pats him on the back and asks the same questions with the same upbeat but hushed tone. Diligent in this responsibility, he may return several times. Pat, pat, pat, "How's your day going?"
I too spend a lot of time making the rounds sort of like a floor nurse. Following after him I manage the mundane. I close the doors that he has left open; turn off the lights that he has left on; clean up his spills; retrieve dirty dishes from places they don't belong; clean up his tools of the trade, shaver, toothpaste spattered sink and wash his uniforms (jeans, cardigan sweater and shirts).
Pop's diligence at making the rounds, though has caused our son to confess that he is going to have to close his door to keep Grandpa from interrupting his work. I confessed to my son that I, too, often have to close the office door so that my husband and I can work. Don't we all wish that our doctor's were as attentive as Pop?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Cookie Monster
Pop loves his meals but on his terms. Never too soon and never too late. If I should serve his eats a bit before his stomach is saying, "Now, feed me now!" he will cooperate out of politeness to me, the cook, but will only take a few bites. I envy him a bit because lack of hunger has never stopped me from eating. If it looks and smells good, bring it on! But I have noticed that no lack of appetite ever deters him from ending his meal, small or large, with cookies. As a result, I jokingly call him the "Cookie Monster."
Pop has a very big sweet tooth. Pies, cakes, ice cream, candy, he loves them all. But by far his favorite delicacy is cookies. They do not have to be home made or even Pepperidge Farm quality. They just have to be cookies. So with a pallet that easy to please why bother mortgaging the house on cookies? Actually, the cheaper they are the less I like them and the less I will therefore eat them. Once a week or so I go to my local Big Lots and stock up on the $1 variety and HEB, Texas' favorite grocery, where they have their brand of Vanilla wafers for only .99 a box! What bargains. "These are great little cookies. They can sure be addictive," he'll say as he pulls out one cookie after another. I'm sure glad he is easy to please because "Cookie Monster" is capable of eating a lot of cookies.
"How many have I had?" he thinks to himself. "I don't know. Guess I'll have another one," is his approach to a bag or box of cookies. "When was the last time I had a cookie? I don't know. Guess I'll go to the pantry and have a cookie." I believe it is possible that these continuous cookie breaks could go on indefinitely which has put me in the position of having to take on the role of cookie monitor. Finding appropriate hiding places so that Pop can't get to them has become my challenge. Like a mother cat who will instinctively move her kittens from one hiding place to another to keep predators from finding the nest, I have to relocate the cookies on a regular basis to keep the "Cookie Monster" from finding them and eating himself sick. One day they may be in the pantry behind the napkins. Another day they might be in the condiments cupboard way back in a corner.
Last Christmas, as is my annual routine, I was baking cookies to give as gifts to neighbors. Smelling the rich, sweet aroma come drifting from the kitchen, Pop found the fragrance irresistible. Every couple of minutes I was having to smack his hands away from the cooling cookies. Not remembering that I had just told him 3 minutes ago that these were for friends, he'd be drawn back for another attempt at getting into the fresh batch, over and over again. Finally he began to get a bit irritated with me, the cookie policewoman, for what appeared to him as micromanagement of the feast. In the holiday spirit I didn't want to start a war over these gifts from my heart. It became obvious that I needed to come up with a plan to camouflage the cooling delicacies. Beginning with a sign that read, "Christmas Cookies. Do Not Touch," I discovered that this approach did no good at all. Every time I'd turn around he'd come over and take a cookie totally ignoring the sign. Grabbing some kitchen towels I covered them hoping that "out-of-sight would make for out-of-mind." The towels slowed the cooling process but ended up solving the cookie thief problem.
I guess my experience with the Christmas cookies helped me develop my cunning for cookie hiding because lately I've been pretty deft at finding good places to conceal them. He has not raided the stash for a long time making it possible for me to ration the consumption after he eats. At the end of his meal I will ask him if he would like some cookies and of course the cheerful reply will always be an affirmative followed by, "Boy these little cookies are good. They can sure be addictive."
