Against My "Better Living Industries"

I'm taking a stand. This is how I will fight back. The problem is that I am fighting back just the way the world wants me to, quietly tip-toeing around the status quo. I don't want to remain quiet! I want to unbalance the status quo! Everyone says I have to "act my age" for my children's sake; I'm "an adult." But when my kids are my age, I only hope they stand up for what they believe in and not hide themselves under a blanket of should-do's and suppose-to's. I feel defeated...

Foreword: To all the MCRmy, I know Michael Pedicone is officially part of the band making five, but for this posting, just chill.

 No one understands why I love My Chemical Romance so much. All others see is four sinners who scream violent words to loud noise. Yes, they sing of death, pain, losing lovers, suicide, guns, violence, and fighting main-stream America. Yes, their music is not for everyone, with massive drums, loud guitars, and lyrics sometimes growled out in anger. Even the band members themselves stand outside of the "accepted normal", with unnatural hair color, skinny jeans, outlandish behaviors, and onstage antics that include homosexual gestures. And when you put these guys in this light, I would agree that I wouldn't want much to do with them!

But, how often is that one outward appearance the end of the story? I know at least once everyone has been told not to judge a book by its cover. My Chemical Romance is no exception to that rule!!

These guys do more than "rock." For starters, they are husbands and fathers. And good ones at that! They keep their families out of the spotlight, unlike so many of the celebrities today. There are only a couple of photos floating around of Bandit, daughter of Gerard Way, the lead singer. And the closest the public had gotten to a picture of the faces of Lily and Cherry, twin daughters of guitarist Frank Iero, is some Halloween pumpkins. (Although, proud Daddy does like to post pictures of the girls in funny onsies on a particular social website.)

None of them really even consider themselves celebrities. I recently watched an interview with Gerard where he was asked about the females that chase him screaming and how he handles being famous. It was cute how he seemed almost embarrassed at the thought. He seemed to be taken back by people following him, wanting to talk to him, be near him. If you weren't aware of who he was, you might have thought he sang someone else's songs as a cover. He just lacked that pomposity and narcissism that alot of other celebrities have. (And, yes Gee, you are famous.) He was grateful to have his life. Hmm, grateful is a word lacking in LA today.

Additionally, these guys are brothers (well, two are actually brothers by birth). They have been there for each other, no matter the circumstances. Anyone should be as blessed as to have a friend, much less 3, like that! Gerard had a bad drug and alcohol problem way back when. He would come out onstage drunk and high, stumbling around. To be honest, I'm still not sure he's 100% clean. Regardless, his band members and friends rallied around him, helping him to clean up his life. Frank has even said in an interview that they all stopped drinking alcohol socially (at least around him) for Gerard's benefit. Really, where I can I get some of these friends?! Then, they even turned it into a positive! I couldn't help but giggle when Gerard said in an interview how lyrics now made more sense to him and some of the older ones he had written high still didn't.

(I am aware that this is quite a touchy subject for the band, so I will proceed with caution!) A few years ago, a young teenager committed suicide. The local press blatantly blamed My Chemical Romance and their lyrics. In the very little bit that the band has said on the subject, it is obvious, crystal clear, they were rocked to their foundations by even the thought they might have had anything to do with this tragedy. I believe it was Ray who said once that Gerard took it the most personal. (Even today, when mentioned, Gee's face becomes almost "tortured," for lack of a better word.) From that point on, they have taken a moment at their shows to make what I can only call a public service announcement. There is more than one video on YouTube of Gerard encouraging the audience to seek help if they feel like hurting themselves. What a horrible menace to society; who wants a role model that does that?! (<=Sarcasm!)

...which lead to their lyrics. This is where my blood nearly boils! I will admit their earlier lyrics are graphic, desolate, and sometimes violent. But I want to scream that people need to hear past the words! I could fill a book with what I think the different lyrics mean. Some lyrics have multiple meanings! I can hear passion, emotion, and poetry in these songs! For one example, I'll use "Demolition Lovers" (my personal favorite) from their first album. The lyrics are about two lovers that are tearing each other apart. He is professing his love to her, willing to die for her, with her. As the song continues, the music builds, and the desperation in his voice grows, leading to the song stopping suddenly half way through the word "everything" as he declares "until the end of every..." Several seconds pass that feel like eternity (during which my mind's eye sees an unspeakable, horrifying act). Softly the guitars and drums pick up, slowly crescendoing, then quickening the tempo, and raising the emotion once again. The lyrics resume, and you finally realize they are dying, falling into pools of their own blood, reaching for each other. Perfect. (If that's not what you guy really wrote, please don't tell me! I'm happy in my ignorance.)

