Tiny Victories

Hubband is sick.  Jonah is sick.  It turns out I was sick, last week, but I was told, "It's just allergies.  Suck it up, Princess."  So, I did.  But once I knew I was really sick, I could barely function for the fatigue.  And the coughing fits.  Or maybe it is the triple digit heat.  That's right.  A plague, and a heat wave, all in the same week.

Today, I am feeling a bit better.  It might be the extra sleep.  Yesterday when I got home from errands, I told Hubband I needed to lay  lie lay down, just for a few minutes, to cool off, and got up three hours later.  Whatever the reason, I felt it was time to conquer the house work.

Unfortunately, the house, as a whole, presented an insurmountable challenge.  It was so tempting to recline on the fainting couch, and put it all off another day.  Or three.

All the dishes were dirty.  All the laundry needed doing.  Every room looked like it had been lived in, by raccoons.  I was daunted.

But, I know me.  I thrive on victory.  If I can get one small victory, I can move on to the next battle.  So, I started small.  The kids' bathroom.  It looked bad, but really wasn't.  I had just scrubbed in on Sunday.  It only needed a little attention.  And, it is self contained, with no view of any other room.  Once it was clean, I could, conceivably, hang out in there, and pretend the house was clean.  So, I swished, and swiped, and closed the curtain on the tub, and voila!  A tiny victory!

Yay, me!

Next up, Catherine's room.  I picked up, put away, vacuumed, and dusted.  Voila!  Another victory!

Yay, me, again!

Then onto the boys' room.  More laundry to be put away, two beds to make.  Well, okay, I only made one bed, and put away all the stuff underneath it.  I left Jonah's side for Jonah, as that is actually one of his responsibilities.  Nevertheless, another tiny victory!

I was so proud of myself, that I took the opportunity of the baby's nap to get on the computer, as a little reward.  So, here I sit, writing to you all, my back to the kitchen and its looming pile of dirty dishes.

I am not worried.  I know I will get to them.  If there is one thing I have learned about dishes, it is that there are ALWAYS dirty dishes.  There is no victory over dishes.  I could stand in that kitchen all day doing dishes, but since folks keep using them, there will never be any victory.  So, I do dishes at certain times.  In between those times, or if I am sick, they can wait.

Until then, I will revel in my tiny victories.  In fact, I may even ride the momentum of those victories into the living room, where I can see from here, an apple core, wedged between the sofa cushion.

CHARGE!!!

This is Your Brain on Kids

If you are the mother of an American child under the age of five, you may already know this.  PBSkids has a new show.  It is called The Cat in the Hat Knows A Lot About That.  Jonah has been talking about it for two weeks, even though he has only seen the ads.  He's never seen the show, not because of some responsible limit on television watching imposed by me, but because it comes on at the same time we must be running Sam to school.  Poor, poor, Jonah.  He has even lobbied for me to take Sam to school early.

As luck would have it, The Cat in the Hat Know A Lot About That, is re-run on our local station on Sundays.  So, last Sunday, as I was making breakfast, Jonah, got to watch it.  "Finally!" said he.

As I was scrambling eggs and baking Monkey Bread (affectionately known around here as Monkey Brains--you can imagine!) I heard a familiar voice.  It was The Cat in the Hat, played by...

This is where my Mom Brain kicked in.  That addled, confused, and sleep-deprived side of me that is sure it knows something, but can't quite put it's finger on what.  The internal dialogue sounded something like this.

"Oh, that is that guy.  The comedian.  The one I don't like.  What is his name?  Not Dana Carvey.  But he used to be on Saturday Night Live.  Jimmy?  Jimmy Something?  Not Fallon.  Not Kimmel.  He had a TV show where he wore a fat suit and did celebrity interviews.  Ugh.  I hate that guy.  He was in Father of the Bride with Steve Martin and Diane Keaton.  He played the wedding planner.  Frank.  Pronounced Frahnk.  Oh, what is his name!?  It is driving me crazy.  Frahnk had a side-kick, played by B.D. Wong."

B.D. Wong.  Seriously?  Who knows who B.D. Wong is?  I can remember B.D. "Nobody-knows-what-he's-been-in-but-his-mother" Wong, but NOT the name of the really famous guy I don't like.  This is Mom Brain.

I knew I could go to IMDb.com to look it up.  But that was not the point!  I knew this guy.  I knew him and I knew his name.  It was in there somewhere, darn it, and my brain was going to give it up.  I wracked and scrambled and baked and listened to that voice I hated coming from the television.

