Poems XIV

pause


the space of somethingness
becomes a vasting void of nothingness,
as breath and peace and sitting very still
shines daylight seeped through eyelid windowed sills.

i move towards the flaming urgent sun
and expand like fire on yellow fleece,
exhilaration comes shattering into me,
a thousand tiny white doves, limitless --

flying within me and then without.
space and light and freeing all
meaningless lacks in this worldy world,
artifice forgotten, perhaps a dream.

wisdom fills my delicate bones,
my skull of thought and joy and fear.
I cross-legged perch and yearn for a touch;
expansion god-wanting, infinite want. 

energy floats, and curls 'round my frame,
and there is naught I can do but to sit here like this,
to wait for the timeless unravelling truth;
blue, like the day you were sung to and born,

and white, like the love of my pellucid heart.

my chassis aloft
                      this
                           spectral
                                    transport.







                                                               
                                                          Lip Service



                                                                 fire     
                                                     seeking     speaking 
                                              inspecting            smirking
                                               playing                   shifting
                                           teetering                       watching
                                            waiting                           reacting
                                         lingering                             searching
                                    questioning                           hoping
                                         wanting                          lusting
                                          panting                            scorching
                                           flashing                             fighting
                                          wrestling                           tackling
                                             tumbling                       succumbing
                                                 wasting                  forlorning
                                                 saddening            hardening
                                                           hating    destroying
                                                                     ice

Turf 'n' Surf




Here's a pic of my dad on his latest skydiving adventure.
Just kidding!  This guy looks so much like him, though, I couldn't resist!

 
Sometimes I feel as if I lead a double life.  On the one hand, I'm this domestic goddess (well, actually more of a domestic disaster) living in a cute little brick house in the very urban city of Houston, Texas.  Then on the other, I'm this free-basing, oops! I mean free-thinking, California girl spending her summers living (although some might say mooching) in her parents' guest house in the nature- and art-centured Santa Barbara, California.  The cultures between the two locales, and thus my two lives, could NOT be more different.  The funny thing is, someway, somehow I have become BOTH of these girls (Mom, don't freak out -- that doesn't mean I'm living in Houston forever!), but I guess it's because I have learned how to be adaptable, and, um, a grownup???  Oh, say it isn't so!  The word "mature" practically makes me gag, and it's just one letter away from "manure," so what does THAT tell you?!  Oh...I guess nothing, but still.

Okay, anyway, back to my very exciting double life (the way I'm building this thing up you would think I'm practically Jekyll and Hyde.  Sorry, nope, not that good.).  Let's start with Houston.  First of all, it is a very, very social city.  We go out to dinner three to four nights a week, usually with friends.  The thing about Houston is that because the weather often makes it tough to do things outside, you end up hanging with your homies a LOT.  Which is fun, I like to be social, and the truth is, I have the best girlfriends of my life here.  The other thing is, when you go out, it's kind of fancy.  I get dressed up here waaaay more than I do in Cali (where I primarily wear jean shorts, a.k.a. "jorts," and flip-flops -- or, as my daughter used to say, slip-slops), and I actually wear more make-up here than I do in California (although I reserve this tedious ritual mostly for going out -- during the daytime I look like a shiny, sweaty, spandexed -- oh God, dare I say it? -- Mom.)  But I like to dress up occasionally -- it makes me remember that I can acually look kinda-sorta presentable sometimes, and that I can be feminine and sexy too.

Houston is warm, friendly, and open, although it is definitely more formal than any city I have ever lived in.  Politeness is a way of life here, and even when someone has something trashy to say about another person, they'll end it on a positive note.  For instance: "Darla is such a two-timing blabbermouthing bitch -- bless her little heart!"  Personally, I like to use this technique when griping to other moms in carpool line:  "Bella is so dramatic she's absolutely exasperating, Charlie's a lazy little shit, and Teddy has behavioral problems, I'm convinced of it...oh, but they really are such little miracles, aren't they?!"  (btw, none of that stuff about my kids is really true -- cough, ahem.)

