A New Sheriff In Town

I just swatted my son. He rubbed his hiney, scowled, and finally did what I've been asking, begging, pleading, demanding of him. I don't even remember what it was now. But it's been that way between the two of us all day long. I don't mean the swatting, or spanking as some call it, although the incident I'm referring to was a definite swat as opposed to spanking. I mean he and I've been dancing this same dance over and over and over..... Well, you get the point. Anyway, that got me to thinking.

I've always tried to reserve swatting for attention grabbing situations. Say, one of the babes was just having a melt down and all other attempts to get through to the distraught babe had failed, then a swift swat to the hiney would be in order. You know what I mean, a swat of just enough magnitude to get through to them in order to employ other means of distraction or discipline.

Before I go any further, because I can only imagine the kind of email I'm going to receive regarding this topic, I don't judge on how you want to raise your child. He/she is your child and it's your place to decide how best to do that. Not mine. Again, I don't judge. It didn't take me very long into parenthood to realize all those preconceived, parental guidance handbook, warm and fuzzy prenatal intentions aren't always practical. I've learned that it takes a wide and wild mix of creative efforts in order to get the point across and the babe back in line.

Most often I stick to time outs by way of counting. It's kind of a 1-2-3 strikes and you're out sort of deal. It's great for "stop behaviors". When practiced consistently it's great for stopping whatever it is you want stopped. I'm learning that for "start behaviors" it's less effective. I find myself resorting to exhortion more than not when I want Firstborn to "start" something. I really dislike this and am open to suggestions if you've got any.

Oh, and when I say most often I stick to time outs, I mean before we moved. With all the chaos of back and forth trips to Alabama before our move, packing, parenting, and the move itself I became lax. I became inconsistent. I became ineffective.

To make matters worse Hubbs is working even crazier hours than his prior job. He's finally back in town from training, but we only see him a few minutes each day. No joke, just a few minutes. Firstborn is having an extremely difficult time with this. Every fourth sentence out of his mouth is, "I miss Daddy".

You've got a mommy with a splitting headache at the end of a long, long day and you mix in a three year old boy displaying all behaviors from acting out for attention, the chaos of a move, and inconsistent discipline and my friends, you've got yourself a recipe for disaster.

Okay, maybe not a disaster, but it certainly wasn't my best moment. And I could see it in his eyes. Everything about that look said, "Who are you and what have you done with my Mommy."

Arguably, I could have given him a similar look.

He and I've become lost in all, well, frankly, all of "this". It's time I got back on track. And that's my aim. Know this kid. Tomorrow, I'm bringing my "A game". I'm buckling down and bringing a new sheriff to town. There'll be counting and time outs the likes of which he's never seen. Firstborn won't know what hit him. And, this time it won't be me.

Wait. What's tomorrow? That's right! Hubby's off tomorrow! Heck, they're all his while I'm off to the market and the rest of my mommy errands. Guess tomorrow's your lucky day, cowboy!

Letters To Santa

We've moved to a small town where the local newspaper still reserves a section during the holidays to print letters to Santa Claus. I took it upon myself to write on behalf of my children and thought I would share it with you.

The letter from Firstborn is as follows:

Dear Santa,

I've been a very good boy with only a few minor infractions. If you receive any letters stating otherwise please disregard them. It seems that no matter how hard one tries to be good there will always be someone to dispute your claims.

The following is a short list of suggestions of what I would like for Christmas. Of course, I'm always open to suggestions and surprises.

a little boy friendly digital camera

firetruck

Take and Play Thomas of Misty Island

a rather large giraffe

a puppy dog Pillow Pet just like my cousin's

games

books, lots and lots of books, please

three new flashlights

a fast racing car with horns on it

Santa, please don't forget about my little sister, Secondborn. Ordinarily I wouldn't care if she got presents or not, but if you don't bring her anything then she's just gonna want to play with my things.

With as much love, goodness, and honesty a three year old boy's heart can bear,

Firstborn

And the letter from Secondborn:

Dear Santa Claus,

Forgive me for what I'm about to say. I've not always been what you might call a good little girl.

Sometimes I've been a naughty little girl.

However, I maintain that I was only doing what comes naturally to a highly spirited and independent girl.