Why is "Demolition Lovers" any different from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet? Didn't Juliet feign suicide? Then Romeo, in his overwhelming grief, drank the poison? Only for Juliet to plunge Romeo's dagger deep into her gut when she awoke to his dying gasps? Or did I read a different version? People call this play "beautiful," "romantic," "passionate." It has been declared a classic love story. Um, hmm, these two stories are very similar to me! So because My Chemical Romance is in the 21st century, they can't write lyrics like this? Is it because we, today, have a "higher" standard of political correctness? (As if politics could be correct...) Is it because the demolition lovers are using guns? I'm just confused. I don't understand, and not just for this example, why is it okay for classics to offer the same "stuff", if you will, that is such taboo for My Chemical Romance. That seems like a double standard to me.

And let's look at their latest album. While still offering the same flair of drama and passion with that special touch of gruesome they do, My Chemical Romance has brought to today's youth a challenge to fight back. "Art is the weapon" is the album's motto. They are challenging people to stop letting "corporate America" think for them and to start thinking for themselves. They are offering themselves as inspiration for a new generation of artistic free-thinkers. There is a message of teamwork and brotherhood hidden in the lyrics. But to me, the best part is the personal touches. It's not just another corporate produced money machine. These guys put themselves into the lyrics. "Summertime" is literally a public love song from Gerard to his wife Lindsey (which makes me feel kind of "weird" listening to it).

My Chemical Romance calls upon their fan base, nicknamed the "MCRmy", to give of themselves, too. Right now, they have asked the fans to offer visual media for a video project that will benefit the people of Japan in need due to the earthquakes, tsunamis, and the nuclear crisis. This gets people involved. It raises awareness of Japan's plight with a group of people who may otherwise not care. My Chemical Romance has gotten others involved and is reworking one of their songs to re-release to raise money for the Japanese people. And this is not the first time they have gotten themselves AND their fans involved in world tragedies. (The band was actually founded because of September 11, 2001, which is referred to in at least two songs.)

The only statement I have a hard time arguing against is whether or not the fans are being led to believe what the band and producers are telling them to believe instead of the truth. I really don't believe that! I just lack evidence for such an argument. For as much as they can be, I believe these guys to be genuine. They just love what they do. They are living the their dream, my dream. The problem lies in that I don't really know these guys personally. Alot of teenage girls see them as sex symbols, claiming the band members' last names as their own (in jest) on social websites.  Yes, I had my "idols" when I was a teen, as well. (Just to note, I am in the same age range as the band.) My love for them is different from a teenage infatuation, though; I would love to be friends with these guys and their families. I would settle for just being in their larger circle, able to "rub elbows" occasionally. I don't want to have sex with them! I want to live with the courage they do, to be themselves, no matter what others think! They just seem to bring such light to everyone they meet, especially Gerard. Our local comic book shop owner has spoken with Gerard several times at Comic-Con and has only the nicest things to say about him, how "accommodating" he is. Who wouldn't want someone like that around them? (Speaking of, I have one of the promo cards for the new Killjoys comic signed by Gee, for those who know what I'm talking about...hehe)

I know I could write this all day long, I could host seminars on this subject, and people still won't understand. My husband is one of these people. I am extremely emotional; I make emotional attachments to alot of things. My husband is not, and he does not. To him words are words, stuff is stuff. I'm not saying he's void of emotion; on the contrary, he feels strongly when he does find something "worth" spending the energy on to have an emotion. We are just different that way. I LOVE My Chemical Romance; he thinks they are four guys in LA (who can't really sing) with a record deal. But it's not just my husband I'm talking about!  Or people like him. Even so-called fans that don't get it irk me!