Now my life in Santa Barbara, on the other hand, is the polar, and I mean polar, opposite.  First of all, you are outside ALL OF THE TIME.  It is so beautiful, and the weather is so perfect, there is no reason why you shouldn't or wouldn't be.  For this reason, I find people there to be a little more antisocial, seeing as how they are super busy enjoying the scenery, or hiking, or kayaking, or jogging, or windsurfing, or paragliding, or skydiving...Okay, maybe not EVERYONE is busy skydiving, but you get what I'm saying.  My parents are particularly antisocial (although the extreme sports stuff is not really their thang.  Can you imaging my father taking a running jump off a cliff with a parachute on his back, sing-songing, "Darrrrrling, I just can't seem to find the pull-tab..."), although they enjoy their life to the nth degree.  Unlike most Houstonians, they are as informal and impolite as it gets.  In the late afternoons you can usually find my mother lounging around in a schmatta (Yiddish for housedress), barking orders at anyone who gets in her path.  "Goddamn it, Sarah, get the kids out of here, I can't hear the news, and, Frank, feed those dogs NOW!!!"  To which my father and I will acquiese, simply to get out of the war zone.  Although, under his breath, my father will mumble to me, "Sarah, I really can't stand your fucking mother sometimes, you know that?"  Subsequently, my brother will appear for dinner, and yell in ogre-ish baritones, "MOOOOMMMMM!!!  WHAT"S FOR DINNER!?!?  IT BETTER BE POT ROAST -- I'M STAARRRVVIINNGG!!!"  See?  Super polite and formal, just like I said.

In S. to the B., we loll around on chaises in the backyard, we read books, we putter in my dad's art studio, we eat dinner at 5:00 around the tiny kitchen table.  A big night out is considered going to the movies and the Natural Cafe (that's another difference -- the food.  While Houston has "grub," Santa Barbara has "greens."  Steven is always FAMISHED whenever he visits, and he never lets me forget it.  Love that -- complaining is the best!)  I totally recharge and replenish during my summers in California, visually, emotionally and spiritually.  Plus, I come back all rested, geared up, and ready to PAR-TAY -- ya' hear me, friends?!  (Ugh -- canNOT believe I just wrote that.  Gross.  But, seriously, who's down?)

Anyway, what I guess I'm getting at with this double life business, is that I feel like I kind of get it all.  I get the socializing, the fun, the friendliness, the beauty, the chillaxing, and, of course, the family.  I know that this split-personality lifestyle of mine can't and won't go on forever, but in the meantime, I feel blessed to experience my life in such a multitude of layers and dimensions.  And my life itself has become representative of my persona -- it is all the things that I enjoy, that I stand for, that I am.  And perhaps that's exactly what our lives themselves are intended to be.



P.S.  A big shout-out goes to my friend, Amy, who helped me come up with this post idea -- must give credit where credit's due!  And on that note, thank you, Stu, for helping me come up with the title, "Who's Your Mommy," in the first place.  And, thank you, Mom, for giving birth to me, and thank you, Steven, for being so supportive, and thank you, Jen, for -- oh, you guys get the idea!

Words With Friends

Age 1, playfully stealing my father's newspaper.
Even as an infant, I was already obsessed with words!

My mop-headed 6-year old stumbled downstairs at 6:30 this morning and assaulted me with two tribulations at once:  the first was breath that smelled like a three-day-old roast beef sandwich, and the second was a question. "Mom, is fuck a bad word?"  I, of course, responded as any responsible parent would, "Yes, Charlie, it's a terrible word, and don't fucking ever say it again."  No, I'm kidding, but it did get me to percolating.  I write, so I am constantly thinking about words -- how they sound together, how they flow, what they convey.  But, what I don't think about often enough is their extreme potency.  For they are powerful, conveying hurt, anger, love, jealousy, you name it.  And I, for one, have never shied away from swear words, but I do try to tone it down a little in my posts, because, even though they no longer have much shock value to me, they still are somewhat affronting for the rest of the mainstream population.  My girlfriends and I sometimes try to make up our own swear words, usually unsuccessfully.  Hmmm...now I am questioning whether I should list a few of these or not...and I think the answer in my head is a resounding not.  I actually did start to write a few of the humdingers down, and then I thought of my dad, who really is kind of a prude, and who admonishes me every time I use the f-bomb in a post (although he keenly maintains that the words "asshole," bitch," and "shit" are perfectly acceptable -- um, duh).  So, in order to stay in his good graces, I guess I better err on the side of caution.

