Civilize-ation

This past weekend, Craig and I attended the funeral of his much-loved grandmother. We reconnected with members of his family we haven't seen in ages, and spent a particularly touching evening with all of the extended family, reminiscing about Grandma: her many idiosyncrasies, her intelligence and ingenuity, but most off all, her powerful influence -- an influence that, no doubt, will send ripples through the generations in both directions.

She raised five sons. Those five boys are all, I'm happy to report, extremely civilized and happy in their adulthood. This surprises me not because I know them now, but because I have inherited Grandma's life's work: raising sons.

I don't always love this job. In fact, there are times that I downright detest it. Don't get me started about dirty bathrooms and the tendency to turn everything into a weapon. They've even taught their little sister so much about defending herself that they call her our "Tackle Baby" -- a weapon, indeed. I could go on and on about potty mouth, fascination with gross noises, and the hearing aids I'm pretty sure I already need as a result of the perpetual escalation of indiscriminate noise-making.

Over Christmas break, I was talking to my sister on the phone one day while doing the dishes. my childrens' noise level became so unbearably loud that I could no longer hear what she was saying. It sounded like howler monkeys had invaded my living room, and were entertaining themselves by swinging back and forth between the Christmas tree and the ceiling fan.

"Jenny!" I moaned. "I think I live in Lord of the Flies! And I'm a little afraid that I am Piggy!"

And then, of course, I immediately got off the phone and turned my attention to the thing that should have, actually, had my attention in the first place: my unruly clutch of male-children, waiting, desperately, to be civilized by the touch of a woman.

I noticed something interesting about my children very early on: they have always been calmed by the presence of an older female. Their cousin, Lucy, has an especially settling effect on them. She's a born boss (it's one of the many reasons I love her!) and even though she's but 15 months older than my twins, when she starts barking out orders, they listen.

Last summer, I would go spend the day at Jenny's house and let the kids (all boys, except for Lucy) play: sandbox, Wii, swimming at the community pool, usually followed by a couple of Little Caesar's pizzas thrown onto the back deck with a box of Capri Suns and instructions to stay outside until their swimsuits were dry. Lucy would make sure everyone was done eating, then line them up in Mother-May-I fashion for the orderly distribution of popsicles while Jenny and I sipped our Cokes and watched from the kitchen table on the other side of the french doors. I was fascinated -- awed, even -- by how different boys behave when there's a little estrogen in the room.

As I've struggled through the past six weeks of schoollessness (yes, it's a word -- I just coined it) brought on by three weeks of Christmas break, a week of DisneyWorld, and a bunch of snow days, I have often lamented to those who are required to listen (husband, sister, mother, friend) that my house right now is not at all the way my house was when I was growing up. I am the oldest of four, and my two brothers are seven years apart. They did not rough-house. They did not horse around. They did not wrestle, tackle, bite, kick, fight, body-slam, or fart on each other. Our house was loud and happy, but it was not a testosterone-laden den of boy smells and car noises.

I said this to Craig the other day, and he sort of snorted. "Oh, this is exactly what it was like at my house."

God bless his mother. She had exactly what I have now, in reverse order: girl, boy (Craig), then three years later, identical twins. She had the intelligence to quit after the twins, as many more-sane people do, and you should hear the laundry list of antics those three got up to. Someone once gave them boxing gloves for Christmas. I kid you not. And I think it actually worked. Nothing stops fighting like good, old-fashioned permission.

While listening to all of those stories about Craig's grandmother, I realized exactly what we're here for: to civilize. She raised five sons who have all made lasting contributions to the world they live in. They have raised families of their own, started businesses, served others, and lived the Gospel. And the reason they had the skills to do what they have is because their mother recognized the potential underneath the wild-man exterior that, I'm convinced, every boy exhibits to some degree. She molded them, shaped them, prepared them to be husbands, fathers, and leaders, helped them become so much better than they could have ever been without the calming influence of the great civilizer of society: the mother.

How to Tell The Difference Between InkMom and MommyJ

My sister is a blogger, too. If you're not yet aware of MommyJ's blog, you're in for a treat. She's funny and smart, a great writer and a fantastic mom. Please be sure to check out her companion post. You won't get the full story unless you read us both!

MommyJ and I are exactly 4 years, 4 months and 4 days apart. I am older. And bossier (and whatever she says in her blog, I totally told her to say it).