Pop has a very big sweet tooth. Pies, cakes, ice cream, candy, he loves them all. But by far his favorite delicacy is cookies. They do not have to be home made or even Pepperidge Farm quality. They just have to be cookies. So with a pallet that easy to please why bother mortgaging the house on cookies? Actually, the cheaper they are the less I like them and the less I will therefore eat them. Once a week or so I go to my local Big Lots and stock up on the $1 variety and HEB, Texas' favorite grocery, where they have their brand of Vanilla wafers for only .99 a box! What bargains. "These are great little cookies. They can sure be addictive," he'll say as he pulls out one cookie after another. I'm sure glad he is easy to please because "Cookie Monster" is capable of eating a lot of cookies.
"How many have I had?" he thinks to himself. "I don't know. Guess I'll have another one," is his approach to a bag or box of cookies. "When was the last time I had a cookie? I don't know. Guess I'll go to the pantry and have a cookie." I believe it is possible that these continuous cookie breaks could go on indefinitely which has put me in the position of having to take on the role of cookie monitor. Finding appropriate hiding places so that Pop can't get to them has become my challenge. Like a mother cat who will instinctively move her kittens from one hiding place to another to keep predators from finding the nest, I have to relocate the cookies on a regular basis to keep the "Cookie Monster" from finding them and eating himself sick. One day they may be in the pantry behind the napkins. Another day they might be in the condiments cupboard way back in a corner.
Last Christmas, as is my annual routine, I was baking cookies to give as gifts to neighbors. Smelling the rich, sweet aroma come drifting from the kitchen, Pop found the fragrance irresistible. Every couple of minutes I was having to smack his hands away from the cooling cookies. Not remembering that I had just told him 3 minutes ago that these were for friends, he'd be drawn back for another attempt at getting into the fresh batch, over and over again. Finally he began to get a bit irritated with me, the cookie policewoman, for what appeared to him as micromanagement of the feast. In the holiday spirit I didn't want to start a war over these gifts from my heart. It became obvious that I needed to come up with a plan to camouflage the cooling delicacies. Beginning with a sign that read, "Christmas Cookies. Do Not Touch," I discovered that this approach did no good at all. Every time I'd turn around he'd come over and take a cookie totally ignoring the sign. Grabbing some kitchen towels I covered them hoping that "out-of-sight would make for out-of-mind." The towels slowed the cooling process but ended up solving the cookie thief problem.
I guess my experience with the Christmas cookies helped me develop my cunning for cookie hiding because lately I've been pretty deft at finding good places to conceal them. He has not raided the stash for a long time making it possible for me to ration the consumption after he eats. At the end of his meal I will ask him if he would like some cookies and of course the cheerful reply will always be an affirmative followed by, "Boy these little cookies are good. They can sure be addictive."
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Keeping Pop and Honest Man
One of my favorite recent advertisements is the one with children coming up with ingenious ways to get rid of food that they don't like and don't want to eat. The ad shows several clips of these adorable kids each one doing his/her own version of disposal. The one that I enjoyed the most was a little dark haired boy who puts his portion into his toy dump truck that is sitting by his plate and then rolls it away. Runner up is the kid who feeds the dog under the table. I haven't the slightest recollection what the ad is about, which causes me to question the value of advertising, but the kids and the concept are sure cute.
Sometimes at meal time Pop reminds me a lot of those kids. I am assuming that somewhere along the way, as a child I would guess, his parents must have ingrained in him that wasting good food was a NO, NO. Often when I have prepared more then he wants to eat, or something that he doesn't want to eat, rather then telling me I will see him very discreetly roll the remains up in a napkin. Forgetting that I am a mother and I have eyes in the back of my head, he will quietly get up from the table, walk by the garbage can and sort of slip the wad into the garbage or sort of give it a side toss as he glides by, assuming that I won't see this sly maneuver.
If at any particular meal I see things moving in this direction, I have learned to beat him to the punch and ask him what he would like to do with the remains. Which ever suggestion I make, save it or toss it,"Oh, yes, yes," will come the response. "Yes, yes," can mean, "Dispose of that wretched excuse of a meal right away before I throw up." Or it can mean, "I enjoyed it so much I hate to see it go to waste. So put it into a container for me to finish tomorrow." My father has learned tact over his many years and I have learned that I have to discern the real meaning of his tactful, "Yes, yes," because he is not going to come clean with his true feelings. By going through this little exercise, I figure I am at least helping to keep him and honest man.
