Demanding Happy

You know him. That guy who has everything.  Great job. Fast car. Hot wife. Kids give him very little grief. And yet...he's not content. Why can't he just be happy with what he's got?  I mean...it's all at his fingertips. And yet, he's miserable...always seeking more. 

But maybe...hopefully...you are lucky enough to know someone who ...regardless of his car engine, his 9-5, his wife's fitness and (let's face it) makeup routine, and his kids' grades and triumphs on the field/track/court...struggles. Someone who hurts. Someone who knows sadness. Yet...even in the midst of sorrow...suffering...uncertainty...angst...he is happy. I mean really happy. Content. Not complacent. That's entirely different. But accepting of where God has placed him and faithfully willing to actively take part as the story unfolds.  He can honestly sit in the light and take it in...without judgement...without guilt...without self indulgence. He can just be present in the moment. 

I hope you know this person. 

I hope so, because if you do, maybe you can join me in at least considering the idea that maybe we can choose happy. 

Maybe...

Before I continue, let me first point out that this is not to discount the very real conditions of depression and anxiety which overwhelm and drag their victims down terribly dark paths. These conditions are legitimate and those who suffer benefit extensively from psychiatric attention. 

Accepting and excepting the exceptions...

Maybe happy can be the "more" we seek. Maybe it can be the more we DEMAND. 

I find that the more happy I demand, the more I encounter.  Perhaps it is in my definition of happy. Because to me, happy is not a future thing to attain, it's a now thing to experience. It isn't, "I'll be happy when..." Because let's face it, I'm not promised whatever moment I've committed to whatever comes after the ellipses.  Oh and let's not ignore the genius simplicity of the argument that tomorrow never comes...even my predictive text knew that phrase. 

Demanding more happy has nothing to do with going into your boss's office and negotiating a raise.  It has nothing to do with what you drive. Nothing to do with what your spouse looks like or how well mannered your kids are. ...although all of those things can be legitimately bright points in your day. 

By demand...I really mean seek...intentionally. Demanding more happy actually requires you to demand more of yourself. To dig deeper. To appreciate more. To look at your gifts through the eyes of your Creator and see them as nothing less than purely amazing and worthy of celebration. 

Have you ever bought your child a candy bar?  You KNEW he'd be so happy. You came home and...

You:  "Guess what I got you!"

Kid:  (with absolute enthusiasm). Legos!

You: well, no but...

Kid:  (excited) A dinosaur?!

You:  well, no but...

Kid: (vibrating in place) then what?!?! 

You: (with absolute enthusiasm) This candy bar!

Kid: (clearly underwhelmed) oh...yeah...cool...thanks mom

Have you been there?  It's deflating at best, right?

And yet...do we not do that to the creator of the universe each and every time we fail to recognize His blessings?  Has He gifted you with this day?  With your paycheck? With the fact that your car started this morning...the clean water you just drank...the near miss on the freeway when you called that other driver an idiot (among other things)...what about the lady with a full cart who let you go ahead in the check out line because your kid was screaming (...for a candy bar...), or the fact that your boss completely overlooked the fact that your report was a day late...?

Do we not recognize these as blessings.? Or are blessings only the big things?  And if we do identify these as blessings, are they not worth celebrating?  Are we underwhelmed?

The truth is, the more happy you discover, the more you will demand, and the more you demand the more happy you discover.  

One of my favorite 90s bands was Sister Hazel...laugh it up...but once you recover, read the lyrics here, as I close.  Because I think they were on to something (and perhaps ON something but that's beside the point...). Enjoy...

"If you want to be somebody else,

If you're tired of fighting battles with yourself

If you want to be somebody else

Change your mind...

Hey hey-

Have you ever danced in the rain

Or thanked the sun

Just for shining- just for shining

Over the sea?

Oh no- take it all in

The world's a show

And yeah, you look much better,

Look much better when you glow."

Stomach Fluid...a Reminder of His Perfect Timing

Stomach Fluid...a Reminder of His Perfect Timing 

That's probably a weird title, but I bet nobody else has used it. You probably won't open your daily devotional today and see it. It won't likely be the title of the sermon when you go to the Christmas Eve Service, tonight. But it's a perfect title...a. Because it aptly describes what I plan to share, b. Because you'll remember it, and c. Because you won't continue reading this if you have a strong gag reflex, are eating, or plan to eat soon. 