When we were younger, people often asked if we were twins. This was a little galling, especially for me, the older sister. We used to spend inordinate amounts of time staring at our faces, smushed together in the hallway mirror, trying to find the so-called similarities. Feature by feature, it's all different.

But the overall impression is pretty much the same.

We live in the same stake -- and I live within the bounds of the very same ward our parents have attended since I was two years old. This causes confusion, especially for those who only know one or both of us in passing. One particular member of our stake presidency never fails to get it wrong, even when one of us is pregnant.

Some of you lucky ducks may have the distinct privilege of meeting both me and MommyJ if you happen to be at the Casual Blogger Conference this coming weekend. Just in case you're confused, I've provided a primer. Study up -- we expect you to get it right 100% of the time. Here's how:

 This is my humility picture. And also my reminder to pluck my eyebrows before we leave on Thursday.

1. InkMom has curly hair. MommyJ does not. This would make things easier . . . except I'm getting a blow-out (of the hair -- not diaper -- variety) on Wednesday, so I won't actually have curly hair for the conference. Bummer. It's really something to behold. (And waaaaay better now that I  have been de-mulleted.) But even straightened, it's bigger than MommyJ's straight hair.

2. InkMom's baby is older. Little Miscellany (almost 7 months) and Baby Ivy (6 weeks) will be attending the conference with us. This means that my baby will almost-crawl her way over to any beautifully painted toes she can find, squawking and screeching as she goes. Please forgive her if she somehow salivates on any part of your belongings or -- egad -- your toes. And be fairly warned -- we call her The Pterodactyl for a reason.

3. MommyJ is younger, as I've already said, but (hopefully) you can't tell by looking at us. Except MommyJ wears younger shoes. And, due to some overzealous plucking, I have lots of half inch-long wiry gray hairs sticking our all over my head.

4. InkMom looks like she hijacked a produce stand and hid a couple of melons in her shirt. MommyJ looks like she's smuggling cantaloupes in her pantalones. We're pretty sure our mom overdosed on Big Macs when she was pregnant with me and I am the unfortunate result of the presence of unregulated bovine growth hormone in the beef. (Ask her this weekend -- she'll be at the conference, too!)

5. InkMom uses big words in every day conversation, without a single thought for the vocabulary size of her audience. MommyJ sounds smart and incredibly capable (because she is) without being a pompous walking dictionary.

6. InkMom has an ego the size of Texas. Maybe bigger. MommyJ is a singularly nice person who is a delight to be around because somehow, everyone is worthy of her friendship.

So let's review, shall we? I'm the big sister in almost every sense of the word: bigger hair, bigger baby, bigger boobs, bigger vocabulary, bigger ego. Thank goodness she's the one with the bigger butt!

Weekend Report

Well. I'm a little late posting, since I told you I'd be back Sunday night, but these pictures are worth waiting for, I promise.

We had a fabulous weekend of shopping and laughing and talking and eating. Gramma bought cute matching dresses for all of her granddaughters, so, of course, we had to take pictures. We like to call them The Blonde, The Brunette, and The Redhead:

Those are MommyJ's daughters Lucy and baby Ivy with a side of grinning Miscellany, my little gem. Aren't they cute?

CPod got Miscellany dressed for church. When we arrived (early, for once), I went to nurse her before the meeting started. I noticed she didn't have any little bloomers covering her bum. CPod claimed there were none with the dress. I knew this wasn't right, but just figured they got lost somewhere between the closet and the baby and I'd find them when we got home. And then I looked under the back of her dress. Which is exactly where I found the bloomers, still attached by little white plastic tags to the inside of her dress. CPod just looked at me. "I don't know how that stuff works!" he said. Which is exactly what I say to him when I remind him that our boys need some further aiming remediation when it comes to peeing in the toilet.

Here are all the women alive with whom I share a great deal of my genes -- Mom, daughters, granddaughters:

We had a little moment in the dressing room at one of the stores we visited on Friday -- we were all there, and I'm pretty certain my grandmother popped in for a minute or so, too. When I was growing up, I had no concept of the closeness and satisfaction possible in sister-and-mother relationships. If I'd known then how great it could be, I would have tried a lot harder to be likable!