I suppose it could be said I am not just a fan of My Chemical Romance. I am a fan of the guys that make up the band as well. If you asked those close to me, they would say the band and the guys have become an object of my OCD, which even I have to admit to at least a little. I am glad to say I'm not quite a stalker, though. While I do know alot about the band and the individual guys, I haven't made an effort to memorize things like birthdays. (It's not like you have to, though; all the teenies will make sure you know one of their birthdays is approaching, but that's not helping my case here.) I just read and watch almost any material I can get my hands on about them. I just LOVE watching their interviews (and especially when Gee admits to having babies with Frank (inside joke)). I really just want others to see in these guys what I see. I know they aren't perfect. I know there are things about them that are part of that "rock star" personna; no one could completely avoid changing given what these guys have achieved. The point is they are great guys that write music with tragic, beautiful meanings, that have stayed fairly well grounded, and that are decent role models, especially for some of today's youth that won't listen to the role model types of yesterday. If only people would open their eyes to see it...

My Knight in Beat-up Armor

This past week was pretty rough for me. I got to a low point I haven't been to in a while. You might know the one I'm talking about, the one no one else knows about and you dare to mention. You put on a happy facade for everyone, while inside your guts are churning and hopelessness is slowly taking over. Not a pleasant place to be I admit and even worse to just admit I was there to the world.

I thought I was hiding my frustration and anguish pretty well. I was determined to keep it covered. I was fighting myself; part of me wanted to hide in a corner while the other part of me seemed aware of my darkening depression but was powerless to stop it. Then Thursday came.

Thursday I started my final revision to my English essay, but it all just seemed wrong to me. My sources weren't strong enough to support my thesis; my points and explication didn't seem quite together; my annotation was basically the same poem in different words, although it was a straight forward poem to start with. This, however, was just the superficial issue. Deeper and darker problems were churning below the surface. Problems I will not discuss here.

That evening, the stress finally broke me. I lashed out at Thomas, giving him the best Hell-hath-no-fury I could muster. My misery wanted company. Through the haze of my depression, everything he did was wrong. Every word was wrong. What he didn’t do was wrong. His opinions, his feelings, his attitudes, all wrong. I was bound to let him know in great detail how he had failed me. If only I could foretell the future...

At first, he was defensive, stammering back excuses, all of which infuriated me further. With each excuse, I cut into him a little deeper. He finally had enough! Suddenly HE was on the offensive.

 I have said to many people multiple times Thomas keeps me grounded; he knows how far to let me fly before my wax wings start to melt. Thomas knows me, sometimes better than I know myself. He has this uncanny ability to be there at just the moment I fall apart to catch all of my falling pieces, and he knows just how they all fit back together. This was no exception. When defense didn’t work, he took the offense. But not to seek vengeance. Thomas sought only to break the cycle I was in, to draw my attention to him in a different way.

Slowly Thomas talked me down, drawing out shreds of my truth one piece at a time. He was once again catching my pieces. Somehow, he suddenly had all the right words. He carefully began putting my pieces back together again. He opened himself, his very soul, up for me to see. He shared with me a few of his most guarded thoughts. He told me how he needed me. HE needed ME!

I went to bed that night emotionally exhausted. The next morning, my depression didn’t seem as dark when I awoke.

I’m not claiming Thomas “cured” me. I’m still climbing back out of my dark place. I’m not even sure if he was aware of what he was doing, from a psychological point of view. All I know is that if you look really closely, you can see the workings of a really awesome marriage. What makes it so awesome is that we know each other, inside and out. I can tell at a glance from across a room what he’s thinking. He knows where I’m heading before I am aware I have even started going. We can finish each other’s sentences. We know for the most part how the other will react to nearly anything. And it didn’t get that way overnight. It took us 13 years to get where we are. It took nights like Thursday for us to learn each other so intimately.

And I know, this is not the last battle we will ever have. There will come a time when I will forget the awesomeness Thomas carries within, and he will again become my target. I know, though, that he will be there for me because he has proved that he will.

My husband is amazing! I can truly say he is my better half.

On The Other Hand

Everyone has their favorite part of the human body. And I'm sure that statement sends most's minds in a sexual direction. Yes, there are people who have foot fetishes, and some men identify themselves as boob or booty men. However, that's not what I mean at all.

I have a bit of a hand fetish, I suppose. I will admit it is sometimes of a sexual nature, but the base of it isn't sexual at all. Have you ever paid any attention to others hands? Or even your own? I'll explain...

How often do you touch others or do others touch you? For most people, not often. Women touch more by way of hugs and soft touches during conversation. Men shake hands. Hands are, in actuality, quite personal. Touching someone with your hand or being touched by someone else's is quite intimate.

