The Hardest Dance

I'm a terrible dancer, I always have been. I'm ridiculously uncoordinated. I always want to go left when I should be going right; right when I should be going left. Usually, I just give up and do my own thing. It's easier that way.

Moving forward with your life after your spouse dies is like learning an intricate new dance, without an instructor (or a YouTube video) to teach you the steps.

But with an audience to judge your every move.

Forward and backward between your past and your future. Side to side between your old life and your new one. 

I worked really hard to learn this dance.

Forward forward.

I practiced the steps over and over again until I made myself dizzy. 

Back back. 

Sometimes I messed the steps up.

Forward forward. 

But I kept practicing until I had the dance figured out.

Then I went to the Regimental Ball last year. And I discovered that the dance was actually a lot more complicated than I realized.

I hadn't learned the side step at all.

It's not a step you can learn in an evening (gin doesn't help with that).

Although I did try. Unsuccessfully. 

I'd been back to the Regiment a couple of times over the previous two years.

Still, I hesitated when I got the invitation. It would be the first Regimental social function I went to by myself, and that was a little bit daunting. I'd been invited the year before but my heart wasn't ready. But this year was different. I was in a really good spot emotionally and mentally. I was moving forward with my life; I was becoming more comfortable with who I was. And I was excited to see some of my closest friends who were going. 

I knew there might be a few awkward moments, I'd come to expect those. But surely it wouldn't be that bad. After all, it had been two years. 

It was that bad. And then some.

The awkwardness became apparent early on. There were several people who just didn't know what to say to me. Do they ask how I am or not? Do they mention The Elephant in the room or not? There were some who couldn't even look me in the eye (widowhood actually isn't catching).

And then there were those (casual acquaintances and some I'd never met before) who felt compelled to offer me unsolicited advice.

The evening turned into a complicated foxtrot, one that I hadn't practiced for. 

"Have you started dating yet?"

Side to the left.

"No one in uniform will ever date you with that last name."

Side to the right.

"I'll never forget the day Dan died." 

Back back.

"Online dating is the only way you will ever get a date."

Side to the left.

I wasn't fast enough to keep up with the steps. I didn't even know the steps. 

Quick quick. 

The dance was making me dizzy (or maybe that was the gin?)

I tried desperately to regain my equilibrium but it was too late.

Before I knew it, I'd danced right into the elephant. 

Actually, it was an elderly gentleman wearing a kilt. He looked remarkably like Santa; his face round, his kind eyes glistening with tears.

"I'm so sorry for your loss. Dan was a fine, fine man." As he hugged me, he started to cry. And then his wife hugged me, and she started to cry. 

And I'm trying desperately not to cry as I'm consoling them. 

Not here, not tonight.

In an instant, two years were gone. I was catapulted back. I'd stood in that exact same spot accepting condolences two years earlier after the funeral and memorial. 

I could feel my composure start to crack. I choked back tears as I made my way to the bathroom, hoping to keep it together, hoping that no one would notice. 

Of course, I didn't. And they did. 

I tried (unsuccessfully) to ignore the stares and pitying glances, the whispered comments.

I knew they didn't quite understand what I was feeling. And how could they really? They'd never had to dance in little silver shoes.

I was just so tired. Tired of talking about Dan's death, tired of consoling people, so tired of being the one people looked at with pity and sadness.

In that moment, I wanted to be anyone but me. And I wanted to be anywhere but there.

But you can't run away from yourself.

I knew I couldn't run away. It wouldn't fix anything. 

No matter where I went, I was still going to be Widow Of.

I only had one choice. I had to stay and finish the dance. 

I tried to salvage what was left of my dignity and pride- which wasn't much, and returned to the dance floor. Well, actually I went to the bar, which in hindsight wasn't my best move. 

It actually ended up being the strangest move of the night.

As I was ordering my drink, an old gaffer sidled up beside me.

I'd spent enough time around old gaffers to know this one was no Santa, and he reeked of whiskey.

A widower, he informed me, clearly still struggling with his loneliness. He'd had a girlfriend but it hadn't worked out. "You could be my girlfriend. You'd probably kill me though." He followed that up by assuring me he could still "perform" just in case I was wondering (oddly enough, I wasn't). And how exactly does one respond to that? Good for you?