I found THE jeans that were made for my posterior. As in, Calvin Klein snuck into my room in the middle of the night and measured my butt, then made me some jeans. They're fantastic. And they cost half as much as the jeans that do great things for MommyJ's bottom end. Neener, neener.

Some evidence that I'm Miscellany's mother (get a load of her legs -- the rolls abound):

All these pictures were taken in my house -- and that awful mess of stuff in the background? That is our Gallery Wall. My kids use the French doors off the dining room to display any and all art projects for posterity, and while it's not exactly going to sell my house to the first buyer who sees it (not that we're selling), they are so proud of the things they put up there that I'm not about to mess with it. Also, the chair I'm sitting in has started to remind me of a Vegas casino carpet.

And the dress:

And because you are a captive audience, and she is irresistible:

And because Little Miss Personality stole the show (and also has enormous feet!):

I am so getting my haircut on Thursday. Usually, I love my curly hair, but sometimes . . . sometimes, it's just a big unruly mess and I feel the need to tame it. And tame it I shall. Perhaps while I'm at it I should figure out how to de-shine my face. So, hair? Meh. Skin? Needs some work. Eyebrows? Definitely in need of some grooming. But that jacket? Love it. You should see the back.

That's all for now, dear readers. This is the closest thing to a scrapbook I will EVER have and sometimes it needs to have pictures -- so thanks for indulging me. I promise, no more baby pictures for at least two posts!

Lucky Day

Because I found 13 four-leaf clovers today. And a few with five leaves. In about 3 minutes. It's a gift.

I haven't written much lately, because I've had so much to write about. I've said that before. Someone else has said that recently, but I can't remember who. So I'm cleaning out my (figurative) closet RIGHT NOW and I'm just going to write one big, huge, messy, disconnected post of Blog Nothing. And then I will feel better and I'll be able to get on with my life. Here we go!

1. I also cleaned out my literal closet. My husband hates it when I do this. He says it creates a vacuum of space that needs to be filled. He's right. I'm going shopping on Friday. My sister loves it when I do this because she gets all of my cast-offs, if she wants them. And she does. Everybody wins. Except my cash stash.

2. Did you hear? I'm going shopping on Friday. With my sister. And my mom. And our beautiful babies. And then we (including sisters-in-law and Lucy) are going to play cards and drink Mexican Co'Cola until the cows come home. (When, exactly, is that? Does anyone know? Annette?) And all of the men in our family are camping. And we are all, every one of us, campers and shoppers alike, Very Much looking forward to this weekend. I have a vacuum to fill, after all.

3. I asked my sister the other day how she would describe me to a stranger who had to find me based on her description. I know, it's a weird question. She said, "I would tell them to look for the beautiful (she has to say that because people sometimes think we're twins) short girl in a red coat with a mass of curly dark hair." And I said, how can you leave out the boobs? She said, No one notices your boobs. I said, Are you on drugs? Because, well. They're ginormous. And now that I've had my last baby, I am going to give my back a blessed break and surgically alter my figure. I have looked forward to this since before I had children, and now that it's 6 months or so away from actually happening, I'm worried that my buxom-ness is an actual part of my identity. I know. Every day, the (Not) in "I'm (Not) Crazy Mommy" fades a little.

4. I just read this post by Heather of the EO. But before I read it, I listened to/watched her Thank You video here. And I was so happy to hear her voice. When I read blogs, I narrate them in my head. But if I have really heard your voice, I hear your voice . . . in your voice, instead of mine. And I loved it. I will forever read her blog with a Minnahsohtah voiceover. This is one of the many reasons I'm excited to go to the CBC in just THREE WEEKS. Finally, my little dramatic interpretations of what you've written will have an all new cast of voiceover actors.

5. Speaking of the CBC, I'm having some anxiety about it. In case you don't know, I'm speaking on a panel with my sister (MommyJ of Mommy Snark, in case you just thought I was her stalker -- although she's very stalk worthy. But don't. Please.), Kristina Pulsipher of Pulsipher Predilections, and Jessica Bern of Bern This. These girls are FUNNY. Me? Not so much. And so while I am a complete and total attention hog when it comes to things that, oh, I don't know, showcase my brilliance and help me feel super-smart, I do not shine in the comedy department. Unless you count unintentional physical comedy. I'm totally good at slipping on an invisible banana peel, or magically dropping something that I wasn't even holding. Anyway, our topic is Finding Your Voice. I'm still looking for mine, I think, but if you can think of anything you think would be interesting for us to cover, glance furtively the other way to make sure MotherBoard and MomBabe aren't looking and e-mail me some suggestions!