Sometimes at meal time Pop reminds me a lot of those kids. I am assuming that somewhere along the way, as a child I would guess, his parents must have ingrained in him that wasting good food was a NO, NO. Often when I have prepared more then he wants to eat, or something that he doesn't want to eat, rather then telling me I will see him very discreetly roll the remains up in a napkin. Forgetting that I am a mother and I have eyes in the back of my head, he will quietly get up from the table, walk by the garbage can and sort of slip the wad into the garbage or sort of give it a side toss as he glides by, assuming that I won't see this sly maneuver.
If at any particular meal I see things moving in this direction, I have learned to beat him to the punch and ask him what he would like to do with the remains. Which ever suggestion I make, save it or toss it,"Oh, yes, yes," will come the response. "Yes, yes," can mean, "Dispose of that wretched excuse of a meal right away before I throw up." Or it can mean, "I enjoyed it so much I hate to see it go to waste. So put it into a container for me to finish tomorrow." My father has learned tact over his many years and I have learned that I have to discern the real meaning of his tactful, "Yes, yes," because he is not going to come clean with his true feelings. By going through this little exercise, I figure I am at least helping to keep him and honest man.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Something Brown on the Cereal
Routine is the underpinning of my dad's life. Each and every morning he arises around 8. He always emerges from his room fully dressed, jeans, shirt, cardigan sweater, socks and shoes and goes directly to his bathroom to complete his toiletries. He makes his entry fully shaved, teeth brushed, hair combed, ready to conquer the day at hand. (Thank you Lord for washing machines and soap.)
First conquest, BREAKFAST. Every morning Raisin Bran, "Boy this is good stuff," he always says. We think it is important for him to be as independent as possible for his mental health so I am usually somewhere else in the house when he manages his breakfast. I can hear the clink, clink, clink of his spoon bumping the bowl as he scoops up his Raisin Bran. Sometimes I go out to check on him to make sure he is doing OK and ask if he is ready for his tea. I often check his bowl because he has been known to put unusual liquids on his cereal; 1/2 N 1/2 for one.
This morning after hearing the usual clink, clink, clink in the kitchen I go out to make a check. This time the "milk" on his cereal looks rather brown. "Pop, it looks like you've got chocolate soy milk on your cereal. Does it taste OK?" He responds, "Not really." I go to the sink and there are the remains of a dumped bowl of cereal with brownish looking liquid around it. It appears that he had poured out his first attempt at Raisin Bran and then turned around and made the same mistake all over again with his second bowl; Chocolate soy milk ... or is that tea?
First conquest, BREAKFAST. Every morning Raisin Bran, "Boy this is good stuff," he always says. We think it is important for him to be as independent as possible for his mental health so I am usually somewhere else in the house when he manages his breakfast. I can hear the clink, clink, clink of his spoon bumping the bowl as he scoops up his Raisin Bran. Sometimes I go out to check on him to make sure he is doing OK and ask if he is ready for his tea. I often check his bowl because he has been known to put unusual liquids on his cereal; 1/2 N 1/2 for one.
This morning after hearing the usual clink, clink, clink in the kitchen I go out to make a check. This time the "milk" on his cereal looks rather brown. "Pop, it looks like you've got chocolate soy milk on your cereal. Does it taste OK?" He responds, "Not really." I go to the sink and there are the remains of a dumped bowl of cereal with brownish looking liquid around it. It appears that he had poured out his first attempt at Raisin Bran and then turned around and made the same mistake all over again with his second bowl; Chocolate soy milk ... or is that tea?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Trauma
According to Websters Dictionary the word traumatic or trauma is defined as:
An emotional experience, or shock, which has a lasting psychic effect. Some examples of a trauma or traumatic experience might be an automobile accident, a life threatening disease, losing a home in a fire, or worse yet losing a loved one.