I honestly didn't know if I should laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Or cry at the utter sadness of it all.

I cried.

I didn't even bother to try to hide the tears this time. What was the point?

I cried for me and I cried for the drunk old gaffer at the bar.

I cried because sometimes life after loss really just sucks.

And starting a new chapter in your life is hard. It might just be the hardest dance of them all.

I had been so excited to spend the evening with my friends. Instead, I spent half of the night talking about my husband's death (uplifting) and the other half hearing how bleak my future romantic prospects are (equally uplifting).

I cried because for just one night I didn't want to think about all that I had lost or how hard it is to move forward.

I was devastated for days afterwards. I felt so defeated.

I felt like I would never have an identity other than as Lieutenant Colonel Bobbitt's widow. That I would never get to be Monica again; that no one would ever look at me and see me for myself, but rather just my last name.

Always Widow Of

Someone (who is not a widow) even went so far to suggest that maybe it would best if I reverted back to my maiden name- perhaps that would make it easier. As if that would somehow make me not Dan's widow anymore? Or make me not me?

I was so disappointed in myself. Because I was supposed to have the dance all figured out.

I'm the strong kick-ass motivational speaker. I'm not supposed to have emotional breakdowns in the middle of the Officer's Mess.

We are always hardest on ourselves.

Of course it's understandable I broke down. I was at a social function (my very first one). And I'd had a couple of drinks (maybe more than a couple). I naively never expected that people would speak to me about the actual day Dan died. Dan yes, but the day he died no. I wasn't emotionally prepared for that one.

The truth is, I very rarely speak about that day. When I do, I've had time to prepare myself; I have my defences in place and I'm definitely not drinking gin.

There is a time and a place.

And the Regimental Ball is definitely not it.

Moving forward with your life is hard, it doesn't come with a rule book. Sometimes it is two steps forward and three steps backwards. And the truth is, I don't know all of the steps. And you know what? Neither does anyone else.

I've worked really hard on establishing my own identity since the Ball last year. I will always be Dan's widow, but that is not I am.

I'm off to the Regimental Ball again tonight.

I'm better prepared than I was last year. I've gotten a lot better at the side-step over the last year. I've had more practice. And I've learned that sometimes gin is not my friend (as sad as that is to say).

And I'm dancing in different shoes tonight. The old ones lost some of their silver sparkle last year (and they hurt my feet). I bought some pretty new ones. Gold this time. Hopefully that damn elephant doesn't scuff these ones up too.

It's a new night, so the dance won't be the same. It never is.

I know I won't know all the steps to tonight's dance. I might even trip over my own two feet again.

And that's okay.

I know I

will never master the dance.  No one ever does. All we can do is lean into the music and make up our own steps as we go along.

Three Years

Three years. 

Three years ago today my doorbell rang. It feels like forever ago but just yesterday at the same time. A posting and a half.

Three years ago today they told me my husband would never be coming home again. There's been an accident. His LAV rolled over. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. 

Half of his ashes are buried beside his comrades in the National Military Cemetery. The other half in Nova Scotia, under the shade of a maple tree. His ashes are there but he is not there.

He is here. 

He has always been here.

He is the laughter of our children. He is in their smiles and the way they move and speak. Are you sure Mom? I'm not so sure.

He is a thousand memories. Hello old man, I'm your dad. A walk across a flooded field. An empty chocolate chip bag. Two fingers banging on a keyboard. Have you seen my blackberry? 

He is the words of an old familiar folk song. We'd fired no guns- shed no tears. Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett's Privateers.

He is always here: always encouraging me, always believing in me, always guiding me.

He is the light that led me out of a dark hole in Wainwright. You can't stay here. You promised me you and the kids would have good, happy lives. 

He is there to give me a gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nudge when I don't think I can go any further. Just a few more steps. Keep going forward.

And he is there to help me get back up every time I fall. You ARE strong enough. You've got this.

He is there, reassuring me when I don't have all of the answers. No one has all the answers Mon, not even me. 

He is there when I don't know if I should take a chance. What if it doesn't work out? You'll never know if you never try. You know it is so worth the risk. Don't live your life with regrets. 

He is there beside me every time I stand at a podium and speak to a regiment or a room full of military spouses. Tell them, they need to know. He is in every soldier's hug I receive.