6. Speaking of sisters, I love mine. I decided the other day that I'm glad I only have one. If I had another sister, we would have to share. And someone would always be left out. And, let's be honest here people. It would be me. Critical? Check. Overbearing? Check. Controlling? Oh, yes. Know-it-all? I invented the term. Willing to change? Absolutely not. In other words, MommyJ is stuck with me by default. Yay for me!

7. I can't decide if my hair makes me look more like this guy (note the fine halo of snowboarder extraordinaire Shaun White's out-of-control frizzies that WILL NOT be controlled by any amount of leave-in conditioners, smoothing balms, control creams, or shaping waxes -- trust me, I know):

Or this guy (note the heavy, hanging-to-the-jowls, face-elongating, horse-ifying qualities of Maestro Bach's 17th century wig):

Although I'm not sure either one is really worthy of my hair worship.

Later, my friends. I will blog again before . . . Sunday, midnight, EST. Promise!

On being judgmental, from all directions

I have the opposite of writer's block: there are so many things I want to write about that I can't nail one down enough to focus on it. Obviously, the best course of action here is to ignore all of those ideas that have been demanding front row cerebral space for the past three months and go with something brand new. So that's where we are.

Many of you know I have a sister. MommyJ is my dearest friend. In a perfect world, we would live next door to one another, our homes only separated by a gigantic shared walk-in closet. (Except for the blue jeans. Those, we don't share.) We were not close growing up -- I'm 4+ years older, and we were both bratty in very different ways. Our interests were vastly different, as were our approaches to life in general. I think, then, we looked at each other through carnival mirrors, each convinced the other was the one with the skewed perspective of reality. And the cuter figure. (We may have both been right, on both points.) We grew into a friendship that has ended up being the key to my sanity on my worst days, and a great source of joy and delight on all the other ones.

Over the past couple of days, MommyJ has engaged in an exchange of sorts with an acquaintance and MommyJ has been unfairly judged. This woman has made assumptions about MommyJ's life that imply the only reason it's so good is because she hasn't come up against any real trials -- yet. And she seems to watch MommyJ's little family just waiting for life to smack my baby sister in the face. What would you wish for, my friend? Do you actually hope for sickness, disease, disability? Are you waiting for her kids to hit puberty and fall off the deep end? How about job loss, or the death of a loved one? Legal troubles? A secret drug habit, or infidelity?

I do not understand why we all feel so strongly the need to measure our trials against another's. How can we assume that we all must endure exactly the same experiences in order to learn the same lessons? Surely the Lord does not mean for us to live our lives waiting for the other shoe to drop. There is no joy in that!

Here's the thing: we try so hard not to judge people who are going through difficult experiences. Sometimes, those challenging circumstances are the direct result of poor choices made by those involved. But sometimes, bad things just happen. This doctrine of not judging is preached a lot these days. But if it is true, the opposite must also be true: sometimes really great circumstances are the direct result of good choices made by those involved. And sometimes, good things just happen. But the good circumstances are not finite, handed out to others with none left for some at the end of the day. 

Sometimes, we endure trials very publicly. I think of so many of you out there who have children born with serious disabilities. Those trials are hard, in part, because they are out there for the world to see, and how you deal with them becomes a very public thing. Other times, we overcome private, painful trials one on one with the Lord, and these may be the hardest lessons of all.

When MommyJ became pregnant with Jordan, her first, CPod and I were three years into a seven year dose of infertility. I was happy, because she was happy, but her happiness was a little clouded. Every time someone who knew both of us found out she was expecting, they qualified their happiness for her by saying, "This must just be so hard for your sister." Even our mom was a little afraid of how I might react. But MommyJ didn't take a baby away from me. She gave me a nephew! To this day, I thank the Lord that I was able to share in MommyJ's joy and separate it from my own personal heartache. I would have been without a valuable source of support and love through some of my darkest days had I counted her blessings as black marks against my own.