Swear words aside, what I think I'm getting at is that words in general have become more extreme, more consequential than ever before.  Not only is my son a good six years younger than I was when I first encountered the f-word, but the words we say themselves are more impacting to our own personal characters.  Racial slurs, of course, are taboo, but even those are somewhat confusing these days.  For instance, my daughter sells Girl Scout cookies, and the name of the caramel/coconut confection that was once known as the "Samoa" had to be changed because it was politically incorrect.  Okay, I get that, but then the name it was changed to, "Tagalong," also had to be changed because that, too, was politically incorrect.  Wait, what?  So now the confused little cookie goes by the oddly spelled "Caramel deLite," which ALSO happens to be a popular menu item among the business set at Treasures Strip Club (don't ask me why I know that, I just do).  Meanwhile, those sneaky little Girl Scouts threw in the titillating "Shout Out," and the ever-satisfying "Thanks-A-Lot," which I prefer to indulge in that exaaaact order, although how this exactly relates to racial slurs, I'm not quite sure.  

Okay, Sarah, focus, focus...oh, that's right, back to words (because they are just so fascinating!  This blog topic is really bizarre.).  Anyway, we are living in a world where we are texting and talking on our cells everywhere.  Just yesterday I saw a teenage girl riding her bike in heavy traffic, head-down and with no hands, which were furiously punching away at her Blackberry.  This obvious member of mensa also happened to have on her i-pod headphones, and might as well have been straight-ironing her hair with her toes she was so distracted.  Do we really need to keep in CONSTANT communication with our friends/business associates/pimps at all hours of the day?  (Personally, I like to keep my pimp guessing my whereabouts, just for kicks.)  Now, don't get me wrong, I am a victim of this madness just as much as the next person.  I am in my car for hours on end, and if I'm not texting, I'm emailing, and if I'm not emailing, I'm yakking, and if I'm not yakking, I'm beer-bonging.  Oh, whoops, that's not related to words!  Okay, I'm joking, but I AM feeling super weird and silly today, probably because of all the electromagnetic cell waves that are rotting away at what used to be left of my brain.

All this technology at our fingertips has been a gift in many ways, but it has also been a curse.  I have caught myself innumerable times looking down at my cell phone, when, instead, I should be looking at the world around me.  I love words and I love writing, but sometimes I need to take a break from all the screens everywhere and reconnect with the natural environment.  Additionally, I am incredibly free-flowing with my words, so I have very few hesitations when it comes to what I'll write -- probably in an effort to interact with all of you.  I have let you in to my life and background in so many ways, and, perhaps sometimes I've offended you with my bluntness or, perhaps sometimes I've entertained you.  I know these words that are perpetually moving and shifting around me are something I was given to communicate with the world around me.  I just have to remember that sometimes not communicating and just being and observing is part of the equation also.  It is connecting in a way that email and texting cannot -- it is connecting to our inner and outer selves.

And, peace, beauty, yada yada yada, and...OH MY GOD, IS THAT MY CELL RINGING?!?  Grab it, Bella, it might be the computer guy!!!

Happy Chinese New Year, everyone!

Seriously Silly



Here I am, around age 11,
taking myself waaaaaay too seriously.


The other day a friend asked me if I wrote my blog because I was looking to portray myself in a certain way.  I was a little shocked.  I had never thought about portraying myself one way or another, I have simply spoken from my heart.  While I do edit certain things, such as other people's personal information, what I write is just the bare-faced truth about myself.  Sometimes this stuff comes out as silly, sometimes it's serious.  Maybe sometimes it's boring, maybe sometimes it's shocking, and maybe sometimes it's a little bit country (oh, that was terrible!).  In all earnestness though, this process has been therapeutic for me, cathartic, life-changing -- you know, like how you feel when you go to Loehmann's and find an Alexander McQueen dress on sale for $75.  That's right, it's been big. 

I read a poem awhile back that described facebook as "an altar of loneliness."  This quote has stayed with me, I think because it seems so true.  With facebook, we really do only portray what we want the world to think, we share only what we think will reflect postively on us (although I have one friend who actually posted a picture of a chair.  The title beneath the photo was, "My new chair!"  Um, really?  This perplexing post actually didn't reflect anything at all.).  What if all of a sudden people started to post real stuff?  (i.e.)  "This bladder infection really stinks!" or "Does anyone have a good cure for silent gas?" or, perhaps, "My children are being annoying as shit."  Wow.  That would change things up!  Who's in?  My very first "real" post is going to be, "Ouch.  I think I just burped and sneezed simultaneously."