He is a red Remembrance poppy worn over a grateful heart. For your tomorrow, I gave my today.

He is a bugle's lonely cry and the mournful wail of a piper's lament. Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.

And he is the Canadian flag fluttering in the wind as it flies so proudly from sea to sea to sea. Oh Canada. I will always stand on guard for thee. 

He is always here.

He will always be here. 

This morning as I ran, he was there, his voice whispering in the gentle ocean breeze. Good girl. That's it. Follow your heart, it knows the way.

Always.

I promise. 

Three years. Forever and just a day.

The Last Goodbye

Three years ago today, I kissed my husband goodbye for the very last time. He was on his way out the door for a six week exercise in Wainwright. Ironically, if he'd been deploying, I would have driven him to the base, but this wasn't a "real" deployment, it was just a routine training exercise so he drove himself to Y101. He'd been on countless exercises in the past. It never occurred to me that anything would happen to him while he was gone. Because what could possibly happen in Wainwright, besides a head cold?

Early that morning as I said goodbye, I had no idea I would never, ever see him alive again. I was blissfully unaware of what fate had in store for us twelve days later.

The truth is, we never truly know what the future will bring. When we say goodbye to someone we love, we don't know if that will be the very last time we will see them. When I said goodbye to Dan that morning, I had absolutely no idea that the next time I saw him, he would be lying in a casket in his DEUs.

In a casket. My husband.

"What are you talking about? He's only on an exercise!"

Only.

I sent him out the door that last morning with a kiss, and a bag of chocolate chip cookies Katherine had baked for him the night before.

"I'll see you soon babe. Tell the chilins I love them. And make them walk the dog."

The next time you say goodbye to the person you love, hold them a little bit tighter and give them an extra hug. Just in case. That extra hug might have to last you a lifetime.

Life is too damn short, don't waste it. Embrace it. Learn from it. Savour it. Savour each and every ordinary moment you get. Because you truly never know when you will no longer have any moments left.

This, I very much know to be true.

I'll see you soon babe.

Confessions From a Happy Widow

So apparently today is National Widow's Day. Honestly, I had no idea there even was a National Widow's Day, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, there is a National/International Day for everything. Gin Day is my personal favourite.

National Widow's Day was created in the United States a couple of years ago (shortly before I became a widow) to encourage people to support and help out widows in their communities. One of the best ways we can support widows is to stop judging them. For the love of God and all that's holy people, stop the widow shaming. Just stop.

Many of our beliefs about mourning can be traced to Victorian England when mourning was governed by strict rules. In those days, widows were supposed to wear "mourning" for at least two years and they were not allowed to "enter society" for twelve months. Fortunately "widows weeds" are a thing of the past (thank the Dear Lord for that, I actually don't like black that much and those veils are just ridiculous) but the vestiges of those timelines still linger to haunt widows today.

When I was first widowed, I felt so much pressure to conform to that role. I felt as if I was expected to not just be a widow, but to play the part of widow: to spend the rest of my life as a negative, angry (military) widow, living a life devoid of any happiness or joy. Or love. Our society puts so much pressure and judgment on widows (widowers). How we grieve, how long we grieve, when we date, when we get remarried. The truth is none of those things are a yardstick of how much we loved our spouse. The widow that dates after six months doesn't love her husband any less than the one who waits ten years to date. The widow who gets remarried eighteen months after her husband died doesn't love her husband any less than the one who never remarries. The widow who visits her husband's grave every week doesn't love her husband any more than the one who hasn't been to her husband's grave in months (that'd be me). 

The Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory ranks Death of a Spouse as the single most stressful life event (divorce and marital separation are numbers 2 and 3.) Widows (widowers) don't just lose the person they love the most; they suffer secondary losses as well: partner, co-parent, financial security, future plans, identity, sometimes even their (military) community, just to name a few.  These losses are compounded when widows find themselves facing judgment and criticism for not looking or acting like a stereotypical widow. As if there is any such thing. 

There is no one-size-fits-all rule for widowhood. We are twenty-three, forty-three or eighty-three. We have children. We don't have children. We have careers and we are stay-at-home moms. We lost our husband to cancer or suicide; in an accident or in war. They were plumbers, carpenters, doctors, and soldiers. We are the same and yet, we are all different. 