Here's my long-winded point: please don't compare your trials to those of anyone else. The comparison does nothing for you but drive a wedge between you and somebody who might actually be able to help you through it.Please don't try to qualify the spiritual merit of another's experience based on the outward appearance of their current circumstances. You have no way of knowing what private struggles they may face, or what demons may have already been overcome. Do not discredit another person's methods because your experience yielded a different result. Remember that when all is said and done, you will only be judged against your own potential, so to compare yourself to others in the here and now is fruitless and counterproductive -- and a really quick trip down the path of self-condemned inadequacy.

(And please don't hold this post against me. It's not exactly my most organized and thorough composition.)

Random! The Randster! Randarooney! Randomaliscious!

1. Do you think I'm damaging my children for life because we listen to No Doubt all the time? Sometimes I feel the need to increase the amount of estrogen floating around in the ether of our house and No Doubt is girl-power music to the nth degree. I love it all. Except for "Don't Speak" -- that one was ruined by a really bad break-up experienced by one of my college roommates, and I can never hear the song without remembering how unfairly she was treated. Sorry, 'ness!

2. CPod watched American Idol with me last Wednesday. His comment: "This is obviously live because otherwise, it would not be so . . . crappy."

3. Girlfriends are great. And girlfriends who are totally okay with the absolutely unfiltered version of you are especially great. I have a lot of those. It's a good thing because I'm usually pretty unfiltered.

4. Moving is not great. My friend Jen is moving this week. I'm sad. Michigan is far away, and her family's life will improve immensely because of their new situation . . . but still. It stinks, and I will miss her a lot.

5. Speaking of friends, I have some really, really great ones. I have old friends that I've known since junior high, and we don't talk that often but when we do, it's as if no time has passed. I have had college roommates who became like sisters to me. I have one friend in particular that became my entire support system when CPod was in graduate school. Her husband was CPod's study mate. Their new baby (now 10) was the one we loved like our own since we had no babies, and we had dinner together so many times that I can't even count them. She is the gold standard friend, against whom all other friends will be forever measured.

I have had office friends and symphony friends; summer camp friends and neighbor friends; church friends and we're-all-in-the-same-boat graduate school spouse friends; employer friends and employee friends. I have really great sister-in-law friends and, yes, even a mother-in-law friend. I was in a string quartet once that was like being one cell of a multicellular organism. I have new friends that I wouldn't know if it weren't for blogging, and old friends who I might not ever hear from again if it weren't for the blogging world.

Now, I have the best friends I think I've ever had all at one time. Do you ever wonder at which point people become indispensible? I do. I don't know when it happens, but it has with many of my closest friends. I hope I am as necessary to them as they are to me.

And then there's my sister. Don't even get me started. When I was in junior high school (that makes me seem old, doesn't it? I mean, what's middle school?) we didn't text -- we wrote notes. And we would sign our notes with the ubiquitous "LYLAS": Love Ya Like A Sister! Well, I wrote it, but I didn't really mean it. How many of my friends would have been flattered if they had really thought about what it meant? I love you just like I love my 9 year old sister who annoys me to death! Yay! If I were to revert suddenly to seventh grade behavior and write you a note in huge bubble-script, if I wrote LYLAS at the end, you should consider it a compliment of the highest order. And I can't forget my mom. It's a wonderful place to be in when you are grown up enough to realize how great your mother is. I'm there, and she's the best. I am lucky to call her my friend.

(I think maybe number 5 should have been it's own post. Oh, well.)

6. I feel really cruddy. I think I know what asthma feels like now -- like Andre the Giant is sitting on my lungs and keeping them from inflating all the way. And I sound like a foghorn.

7. It strikes mortal fear in my heart when my husband tells me he might need me to come into the office one day when they're short-staffed. Why? Because of the inadequacy of the mommy wardrobe for any occasion that will not include poopy diapers and snot wiped on you at crotch-level. The one day when it was a real possibility that I would have to go to work outside my house, I had a 15 outfit try-on-a-thon and still wasn't satisfied with what I ended up wearing. I mean, I think I have a great wardrobe . . . until I have to do something besides A. play in a symphony, B. attend a funeral (that symphony black does have a dual purpose!), C. clean my house, D. play with my kids, or E. go on a date with my husband. Work clothes? Not so much.