If you're willing to overlook my scaling the living room blinds, continually emptying my dresser drawers of all contents, a bit of indoor gardening, and other minor incidents, please give my Christmas list some consideration. Please keep in mind that my frank honesty should warrant at least a few presents under the tree.

a camera

stuffed llama

dollie

a chair just my size

Weeble Wobbles

lots and lots of books

And, Santa, I'm convinced my older brother is to blame for much of my behavior. Just ask the elves who've been assigned to keep an eye on us. They'll tell you the real story.

Hugs and sticky kisses,

Secondborn

Where I Am

Hi, remember me, the one who promised to never leave your side and always tell you the truth? I know I've been absent for over two months now, and I hate to be that blogger who apologizes for blog neglect, but I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I'm back though, and I've got more to confess than ever before.

You see we moved. Yeah, yeah, I know I've spun this story before, but this time it's different. Really.

It all started in August when my mom died. And about that same time my dad was diagnosed with kidney cancer. Somewhere in between all of this my husband was interviewing for executive chef positions with several different restaurants near my hometown. After accepting an offer the packing began. And the chaos.

Secondborn decided then was as good as any to finally begin walking at sixteen months. The oncologist decided Dad had to have a kidney removed. There was the "kidney going away" party we threw for him followed a week later by the actually surgery. And less than a week after that, only a day before Thanksgiving, me and my circus moved in with him.

After placing most of our belongings into storage while staying with my dad for a few months, Hubby had to go out of town for three weeks for training. Fortunately, it was close enough he could drive home on weekends, but it still proved a trying time for all of us. Firstborn especially had a difficult time with this and the move. Yesterday was Christmas and he still says daily, "I wanna go home".

And speaking of Christmas, the stomach flu was not mentioned on anyone's wish list, yet we all got more than we ever wanted of it. That's okay, we still managed to make the most of it. The kids were thrilled with all the loot Santa brought. Hubby was mildly impressed, but it was a miracle he was even out of bed. And, me, I'm grateful we could all be together enjoying one of the rare white Christmases Alabama has had to offer. Oh, did I mention Hubbs got me a new Macbook Pro? So, no more excuses! Posting blogs should be a lot easier now that I don't have to hole up in the office while the kids go unsupervised.

Once more, I offer my most humble and "Oh, I feel like crap 'cause I've not written anything in ages" apology.

Life Skills

It's Monday. That means it's grocery day. Grocery day with two young children. One of which I could not keep contained in the "cool car concept cart" and the other who decided today was the day to begin a life of crime.
Normally, while grocery shopping with both children in tow I have to maintain strict organization. Firstborn generally pushes the small, child size cart which causes me to shop in constant fear for my ankles' well being. Secondborn rides in the front of the normal shopping cart waving, blowing kisses, and clapping for all other shoppers who can't help but to flirt back. And, I have my coupons already coordinated with the weekly sales and a strict list to adhere to.
I said normally. This morning was anything but normal. This morning was chaotic. I did not have my list finalized. And I certainly didn't have my coupons coordinated with the weekly sales. I knew that alone would make this shopping trip longer than usual. Taking into account that my dear darlings would be tagging along would just make it downright frustrating or comical, depending on how one decided to look upon it.
Once we'd arrived at the market I demoted Firstborn's driver's license to that of an accompanied permit holder and placed him and his sister into what I refer to as the "cool car concept". He was none too happy to have his cart privileges revoked and to be sharing limited elbow space with Secondborn.
Aisle after aisle, he would jump out of the car and pretend to fuel it up because, "Mommy, the car hun-ghee (hungry) and needs gas."
"Fine. Fuel the car up but, do so quickly," I would say absently as I was leafing through my three ring coupon binder.
Then came the car surfing. Seriously. He was attempting to hang as far out of the "cool car concept cart" as humanly, and I'm using that word loosely at this point, possible without landing on his head. It was as if he had Gumby's genetic coding. The verdict, he's got a future in Hollywood as a stuntman if those ACT scores don't work out for him.
I was more than ready to put this shopping trip behind me as I finished unloading the Mommymobile once home. I took Secondborn to change her diaper only to discover her well kept secret. And, no, it was not located in her diaper, but, rather her overalls. My sweet and innocently, charming secondborn had taken to a life of crime while I was busy paying for groceries.
I blame the grocery store for placing peer pressure upon such a young and fragile flower. I choose to believe that she never would have gone down such a seedy path had the stores placed the candy selection out of sight and reach. How could she resist such temptation with all those candy bars calling out her name? She picked out the candy bar that was calling the loudest, a dark chocolate Dove bar, and stuffed it inside her overalls. And just like that, my daughter who had yet to take her first steps on solid ground, took her first steps into a life of crime.
As a parent, one always worries over the futures of their young. I suppose in a way I should be relieved that at least in these hard economic times mine can fall back upon smuggling and car surfing. I'm not sure how profitable that will make them, but popular they should always be with these life skills.