I could remember the name of the actress who played the bride in Father of the Bride (Kimberly William).  I could remember the country singer she is married to (Brad Paisley).  I could remember that Kimberly Williams has a sister names Ashley who was in a short lived sit-com, set in Miami, with Suzanne Pleshette and Tom Poston, who both used to be on The Bob Newhart Show and were married in real life, and they both have both dies recently, and ARGHHHHH!  I felt like was having some kind of seizure.

Finally, I could not stand it any longer.  Hubband walked into the kitchen and I pounced on him.  "Who played Frahnk in Father of the Bride?" I asked, a tone of manic desperation in my voice.

Hubband, either not noticing my tone, or very used to it by now, calmly answered, "Martin Short."

MARTIN SHORT!!!!  Of course.  I hate that guy.

My breathing grew more regular.  My heart slowed.  My blood pressure went back down.  This episode of Mom Brain had passed.

The Week in Kids

This week...

...was a big one for Samuel.

He turned four.

There were even over-frosted cupcakes with Disney-Pixar characters on them to prove it.

And, plates to match.

You have to love black frosting, don't you?

I have to thank Samuel's teacher, Miss Regina, far salvaging these pictures for me after I left my memory card at home.  Teachers rock!  And, we have a family celebration planned for this weekend, so there should be more to come.

Also this week...

...was a big one for Catherine.

She did a little dance.

She found a way to sit on her bottom, yet still disobey her mother.

She embraced her maternal side, when straped her Elmo doll into her old high chair and fed him a snack.

She wore her first striped tights.  "Ty, ty."  She LOVED them.  This girl needs to move to a cooler climate.

She got her first pair of Levi's.

And, she took advantage of the fact that her mother was busy trying to get a picture of her, to do a little exploring.

Also this week...

Jonah was a good sport about not being the center of attention.

Breakfast presents.  Sam's new booster seat, that he got to ride to school in.

He helped Sam open presents, and he really helped.  He didn't just rip them open and then try to get to them before his brother could.

Before dinner presents.  Sam is so tired from a full day of school and cupcakes.

Jonah, also told me he wanted to build me a magic castle, where dinner would fix itself.  I love you, Jonah!

I hope you all had a festive week, too.

See you next week!

I Am a Complete Failure As a Mother

I am a complete failure as a mother.  I have a few accomplishments, it's true, but none of them are in this house.

Last year at Catherine's first birthday party, I ran out of room on the memory card in my camera.  I had three pictures.  Of her FIRST birthday!

I am a complete failure as a mother.

As I mentioned, Sam's birthday was yesterday.  Not wanting to repeat this particular failure, I made a point of getting to Wal-mart on Tuesday, to get a CD printed of all of the pictures on my memory card, so that I could erase them, and have room for 220 more pictures on the morning of Sam's birthday.  At the time, this felt like a Mother-of-the-Year worthy accomplishment.  I took a few breakfast pictures (the ones I posted here yesterday) and left the card in my computer.  I showed up at Sam's school at lunch time with two dozen Lightening McQueen cupcakes and no memory card in my camera.

I am a complete failure as a mother.

And, in my eagerness to be on top of every detail of Samuel's birthday, (at which I failed, by the way), I forgot to pack Jonah's water bottle for school.  He had to drink out of the drinking fountain.

Complete failure.

Today, there was no birthday.  No cupcakes or camera required.  I almost forgot to pack Jonah's snack and water bottle, but I didn't.  As we were headed out the door, I put his water bottle in the side pocket of his back pack, and I was about to toss an apple in there, when I remembered that Jonah doesn't really like apples, unless they are cut up.  Not having time for that, I gave the kid a banana.  He loves bananas.  Back in Mother-of-the-Year mode.

Then, on the walk to school, Jonah asks me, "Mom, did you remember my apple?"

"No, hon.  I didn't have time to cut it up , so I gave you a banana instead."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"What?  Why are you stopping?"

Nothing.  He wouldn't even look out from underneath his hat.

"What!?"

"I can't bring a banana to Johnny Appleseed Day?" he wailed.

Oh, carp (that troublesome fish)!  His class is making applesauce for Johnny Appleseed Day today.  And I forgot.  I completely forgot.  I sent the kid to school with a banana on Johnny Appleseed Day.  He was heartbroken. 