Some people have amazing skills with their hands. The artist who sculpts or paints beautiful creations. Centuries after DiVinci painted his masterpieces, it is possible to touch the very thing he touched. The chef who creates savory meals and decadant treats. "A pinch of love" in an old family recipe is the using of the one's hands carefully in the recipe. The surgeon who saves lives or offers a better quality of life. Years of practice and knowledge guide the hands that touch literally the inner most parts of a sick person. The first responder who pulls a person from a crushed car or a burning building. There is courage and strength in those hands who risk themselves for others. If you think about these few examples, their hands are a very intimate part of the end result.

I like hands. I like the way they move. I like looking at them, imagining what the hand I'm looking at has once done or will someday do. It's true, you can tell alot about people by their hands. My hands are a great metaphor of who I am. My hands are soft with a few rough spots on the inside. They have their scars to bear. My hands are strong when they need to be, but equally gentle.

As strange as it sounds, I am sometimes drawn to a person by his or her hands. Thomas has awesome hands! I love his hands. I like to look at them, touch the palms of them. I like for him to touch me with them. I like how they feel on my face, how his fingertips gently graze my hairline as he moves my hair from my face. (And yes, I like them in other ways, too, but I'm trying to keep this PG-13.) Thomas' hands are a great example. Thomas isn't a very touchy person. He keeps to himself mostly. Few people have felt that softer side, that intimate side, of his hands.

I think about other people's hands alot. At a doctor's appointment this past week, I caught myself admiring the doctor's hands. His hands weren't particularly beautiful; it was more the awe that those hands had held a beating, human heart at some point. On the other side of the spectrum, I imagine shaking hands with Gerard Way. I'd like to touch the hands that write such tragic yet poetic lyrics that drip with raw emotion, these hands that draw beautiful pictures. Sometimes, I am just attacted to the hands themselves. Mark Wahlberg has nice hands.

I like to look at my kids' hands. Caleb's hands are small and similiar to other children's his age, yet to show much individuality. His hands are full of innocence. I wonder where they will take him, what his hands will do in his life. In his hands I can see all the "idols" of the world; they all had hands like these once upon a time. The Dahli Lama, the Pope, the President of the United States, all the celebrities of the world, they all had hands like these once.

I'm sure this post will be received differently by each person who reads it. Some will find this strange. Others will find it relatable. Some might even see the metaphorical aspect of my like of hands.

I guess it doesn't matter really how others perceive my hand fetish. It is part of my individuality. I have liked hands since I was a child. I actually aspired to be a hand surgeon at one point. I just see hands as the epitome of intimacy.

Perhaps someday, I might share the more sensual side of my fascination of hands...

The Rainclouds of My Past Watered the Flowers of My Future

Thomas and I watched Smallville this week. It's a tv series about Clark Kent before he was and as he became Superman. In this week's episode, Clark is shown how his life would have differed had he'd been raised by a Luthor, the family that is actually Superman's ultimate rival. Instead of being compassionate and a gentleman, Clark was cold-hearted and a killer. This got me to thinking...

My life has taken many different abrupt turns. My first was when my parents divorced when I was still too young to know. Then, my mother died, and I moved in with my Daddy and my Mom. Just five years later, I lost my precious Will. These are just the sharpest of turns in my life.

I'm wondering how life would have differed if each of these events hadn't occured. As far as my parents never divorcing, I don't have any way of imaging that. I have only known my parents to be apart. But my mother dying, that was tough. She was the parent that provided for me, to me, for so long. I wasn't old enough to appreciate like I do now what Daddy did and felt behind the curtains. I'm not trying to speak ill of the dead, but I wonder what I'd have become if I had continued to live with my mother. I don't think my mother or her boyfriend, Joey, were bad people; they were simply alcoholics. I'm certain, though, it wouldn't have been pleasant. Before anyone thinks bad of me for saying that, I will say my mother was very sick, and I know she was only trying to mask her pain from us and herself. But what a place for children to grow up!

For years, I wanted my baby back. I've come to realize, though, what kind of life he, and Thomas and I, would have had if he'd have lived. Will would have had little going for him. He was mentally handicapped. He would have struggled to master basic muscle movements. He would have had hearing and vision issues, more than likely. Thomas and I would have had to care for him continuously. It would have added stress to our marriage and finances. We would have had numerous hospital stays, doctor appointments, and more surgery. I fear his little body would have been racked with pain.