Pin It

That'll Teach You

Firstborn's most favorite phrase of late is, "Dat's okay, Mommy. It an ass-e-dent. Ass-e-dents 'appen." Not exactly the phrase you want to walk in the front door to after a morning of special "Mommy Only" time. The first morning in months I'd been childless, save the two funerals within ten days I attended a few, short weeks ago.
This morning was much more special for a Mommy Moment given Hubby's work schedule of late and the personal trauma I've been doing my best to work through with a level head. Not only had I not had any time away from the kids most of the summer, I had barely seen my husband. When he was home he was nearly comatose from what I can only assume was his employer's creative way of trying to "off" him by over scheduling him in such a way that could only be described as an age old, tried and true, Inquisition technique.
I left the house early. Not only was I looking forward to my much overdue appointment to have my hair done at the local beauty college, but I had household errands to run before and after said appointment. The appointment ran late, much later than expected. That is one of the drawbacks to having a student service your hair. Sometimes they are so eager to do a great job that they get lost in the details and it takes a quite a long time.
Finally, five hours later, I pulled into our drive. I contemplated sitting in the Mommymobile for a few more songs to make the most of it, but my conscience wouldn't allow it. This was a single day off for Hubby after an almost illegal weekend work schedule. I knew it was time to go in and rescue him. He needed his alone time just as much, if not more than I did. This is what I walked in to.
I pushed the door open and stepped 1 1/2 steps inside. Firstborn runs up to me with a "forlorn and desolate outlook on life" look plastered upon his face, presumably due to my extremely long absence. The first words out of his mouth are, "Mommy, I sorr-wee 'bout your bedroom. Ass-e-dents 'appen. An', I wub (love) uo (you), sooo much. Uo (you) my berry best friend in da ho(whole) wide world, ebry (every) day, all day wong (long).
Immediately, my equilibrium shifted, as well as my "as close to Sivananda as I'm getting till these kids are both in school", peace and mentality.
"Accidents happen? Exactly what happened in my bedroom? Please, show me."
Firstborn took me by my ever so reluctant hand and led me in the direction of the oh, so never private bedroom Hubby and I share.
"What's that smell?" , as I sniffed, sniffed, sniffed from object to object. It wasn't until I put my nose to the carpet that my pulse began to beat much faster.
No. No. NO. NO!
Before I could further my questioning in the certain direction I knew it to be going, Hubby came up behind me to fill me in.
It seems Firstborn had lured Secondborn into our bedroom. He had managed to unstick my nightstand drawer. An irritation of always having to finesse to obtain admittance to this quircky thing, to a safeguard I had always counted on, this drawer was like a combo lock the likes I'd never seen before. Yet, he'd pried it open. Once open, he pulled out all the contents from nail files, magazines and books, including 1-2-3 Magic (a parental must have), to my brand new bottle of Nivea moisturizer.
The details thereafter are fuzzy. The best Hubby and I can do are piece together what we do know. This is what we know. When Hubby discovered the two in our bedroom, there was only one step between them and the door that was not saturated with moisturizer. Secondborn was covered entirely in said moisturizer. Firstborn was adorned with Hubby's brand new, white gold with yellow gold inlay, high-end, name brand, employer awarded for 10 years of excellent service, watch and a generous helping of Nivea moisturizer. I walked into the room wearing flip flops. I walked out of the room nearly breaking my neck as my feet met the laminate wood flooring in our hallway.
Welcome home, Mommy. welcome home. That'll teach you.

