Whew!

The nurse finally called and said the results were benign.

Now I feel like a total dork for being so scared.

Tick...Tick...Tick...

I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to keep my mind on other things. I'm constantly reminding myself that there's a much bigger chance I'll get good news as opposed to bad.

I'm not doing a very good job with any of those things.

I went to see a new OB/GYN Thursday afternoon, a task I always dread, although I don't really know any woman who enjoys the process. I've especially been putting it off because my old (or should I say old school) doctor, while not a misogynist, views women as silly little girls who don't know anything about their own bodies. When my family practice doctor urged me to check into some symptoms I've been having, I was relieved to find that that Dr. Pat-you-on-the-hand-with-a-condescending-tone wasn't available, but Dr. New Guy had some openings right away.

When I went in for my appointment, I braced myself for the possibility that the new doc could just be a clone of the old one. Refreshingly, he wasn't. He actually talked with me instead of staring at my chart and crossing things off. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing what I had to say. His manner was comforting. That comfort did little for me, however, when he leaned in, looked me straight in the eye, said that he was "concerned" about the combination of symptoms and risk factors, and told me that we "really need" to do an endometrial biopsy.

It's one thing for a sister or a friend to say you really need to go see the doctor. It's even a little unnerving to google your symptoms and see the frightening possibilities, but you can still tell yourself not to pay attention to the information overload, and the worries magically evaporate. To see the eerie combination of kindness and gravity in your doctor's eyes as he describes in detail the procedure that will check for cancer cells lurking within your body - well, that can make your blood run cold.

The biopsy was quick. Painless? Not so much. Since I left Dr. New Guy's office, I've been trying to concentrate on anything but the test results: homework, unpacking, movie night with Rhett and the kids. Every cramp I feel jolts my memory of the painful procedure and the possibilities associated with it. No matter what I do, the soundtrack of my worry and fear plays in the background music of my brain. I'm an impatient control freak with huge fear of the unknown, so waiting for results I can't control is cruel punishment indeed.

I keep scouring the internet trying to find the story of someone with similar risk factors and symptoms who got a negative biopsy. I'll find someone whose story is almost identical to mine, but when she says she was diagnosed with cancer, I'll brush it off because she had two kids instead of three or maybe she's 38, not 35. The biggest problem is that the bullet dodgers don't post their stories; they let out a relieved sigh and go back to their PTA meetings. I've decided that when I (hopefully) get good news back from Dr. New Guy, I'm going to post my story on every endometrial cancer message board I can find. Then when some other impatient control freak with an information addiction is searching for a tiny glimmer of hope, she'll find it, and maybe that will make the wating a little less excruciating.

Loss

I grew up afraid of my dad. He was actually a great guy who always had a joke to tell and a hand to lend to anyone who needed it. As a father, however, he could be harsh, and I eventually learned to stay out of his way. No need to go into details, but suffice it to say that I still have emotional scars from growing up as his daughter.

As an adult, I grew to know him as a fellow traveler in this earthly life instead of just as my dad. I came to understand that he did the best he could with the tools he had. Still, as his health has deteriorated over the years, I’ve been afraid that when he died, the biggest tragedy would be that I wouldn't miss him enough.

That fear turns out to be unfounded.

I am so grateful for the chance I had to be with him in his final days. For the past year or so I have felt called, for the lack of a better word, to help my parents through this transition – both to ease my father’s suffering and to comfort my mother. As difficult as the last week of my father’s life was for all of us, I constantly felt a gentle reassurance that I was exactly where I needed to be.

I was afraid to leave his bedside toward the end, so I sat near him for hours at a time listening to the rhythm of his jagged breath while the "click, click, click" of my knitting needles soothed my aching heart. The day before he passed away, he awoke for a brief moment and turned to me, his eyes bright and clear.

“Sometimes life gets complicated, doesn’t it?” he said.

I was startled by his sudden lucidity. He had spent the past several days in a hallucinatory la-la land filled with cowboys and indians. “Yeah, I guess it does, Dad,” I replied. He soon drifted back into his haze.

The next day, family gathered around to say goodbyes. During the night, with my mother, my sister, and I gathered around his bed, his breathing gradually eased, and the time between each breath grew longer and longer. Then in a quiet, peaceful moment, I felt him slip away. The hospice nurse listened for a heartbeat and said, “He’s gone.”