You might think this is going to be the story of Baker's stomach bug that had the entire basement of my in-law's house smelling like a 7/11 bathroom. He's ok now and obsessively looping on the idea of getting to open one gift tonight.  But that's not what this story is about. 

Before I begin, I'd like to point out that this post is addressed to a very specific audience. Of course, anyone is welcome to read it, and I hope many do, but this post is intended for all who have joined Luci's List, a prayer group I started when I sat with my baby girl in a pediatric ICU while she recovered from surgery. I simultaneously celebrated the fact that I would get to take her home and anguished in another fact that had become all too apparent...so many other moms would not be so lucky.  This is for each of you who have joined, surrounded my girl in prayer, and opened your hearts and prayer lives to the many others who have requested prayer on Luci's list. 

I got up this Christmas Eve morning prepared for my daily morning and evening routine with Lucibelle, a routine that I've done twice daily for approximately the past 22 weeks. 

I had the wash cloth and warm soapy water ready to clean away accumulation of stomach fluid that leaks from the hole in her belly surrounding her g-button. I can't complain...I think the button saved her life, but ever since she had it placed when she was 6 weeks old she has had granulation tissue at the stoma site which has prevented a good "seal" from forming...hence the leak.  And the smell...because, well, it's stomach fluid. And the laundry. And the ruined clothes from countless silver nitrate treatments or from the bleeding skin tissue.  Some docs said to keep the site covered and the tissue would heal. It didn't. Some said keep it uncovered and it would heal. It didn't. Her GI finally shot straight with me and said that in all honesty, if all they had done wasn't working, nothing probably would and that we would probably just have to deal with the tissue until she has the button removed in the spring. ...super 😕

Last night I posted on Luci's list because of Lucibelle's results from the sleep study.  From the time the doctor called with the results until I finally fell asleep last night, it was all I could think about, really. 

And, of course, you all surrounded her with prayers. I know you did, because this morning God reminded me that He's got this. 

Lucibelle's unsnapped onesie revealed a clean, dry, round little baby belly. The kind I vaguely remember from when she was about 5 weeks old, only now, there's a port. 

I looked closer. No goo. No gunk. No dried fluid. None. Anywhere. 

How could this be?  I gently wiggled her button around to get a look at the site where there is always a bright red, moist, lump of skin sitting just beneath the port. 

But today, there was no red. No moisture. No lump. Just dry, pale pink skin resting at the stoma. The granulation tissue was completely gone. 

I know I never asked for prayers for this, specifically.  It's such small potatoes in the grand scheme of things...just more of a hassle than anything. And I mean...really...so many of you have your own health concerns or health concerns for loved ones that FAR surpass anything that we have ever ever faced with Lucibelle. 

But I also know y'all were praying for Lucibelle and that because of those prayers, through that faith, God chose this morning...the day we celebrate the the imminent birth of His Son...to send a little reminder that he's got this.  He listens. He hears. And His timing is always perfect. 

And that, my friends, is how stomach fluid, at least for me, will forever be a reminder of His promises, the power of prayer, and the gratitude I have toward all of you who have lifted my daughter to Him. 

The Beginning of Luci's List

This was a Facebook post from back in July after Lucibelle's surgery. 

I'm sitting here listening to the pump that's feeding my baby and the buzzes and beeps of the monitors in our room and the rooms surrounding, thinking of all of the amazing people in our lives and people we've never even met who have taken time out of their days to pray for us, pray with us, sent gift cards, posted sweet messages on Facebook, sent encouragement via text, even came to sit with us and provide support/encouragement and much needed distraction during the surgery itself bc they've been there, done that.  You all have touched my heart to the core. You don't know what it's like until you watch your own baby struggle, and then I think it changes you. 

Lucibelle has no idea yet, but it's going to be so neat to share with her how loved she has been by so many at such an early age. I'm going to take screen shots of all of your love and prayers and write down your names. I've never been good at keeping a baby book...in fact I don't think I even have one for her #mommyfail .  But now I'll have to get one, because the memory that y'all have created for her is worthy of revisiting daily. 

Something else I don't have and have never created or kept...a for real, actual prayer list. Sure, I pause and pray when I see your requests on Facebook. I also tell my husband and parents to be sure to pray...but I've never kept a list. 