The Best Days Of My Life

The house is the most quiet it's been all day. First and Secondborn are fast asleep and I am looking forward to settling down with a good book, good music, and a good glass of wine followed by a good night's rest. The makings of a perfect Saturday evening.
My life is a far cry from the wild weekends of my past and, for that I'm grateful. I survey the damage of what is the end of the day here in our household: books flung about from our half hour of pre-bed time reading, Goldfish crackers ground into the rug, sippy cups strewn about leaking their contents on my freshly mopped floors, and two baskets of laundry in dire need of putting away. I'm surprised at how clean everything looks.
What? And you thought me to be discouraged by the state of my surroundings? Nope. Not tonight. There was a time I was, though. It was a huge transition period for me to come to grips with raising children, keeping house, and being happy. It turns out that all my former ideals on housekeeping have been thrown out the window. Now, my goal is to stay clean enough that the Health Department doesn't shut me down.
I'm not a bad housekeeper. I like things well organized and neat. Turns out, children don't. It took a great deal of effort and time for me to understand that, but I finally did.
What I've finally come to grips with is I want my children to know without a shadow of a doubt that I am there for them. If they need me to drop to the floor and spontaneously read Llama Llama, Mad At Mama four times back to back, then I better get comfortable real quick while they both jockey for positions in my lap. If Secondborn wants me to hold her hands while she practices walking throughout the house for backbreaking sessions, then I best take a handful of Ibuprofen prior to our endeavors. And, I pray the day never comes that I refuse Firstborn his giddy "rocket ship" rides positioned on the bottoms of my feet while laying on my back, legs stilted against the skies flying him to faraway places.
Today was not an easy day. It wasn't a bad day either, though. I shudder when people talk about "bad days". It makes me wonder if they really know what a "bad day" is. I don't, and hope to never know. However, I do know long days, hard days, frustrating days, etc, etc. And while today was no easy day, this and all surrounding days are the best days of my life. As the saying goes, "The days are oh, so long, but the years oh, so very short". Indeed.

Canning Crazed

Hi. My name is Mommy, and I have a canning addiction. At least that's what my husband tells me. He says I need to get some help. He suggested therapy and possibly some step programs. But he doesn't mean it. Not really anyway.
In truth, I know he's secretly pleased with his wife's mad home ec skills. He's appreciative of how little money I've invested in this endeavor, yet how much it will save us in the long run. He openly brags on how good everything has tasted. He's particularly fond of the salsa. So much so, that I've had to make numerous follow up batches to replenish our diminishing supply. Fortunately, I found a vendor in my hometown willing to sell tomatoes for $.50 a pound.
I grew up in a family that canned, dried, froze, pickled, and preserved food. To this day any time I smell fresh dill I am immediately brought back to my parents' divorce because my granny was canning dill pickles at that time.
To "put up", as they called it, was a necessity from days past, but they continued on because it's what you did. It saved countless pennies and tasted far better than anything you could find on the grocer's shelves. These are the same reasons I enjoy doing these same rituals. I like knowing what's in my family's food. I like knowing where my food comes from.
Some have told me I'm crazy for doing this. I probably am, but not for that reason. Many have been extremely supportive. I think they're just paving the way to a few handouts. And that's okay. Partly why I've canned so much this year is to give away as Christmas gifts. Then there have been a small number that have made comments predicting that we'll never eat all that we've made based upon their own canning experiences. To that I say, "Don't rain on my parade."
And, then there's my grandmother who's proud. She's so proud that her ways have made such a huge impact upon my life and the way I'm raising our family. It makes me happy to see her so pleased with my efforts. It made me down right giddy to see how she thoroughly enjoyed the jar of Apple Pie In A Jar. She had half the jar finished by the time I left her house.
As is the case in any addiction, I'm not alone. I've a friend who loves canning just as much as I do. She too grew up in the canning culture. So, for the past month she's loaded up her two year old daughter, supplies, produce from her garden and her CSA box, and headed to my house for all day canning sessions. Fortunately, her daughter is Firstborn's girlfriend. While we're ladling hot spoonfuls of homemade goodness into Ball jars they're having the time of their short lived lives. It usually ends up with both of them pants-less. But, that's another story for another day.
We've been quite successful in our endeavors. Between the both of our gardens, her CSA box, my father's neighbor and their apple trees, we've not had to purchase much produce. We've pickled peppers and squash. We've made marmalades, preserves, pie fillings, two different types of pepper jelly, fruit jellies, salsa, and even more salsa. We've frozen peaches, squash, and zucchini. We've dried peppers. We've even made a spicy peach barbecue sauce and a spicy/sweet Thai dipping sauce. We were just showing out at that point.
We've no plans of slowing down either. We've plans to visit the local farmer's market this weekend to see what we can come up with. We're gearing up for phase two of our canning craze and that involves our pressure cookers. Soups, broths, and anything else we can come up with are all fair game. Our preserving cookbooks haven't steered us wrong yet.
Hubby can continue to claim that I have an illness, an addiction if you will. I don't mind just as long as he doesn't get in my way in the kitchen. Besides, I can stop any time I want.