I am grateful for my tragedies, in different ways. My mother left a vacant spot. While this spot will never be quite filled, I am blessed with a second mother. Mom has never tried to be a replacement. She taught me to be a lady, if that's possible (considering my tom-boy ways). She encouraged me when others didn't. Mom has defended me, argued my side, and protected me, even when I didn't deserve it. She saw my potential and pushed me to meet it. She loves me like I'm her own. I'll always, always be a Daddy's girl, but I know Mom deserves some credit for who I have become.

Without my mother's death, I wouldn't have met Thomas and had my Will. With my baby Will, I will not deny I miss him. But with him, I would not have Erin, Nathan, or Caleb. I wouldn't have learned some of my most valued lessons. I wouldn't know the pride of having crayon-drawn Mother's Day cards. I wouldn't know the excitement my kids have when waving to me in the carline at school dismissal. I wouldn't have to learn to let my kids go as they grow up. I wouldn't be the me I am today.

In an odd sort of way, I can appreciate these events in my life. While I may define some of who I am by them, it would be impossible for me to be who I am without them. All of the events in my life, intertwining together, have led to who sits at this computer typing this.

The things that come out of kids mouths...

My kids talk constantly; I'm think I know where they get it from (but I'll never admit it). If you ask my parents, they have a few stories about me. Like the night I thought a berlesque club had the best barbeque in town or when I came home from school and gave a science lesson on why a fart smell spreads. I have two short stories today. They are probably "You had to be there" stories, but I'll still share them anyway.

Erin's story- We were on our way home from Wal-Mart on Woodruff Road. There is a tax office right there, and every year they have a motorized mannequin dressed like the Statue of Liberty they put out on the curb. On the way there, I had seen her looking at it quizzically, but didn't give it much thought. Apparently it was more that her limited learning could handle. So, as we're coming back down Woodruff Road, she finally speaks up. Except she can't find the right words to express her thoughts. Here's what she said:
"Mommy, did you see that man?"
"Which one?" I wasn't aware her puzzled look had returned; I was trying to turn across traffic.
"That man, wearing the green dress, but not a man...kind of like a man...uh...'cept he lives on batteries."
I missed a perfectly good opportunity to turn across traffic, because I was laughing so hard.

Nate's story- I'm in CVS, getting some cold medicine for Thomas. I had taken Nate and Caleb with me. Nate is being a typical 5 year old, running around nearby and talking about nonsense to himself. I'm in line at the checkout. A couple of ladies are at the register in front of me and several people are behind me in line, including a older man in an expensive-looking suit. I'm trying to keep Caleb entertained when I hear (matter-of-factly like I was keeping a record) "Mommy, I just farted right here." I immediately start shaking my head no and try to tell him quietly that we don't say that in public. I glance up in embarassment to see the women in front of me stiffling giggles. One can no longer hold it and does let out a giggle, still trying to keep it to herself. I glance back over my shoulder. The stoic man in that taylored suit is no longer stoic; he, too, is trying to stiffle his laughter. Then, I find myself trying not to giggle. Nate was oblivious. I don't think he ever realized everyone was laughing at his comment.

These are not the last of funny things my kids will say. And Caleb has yet to start. I have always felt laughter is good, not only for the soul, but for the body too. As my bio says, laughter is good for the human. This is just one way my kids help keep me young.

Happy Birthday, Baby Will!

It's been 11 years. He would have been 11 years old today. My kids affectionately refer to him as "Baby Will". Every year I seem to struggle a little less, but then that bothers me too. How can I grow so tolerant to the loss of my baby? I've heard people say to me they couldn't deal with the loss of a child, much less since he lived through Christmas. Christmas would become unbearable in the years to follow.

First, you don't have a choice really. You can choose to end your life, but you can't choose to not be able to deal with it. Life keeps moving around you; the sun keeps rising and setting. One day, it doesn't hurt as bad, and you can take a walk. Then, you can watch another child play. Eventually, you'll laugh and maybe feel guilty for laughing, but it felt good inside. Like it or not, life pushes on.

Second, I couldn't think of a better 3 months for him to have lived. I got him for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Y2K New Year! He was my Christmas gift! Santa and Mrs. Claus came to see him in the NICU. He had a stocking so big, he could have fit into it. We sat in the NICU counting down to midnight on December 31, 1999. No parties, no confetti or alcohol (I wasn't even of legal drinking age, as a matter of fact). Just us, a few other parents, and the nurses. It was so very quiet in there, only the occasional alarm. We talked about his "ET toe", his big toe with his oxygen saturation monitor on it, making it glow red. As strange as it sounds, it was really peaceful.