But like I said, experiences like this...like how we'd watch our baby turn purple and search for air with her mouth, arms flailing, eyes big as saucers and fixed on us for reassurance...like how we had to tell her "you're okay" as we shoved a tube up her nose (I would be so mad if someone told me I was okay while they were doing that to me) and down her throat...like how we saw her get poked and prodded with no understanding of what was happening...like how I had to hand my baby to a total stranger wearing scrubs and walk away as they took her to cut and staple and sew...like how I realized that we could have it so much worse as we sat listening to the hysterical wails of a young mom and dad as their baby girl took her last breath in PICU...like how I still cannot wrap my head around the kindness of other parents whose babies have endured far more than my Lucibelle, and yet they have come to us to show us love and peace and gentleness and not dismissed any of our fears even though their children have far greater battles to fight... 

These experiences change you. 

So I want to make a prayer list. A real one. And I want to call it Luci's List. My baby girl will known the power of prayer and what it means to pay it forward. She will probably be hard headed and outspoken (idk why I think that 😜), but you have started her out with an abundance of love and infused her with a spirit of peace and giving, already. 

So will you please help me start my list...Luci's List?  Please pm me or text me what your prayer needs are so that we can write these down and give them to God.

A few years from now when my baby looks at her scars from the surgical incision and from where the g-tube once was and she asks where they came from, we will tell her that these are her reminders of the many many beautiful and loving people who loved her before she knew them.

Sometimes, Jesus Doesn't Pronounce His "L"s

In case we ever forget…In case we get wrapped up in the commercialization of the holiday.  In case we get consumed by the financial strain we all feel this time of year.  In case we ever feel that we may collapse under the pressures work and family and friends and society in general… In case we feel completely helpless and anxious in the light of the terrorism that our world is suffering…

I’ve got a quick little story for you:

The other day, we were driving home, both kids in the back seat, Dave on the phone, Baker chattering away about whatever skipped the filter (which is, apparently, everything at this age) and Lucibelle gnawing at her pacifier. 

Now, for those of you who have little bitty babies who have not yet reached preschool – school age yet, you might not take heed when you hear other parents warn, “Kids heareverything.”  I didn’t.  

But kids do hear everything.  Everything.  Every.  Thing.  Even when you think they’re not listening.  Even when you think they cannot here you.  Even when you think they are in the other room…watching TV…wearing noise canceling headphones…in someone else’s home…in another state.  Somehow, some way, they hear everything (except if the phrase includes the words clean, brush, homework, or wash…then all bets are off).

Dave’s phone conversation ended, and Baker took a breath from his own, personal, conversation, to pipe up and ask, “Daddy, who do we need to pray for?”

“What are you talking about?” Dave asked.

“You said, on the phone, ‘Well, we will definitely be praying for you all.’ So who do we need to pray for?”

See, I told you they hear everything.  

Dave explained that the person he was talking to has a coworker who is quite “cranky and not very nice” to the other employees.  And that he said that we would pray for the rest of the employees for having to deal with the difficult coworker.

Baker grew quiet, but only for a couple of seconds…if he’s quiet for any longer than that something is wrong or he is asleep… And then he threw in his two cents.

“I think it sounds like we need to pray for the cranky one.”  

Dave and I looked at one another.  We both felt that searing conviction that can only make you pause to say, “Whoah.”  And sometimes, “Ouch.”

Baker continued, “If we pray for them not to be so cranky, then maybe everybody can be happy.”

God sent his son in the form of a newborn baby boy to ultimately grow into a young man and pay the ultimate sacrifice for our sins, so that we could, in turn, be a light for others.  In that moment, I was certain that Jesus, himself, was using my boy as a mouthpiece.  What appeared to be common sense to my 5 year old is far from common practice in human nature.  The Word is clear that not only are we to have faith…meekness and humility…of a child, we are also called to pray for those who we would love to pray for the least, our enemies.  Essentially, we are called to swim upstream, which is, as my son would say, “reawy, reawy hard!”  Interestingly enough, the same kid who cannot yet pronounce his “L”s is the one who’s voice I heard the night God humbled my husband and me and reminded us of our charge as His children.

My Son : The Furball

Several of my friends have recently joined the world of motherhood, an exclusive club, full of advice and unsolicited opinions. The further a mommy travels in her journey of motherhood, the more she eventually appreciates the sage wisdom, “This, too, shall pass.” Colic? This, too, shall pass. Expensive formula? This, too, shall pass. Having to carry an extra outfit everywhere you go for both the child and yourself? This, too, shall pass (maybe). Sleepless nights…well…

I read a Facebook post by one of my friends, who had her baby last week. She asked her friends if it was normal for her to be so sleepy but so unable to sleep. It reminded me of the first three months of Baker’s life and all of our battles, which, among other things, included very little sleep.