I am a complete failure as a mother.

When we got to class, he didn't ask for a kiss or a hug before going in like he usually does.  He just said, "Bye, Mom,"  and gave me a brokenhearted little wave.

Okay, this is ridiculous, I thought.  He is not going to be the only kid in there without an apple.  I can not be the only complete-failure-as-a-mother there is.  Right?

Right!  Mrs. Whitfield has been teaching kindergarten for two hundred and forty one years.  She taught Johnny Appleseed himself.  She had extra apples, of various varieties.  (Teachers rock!)  The apple-less children, of whom there were many, could take their pick.

I called Jonah over, and explained this to him.  Then I helped him pick out an apple.  I apologized sincerely.  Forgetting his apple was not the biggest mistake I will ever make.  And, not having an apple on Johnny Appleseed Day will not be his biggest disappointment.  But, I was sincerely sorry that I had causes a little emotional drama right before school.  The whole thing might seem ridiculous to us, but these things can be a big deal to kids, and it takes a little time to recover.  What a horrible way to start the school day.

"Can you forgive me?"  I asked.

"Of course, Mom." he said, as he gave me a big hug.  "I can always forgive you.  You know that."

Hmm.   Maybe I'm not a complete failure.

Blogger on a Mission

First, I hate the word "blogger." It is ugly, but it is ubiquitous, and there does not seem to be any reasonable alternative.  Writer of instantly published internet media?  Bahh.  I call other bloggers "writers" unless doing so would not make my meaning clear. 

Anyway...

I mention it because my anniversary as a blogger is approaching.  My bloggiversary, if you will.  (Shudder)  It is on October 26 to be exact, and I am on a bit of a mission to write two hundred posts by then.  So, if you have noticed a little extra activity here at uno, dos, tracey, that is why. 

I appreciate you, my readers slogging through it all.  I hope the quality hasn't suffered.  The end is near.  And, then I may just collapse into a heap, (blogger's cramp), and not write another thing until the new year.

Happy Birthday, Samuel!!!

Four years ago today, I gave birth to the biggest baby I had even seen.

Ten pounds, eleven ounces.

Now, he's big enough for a booster seat.  

He is so proud of this.

Let the festivities begin!!!!!

Survival Kit in a Sardine Can

As you may or may not know, I have a thing for labels.  Last week I found this one.

A Survival Kit in a Sardine Can.

It contains one (1) each of the following: Acetaminophen, Adhesive Bandage, Alcohol Prep.  Pardon me, but one Tylenol, one Band-aid, and one wet wipe are not enough to "survive" a trip to the park with my kids.

It contains one (1) Energy Nugget and one (1) Fire Starter Cube.  Boy, you don't want to get those two mixed up.

One (1) Salt Packet.  In case your Energy Nugget is bland?

One (1) each, Book Matches, Signal Mirror, Waterproof Bag, Compass.  That's better.  Wait.  What does that asterisk next to the compass mean?  Oh, the compass was made in China.  Why do you need to know that?  Is it because China is on the other side of the world?  Do you have to read Chinese compasses backwards, the same way you have to read Australian compasses upside down?

One (1) Safety Pin.  To hold up your pants once you start loosing weight, because catching your dinner with one (1) Fish Hook and Line turned out to be a lot less fun with out the beer and the boat.

One (1) Sugar Whistle.  Do you blow it to attract attention?  Or dissolve it in your tea, made with your one (1) Tea Bag?

There is Duct Tape.  Why wouldn't there be?

There is one (1) Razor Blade.  If you decide that "survival" really isn't for you.

There is one (1) Pencil, also made in China, so it is guaranteed to have lead, and one (1) Note Paper.  For your Last Will and Testament?  Or, if you are more optimistic, to get the phone number of the Search and Rescue hottie who saves you.  Be sure to chew the one (1) Chewing Gum before you ask though, as the kit contains no (0) Toothbrush.

And, lastly, the kit contains First Aid Instructions. Which, if you had read them before needing to bust open your Survival Kit in a Sardine Can, would have told you that you were ill prepared to go out into the wild with nothing more than a bottle of Auqafina and a Survival Kit in a Sardine Can.

Giraffe Farming

Our son Samuel has a speech delay.  It used to be quite pronounced.  On his third birthday, he couldn't even say "Mommy."  Now, at almost four (this week, in fact), he is a completely different kid.  But, he still sees a speech therapist.  Last week, we had to go meet the new one.