8. My twins think everyone is a twin. Granted, they are surrounded by twins in their little lives: they have twin cousins, twin uncles, and 4 other sets of twins in their preschool class (I know -- it's not a wonder I can never find 2 pair of anything sized 4T at Target). They spend a lot of time figuring out who belongs to whom, twin style: of course, MommyJ and I are twins (we're not -- I'm *GASP* 4 1/2 years older!); our brothers are also twins (also inaccurate -- they're 7 years apart); and they have broken the twin bond of their uncles, and assigned Uncle C as daddy's twin, even though he rightly belongs with his identical brother, Uncle B. Very funny.

9. The crispy green beans at PF Chang's are nigh unto exceedingly AWESOME.

10. My family is notorious for playing the "you-look-just-like" game. CPod is always annoyed by it. So, just to spite him, CPod looks just like the dude from "Life" (NBC, Wednesdays at 9PM): Damian Lewis. (IMDB him. I promise you they could be brothers. And I didn't want to get permission to use any of his photos because I'm lazy, so if you really want to see, that's what you'll have to do.) Name any person (well, not any person -- I have to have actually seen who you're naming) and I will come up with someone they look just like. And if I can't, I guarantee my mother will be able to.

11. Sickness + Travel + Unrealistic Expectations = An Unrealized February Running Goal
Just because I ran 6.2 miles once does not mean I can do it every day between now and Saturday. I'll try to be a bit more . . . honest when setting my goal for March!

I'm done.

Here's how it really happened . . .

MommyJ and I are posting our own versions of this story concurrently. If you haven't already read her side, click here. And since this is about our childhood, MommyJ will henceforth be referred to as ChickyJ, and myself as InkChick.

When I was in the eleventh grade and ChickyJ in seventh, we got our first home computer that had a color screen and a non-dot matrix printer. It was great . . . way better than the green-on-black dinosaur we were used to using at home. I remember being so thrilled with myself because I used the computer to type up Advanced Biology assignments in various fonts. (Don't say it . . . I know what you're thinking. Did this girl actually have any friends?!? Yes, and some of them were even boys.)

We didn't have any fancy games, but we still managed to become obsessed with beating each other's high scores on the ones that came with the computer: Pinball, Solitaire, Minesweeper, and, best of all, Pyramid.

Do you know the game I'm talking about? All the cards are laid out in a pyramid shape, and you have to match up pairs that add up to thirteen until you clear the board. Not all of these games are solvable, but ChickyJ and I played it enough that we began to learn which ones were the easiest to complete and then race against each other's best times.

We would spend HOURS doing this -- hours of, I would argue, quality time because up to this point, ChickyJ and I had not exactly gotten along very well. I guess Mom didn't limit our play because at least we were doing something together, which was uncommon.

We whittled our times down second by second, one besting the other until, finally, I achieved what I believed to be the fastest time possible: 9 seconds. I was looking forward to serious bragging rights because, of course, you could record your name in the high scores, indelibly stored (not really . . . you could reset them) on the hard drive for all posterity to see. But rather than simply inputting my name, I decided instead to humiliate my sister, and I typed, "I love you, ChickyJ!" Or at least, I though that's what I keyed. What I actually typed was, "I loce you, ChickyJ!" I didn't notice the typo before ChickyJ who, quick as ever, hit "Enter", indelibly storing evidence of my imperfection instead of a record of my superiority.

Now that I remember all this, I wonder why I've kept saying "I loce you" all these years. It wasn't exactly my best moment, but it just sort of stuck.

That year of computer novelty appreciation was the beginning of the turning point in the relationship between InkChick and ChickyJ. She moved into my room, and we started having conversations that didn't start with, "I didn't say you could borrow that!" We began the VERY long journey of sisterly appreciation -- one that didn't fully come to fruition until years later when ChickyJ got married and we began to have something besides genetics in common.

That year, we started other strange traditions, like every time I would come home from a date or a rehearsal (oh, yes, the rehearsals) or whatever, I would lurk at the door to our room and, breathing through my teeth in my deepest James Earl Jones-esque voice, say, "Luuuuke . . . I am yohr fah-thuh"; and dramatic scripture reading that would have entertained all of you, I guarantee. We were only an orchestra short of a full on oratorio.

Now, ChickyJ is MommyJ and she is my very best friend. (Don't read this, CPod. Or InkySnark, who is our mother. No offense intended, but nothing beats a sister!) I cannot imagine my life without her friendship. On vacation last week, I didn't even talk to her once and I thought I might go through withdrawal.

So, here's to MommyJ, who I will, forever and ever, LOCE!