With facebook, we're not actually connecting with our "friends," we're simply cyber pseudo-connecting.  We're entertaining each other, but we're certainly not really "sharing."  Regardless, it's enjoyable for those of us who partake.  Some of us take the facebook thing very, very seriously and put big, heavy political posts on our walls, and then some of us, myself included, put really stupid and ridiculous stuff out there.  I think my all-time worst post was something like, "I just found a really long white hair growing out of my arm."  What?  Not only was that not remotely interesting in the slightest, but it was just plain moronic, and kind of freakish (oooh, I cringe when I think about it).  I've also put stuff out there about my kids (lots of it, too.  Sorry.  I think I'm just proud.), and occasionally I'll throw in a You Tube video if it's especially funny (in my opinion, I guess).  My girlfriends and I post pictures of ourselves when we're feeling super-fly TNT, and I'll post "happy birthdays" ad nauseum because, well, why not?  (plus, I feel a little guilty when I don't do it)  Then, of course there's my blog, just to get it out there, because I have no idea how else to do it, and because I have this strange notion that my words actually mean something.  Either that, or I just need a LOT of attention and praise, in which case, keep it coming.

Back to facecrack, um, facebook.  There are the facebookers who simply stalk and don't put anything out there at all, they just kind of nose around and stuff, and then there are the facebookers who post every five minutes or so.  (Yeah, that's right, you types know who you are.)  There are the people who ask questions and advice:  "Does anyone know the name of a good homeless shelter/tattoo joint?"  And, lately, there have been the inspirational posts that I think people get from a website or something.  "Cats are special, because, well, they're cats and they're kind of wise and scary, so remember to never look back when you're on the staircase of life, but always look sideways at your right thumbnail." -- Anonymous.  I read them all, and I kind of like them all.  Weird, huh?  This social media thing is really a strange phenomenon, and I think I'm still getting used to it.  I don't myspace, I don't tweet, and I don't twat.  'K?

Where am I going with all this?  I have no idea, but what I do know is that with my blogs and with facebook, I like to divulge and be serious, but I also like to laugh at and make fun of myself.  Is this because I'm confident and don't really give a turd what people think of me?  (Well, I like to say that, but I think I do care -- a little.)  Is it because I think that life is meant to be enjoyed, and God wants us to have fun with it when we can?  Is it because I'm really, really good at checkers?  Wait, no, that's not related.  And that's my point:  I'm a total spaz, I like to have fun and I like to recognize my quirks and flaws and laugh at them, as well as learn from them.  Life can be so challenging, and without being able to make light of it and ourselves sometimes, we can get bogged down by its seriousness.

And on that note, I must run.  I have a picture of a coffee table that's just BEGGING to be posted!

Poems XIII

Categorical


We were illusion,
television phantasms
and courtesy memos;
mirages on coeval screens.
Show me your Wii
and I'll show you mine too,
glassy, saccharin tweets.

White static's burst
burst us in two
like Limpet, Incredible once.
Licked split us aloud,
sad walkabout's shroud,
a disappeared,
ventured-near show.

Why did that flick in-upon
take me so long
to read you what delved into
Titanic, but better and wetter?
And references never get old,
or so I am told.

Past greets the future,
formidable bliss,
DVR's whirred in and thus,
I'll continue my sojourn
(you press record),
'till the program's become

heartbreakingly strummed
and charred and jejune;
a telethon made for screens' waxy seal --
and made-up illusion,
our made-up illusion,
fantastics the wondering real.







How to Get Your Heart Broken

You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.
You'll hear a gular voice and startle up.
You'll think you're in love.  Wait, are you in love?
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.
You'll go to sleep dreaming of rough hands.
You'll wake up dreaming of rough hands.
You'll feel feverish, hot.
You'll feel angry, pissed.
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.
You'll sob.
You'll feel like someone sliced you in half, and then half, and then half again.
You'll feel exposed, vulnerable, rejected.
You'll hate yourself.
You'll forgive yourself, but not really.
You'll know there is nothing more you can do.
You'll realize the bare naked truth.
You'll accept, begrudgingly.
You'll never be the same.
You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.