Every time he moves on to a new program, he must be re-evaluated.  So, I schlepped him, and his older brother, and his younger sister, down to the elementary school.  The therapist wanted me to stay, in case Sam became uncomfortable.  The other kids and I waited in an adjacent room.

I listened through the doorway as Sam identified all of his letters and colors and shapes and animals (you should hear him say, "giraffe.") and articles of clothing and foods.  Of course he knows all of his foods.  His first speech therapist kept trying to prompt him with "Cow says mmm...?"  Sam learned to say "pizza" long before he learned to moo.

At some point, I had to focus on the two children in the room with me, and lost track of Sam's progress.  It wasn't a long evaluation this time, and in about thirty minutes the therapist came in to talk to me.

"He is doing really well," she said.  "But..."  She hesitated, like she was afraid to tell me what came next.  He is doing really well, but he is color blind.  He is doing really well, but he has dyslexia.  He is doing really well, but... WHAT?

"He has a hard time telling his farm animals from his zoo animals."

The words hung in the air for a few, long seconds.  The therapist kept one manicured hand to her chest, as if to say, "I am soooo sorry."

"He has a hard time telling his farm animals from his zoo animals."

I let her words sink in.  It was as if something light had been thrown at me, by someone pretending it was very heavy.

"He has a hard time telling his farm animals from his zoo animals."

"Who freaking cares?" I said.

Okay, I didn't say that.  I didn't even have to restrain myself from saying that.  But, I did think it.

"He has a hard time telling his farm animals from his zoo animals."

This was obviously a point of some concern to the woman.  How, as a mother, and a practical human being, was I to respond?

"We have taught him to tell the difference between the pets and the food."

"We don't believe in zoos, as such.  Ask him to separate the animals by continent of origin."

"Try wild versus domesticated."

I simply told her, Sam has not had much experience with either farms or zoos, and that I wasn't too concerned about it.  She accepted my explanation, but she was still concerned, I could tell.

I get the distinct impression that the whole "farm v. zoo" thing is some kind of arbitrary, developmental hoop through which my son must jump.  Maybe he will, maybe he won't. 

We have different hoops here at home.  On Sam's fourth birthday, he can say, "giraffe," and "pizza," and "I love you, Mommy."  We're good.

The Week in Kids

This week...

I caught Catie and Daddy holding hands on the couch.

Also this week...

Jonah started back to school.

Jonah, waiting for the school gates to open.

You may recall that our school is year-round.  He started the year in mid-July.  He was in for four weeks, then out for four weeks.  This week he was back in, or back on track as it is called.

Also this week...

Cate learned a new trick when swinging or sliding.  She says, "Wee haw!"  Wee haw, indeed.

Also this week...

Was picture day at Sam's school.  So, Sam had to get a hair cut.

I did it myself, even though the kid is a lousy tipper.

Seriously, the kid has a perfect head.

And, Cate had to get dressed up.

Because even though it was picture day at Sam's school, they offered to take a photo of all three kids together.  I'll be sure to show you those pictures when I get them.  (Yes, there is a stool knocked over in the background, because, even dressed like this, she is a bruiser.)

Also this week...

Jonah ran in his school's Fun'd Run to raise money for the school library.  He ran hard too.  Here he is passing a girl in a wheel chair.

Seriously though, the kid ran a mile and a half in fifteen minutes.

GREAT JOB, JONAH!!!!

(The orange and black and SF Giants gear was the class theme.  We don't really do Giants gear in this house.)

See you next week!

[POST UPDATE:  I did my math wrong.  Jonah actually ran 2.25 miles in fifteen minutes.]

Crazy Stuff Jonah Has Said

Jonah, practicing anonymity.

 Our oldest is growing up.  Jonah has, since birth, been very distinctly his own person.  Only now, he is beginning to know it.  Soon, all of the crazy stuff he says and does, which I find so hilarious and blog-worthy, is going to belong to him.  Out of respect for the individual he is, I must stop writing about him.  He will be six in January, and I think that will be the cut off.  But, don't worry, I have two more cute and funny kids to steal material from, while they are still too young to protest.

And, January is four months away!  So, today I bring you Crazy Stuff Jonah Has Said.

"Mom, I love you more than a giant eel with teeth."

"Don't say 'butt head' to a five year old 'cuz he's just gunna say it back."