Before Baker was three months old, we purchased five different types of beds for him, in hopes that one of these beds would help him to sleep better. By the time the child was three days old, I was absolutely convinced that I had given birth to an asthmatic goat. Each night, we would swaddle him, and we would lay him in his swing, which was situated at the foot of our bed, and Baker’s erratic symphony would begin. It was a melody of alternating short and long bahhhh-ing sounds, interrupted with an occasional chorus of short shrieks, gasps, coughs, and sighs. His pediatrician later told me that this was acid reflux, and the magic of modern day medicine turned my baby goat into a real boy.

Sometimes Baker’s tangents would be abruptly shattered by a fussy cry that Dave and I began to call, squiggy. I don’t know where squiggy came from, but it describes the squished up face that he would make and the way that he would stretch and wiggle his body from side to side. On the night that today’s story takes place, Baker was being very squiggy. And I was very tired. And Dave was very asleep.

Baker began to fuss and squirm, and I, believing that every cry that came from my child was an absolute emergency (as new mommies do), sprang to action. By sprang to action, I mean that I sat up in a dumbfounded haze and crawled to the foot of the bed to pick up my baby goat.

I should note that my brain is not fully functional until I have been awake for at least an hour and even then, there are those who question my definition of fully functional. I am also blind. Very very blind. My glasses prescription is similar to that of my 87 year old grandmother, sans bifocals. But when your child is having an emergency and must eat right away or risk starvation, you don’t think to grab your glasses…at least, I didn’t.

“Shhhh, Bubba, you’re okay. Shhhh.” I stroked the top of his head and kissed him. “Mommy is right here. Shhhhh. You’re okay.”

Baker cranked up the volume a bit, and I reached for his bottle. Shifting Baker in my arms in order to get him into a position where I could both feed him and rest my head against our headboard, I noticed something. It was something strange. It felt like hair, much, much more hair than Baker, who at the time resembled an 8 lb. Danny DiVito, had.

Maybe it was his blanket. I glanced into his swing to see blurry outlined shape the blanket carelessly draped and dangling from the bottom of the swing.

By this time Baker was really angry. He belted his high notes as I tried to get the bottle into his mouth, but I couldn’t see his face, and he wouldn’t quit squirming. The more he squirmed, the more hair I felt.

“Is it my hair?” I wondered. It couldn’t be.

In my immensely sleep-deprived wisdom, I concluded that my baby had come into contact with an allergen, causing him to sprout massive amounts of hair all over his body.

No wonder he was crying!

“It’s okay, baby!” I kissed him, and in a panic, I rushed back over to the foot of the bed to investigate the contents of his swing and determine why my baby was so furry. After all, I’d only joked about Baker being a goat because of the sounds he was making, and now he was growing fur, too! What kind of jacked up genetics was this???

Searching through Baker’s swing, I found more than one answer.

Answer 1: The first thing I felt was the soft skin of a very ticked off newborn, now shrieking like a rabid cat. I shook the fog from my brain and looked closer. Sure enough, there was my son, laying in his swing, mouth wide open, screaming his brains out.

Answer 2: In utter confusion, still not comprehending exactly what was happening, I looked down into my arms. “If Baker is there, what am I holding?” A closer look revealed to me my ten-year-old Yorkshire Terrier, Bailey, who was now embracing the luxury of being held like a baby, stroked, and kissed.

Answer 3: Sleep deprivation ain’t cool.

As Baker has gotten older, he has learned to sleep through the night, and he is really great about it. But I have resigned myself to the idea that “sleeping in” is a thing of the past. Some things in life do pass, but some things stick around and evolve.

Runners High...and Lows

Warning: This blog contains content that is not suitable for the easily grossed out or offended.

I’m almost certain that OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) has some correlation to ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder). In the world of psychology, the existence of two diagnoses at once is called comorbidity. I know this, because in a moment when I am sure that I was supposed to be focused on something else, I was obsessing about the coexistence of these two “disorders,” although I do not view them as disorders at all. Difference? Yes. Disorder? Only if I let it be.