All I could say was, “I know.”

In the end, all the bad stuff between us didn’t matter. He was my dad. I loved him, and he loved me.

I miss him terribly.

Robert Wilson

October 4, 1929 - July 5, 2008

Weathering the Storm

Last night we were serenaded by tornado sirens. Often, the weathermen accompany this song with claims that the sky is falling and later recant their prophecies of doom. We've become a little jaded and don't pay much attention to the warning wails of the sirens or the cries of the men analyzing the radar.

Last night was different. When we heard the stereotypical freight train sound of an approaching twister, we took cover. We emerged unscathed, and in our yard, a fallen tree branch is the only evidence of foul weather.

Our neighbors one block over weren't as lucky, and the next county over is worse still. Here are a few photos from our neck of the woods:

I find this to be a little ironic:

Beauty amid the destruction:

Drawing a Blank

Conversation Regarding Lack of Inspiration

Me: Do you think I'll ever write another blog post again?

Rhett: Oh, I bet you will.

We'll see...

Rite of Passage

Oldest recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday, and tonight he attended his first church dance. He can be kind of shy in certain situations, so I wasn't sure how he would fare. After he got home I asked, "Did you have fun?" As he was loosening his tie, he mumbled, "Yeah."

This is usually about all the information we can get out of him, but I decided to dig a little deeper. He had expressed some hesitancy about actually dancing instead of just hanging out with friends, so my next question was, "Did you dance?" Once again he gave the monosyllabic, "Yeah."

So far, so good. I figured it wouldn't hurt to try one more question: "How many girls did you dance with?" To my amazement, he nonchalantly replied, "Oh, I stopped counting after four."

I think we can call the evening a success. :)

Freedom, Sweet Freedom

I finally dropped Creative Nonfiction. As I handed the drop slip to the representative at Student Services, a huge weight disappeared from my shoulders. I'm still slightly disappointed in myself for not being able to juggle everything, but the sense of peace I feel now leads me to believe this was the right choice. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to snuggle up with a bottle of cough syrup. I plan to spend the weekend sleeping and reading and not stressing out.

To drop, or not to drop: That is the question

I began this semester registered for more classes than I could realistically handle while working part-time and taking care of my family. Still, I decided to plow ahead, pretending that I could juggle everything. The first couple of weeks went deceivingly well, but once actual essays and exams came due, I began to feel the pressure. I got a “B” on an exam (shudder!) and turned a paper in a day late. More importantly, behind the scenes there have been many late night panic attacks as I ponder my inadequacy as a human being.

I keep telling myself not to stress out, that I had planned on dropping a class all along if I felt the need. Unfortunately, now that I’ve started, I’m finding it unbearable to actually drop. I feel like a failure for even considering it. At the same time, something has got to give. When I was diagnosed with pneumonia earlier this week, I was almost relieved because I thought I might be able to use the medically mandated down time to catch up on some reading. Not so. I still haven’t learned how to sleep and read at the same time, so instead of catching up, I have fallen even further behind. After three days at home, I finally went back to class and work today, but I was left so exhausted afterward that I had no choice but to sleep some more. I don’t know how I will ever dig out of the academic hole I am in.

The most frustrating part of all is that the class I will probably end up dropping is one that I have been looking forward to taking ever since I started back to school: Creative Nonfiction. This is the genre I feel most comfortable with, and I desperately need the writing practice, but there are several issues that make this the class the best one for me to drop. First of all, Creative Nonfiction has the highest workload of all my classes right now, which also means that it would provide the most relief if I dropped it. Also, the class only counts as an elective while the other classes I could drop are required for one of my majors. Finally, no one is really participating in the online class, so I’m not even getting the feedback I need to grow as a writer. Still, I’m afraid to drop because I don’t want to be a quitter. So, I end up the same place I always do when I debate this decision: I am simply deciding not to decide – yet. But the final drop date is getting closer, and I’ll have to choose.

The Void That is My Blog

So, I thought I'd be able to keep the blog afloat with writing from my Creative Nonfiction class. Instead, I've discovered that I don't have enough journal entries to do much good, and half of those are ones that I don't really care to share with the blogosphere either out of concern for my own privacy or the privacy of others. I guess all I'm trying to say is, "I've got nothin'."