"Mom, you are wonderful.  You are like a flower to me."

When I serve cheese sandwiches, he calls them "prison food."

When I found him in his room, wrapped in a quilt buried under an upturned laundry basket (with the laundry still in it) I asked him what he was doing.  "Having a think."  He thought like that for two hours.  I kept checking to see if he went to sleep.  Nope.  "Still thinking, Mom."  Finally, wondering if this was some cry for attention, I went in and sat with him.  After a few minutes, I asked him what he was thinking about.  He had this elaborate story about knights and robots and a baby and some kid of battle.  The boy was actually in there thinking.

Mom:  I love you so much.  You have no idea.
Jonah:  That's not true.  I have lots of ideas.

Jonah:  What do paleontologists study?
Mom:  Dinosaurs.
Jonah:  Not anymore.  The dinosaurs are all dead.

Well, that's all I can come up with today.  But, don't worry, I will try to get as much posted before the deadline.  And if you are worried that Jonah's future precociousness will go undocumented, don't be.  I keep a private blog just for him, because I know that when he gets past the self-consciousness of being him, he is going to want to read all of this stuff.

The Books that Mattered

Books have had a huge impact on who I am.  And, so I thought I would take this opportunity to share with you some of the books that mattered to me most in my life.

As most of my readers know, I am a Christian, so the Bible is big for me.  It is tempting to give you a list of all of the secular books that impacted me as a child and young adult and save the Bible for the end, highlighting how it's power is greater than all the others.  But, things like that, as least coming from me, always seem a bit self-serving and obnoxious.  Like when I say to Hubband, "I just want you to be happy."  So, I am going to mention the Bible up front.  The Bible matters, but in a way that is outside the scope of this list.

Hop On Pop by Dr. Seuss was the first book I ever read.  Well, sort of.  When I was three, I memorized all the words, and when to turn the pages.  I would "read" to anyone willing to sit still long enough.  When I had kids and got a copy for them, I was surprised at how long it is.  And boring.  So thank you, to any and all family members who sat through a 1972 reading of Hop on Pop.

The Little House Books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, with pictures by Garth Williams were a pre-teen favorite.  The television show was on at the same time, so I really got carried away by the idea of wearing long skirts and riding in buggies.  I remember pulling my knee sock up as high as they would go so that they looked like Laura's stockings.

Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl was haunting.  I can't quite put into words the way it changed me.  It was personal and historical and universal all at the same time, and I think it was the first time that I could imagine those things intersecting.  I guess, you could say, it gave me perspective.

The World Book Encyclopedia was the internet of 1976.  You can say what you want about the value of letting your kids watch television, but many was the night that I sat up late with a volume of the family's World Book Encyclopedia researching something I had seen on Fantasy Island.  Before the internet put a universe of knowledge at out finger tips, we had to look things up in books, and it was a true luxury to have a complete set of encyclopedias right there in the house.  I'm sure those books cost my mother a fortune, but they were worth every penny.

Some book by Jane Austen, probably Pride and Prejudice.  I can't actually remember which book of hers it was, but it used words like countenance and terms like three and twenty.  I found it very confusing, and I had to admit that, for the first time, I was out of my depth.  This was not Hop on Pop or Fantasy Island.  It was good for me.  Rather than give up, I learned that countenance means face and three and twenty means twenty three.

I read The Official Preppy Handbook by Lisa Birnbach hoping it would make me Jackie Kennedy or at least get me into a good school.  It did neither.  But I learned what a diaphragm was.

Seventeen Magazine, September 1984.  I read every inch of this issue of this magazine.  I have no idea why, but this back-to-school issue was like my life for six weeks in the late summer of 1984.  I still remember that the cover girl was named Gracie Santana.  I can conjure up a few of the photo lay outs.  Nuts!  But, for better or worse, this is what passed for influence on the fifteen year old me.

Fatal Vision by  Joe McGinniss is a true crime book about a Marine doctor who kills his family.  It was the first true crime book I ever read.  I was riveted.  This book probably played a roll in my future career in law enforcement.  Have I ever written about my police years?  I don't think I have.  Oh, well, I will let you imagine it for now.

Edie: American Girl by Jean Stein and George Plimpton was an oral biography of Edie Sedgewick.  She was a socialite, model, drug addict in the Warhol culture of New York in the sixties, and her story is told through interviews.  This was fascinating to me.  A world I had no idea existed, laid out in vibrant detail.  Drugs, orgies, electroshock therapy, the state mental hospital.  It was not pretty.  It satisfied a primal teenage need to dabble in counter culture, without straying too far from the safety and comfort of my pleated skirt life.