You see, ADHD deals with one’s attention and impulsivity. It does not mean that I cannot focus. It means that it takes more effort for me to focus on what I am supposed to focus on. It means that I can become completely immersed in a subject and pay perfect attention without veering off at all. Unfortunately, that subject is not always what I am supposed to be focused on, and I have great difficulty getting back on track once I am derailed. I was fortunate enough to have a mother who is a psychotherapist and who taught me about how my brain works. I know all sorts of coping skills in dealing with ADHD, and I use them on a daily basis. Where ADHD deals with impulsivity, OCD deals with compulsion. Both deal with one’s abilities to say no to the urge to act on a behavior. Someone with OCD can get trapped in a looping cycle, where they actually cannot stop themselves from repeating the same behavior, routine, or ritual over and over. I have never been diagnosed with OCD, although I have rather obsessive behaviors (that’s for another blog), one of which has become running.

Hello, my name is Emily, and I am an addict. I have been sober now for twenty three hours, but I plan to get another fix before the end of the evening. My addiction is a dirty, sweaty place of black outs, vomit, rabies, urine, snot, blood, blisters, bruises, and dead animals. It wakes me up before 5 a.m. It has caused me to lose 29 lbs. since July of last year. If I have to, I’ll even bring my child with me when I need to get another fix. I leave my home every day, except for Sundays, in search of the rush, and I have even gotten friends and family to join me. I have to buy new paraphernalia every three months or my body hurts and I can barely walk. Running is the drug that has, like the dirty bearded man who wanders the streets of Dallas talking to himself, altered my mind, body, and especially, my sense of modesty.

Crossing the finish line at my first 10k, I was relieved. Relieved that the race was over. Relieved that I beat my goal time of one hour by nearly four minutes. And, to my surprise, I relieved my bladder, as well. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I peed myself. And not just a little bit.

I crossed the finish line, ran off to the side, turned to see Dave crossing the finish line, and it hit me. And it was not waiting on me to find a port-a-john. It was already beginning to run down my leg. So I did the only thing that I could think to do. I walked the three feet to the nearest curb, casually sat down, and answered nature’s call. Right there…in public…with at least a thousand people standing nearby.

“Come on, Emily. Don’t sit down. You have to keep walking, or you will get sore,” Dave coached me as he came walking up.

“Errr….I…um…can’t.” With my stare, I directed his gaze down to the stream leading from his beautiful bride (ha) down to the wet leaves that lined the curb.

“Oh…um…oh.” He was speechless. I can’t really say that I blame him. After being married for almost five years, there’s not much that I do anymore that really surprises Dave. But this didn’t count as one of those times.

I sat there and peed for what seemed like forever. Then, I did the most logical thing I could think of. I doused myself in water from an Ozarka bottle in an effort to hide that I had just popped a squat and peed in public. Sure, it was cold. But it was better than the alternative.

For my next race, I was determined that this would not happen again. I made sure that I did not over-hydrate. I used the port-a-john (something that was against my religion before now) TWICE before my race.

At mile four, my legs started to feel very cold. The tops of my socks didn’t feel quite right. I reached down and touched the hem of my shorts. Really? Yes, really. While I ran. And again in the grass at the finish line.

Most people would not pay good money to pee in public. But I’m not most people. I’m a runner. When I should be sleeping, I run. When I should be cleaning my house, I run. When I should be at the chiropractor, I run. When I should be resting because of a cold or a headache, I run. I’m addicted. I’m obsessed. I cannot break my focus. And it’s simply not a problem.

Baker and the Keys

"Hi, this is Emily...Yes, I'm fine, but I'm going to be late...Why? Well, my child hid my car keys, and since we live in a bilingual household, where he speaks one language Dave and I speak another, he couldn't tell me where they were."

I made this frantic phone call to my school's assistant principal a couple of weeks ago. As a mother, I have learned many lessons that I had never before considered. Bathroom doors have to stay shut, or a pacifier might get flushed. Twenty one month olds believe that goldfish crackers, even the ones found under the dog bowl, are always fair game. It is a bad idea to tickle an infant when he doesn't have a diaper on. It is a bad idea to have an infant without a diaper on, period.

Add to that list; never, ever, ever place a purse within the reach of a toddler. To a toddler, a purse is a wonderland of new objects just awaiting exploration. By exploration, I mean shaking, eating, throwing, and, two Mondays ago, hiding.

I'm always running late. I'm certain that this is a genetic trait, because my mother is always running late as well. Try as I might, being on time is not in the cards for me, so the morning that I added the detective hat to my collection, it did not come as a shock that I was rushing around. I scooped Baker up from the floor where he had been playing, grabbed my purse from the chair, where I placed it the night before and rushed to the car.