Besides not having time to keep up with the blog, a few other things have been neglected, like:

1. Sleeping - I'm actually considering having another baby just because I think I could get more sleep living with a newborn than I'm getting now. Although, I have to admit that none of my homework ever has poopy diapers, so maybe I'll nix that plan.
2. Reading - Sure, I'm reading what I absolutely have to for classes, but it doesn't leave much time to read anything else like blogs, cereal boxes, stop signs, etc... I've downloaded this month's book club selection on MP3, but until I can learn to read one book while I listen to another, it won't really help.
3. Cooking - All I can say is thank goodness for a) my crock pot and b) the fact that Rhett isn't afraid of domestic duties. And a big shout out to my mother-in-law for raising him that way!
4. Sweeping and vacuuming - Does anybody know where I can buy leashes for dustbunnies?
5. Plotting revenge against that wench that sits across from me on Tuesdays and Thursdays - I'm still not exactly sure why she despises me so much, but she certainly revels in making snide remarks and shooting me dirty looks. The good news is I don't really have time to care.

Well, I guess that's it for now. I'll post when I can, but don't hold your breath - unless you're the wench from school, then hold it till you pass out, baby.

What?!? I'm multi-tasking.

Open Letter to Little Boys Who Own Pocket Knives

To whom it may concern:

No matter how good of an idea it seems at the time, never, under any circumstances, use this:


When what your really need is one of these:

Or you could very well end up looking like this:

And while the injury itself may not be life-threatening, you may feel as if you will die of boredom during the six-hour wait at the emergency room.

Sincerely,

All mothers of little boys who own pocket knives

What Was I Thinking?

“I am who I choose to be. I always have been what I chose…though not always what I pleased.”
- Lois McMaster Bujold

The above quote troubles me a little. I understand and agree with the principle that we can choose our actions but not our consequences, but I’m uncomfortable with the notion that I’ve always had a choice. I was plopped down on this fair planet with a couple of screws loose before I even got to make any real decisions about who I wanted to be. I don’t remember signing off on that idea, but supposedly I did.

According to my religious beliefs, before I came here to live with my earthly family I could be found hanging out in heaven with my spiritual kin. We were all so excited about our pending earthly adventures, and the mere fact that I’m here now is proof that when I was offered the chance to go, I said, “Hmmm…that sounds like fun!” Furthermore, when I was informed things could get rocky because my brain chemistry would be kind of squirrely, I wasn’t even fazed, and with all the heavenly bravado I could muster I replied, “Piece of cake.”

Fast forward thirty-five years. Every single day I struggle to overcome the depression that is hard-wired into my brain and stay on the glass-half-full side of the spectrum, and every day the exhausting effort leaves me feeling less than sane. It’s like having to run a three-mile obstacle course every morning before breakfast. I try to console myself by keeping in mind that I was supposedly okay with this, that I chose to come here anyway, knowing the challenges I would face.

Here’s the conundrum: How is remembering this supposed to really comfort me about my own sanity? If I agreed to come here knowing that I’d be crazy, doesn’t that make me, well, crazy? Eternally crazy? Yeah. I feel so much better now.

Name That Bird

We have some occasional visitors to the creek behind our house. These pictures don't really do the majestic birds any justice, but I just couldn't catch a shot of the amazing wingspan. When their wings are spread, they actually look blue. I've often wondered exactly what kind of bird this is. Anybody out there have any clue?

Game Called on Account of Authenticity

“Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It’s self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can’t try to do things. You simply must do things.”
- Ray Bradbury

My husband, Rhett, is constantly telling me, “Deanna, you’re over thinking it.” He’s usually right, but I still find it incredibly frustrating that he believes I’m able to do anything else. The constant analysis of every single move I make is a habit thirty-five years in the making, and it’s a tough one to break. If I were only guilty of excessive contemplation when making huge, life-altering decisions, I wouldn’t feel so bad; but agonizing over seemingly-simple choices like which breakfast cereal to throw in the grocery cart really cramps my style.