I took my time going through the stages of grief, and to some extent I'll always be grieving. I read one time that a husband that looses a wife is a widow. A child that looses a parent is an orphan. But no word exists for a parent that loses a child. I don't remember where I read it, but it stuck with me. I still cry when I go to his grave.

I learned from all this though. Isn't that the point of life experiences? I learned I am stronger than I thought. I learned to appreciate little things and stop for ordinary moments. I learned my kids are irreplaceable, and I can learn from them too. I learned that two people who don't like each other (not Tommy and me) can work together in a crisis. But most of all, I learned I was far more capable of love than I ever thought I could be.

So, on this, the day of my oldest child's birth, I laugh and cry, remembering all the good and the bad. I secretly sing "Happy Birthday" to my eternal 3 month old angel. For 11 years ago today, was one of the greatest days of my life! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY WILL!

Similiar Uniqueness

It has been quite a week. I have spent a great deal of time on an essay paper for my English class, and it nearly kicked my butt! This meant, though, that I spent a good amount of time this week just observing and not participating. Sometimes people need something to come along and slow them down. I am one of those people. I have noticed my children this week. What I mean is instead of just going with the flow, I have sat back and just observed them. We'll start with the oldest.

Erin has matured quite a bit this past year. I am beginning to see a little lady emerge. She has this new sense of calmness about her sometimes. She wants to be the second "mommy" in our house. She coddles Caleb and corrects Nate. She has even started doing laundry, without being asked! I nearly fainted! I was so excited, I bought her a new Webkinz; we made a special trip just to buy one. The reality was, though, all she did was put the wet stuff in the dryer because I had been sick all day. I didn't care; for a 9 year old, I was beside myself with giddy. That cemented that deal for her. Erin has the laundry in the dryer now before I realize the washer has stopped. I think she's secretly hoping to get another Webkinz soon.

It's hard sometimes to watch her, though. She acts just like me. When she gets mad, she acts like me. When she's sad, she acts like me. I know how hard life can be when you are a sensitive soul. Plus, as if I'm not already ashamed of my foolish behavior, I have to explain to my child why MY behavior is unacceptable. I can't correct her behavior, because she so innocently points out, that's what I do when I'm mad. (If only they made blinders for children, I'd invest in three sets! They could be called "Not As I Do-ers".) It's like looking in a behavior mirror! I have learned to breathe before I react.

Then there's Nate. Nate is his own little personality. He wants so desperately to be Erin's best friend. And she wants so desperately for him to "go away." Nate's too big for Caleb's toys. He's too little to play with Erin's, not to mention her's are all girl toys. My heart aches for him; the middle is such a hard place to be. I've been the middle child! Does that stop Nate? No. He likes Barbies. If you ask him, his favorite color is red. But don't stop there. Ask him what other color he like. His answer--pink.  This doesn't particularly make Daddy happy. Oh, and when I paint my and Erin's nails, Nate waits patiently in line, watching very intently. He doesn't seem to understand why I won't paint his nails. I'd rather not give Daddy a stroke. If it were up to me alone, I'd paint his nails with some clear polish. After all, haven't you heard of a metrosexual?!

Well, for all the testosterone Nate is short, Caleb makes up for it. He is a man's man. He seems to teem with maleness. At the tender age of two, Caleb has mastered the art of play-fighting. He prefers to watch football. And action movies. He likes anything with wheels and nothing with long, plastic legs. (Buzz Lightyear has short stumpy legs, excluding him from this category.) When he falls down, Caleb stands back up, says "Ow," brushes off, and goes about his way. Sometimes he skips the brushing off step. (Nate will scream for 30 minutes.) Best of all, though, Caleb has figured out in his short two years that men show affection with horseplay. I feel for those girls who are the objects of his first crushes; I hope they are the athletic type!

But for all their differences, they all share one thing. My kids are sweet. They will share their things and are concerned for others. They love passionately and feel deeply. They will protect and defend each other to the end, but that's part of being siblings, I'm told. To me, though, my kids are pretty special!

I look forward to seeing who they become. I somehow feel I have really only begun to know who they are.