A few months ago someone actually told me I didn't look sad enough to be a widow. Because apparently I'm supposed to always have a perpetual aura of mourning (another memo I didn't get.) I didn't look sad that day because I wasn't. Sadness is a place to visit, not a place to stay.  I will always be sad Dan is gone but that doesn't mean I am sad. And that does not mean I can't have a joyful, happy life.

So just in case we haven't met, let me introduce myself. Hi! I'm Monica (the one in red.) I am the mom of three (almost) awesome children. I am a blogger and speaker and part-time university student. And yes, I am a military widow. 

Army Ball. April 22, 2017

And no, I don't look like a widow, I look like me (well without my glasses and with some fancy hair and makeup, I actually don't look like this most of the time, I have to be honest.) 

I look happy in this picture because I am happy.

As it turns out, I did not bury my happiness with my husband. I'm pretty sure I've already given up enough.

The Conversation You Need to Have

Shortly after my father was diagnosed with cancer, I found myself asking him what kind of funeral service he would like and where he would like to be buried. At that point in time we had no idea what his prognosis was or if his cancer had even metastasized (it has). But I'd read enough about lung cancer in the previous few days to know that this was a conversation we needed to have, sooner rather than later. In fact, it's a conversation we should have had long before he became ill.

Death is an inevitable fact of life, and yet it is a subject so many are reluctant to discuss. Most couples have no idea what their spouse's dying wishes are, let alone their aging parents. We avoid the topic because it's uncomfortable and because it makes us sad. No one wants to think about someone we love dying. Death is a very sobering thought. But it is also a reality we will all face at some point in time. If we are fortunate it is a reality that won't happen until we reach a ripe old age. But of course, most of us won't be that fortunate. Death rarely comes to take us gently in our sleep when we are 100. It often sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Sometimes it comes on an ordinary May morning when we are 43.

In truth, death is never gentle, especially for those left behind. It's excruciatingly painful, and it is an emotionally and physically exhausting process.

We can never be fully prepared for the loss of our spouse (or any other loved one) but there are some things we can do now that will help us when that day inevitably arrives.

First and foremost, make sure you have all of your legal affairs in order. This means having proper wills and powers of attorney. There is a business side to death, and it brings with it a seemingly never ending stack of paperwork. It will be much more difficult to settle your spouse's estate without proper legal documentation. And the last thing any grieving widow or widower needs to deal with is an estate that has gone to probate.

And you need to sit down and have that "just in case" conversation. It's not an easy conversation to have but it is vitally important.

I will always be grateful that Dan made me have that conversation before he left for Afghanistan.

He was very adamant about what he wanted for me and our children. He made me promise him that we would have good, happy lives if something happened to him (real happy, not pretend on the surface happy). And he made me promise him that I would not spend my life alone out of some misplaced obligation to him. In order for him to deploy and do his job, he needed the assurance that I would be okay, that we would be happy and that our lives would go on without him.

I had no idea at the time just how important that conversation would be.

That conversation was the prologue to this second chapter of my life. In essence, Dan gave me permission (not that I actually needed it, mind you) to move forward with my life without him; to be happy, to love and to eventually get married again. It is reassuring for me to know he would have approved of all of the decisions I have made in the last three years. When others question or criticize those decisions, I know in my heart I have honoured my promises to him.

Ironically, Dan and I never discussed funeral or burial arrangements, but I wish we had. In the days immediately following his death I had so many decisions to make. Burial or cremation? What kind of casket? Maple or oak; satin or polyester lining? Ceramic or steel urn? Open casket or closed?  A religious or non religious service? Would he be buried in the National Military Cemetery or in Nova Scotia? All overwhelming decisions to make when you are exhausted and grieving.  At one point in time I just wanted to scream, "I don't care, just put him in a God damned casket." The most difficult decision I had to make was where to bury him. It was important to me that he be buried with his comrades in Ottawa, but I also knew a part of his heart had always been in Nova Scotia, so I divided his ashes and buried him in both. I'm very glad I made that decision, though I know Dan would have shaken his head at all the extra fuss (and expense) the second burial caused.