I know why I do it. I’m afraid. Nothing in the world is more frightening to me than doing something wrong, doing anything wrong. I’ve spent my whole life trying to find the perfect incarnation of me that will make everyone else happy. It’s an exhausting and unwinnable game, and I’m sick of playing it, but, still, I can’t seem to stop. To further aggravate matters, my current opponent (or is it teammate?) refuses to participate. Rhett insists that he loves me for who I am, no jumping through hoops required. That unconditional acceptance is noble and what every girl dreams of, right? Well, sometimes I hate it. I don’t know who to be if it isn’t defined for me by the one whose approval I seek.

I’m sure I could blame all the usual suspects for this tendency: my father was too harsh, my mother was inattentive, and so on and so forth. But does any of that really matter anymore? Realizing the reasons behind my behavior doesn’t mean that I’ve been able to change it – yet. I’m hopeful, though. After fifteen years of Rhett’s repeated insistence that I can be myself, I think the message is finally starting to sink in. I’m ever so gradually beginning to trust my own mind, my own heart, and my own intuition. I have no idea where exactly it will take me, but I know this: I’m trying to think less and be more. We’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.

The 2-for-1 Special

My new schedule is keeping me hopping, and I was fairly convinced that I simply wouldn't have time for the blog until, oh, I don't know, mid-May. Then, I realized that I would be keeping a journal for Creative Nonfiction, and that many of those entries could serve double-duty as blog posts. So, if you find yourself thinking that the blog seems disjointed or a little too introspective over the next few months, you're probably right. Although, now that I think about it, that may have been an apt description all along.

Never mind. I guess it's just business as usual around here.

Stationery High

I’m a fiber junkie. No, I don’t mean that I guzzle Metamucil when no one is looking. My craving is for fiber of a different sort. Whether I’m faced with yarn, fabric, or paper, I am too weak to resist. Intoxicating images of creations yet-to-be fill my head at the mere sight of it. Lately, I’ve been strung out on paper most of all.

The beginning of a new semester always causes me to go on a bit of a bender. I try to stand firm, but one accidental stroll past the school supplies is enough to cause a resounding thud as my rump hits the road and the wagon rolls on without me. Part of the problem is that my tastes aren’t all that discriminating. A simple sheaf of college-rule notebook paper is all it takes for my pulse to quicken and my pupils to widen ever-so-slightly. Blank line after blank line just begs for my pen to skate and glide over the surface, leaving my words as evidence of the escapade. I have a stash of spiral-bound notebooks hidden in the garage, always ready when I feel the urge to scrawl. Yep, the cheap stuff will do just fine, but I have to admit that I’m also guilty of over-indulging in finer fibers.

I’m constantly under the influence of the journals bound in rich leather or floral print fabrics that line my bookshelf. Each volume has its own purpose, and the beautiful covers elegantly gift wrap the thoughts held inside. A good dose of handmade paper embedded with flower petals is enough to intoxicate me for days – and that’s just looking at it, never mind the high induced by actually using the top-shelf sheets of pure fiber bliss.

Yes, I realize that I have a problem, and, from what I understand, that’s the first step to recovery. I promise that I’ll conquer this addiction – someday. Not yet, though. I heard cardstock is going on sale next week at Hobby Lobby.

New Kid in Town

This semester, I’m taking a creative nonfiction class online, and one of the first questions posed by the instructor is, “What is creative nonfiction?” The assigned readings give a broad definition of the literary catchall with varying shades of gray, ranging from rigid rules to a more relaxed approach.

In an effort to define creative nonfiction for myself, I've been mulling over writers of the genre that I'm already familiar with for the past few days. The first name that comes to mind is Maya Angelou. When I read her writing, I feel like my soul has been turned inside out, but somehow I don't feel vulnerable. Corrie Ten Boom's The Hiding Place is beyond inspirational. Then, there's David Sedaris, always quirky and giggle-inducing. I recently read Manhunt: The 12-day Chase for Lincoln's Killer by James L. Swanson, and, unfortunately, all I can say about that is, every party needs a pooper. (Note to Mr. Swanson: Don't use "ersatz" six times in the same book. We'll all still know how smart you are if you throw in a couple of less expensive words like "makeshift" or "poor excuse for a _____" here and there.) It's a fairly eclectic bunch, and they make for a colorful neighborhood - even if Swanson is always yelling at the kids to get off his lawn.

After scoping out the area for awhile, I’m glad that I’ve decided to rent a room here this semester. The neighbors are far from boring, and I really think I'm going to like it here. Who knows, maybe that cute little cottage down the street will open up, and I’ll become a permanent resident.