Trauma or traumatic defined by Pop:
Losing ones crank flash light.
Once again we had trauma in our household last evening. I noticed Pop roaming from room to room, which usually means he has lost something. Soon he came into the office where my husband and I were at work at our computers. Tapping me on the shoulder and asked, "Have you seen my flash light?"
As you will recall from a previous blog, my dad does not operate after dark in the conventional manner using electricity. He uses his crank flash light. He brushes his teeth by crank flash light, he looks into he pantry for his evening snack by crank flash light and I'm sure if he needs to potty in the middle of the night he does that by crank flash light as well. So you see, without it he is operating virtually blind. Trauma!
I have learned that when he comes to me it is my cue that he has looked in the same places at least a dozen times and the trauma level is beginning to rise. As I join him in the search I see that from his bathroom there is a very slight glimmer of light coming out from around the door frame. I opened the door, turned on the wall switch so I could see and found him beaming his tiny battery operated flash light which is attached to his key chain. I guess in his mind this flash light is his fall back. Flashing tiny swaths of light in and around the room I see him in desperate search.
Satisfied that the cranker is not in the bathroom I move on from room to room. I check the normal places like on top of counters, end tables, chairs, floor. No flash light in the more obvious places so I check in the pantry, in the refrigerator, in the garbage can. No flash light.
About the time that I am getting ready to hang up the search for the night and encourage him that we'll find it in the morning I made one last look in the living room. Seeing his jacket hanging on the hat tree I checked inside his pockets and ... THERE IT IS! Mystery solved yet another time. Handing it to my dad he is overwhelmed with gratitude. "Oh, thank you, thank you," he says!
Soon I hear the whirrrrr, whirrrr, whirr of his flash light as he cranks it in preparation for his evening routine before he turns in for the night. I am satisfied knowing that he can now brush his teeth in peace, sleep peacefully and potty peacefully in the middle of the night. Another traumatic event nipped in the bud.
An emotional experience, or shock, which has a lasting psychic effect. Some examples of a trauma or traumatic experience might be an automobile accident, a life threatening disease, losing a home in a fire, or worse yet losing a loved one.
Trauma or traumatic defined by Pop:
Losing ones crank flash light.
Once again we had trauma in our household last evening. I noticed Pop roaming from room to room, which usually means he has lost something. Soon he came into the office where my husband and I were at work at our computers. Tapping me on the shoulder and asked, "Have you seen my flash light?"
As you will recall from a previous blog, my dad does not operate after dark in the conventional manner using electricity. He uses his crank flash light. He brushes his teeth by crank flash light, he looks into he pantry for his evening snack by crank flash light and I'm sure if he needs to potty in the middle of the night he does that by crank flash light as well. So you see, without it he is operating virtually blind. Trauma!
I have learned that when he comes to me it is my cue that he has looked in the same places at least a dozen times and the trauma level is beginning to rise. As I join him in the search I see that from his bathroom there is a very slight glimmer of light coming out from around the door frame. I opened the door, turned on the wall switch so I could see and found him beaming his tiny battery operated flash light which is attached to his key chain. I guess in his mind this flash light is his fall back. Flashing tiny swaths of light in and around the room I see him in desperate search.
Satisfied that the cranker is not in the bathroom I move on from room to room. I check the normal places like on top of counters, end tables, chairs, floor. No flash light in the more obvious places so I check in the pantry, in the refrigerator, in the garbage can. No flash light.
About the time that I am getting ready to hang up the search for the night and encourage him that we'll find it in the morning I made one last look in the living room. Seeing his jacket hanging on the hat tree I checked inside his pockets and ... THERE IT IS! Mystery solved yet another time. Handing it to my dad he is overwhelmed with gratitude. "Oh, thank you, thank you," he says!