After some convincing, I got my baby alligator strapped into his car seat, and I got into the driver's seat. As I do, every morning, I reached into my purse and fumbled around for my school keys and my car keys. School keys, check! Car keys...car keys?...car keys????

I glanced back at Baker, who was happily watching his dvd player (an awesome purchase for car trips and mornings with a cranky baby) and decided to run in to grab my keys.

"I must have left them on the desk by the front door," I said to myself. Yes, out loud. Yes, I talk to myself, out loud, frequently. And I answer myself, too. And sometimes I even tell myself to shut up.

Unfortunately, my keys were not on the desk. They were also not on the island. I decided I had to think like an Emily, which is not always easy. Naturally, I checked the refrigerator...by the milk...near the eggs...in the crisper. No luck. In the pantry? Washer? Dryer?

Mom of the year then remembered that Baker was still in the car (don't worry, the driver door was open, the garage was closed, and the car wasn't running because, well...duh). When I was racing back to the car I noticed something on the floor that should have been in my purse. It was my makeup bag. Ah ha! Baker took my keys! This was a bitter sweet realization. Sweet, because I knew what happened to them. Bitter, because now I really didn’t know where they were.

Unstrapping him from his car seat, I began interrogating my son in the most friendly voice that I could muster. "Baker, where are mommy's keys? Come help me find my keys."

Baker happily toddled back inside, as toddlers do. "Baker, where are my keys?" I asked again. It did not take long to realize that "keys" were not on Baker's word list, yet. He held out his pacifier and grunted with a slightly higher pitch at the end, as though asking, "This?"

"No, no, Baby. Keys. Where are my keys?"

"Ugh???" He held out the banana he clutched in his fist.

"No, keys."

"Ugh???" He held up his sippy cup that was tucked beneath his arm.

"Not the sippy, Baker. The keys? Do you know where mommy's keys are?" I asked, searching on my hands and knees for any place that Baker might have selected for this morning's adventure.

"BALL!" Baker screamed, holding up one of the many plastic rainbow balls scattered across our living room floor. I no longer live in an adult home. I live in an at-home version of Chuck E. Cheese's.

"Yep! That's a ball, but it's not my keys! Come help mommy find my keys."

Baker, at this point, was at a loss. Though he lacked the verbal communication, his face said, "Well, Mom, if you don't want a pacifier, sippy cup, or ball, then you’re on your own, lady!" He wandered around the room making his questioning grunt sound with his arms out to his side, palms up, mimicking the crazy lady who was crawling on the floor.

Baker picked up his hot wheels car and barked, "CAR!" signaling that he was so over hide-and-seek and was ready to move on.

"Well, yes, the keys are for the car, but...wait!" I crawled over to his Lightning McQueen race car, one of those large plastic toys with wheels that a child can sit on and ride across the floor. Lightning McQueen comes equipped with a "handy lift up seat compartment, perfect for storage." Perfect for storage, alright. I lifted the seat, expecting to find my keys. Instead, I saw a plastic pitcher that one might use for punch or juice. I say, might, because one might also use it to distract her child by placing plastic rainbow balls in it and shaking it around, which is why this pitcher was filled with such items.

I spoke again, but this time, it was not to myself or to Baker. "God PLEASE let me find my keys!"

I chucked the pitcher from the “handy compartment”, and when it landed, I heard a distinct jingle. I did not crawl over to where the pitcher landed. Nor did I walk. Instead, in dramatic desperation, I outstretched my entire body across the living room floor to empty the contents of the pitcher, which included a yellow ball, a purple ball, three goldfish crackers, a tampon (which I assume also came from my purse), and my KEYS!!!

Still sprawled on my stomach, turning to Baker, I held up my trophy and said, very clearly, "KEYS!"

And he laughed. He laughed at me with this knowing chuckle, as though he had known where the keys were all along. As though this was greatly entertaining and perfectly satisfying to him.

The story doesn't end there.

The next day, as we left...late again...I walked to the garage with Baker sitting on one forearm and my purse rested on the other, my keys perched on top. Something in my purse caught Baker's eye, and before I could look down to see what it was, my son had already snatched it up.

He dangled the item in front of my eyes, smiled a great big smile, and said, in what I am positive was a smart butt tone, "Keeeeeeeyyyysss???"

Yeah, Baker...thanks.