Yeah, now I know exactly what creative nonfiction is: it’s home.

A Suggestion

Can I offer you a bit of advice? If you're allergic to cats, but still silly enough to own them, do not, under any circumstances, let your feline friends sleep on your bed - no matter how stressed out you are or how cuddly they may be.

Go ahead; ask me - achoo! - how I know.

Hat Dogs and Stalkers

Over winter break, I only got a little bit of knitting done. I finally finished Oldest's socks:

Good thing, too! I have been working on these off and on since October, and I think the poor kid was starting to feel a little mistreated. He must like them because, after they were finally finished, he wore them every day until I forced him to let me wash them.

I also finished another baby hat:

I'm sure it will be cuter on an actual human child, but since we're running short on babies at our house, I drafted the newly crowned Hat Dog as my model. This is the Marshmallow Bonnet from Itty Bitty Hats, and it's for Olive's soon-to-be-born baby sister.

In other knitting related news, I have officially become a sweater stalker. I'm really not that creative of a person, so if I see something I want to duplicate, I have to make a note of it, or I'll forget. I saw the cutest little boy wearing a sweater with an interesting color combination, and, miracle of miracles, I happened to have the camera with me. I stopped the unsuspecting family and asked if I could take a picture of their son's sweater. I think they were a little puzzled, but they graciously allowed it.

He's really quite a cutie, but since I don't post my own kids' faces on here, I'm not showing his either.

I realized recently that I really didn't complete that many knitting projects in 2007. Let's see, I think there was a baby sweater, five pairs of socks, and three hats. What a shame! I know it's a little late for New Year's resolutions, but it's clear that I need to set some goals, not just for knitting, but in a couple of other areas, too.

My first goal: Figure out what goals to set.

There. I feel better already.

Wish me luck!

I've been very, very spoiled for a long time now, and I fully realize that. While being a stay-at-home mom is possibly the least glamorous job in the world, it does have certain perks. For one, I can dabble however I please. I've tried scrapbooking, selling Tupperware, gardening, and then knitting, which finally stuck. My schedule is also incredibly flexible. Oh sure, the kids need routines, and that's great, but I'm not going to get fired if I'm behind on dusting the baseboards.

The problem is that the lack of focus is freeing and constricting all at the same time. While I have firmly enjoyed not being tied down to a certain vocation or extensive scheduling, it has also made me much more likely to be, well, a slacker. My little inattentive ADD brain really needs some kind of external structure to function well. (Okay, maybe to function at all.) I think that's why going back to school has been so great for me. I finally have a reason that I have to be somewhere and have certain things accomplished at a certain time. Of course, I have to admit that I'm still a total slacker when it comes to housework. I seem to have just enough free time left that I'm quite comfortable with heavy-handed procrastination.

All of that is about to change.

This semester, I am going to be taking twelve hours of classes, working as a tutor and Supplemental Instruction leader for twenty or so hours a week, and still trying to keep up with my three busy boys. Now, I fully realize you "normal" folks out there don't really think this schedule sounds too bad. Good for you. Consider this a virtual pat on the back. I, on the other hand, am vacillating between excitement and dread.

You see, I have lived so much of my life under a dark cloud of depression, and the fact that I'm actually accomplishing something tangible energizes me. Even when things are going well, staying home with the kids leaves me with very little to show for it because no matter how much I get done, almost all of it is undone by the end of the day. For someone prone to feeling worthless on the best of days, that cycle gets to be excruciatingly painful. I'm also hoping that a tighter schedule will motivate me to get more done. If I have less time to goof off, I'll goof off less. Right? (Oh, I certainly hope so.)

However, at the same time, I know that there is a delicate balance of structure that is just right for me. Too little, I waste time because I have so much time to waste. Too much, I have severe anxiety issues over never having quiet, alone time and eventually suffer from a total meltdown. So, with the new semester starting Monday, I am cautiously optimistic, praying that my schedule has just the right balance of what I want and what I need. I've got my Google calendar all color-coded so I can keep up with the kids' schedules and see what I need to do when as far as housework and homework are concerned. Tomorrow I'm going to get my notebooks all ready for my new classes. And Monday I'm going to take on the world. Keep your fingers crossed for me. I think I'll need it.