Covered In Tears And Ice Cream

My grandmother always used to say to me, "You and your big ideas." Generally, this was said in reference to some grandiose plan I'd concocted and only half way managed to finish. It's a well known fact that those are two of my biggest faults. I dream too big, too tall for the world of my own accomplishments. I start with this "big idea" and dive right in, only to abandon it somewhere around mile marker "what was I thinking?"
In times past I would arrive at a certain location, not quite the finishing line of my delusional destination, and call it quits. In the past few years I've worked hard at finishing what I've started. I want to look back with satisfaction and pride at a project completed, even if it is with what little sanity I began with shredded. And that is where I was Friday, somewhere caught between "what was I thinking?" and "this will work, even if we're both in tears and covered in ice cream".
For weeks now I've been planning Firstborn's third birthday party. I've hand made the invitations for the past two parties. It's something I really enjoy doing, but I usually end up frustrated and stressed by the time it's all said and done. Especially, after last year when I had to redo all the invite driving directions twice because of road closures due to Steeplechase and an unannounced monsoon season. In the end I ended up making phone calls.
This year, in an effort to keep things simple as my mother-in-law is always suggesting, a suggestion I'd be wise to adhere to more often, I decided to use the photo invitations from Costco. They're cheap, easy, and available online. Those, my friends, are some of my favorite words. They even had a cute template that would work well with what little bit of a theme I was going for, an ice cream party.
The idea was to have a backyard party and grill out. We'd serve cake and ice cream and let the kids decorate their own cones. I was going to make a cake shaped as an ice cream cone by baking one sheet cake and cutting a cone shape from it. Then I'd bake three dome shaped cakes, one for each of his three years, for the scoops of ice cream. Each cake would be a different flavor. Strawberry cake with strawberry icing, chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Cute, right? I'd assemble the cakes and look like Martha freakin' Stewart. *editor's note* There's bound to be an upcoming post on how comical that attempt will be. Stay tuned.
To make the invitations super cute I thought I'd take Firstborn's photo while he was eating a three scoop ice cream cone. Easy enough, right? *Sighs* In the back of my head I could faintly hear my grandmother saying that phrase that had plagued me since childhood.
The first attempt at getting that "perfect shot" was Friday morning. He and I left Secondborn with Hubby for morning naps. The plan was to run a few errands and end up at an ice cream parlor to take the pictures. I thought I would tip big to ensure that perfect looking cone and also in case of a big mess. It became clear to me as the morning wore on that Firstborn wasn't going to make it. With each stop we made he became increasingly whiny and non-compliant. Yet, I pressed on. I knew I was so close to that money shot that I could already picture it in my head. His big blue eyes sparkling, his smile so fresh on the invitation that you'd swear you could hear his giggles, and a triple scoop of frozen perfection posed mid air, just below its point of destination. Nothing, and I mean nothing was going to keep me from my perfect picture.
At last, done with errands we made our way twenty minutes in the opposite direction to a shopping center where I'd remembered seeing an ice cream parlor. Firstborn was quickly coming undone in the backseat. I looked at the clock. It was closing in on lunch time. We'd taken far longer on errands than I'd anticipated and now it was showing. I began talking up the big treat of having ice cream for lunch only to be met with opposition.
"I no want ice cweam. I not wan it!"
"You don't want ice cream? "
"NOOO!"
"Why not? It's so yummy. You love ice cream."
"NOOO!" Followed by whining.
I chose to ignore the rest. I knew once inside the ice cream parlor he'd change his mind. But, that's where we faced an even bigger problem than the screams of my child being held hostage and about to be forced to consume ice cream. The place had gone out of business.
Alright, quick change of plans. I can do this. I can do this. I kept telling myself as I was trying to get him back into his seat. In no way was he excited to be getting back into his carseat. After prying his rigid and clutching body off the side of the Mommymobile and back into his seat we did the only sensible thing we could do. I admitted temporary defeat and headed home. We would try again after a long, very long nap time.
While Firstborn was napping I made a new game plan. I would make a run for ice cream and we would do the shoot in our yard. It made sense. I'd have Hubby for backup. We'd be able to make another cone should we have a mishap. And he'd be much more comfortable in his own setting. Right?
Immediately upon waking I started talking up the ice cream treat. He got excited, as did I. This was going to work. I just knew it. I quickly made up one dandy of a triple decker ice cream cone and we headed to the front yard. I handed him the cone and readied my camera. The boy took one lick and held it out to me.
"I no wan it, Mama. I no wan it."
"What do you mean, you don't want it? It's so tasty. Go on. Give it another lick."
"Noooo. I done."
"Oh, no. You're not done. There's a lot left to lick."
"Here. You eat it."
"Mommy doesn't want it. You eat it."
"But, I don wan it! I don wan it, Mommy!"
"Oh, but you do. And Mommy really needs you to try just a bit more of it. Pretty please!"
"NO! I done. I done. I done."
"Please! I'll give you candy if you just eat a little bit."
Yes, I resorted to bribery. Don't judge. I was prepared to do whatever it took, even if it meant he and I were both covered in tears and ice cream.
In the end, it was me who ate the ice cream cone. It was me who was covered in tears and ice cream. I had this out of body experience where I looked down to see a crazed mama on the front lawn, camera in hand forcing her child to eat a triple decker ice cream cone. What had gotten into me?
We made our way to the backyard to play on the swing set and try to recover our good spirits. After a maximum of only five trips down the slide I heard the undeniable sounds of the ice cream truck making its way down our street. Oh, no. Here it comes, I thought. I closed my eyes tightly and just waited. And, sure enough there it was.
"Mama! I need ice cream!"