Soon I hear the whirrrrr, whirrrr, whirr of his flash light as he cranks it in preparation for his evening routine before he turns in for the night. I am satisfied knowing that he can now brush his teeth in peace, sleep peacefully and potty peacefully in the middle of the night. Another traumatic event nipped in the bud.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Well, I'll Be a Monkey's Uncle
Today, after returning home from one of my staging jobs I found Pop sitting in a chair by the sliding door absorbing the nice warm sunshine. I noted that he was pushing on his front ... "teeth?" "Wait a minute," I thought. There aren't any teeth there ... are there? The partial that we picked up from the dentist a couple of days ago was still in the bathroom in it's little white container, wasn't it? After all of the discouragement, depression and "Help me Lord's" that came from him during our day long attempt at wearing his new contraption, I had completely given up hope. I assumed that the issue was as good as dead. But it was very obvious that he was wearing his teeth.
I went over to him and said, "Pop, are you wearing your new partial?" He opened his mouth with a Chessy cat grin revealing his new pearly whites! "Oh, my gosh! I'll be a monkey's uncle!" I exclaimed. "That is great. You look so nice with your new teeth!" He smiled with satisfaction.
I walked away from him shaking my head. Will I ever cease to be amazed? Just when I thought he was incapable of embracing anything new he proves to me how incredibly wrong I can be. Not only had he found the partial himself, but he had remembered how to put it in and took the initiative to do so. "Thank you Lord for answered prayer, even something as simple as helping my dad adjust to his new partial."
I went over to him and said, "Pop, are you wearing your new partial?" He opened his mouth with a Chessy cat grin revealing his new pearly whites! "Oh, my gosh! I'll be a monkey's uncle!" I exclaimed. "That is great. You look so nice with your new teeth!" He smiled with satisfaction.
I walked away from him shaking my head. Will I ever cease to be amazed? Just when I thought he was incapable of embracing anything new he proves to me how incredibly wrong I can be. Not only had he found the partial himself, but he had remembered how to put it in and took the initiative to do so. "Thank you Lord for answered prayer, even something as simple as helping my dad adjust to his new partial."
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lord Help Me!
Several months ago Pop walked up to me pulling on his lip to reveal yet another broken tooth. Opening his palm he revealed the broken remains as if pleading with me to fix it. This one equaled the 6th that he had now lost. It appeared to me it was time to go to the dentist and get some teeth for the old guy.
The dental assistant called me back to the space where my dad was reclining in the dental chair. "Looks like a good fit," said the dentist as he observed with satisfaction the new partial in my dad's mouth. Pop looked at me like he wasn't so sure. "Does this thing come out" was my dad's first question? "It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." "Yes, you do have something in your mouth. You've got teeth," the dentist said with a twinkle in his eyes. Ignoring the dentist he turned to me and asked with a hint of concern in his voice, "Jude, do you know how to get this out?"
We walked to the front desk and he asked the receptionist with obvious distress, "Does this thing come out? It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." She smiled, "Yes, it will take a little getting used to." A very grumpy Pop and I left the dental office with his new partial in place.
Once in the truck the long litany of repetition began. "Does this thing have to stay in? ... Do you know how to take it out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Jude, do you know how to take this out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Is this permanent?"
... "Does this thing come out?" ... OK, I could see that there was going to be a little adjustment period. Trying to put the lid on the stream of questions and anxieties, I decided that few men can handle an in-your-face, the wife-can-do-it better line. So I resorted to appealing to his manhood by saying, "Do you remember the partial that Mother had? She wore that for years and she got used to it. I think you can too." He was thoughtfully quiet and I concluded that we were making some progress.
At lunch he seemed relatively positive about the way the new teeth worked. "OK, this is good," I thought. After lunch a few more questions. I led him in a little lesson on taking it out and putting back it in. He did well.
Pretty soon I saw him outside taking his afternoon walk. Yeah, a little walk to distract him from his new mouth full. Soon I hear him approaching me from behind and turning to face him he said, "I've got something in my mouth. It feels like something in the back of my throat." I try to appease myself with "OK, he doesn't remember the trip to the dentist or the partial. Give him a little more time."
The afternoon passed into early evening and as I walked by the living room I observed Pop with his head bowed, great furrows in his brow, obviously deeply in prayer. Listening I heard him very softly saying, "Lord help me! Lord help me!" "Hmmmmmm," I think.