Those Who Love by Irving Stone, was assigned reading for my high school history class.  It is a biographical novel about John and Abigail Adams.  It was so rich and detailed.  I fell in love with John and Abigail, and it had a lasting impact.  My undergraduate degree is in Early American History, and no matter what the fashion of the day becomes, I will always prefer Adams to Jefferson.  So, there.

Well, that's it for now.  These are the books I can remember as really having an impact on me.
 

What about all of you?  

What books do you remember from your history?

Catie, Get In Your Chair

Catie, get in your chair.

Get in your chair.

Sit on your bottom.

Not, your knees.  Your bottom.

Sit on your bottom, in the chair.

Thank you.  Was that so hard?

My Diana Years

Lady Diana Spencer became engaged to Prince Charles on February 24, 1981.  She was nineteen.  I had just turned twelve.  I had never heard of her before the engagement was announced, but she immediately captured my adolescent imagination.

Diana was young, pretty, a bit fleshy.  She seemed very accessible to me, the way many impossibilities seem accessible to Americans, especially the young ones.  I suspect it comes from being told we can be anything we want to be, if we work hard enough.  That's a load of carp really.  All the hard work in the world was not going to make me a tall, leggy, blond.  Or, a princess.  But, that did not stop twelve-year-old me from dreaming.

From the moment I saw her in that blue suit, showing off that gigantic sapphire ring, I wanted to know everything about her.  What she ate (very little, as it turned out), what she read (very little, as it turned out), what her life was like down to the minutest detail.  And then, I wanted to live that life too.  So, I thought.  I was twelve.  And a hopeless romantic.  What did I know?

She was pretty.  He was rich, and titled.  What could go wrong?

The Royal Wedding was in July, 1981.  There was an eight hour time difference between my suburban California home, and St. Paul's Cathedral in London, but it was summer and there was no school, so I stayed up all night to watch every second.  You might have been able to pull me away, if the house were on fire, but only maybe.  There was something about that day.  The combination of my youthful fancy, the sleep deprivation, and the pageantry of it all that just caught me up.  It felt like magic.

And, in a way, for me, it was.  The next day, I cleaned my room.  This was not a small thing.  My mother was of the attitude, that it was my room, and I could keep it however I wanted, as long as it did not escape past the door and into the hallway.  You can imagine the chaos.  But, all of a sudden, I wanted to be tidy, and take care of my things.  I wanted to grow up.  A nineteen year old English girl got married and I stopped being a little girl.  A bit dramatic, I know.  I mentioned I was twelve, right?

All through that following year, I saved my money to buy books about her, that were nothing more than photographs really.  I wore those pages out, dreaming.  There was on in particular, Princess by Robert Lacey, that also had quite a bit of text.  I devoured every word.  I can still remember the smell of the paper.

It didn't take too long to out grow being twelve.  And, while I maintained an interest in Diana gossip (for lack of a better word), the first blush of adolescent fantasy began to fade with talk of eating disorders, infidelity, and obsessive phone calls to other women's husbands.  I grew up.  I moved on.

Diana, died on August 31, 1997.  She was thirty-six.  I was twenty-eight.  I heard the news on the television, as I was unpacking all of my worldly possessions from moving boxes.  I had just bought my first house.  I was handed the keys that very day.  I felt like such a grown up.

At the risk of sounding like a melodramatic twelve year old, it seemed appropriate to me that I should share this day with her.  She was with me when I left the little-girl-me behind, and she left, just as I had reached a milestone of adulthood.  I was, of course, more than prepared to move on without her, but it was still sad. 

As I was unpacking, I found all of those old Diana books in a box.  A few days earlier, as I was packing for the move, I seriously considered throwing them away.  I felt kind of silly still holding onto them.  But, I could not part with them.  And, I was glad I didn't.  Silly or not, I loved those books.  They were such a part of my growing up.  I have them still.  Well, my mom has them, in a box in her basement.  (Did you hear that mom?  You have the times of my life in a box in your basement.  Think of that the next time you threaten to throw out anything we won't come get.)

I still think of Diana occasionally.  Neither of our lives were like we dreamed they would be in 1981.  But, I like my fairy tale ending, even if Hubband is not rich and titled.