This is why I recently found my self discussing funeral arrangements with my parents, I didn't want my mother (or my father, as the case may be) to have to make all of these decisions on their own, after the fact. It wasn't an easy conversation to have but it was absolutely necessary. Within a week or so of my father's diagnosis, I had all my parents' legal and financial affairs sorted out. I knew what kind of funeral they would like and where they want to be buried. It is a huge burden off of their shoulders (and mine) to have all of these issues resolved and out of the way. They don't need that extra stress. Living with cancer is stressful enough.

I was very fortunate that I had time to help my parents prepare. That is sadly too often not the case.

If you haven't had this conversation with your spouse (or your parents) you need to. As soon as possible. Death won't wait for you to get things done. So don't put it off thinking you have time. Because you really never know when you will run out of time.

Be brave enough to have a conversation that matters. Before it is too late.

It truly is the most important conversation you will ever have.

"It is the greatest wisdom, in time of health and strength, to prepare for sickness and death: he that really doth so, his business of dying is half done. ~ Richard Illidge

Happiness Is An Inside Job

Shortly after Dan died, someone told me I would never be as happy again as I was before he died (yes they really said that). Of course, I'm not the same happy as I was before he died (how could I be) but I am happy, it's just a different happy.

And just because I'm happy, that doesn't mean I'm not sad he's gone, that goes without saying.

But I'm far happier with myself as a person than I have ever been. The truth is, there were a lot of years when Dan was alive that I was desperately unhappy with myself.

For so many years, I struggled with feeling like I wasn't enough. I put so much pressure on myself to be the perfect military wife and mother. I spent so much time comparing myself to everyone else, and I always sold myself short.

They were so perfect, I was so far from perfect.

I wasn't thin enough or fit enough. I struggled with my weight for years after I had kids. I was so embarrassed by it that I hid behind big, baggy clothes. My kids barely recognize me in pictures from those years. I hardly recognize me, and not just because I was so much heavier (and frumpier) then, but because I was clearly so unhappy. Because I wasn't enough.

I wasn't organized enough. I was always behind on the laundry. I barely managed to plan meals day to day. And my house always seemed to be a disaster. Whenever my mother in law was coming to visit, I would spend the week before frantically cleaning and tidying because her house was always immaculate. I always worried it wasn't clean enough, never mind it was a 50-year-old PMQ with paint peeling off of the walls. Still not clean enough. I would drive myself and Dan crazy with it. And every time he would tell me. "It's not the Queen Mother coming to visit you know." Worse, it was his mother.

And I wasn't that mom. I wasn't the fun (though I am funny) mom. The one who organized all of the awesome play dates and parties. The kids birthdays would cause me massive amounts of stress every year (three birthdays in five weeks right after Christmas will do that to you). I hated birthday parties. I couldn't decorate a cake to save my soul. I made a Cookie Monster cake one year that looked so demonic I had nightmares for a week. And I didn't make amazing crafts and decorations for the kids' parties, they were lucky to get balloons and streamers from the dollar store. Thank the Dear Lord Pinterest and Instagram didn't exist in those days, or I would have driven myself right over the edge.  #isuckatcakedecoraing #ihatebirthdayparties  #pleaseshotmenow

And worst of all, I was just a stay at home mom. Just. We couldn't afford to buy a house or a second car. We didn't go on exotic vacations in Europe or the Caribbean. Our summer holidays were always spent visiting our families. There were many years we lived pay cheque to pay cheque.

Of course, while I was feeling like a failure for not having a career, many of my working mom friends were struggling with feelings of guilt for not being at home with their kids. The grass is always greener, but I couldn't see that at the time.

And they also were struggling with their own feelings of inadequacy. But I couldn't see that either.

I believed I wasn't enough.

And I was unhappy because of it.

It's taken me a lot of years, and Dan's death, to overcome my feelings of inadequacy. And to become truly happy with myself as a person.

Why is is we do that to ourselves? Why is it that we can't just be happy with who we are and what we have? Right now in this moment. Instead, it's: I'll be happy when_____.

Why is it that we think that in order to be happy we need more: a partner, a fancy car, an over-sized house in the trendiest neighbourhood? Or we need to be taller and thinner and more perfect as if there really is any such thing as perfect.

At the end of the day, none of those things will bring you real happiness, happiness has to come from within.