Universal Sleuth

Meditation Mount in Ojai,
where I have done some serious imploring.

The holidays are almost over!  Yeah!!!  I never thought I'd be so excited to say that.  But, the problem is, the holidays are frenetic, frantic, exhausting, and gluttonous -- which actually leaves very little time for, you know, relaxing and remembering where the festivities really came from -- former pagan rituals that are now merged with organized religions' belief systems.

For me, personally, I've always had my own internal religious thing going.  Here's my background:  my parents are both atheists, but I grew up celebrating Christmas, Easter and all the other big ones primarily for the traditions involved -- traditions that I like to think of as "Americana."  I was never exposed to church, or temple either for that matter, considering my mother was born Jewish.  But the weirdest thing about all this was, that at around the age of 4, I started believing in God.  I suppose that since I was never given any religious direction, I surreptitiously created my own.  Needless to say, I would talk to God, I would pray to God, at night I would get into bed and say in whispered tones, "Bless my mommy, bless my daddy, bless my brother and sisters, bless my best friend, Emily..."  I could never tell my parents that I did any of this, because they would make fun of me -- and they still do, as a matter of fact.  They'll giggle and snicker, "What are you this week, Sarah, a Hare Krishna?" (A beautiful movement, by the way.  I mean it.  Although definitely too extreme for my taste.)

The truth is, I have dabbled in different religious beliefs -- I tried Buddhism for a while and went to see various Buddhist speakers talk (simply riveting stuff), I've studied some Hinduism, and do appreciate the sensuality and mindfulness of the religion, and I've had the bare minumum of exposure (weddings and such) to Christianity and Catholicism.  But there's also the blatant fact that I happened to marry a Jewish man.  Judaism has a wisdom and a code of ethics behind it that I had never realized before.  But do I connect to God through Judaism, or through any specific religion for that matter?  No.

I think I connect most to God, or, what I sometimes think of as a universal spirit, internally.  I feel, and thus know, that there is something bigger than myself -- inside, as well as outside, the sum of my parts.  I used to be most transported by this knowledge when I was in nature, or in front of something visually breathtaking.  But, now, as I get older, I feel it more consistently, even when I'm simply driving on the freeway with three kids screaming in the back seat.  Maybe this is because I feel so blessed to have what I have in my life.  Or maybe it's because I'll always be a wanderer, on an unidentified and limitless journey, curious about what's inside of me, as well as what's beyond.

I like having this internal connection to the divine, but I know that others, like my parents, will think that I'm dabbling in a religion known as lunacy.  For me, I want to feel and connect in the way that I want to, and then I want others to connect to God (or not connect, if they so choose) in the way they themselves need to, as well.  And this is why I sometimes think organized religion tends to divide us, as opposed to bring us together.  For, with those rules, we are told that one way is correct, or better, than another way.  And being in the South, I find the segregation here prevalent, but, truthfully, the divisions are everywhere, they're just better hidden in certain parts of the country/world.  Perhaps I'm a little rebellious, and dislike being told what is the "right" way to worship (I've never liked rules much), and I also know I'm idealistic, but I just can't help myself -- I guess that's part of who I am too.

My writing and my poetry have only furthered my spirituality.  When I sit down in front of my computer I usually have no idea what I'm going to write, and then it just spills out of me, like instinct.  It's that thing bigger than myself that's connecting me to my soul, and then connecting that to all of you.

So, I guess the next question is, why did I write all this?  I have no earthly idea.  SEE where enlightenment can take you?

Bored Games

Just a typical relaxing afternoon in the car.

I know, I know.  It's been FOREVER since I posted a blog.  The truth is, I've been stuck in a little rut.  I don't know what's wrong with me, other than the fact that I think I've just been a little blase -- oh, and ridiculously busy with three pint-sized maniacs too.  The other day I was trapped at home with a flu-ish one of them and I actually typed into Google, "Things to To Do When You're Bored."  (need I say more?)  But what came up was AWESOME, and I giggled out loud at some of the ideas -- i.e. "cheer up a potato," "interview your feet," "bloat," and my all time favorite -- "flash your goldfish."  I thought about trying that last one, but we have hermit crabs, not goldfish, and it would only kill, like, 15 seconds max.  But the thought of that liiiittttle extra adoration is always tempting.  God, I'm desperate.