Being the determined person that I am I shook off my momentary discouragement and at dinner time suggested that we try the partial again. He did not push back and popped it right into place. But during the meal he sat eating with his head lowered over his plate obviously distressed. When I questioned him regarding the down cast look he said, "The teeth." This is not a good sign either.
Soon it was evening and the appliance was put to bed in its little white box. I observed Pop pushing it around with his forefinger in its watery bath. I could almost read his mind as he furrowed his brow in deep thought. "I have to get used to this confounded thing. I have to wear this heap of metal and plastic. Lord help me!"
Now I am definitely a persistent, determined person but even the most determined of us have to occasionally come to a point where we are willing to admit defeat. Today, a new day, I didn't even suggest that Pop wear his new partial. Realizing the hoops that I was going to have to jump through and his level of distress just didn't make sense for me to continue the fight. I have thrown up my hands and admitted that he has won ... again. If he dose ever wear it again it will probably be only occasionally when we go out. So, if you see my toothless Pop, don't laugh or cry, just know that we tried hard, really, really hard and Lord Help Me ... it didn't work!
The dental assistant called me back to the space where my dad was reclining in the dental chair. "Looks like a good fit," said the dentist as he observed with satisfaction the new partial in my dad's mouth. Pop looked at me like he wasn't so sure. "Does this thing come out" was my dad's first question? "It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." "Yes, you do have something in your mouth. You've got teeth," the dentist said with a twinkle in his eyes. Ignoring the dentist he turned to me and asked with a hint of concern in his voice, "Jude, do you know how to get this out?"
We walked to the front desk and he asked the receptionist with obvious distress, "Does this thing come out? It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." She smiled, "Yes, it will take a little getting used to." A very grumpy Pop and I left the dental office with his new partial in place.
Once in the truck the long litany of repetition began. "Does this thing have to stay in? ... Do you know how to take it out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Jude, do you know how to take this out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Is this permanent?"
... "Does this thing come out?" ... OK, I could see that there was going to be a little adjustment period. Trying to put the lid on the stream of questions and anxieties, I decided that few men can handle an in-your-face, the wife-can-do-it better line. So I resorted to appealing to his manhood by saying, "Do you remember the partial that Mother had? She wore that for years and she got used to it. I think you can too." He was thoughtfully quiet and I concluded that we were making some progress.
At lunch he seemed relatively positive about the way the new teeth worked. "OK, this is good," I thought. After lunch a few more questions. I led him in a little lesson on taking it out and putting back it in. He did well.
Pretty soon I saw him outside taking his afternoon walk. Yeah, a little walk to distract him from his new mouth full. Soon I hear him approaching me from behind and turning to face him he said, "I've got something in my mouth. It feels like something in the back of my throat." I try to appease myself with "OK, he doesn't remember the trip to the dentist or the partial. Give him a little more time."
The afternoon passed into early evening and as I walked by the living room I observed Pop with his head bowed, great furrows in his brow, obviously deeply in prayer. Listening I heard him very softly saying, "Lord help me! Lord help me!" "Hmmmmmm," I think.
Being the determined person that I am I shook off my momentary discouragement and at dinner time suggested that we try the partial again. He did not push back and popped it right into place. But during the meal he sat eating with his head lowered over his plate obviously distressed. When I questioned him regarding the down cast look he said, "The teeth." This is not a good sign either.
Soon it was evening and the appliance was put to bed in its little white box. I observed Pop pushing it around with his forefinger in its watery bath. I could almost read his mind as he furrowed his brow in deep thought. "I have to get used to this confounded thing. I have to wear this heap of metal and plastic. Lord help me!"
Now I am definitely a persistent, determined person but even the most determined of us have to occasionally come to a point where we are willing to admit defeat. Today, a new day, I didn't even suggest that Pop wear his new partial. Realizing the hoops that I was going to have to jump through and his level of distress just didn't make sense for me to continue the fight. I have thrown up my hands and admitted that he has won ... again. If he dose ever wear it again it will probably be only occasionally when we go out. So, if you see my toothless Pop, don't laugh or cry, just know that we tried hard, really, really hard and Lord Help Me ... it didn't work!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)