I will never bake fancy cakes. I don't live in a trendy neighbourhood, but it's lovely, albeit quiet. I don't really drive a fancy car but I love my Highlander. I might always be single (I'm not sure there is anyone out there who is brave enough to join this rodeo. Also, I do like to talk). I'm never (ever) going to talk less or not be an extrovert. I'm never going to be taller (damnit), and I might not lose any more weight. Someday I might learn to lead with my head and not with my heart, but I doubt it.

I am happy with who I am as a person. For the first time in my adult life, I can honestly say I am comfortable in my own skin; wrinkles, stretch marks, scars and all. I'm still not ready to embrace the grey hair yet though, give me time.

I love the me I have become and I am so proud of me. And I should be, I've worked damn hard to get here.

I am enough, in fact, I am more than enough.

I am perfectly imperfect.

And I am happy with who I am.


"Don't rely on someone else for your happiness and self-worth. Only you can be responsible for that. If you can't love and respect yourself-no one else will be able to make that happen. Accept who you are- completely; the good and the bad- and make changes as YOU see fit- not because you think someone else wants you to be different."~Stacey Charter

Just One More Day

My Dad has cancer, and not a good kind. Not that there are any good kinds of cancer, but there are earlier stage cancers, more treatable cancers. He doesn't have one of those kinds. He has inoperable cancer. Two words you never want to hear together. Inoperable cancer.

Late last fall he developed a cough that wouldn't go away, so he went to see the doctor thinking he had a chest infection. Instead he has cancer.

He's had it for a long time and had no idea. He's always been pretty healthy. He's not obese, doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, has low blood pressure. He has regular check ups with his doctor, and gets his blood work done twice a year. In fact the last time he got his blood work done everything was so perfect the doctor asked him why he was there. Only it wasn't perfect.

It never even occurred to him that he had cancer.

That's the thing, we never think it's going to happen to us. Until it does.

One day your dad tells you he's had "a bit of a cough". And then suddenly you find yourself sitting beside him as the specialist explains that the tumour is inoperable.

My dad wanted to put a new roof on the house this spring, and replace some windows. Instead he will be recovering from radiation and chemo treatments.

We always think we have time to do the things we want to do. Until we don't or we can't.

Last week someone said to me, "He's 75, he's had a long life," as if somehow that is supposed to be comforting. It's not. They are right though, he has had a longish life. And as he says, he's still got his feet on the ground, he's not going anywhere yet (take that freaking cancer). Which is good because I'm not done arguing with him. I consider myself fortunate to have had my dad for as long as I have. I, of all people, know that is sadly often not the case. But it's still not long enough, it's not nearly long enough. Not long enough for him, or my mom, or my brothers, or his grandchildren or me.

It doesn't matter how old we are; 27, 43, 61, 75. There is never enough time with the people you love.

We never ever think it's going to happen to us. Until one day you get a cough. You have a seizure. You find a lump. Your door bell rings. And your life is irrevocably changed.

So often we put things off, we'll get to it tomorrow.  I'll call dad tomorrow, I've just been so busy with work. I'll send her a message tomorrow, I don't have time today. Not today buddy, I'm too tired. We'll go to the park tomorrow, I promise. We'll go for a walk at the old farm next weekend dad, if it's not raining.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

We always take for granted that tomorrow is going to come. And if we are lucky, it will.

But sometimes we aren't lucky.

Sometimes there are no more tomorrows.

And you'll never get to keep those promises or send those messages. And you won't get the chance to say I love you.

Please don't put off until tomorrow what you should do today.

Pick up the damn phone. Call your father, and your mother too. Nobody is too busy for the people that matter to them. Nobody. Tell them you love them, as often as you can. They need to know. And thank your parents for putting up with you all these years (I really didn't mean to talk so much, honest). You wouldn't be the person you are today if it wasn't for them. And make time for your friends. Send your friend that message that you just haven't gotten around to sending. Nobody deserves to be treated as an after thought. Get your ass off the couch and take your son to the park. And go for that walk at the old farm with your dad, the fresh air will do you both wonders.

Today you still have a chance. Don't waste it.

Because you truly never know when you'll find yourself wishing you had just one more day.

Sometimes the morning really doesn't know what the day will bring.

Trust me on that one, I know what I'm talking about.

I love you Daddyo (just in case you forgot in the last hour).


"The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected."~Robert Frost