But, here's the thing:  even though my life is oftentimes routine, I do try to make it anything but boring.  Usually I'm successful -- with some help.  First and foremost, there's my girlfriend, Amy, who is by far THE funniest person I have ever met in my life, and with whom the word "loafing" takes on a whole new meaning.  We have turned loafing into an art form, really.  And by loafing I mean sampling delectable new concoctions at Starbucks, talking smack (a.k.a. gossiping), inspecting each others' picked-at pimples, and arguing over what works better: eyelash extensions or Revitalash (my vote's with the latter).  Amy perpetually makes fun of me for being a workoutaholic and only wearing spandex and baseball hats, and I make fun of her for being pushy and lazy -- you know, we haze each other, it's fun. 

After Amy and I have loafed a goooood long while (and after she has hijacked my facebook account and pressed "like" on various items, such as "crocs," "mindful mommies," and "pot-pourri"), we then meet up with Carrie, who is actually productive, and, you know, works.  The delightful loaf-cycle then starts all over again -- the inspections, the talking smack, the eyelash debating, etc.  But, far and wide, the VERY best thing about girlfriends is the laughing.  We laugh so frequently and so hard that some of us have had Pumpkin Spiced Latte come out our nose, while others of us have had, um...accidents.

I have SO many good girlfriends in Houston (Jen, Ali, and the rest of you broads), and I could go on about my individual relationships with them forever, but I would be neglecting that extra special time sucker of mine -- my car.  Because I'm in it for four fucking hours a day, and I'm not kidding.  Fortunately, I have my i-pod, my i-phone, facebook on my i-phone, Words with Friends on my i-phone, and my ceaseless fantasies and imagination to keep me company.  It's a wonder I don't get honked at more -- I average two to three honks per day, usually for going a good 15 to 20 miles below the speed limit, seeing as how I'm very, very busy finding that juuuust right song on my i-pod.  My typical response to a honk is not a shouted "sorry!" or an apologetic wave of the hand, it's actually a very loud and long honk back, which solely serves to make me feel more powerful and less dejected.  Then I usually I get the finger, and then I usually laugh.  See how I easily I entertain myself?  I'm practically retarded.

*Sidenote -- In between the many short spurts it has taken me to complete this post, I actually did get into an accident, backing directly into a prissy 21-year-old's car parked behind me.  Bummer though -- no honking, no finger, and definitely no laughing (She really was a total asshole, no sense of humor whatsoever.  Tell me -- what is NOT funny about a huge dent in your brand new BMW?  I mean, c'mon!).  But I AM perpetually amazed by my total lack of awareness of the world beyond the boundaries of my personal auto-bubble.  I'm kind of like a female, younger, not-blind, modern day version of a behind-the-wheel Mr. Magoo.  We are so totally ONE.

OK, back to my ever-scintillating day.  Now is when the fun REALLY begins -- my afternoon delight.  No, no, no, nothing sexy or anything (other than the very special dried sweat aroma that I have lingering around me, seeing as how I haven't "had time" to take a shower -- you know, with all that important loafing and stuff), I'm talking about the unimaginable delight of having three cranky, dirty, smelly and hungry kids shoved into my car, as their teachers literally wipe their hands clean of them (and by this I mean they honestly have to wipe Teddy's fermented grime off their palms after they've gingerly lifted him into my car by his shirtstrings -- today he tumbled in with a full cup of sand in each shoe, a purplish rash around his mouth, and a delicious "present" wrapped in a tissue.).  Then it's driving to activities, screaming, spilling, whining, Cheetos, motion sickness, sobbing, hyperventilating, and ultimately, despair.  And I haven't even gotten to the kids yet.

Truth be told, it's the craziest shit I've ever done in my life.  And, you all pretty much know what parenthood entails -- a lot of selflessness, chaos, hurt, joy, and, yes, routine.  But the bottom line is, I wouldn't change any of it.  Not one tear, one fever, one mess, or one laugh.  I feel thankful to experience all this bedlam wrapped up in the mundane, because I know that our children won't stay young forever.  I like that they still need me, I like that they still look up to me.  And most of all, I like the emotional strength and the unconditional love that goes along with sainthood -- whoops, I mean motherhood.

And I like it SO much that I'll be taking just a teeny, tiny leave of absence for a while.  You cool with that, Steven?

Gotcha!  Happy Thanksgiving!