Please Don't Feed the Racism

I regret to inform you that racism is alive and well.

Oh sure, some days it's easy to pretend racism died long ago, but only if I walk around with one eye shut. Even when I sense its moldy presence, it is usually in a detached way. The racism I witness is often just in seeing that the local establishment still behaves in ways slanted to benefit one group over another, or maybe I witness some backwards individual discriminating against someone I don't really know. Those cases bother me, but I don't feel any really connection. That, unfortunately, makes it easier not to be too concerned.

Now, I feel connected.

My nieces were visiting from California last week. These are two of the most beautiful, charming, sophisticated girls I know - and they're half Japanese. I've never really thought much about their heritage, other than the fact that I think it's way more interesting than my mutt mixture of an ethnic background. The girls, however, found that many people in the state of Arkansas were bothered by their ethnicity.

Why?

Our city recently celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the Central High crisis, and so much was said about how far we've come. Have we really? Even though there isn't a big Asian population around here, it's not like the local yokels have never seen someone of Japanese descent. These girls are just respectable young women out shopping and dining like everyone else, and they were made to feel distinctly unwelcome. They had such a horrible experience that they never want to come back to Arkansas. Honestly, I don't blame them.

Why are people afraid of anyone that is different? How can we begin to see one another as brothers and sisters of one big family? Why did I have to see my own family hurt for me to be bothered enough by this injustice to be more vocal? What will it take for us to let racism take its last breath?

For one thing, we have to stop feeding it. The "Us vs. Them" mentality on the local school board gives racism energy. (And it doesn't really matter who is Us and who is Them; both sides are guilty.) Every little racial joke that we "politely" laugh at nourishes the beast. Saying that someone is "well spoken for a black guy" or "pretty cool for a white kid" is like an afternoon snack for racism. If we cut off its food supply, it will eventually die from malnourishment. I can't make decisions for anyone else, but I vow to be more aware so that I don't accidentally throw bread crumbs to the gnarly animal. If enough of us refuse to offer racism sustenance, then perhaps it will finally wither away.

Odds and Ends

When I left the blogosphere for a while, I was sure that I'd come back brimming with inspiration. As usual, I was wrong. (Rhett, if you're reading this, I never admitted that. Okay?) Even though I don't have a parade of words dancing in my head to entertain you, I did accomplish my original objective of spending some quality time with quality people - and that is better than a million witty blog posts in my book. So, in lieu of something spectacular, here's a sampling of the ordinary, but actual, happenings over the holiday break:

1. On Christmas Eve, we told the kids that they could retrieve their stockings whenever they liked, but that they were not to wake us to open presents until 6:00 on Christmas morning. Unfortunately, we didn't realize they would get up at 2:17 in the freaking a.m. Next year, the rules will be oh-so-different.

2. Waking up at 2:17 to the sounds of children scurrying around playing with stocking stuffers and not getting back to sleep until 4:30 or so makes Mommy a little cranky by the time 6:00 rolls around.

3. Guitar Hero III totally rocks!

4. Evidently, there is a precise combination of sleep deprivation and my mother's pancakes that can make me pass out cold at the breakfast table on Christmas morning. Seriously. Like one minute I was saying, "I feel a little funny," and then, what felt like days later, Rhett was slapping my face, calling, "Deanna! Are you with us?" Not something I would like to make a Christmas tradition. No, sir.

5. I found a game that Rhett remembers fondly from his childhood: Scotland Yard. I wish you could have seen the twinkle in his eyes and the utter joy he displayed as we taught the boys how to play. It was almost as good as watching the kids open their presents.

6. Really - Guitar Hero III is the most awesome game ever.

7. I learned a new term. Oldest informed me that December 30 is New Year's Adam, because, you know, Adam came before Eve.

8. We spent New Year's Eve with my parents, and some family from out of town. My college age nephew and nieces have an amazing gift: they can make me feel incredibly old and so much younger again all at the same time.

9. You can learn some really interesting things about your extended family by playing a few rounds of Taboo or Scattergories. Of course, some of those things might be a little disturbing, but they make good blackmail fodder for the future, so it's okay.

10. Did I mention that we got Guitar Hero III for Christmas? Rhett and I might even let the boys have a turn.

11. I said might.