Give Me Spring, Or Give Me An Umbrella Drink

The sun is shining, both babes are napping, and I have Mexicano music blaring as loudly as I dare with said babes napping. Somebody pass me an umbrella drink. Never mind that the temperature is barely into the 40's. That's a virtual heatwave with what we've been experiencing. Give me spring or, or, or just give me six more stinkin' weeks of this frigid gloom.
I'm a sunshine baby and always have been. I just don't do well this time of year. Now that we are finally settled into a place with a yard I'm ready to explore every square inch of it. I'm just itching to get my hands into some composted/mulched/potting soil/good ol' dirt and get my garden started.
With every hour of sunshine that I can steal I'm one step closer to digging out my summer apparel, what I can still fit into. Last summer's collection was all maternity, as you may well remember. And I'm five to seven pounds away from pre-pregnancy weight and the clothing that went along with that. I suppose while I continue waiting on the weather and my body to both cooperate I could find other means of entertaining myself. Say, where is that umbrella drink?

These Days

Discouraged. That's the word that jumps to mind most days. To be honest it has company. Tired, stressed, sick, and when they all band together I just reach a tad further and go with "pissed off and done with it all".
Since the beginning of November there's always been someone sick in our household. Two major holidays and two out of town trips took place. We moved. And three broken toes, two new cut teeth, countless sinus infections, and two clogged milk ducts later here we are.
Yet, another word has begun to creep back in. Joy. Pure and utter delight as Secondborn is clearly the happiest baby to ever grace this earth. Even as she cut two teeth in less than twenty days, we hardly knew it. Yes, she was fussy, but, she smiled all the while through it.
Firstborn also brings his share of joy to the table. Mind you, it's often tangled up in the mess of the moment, but it's there. Sure, sometimes I have to squint real hard through my tears to see its glimmer but I see it. I see his wonder for all that this world has laid before him to explore and conquer and I then remember that I want to join him on his adventures. Forget the laundry and unpacking. It will wait. In the meanwhile all those boxes make for a really good fort and there's bound to be something fun on the other side.
I know these days will pass and things will get easier. I also know that these days will pass and I will no longer have a beautiful daughter who lights up every time I walk into the room, or a son who can't wait for me to "Go 'splore, Mommy. Let's go 'splore." These days will pass all too quickly I am told all too often. It's time I really remember just what that means. It's time I kicked Discouraged and his downtrodden friends to the curb and replace them with Wonder, Joy, and Delight.