The Helpers


I’m sure you weren’t thinking about how hard we work to pay bills in our household. Maybe you noticed the three booster seats in the back of the van when you broke the glass. That shattered everywhere. You probably didn’t care that I just vacuumed my van out yesterday. You probably didn’t think that when you grabbed our wallets and stole our car, you took something more meaningful. You stole a tiny bit of our children’s innocence. And you threatened their sense of safety. In their own home.

“Why would somebody do that?” One of my boys asked.

I wish I could find you and ask you the question, so that I could give my children an honest answer. A better answer than, “I don’t know.” I really don’t know. They heard me say cuss words. Because of you. They watched me cry and bang the counters with my fists this morning. Because of you. I’m sure you didn’t think about how today you taught my kids a cruel, sad lesson about life. People steal. Complete strangers can take important stuff from you. In your very own driveway. I’m sure you didn’t care much about our family. I’m sure you thought we have plenty. We can replace a car, right? I hope the smokes were good. Really good.

You sneak onto people’s property and take stuff that’s not yours. Big stuff. You have no idea what happens to families as a result of your behavior. You probably don’t care. The people who you rob can’t drive to their jobs. To make money to pay for what you’ve broken or stolen. You instill fear and hopelessness.  I hate that you made me an emotional see-saw today. Alternating between feeling really, really pissed, like I want-to-hunt-you-down-so-you-can-look-at-my-face pissed, to feeling really, really sad for you. And your life. Maybe you feel remorse. Maybe you stole the car and our wallets to buy the smokes to sell them for some cash to buy some food for your family. Maybe. I would have rather you knocked on my door. And just asked me. I don’t want your kids to be hungry. Or even you.

I’m sorry for the choices that you’re making. I’m sorry for all the heartbreak you’ve caused. I’m sorry if you had a rough childhood. That made it hard. And lead you down a track with no outlet. I’m sorry if you face obstacles and feel like the way to tackle them is to steal from others. I’m sorry that it seems like we have more than you. And that you feel justified or entitled to our belongings. I’m sorry that we may see you in court one day. And that you may go to jail for this.

I want you to know that although you took a piece of my children’s innocence, you did not win today. The helpers taught my boys something much more meaningful than your cruel lessons. The encouragers surrounded us today. They are the ones who we will teach our boys to remember. Like the police officer who showed us great kindness and compassion. One of my sons recognized this. He said, “Mommy, he’s like a real super hero.” It’s true. Friends and family offered to drive us, to provide food for us, to care for us and to sympathize with us. They helped tame our outrage, anger and powerlessness into strength and courage. And even peace.

I think my boys will remember today. The broken glass. The missing car. Wallets. Stolen. What I believe and hope that they will remember most are the people who reached out, listened and wanted to turn something bad into something better. Giant love-filled bear hugs. They instilled hope. Encouraged strength. I pray that when my boys remember today that they will remember the helpers. Not you.

Work Family


There’s no one I would rather clean up puke with. Or sani-wipe toys with. Or laugh with. Or sigh with. You’ve always got my back. I’ve got yours too. I just so happen to love working with you. You do your job so incredibly well. Your mom would be proud. Like cry her eyes out kind of proud. I hope you know that you’re one of the best.

We speak a hospital-working language of sorts. A language sometimes without words. A language laced with patience, perseverance, humor and strength. And human weakness too. We laugh because we have to. And we cry because we need to. We support each other because we understand each other and we love each other. Like family. Work family.

I feel like you put a lot of pressure on yourself. Pressure to be the best, to get all your IV starts on the first try, and to anticipate. You always wear your critical thinking skills hat. It’s invisible but we all know it’s there. I guess that’s why you’re so damn good at your job. You better not ever quit because you truly, deeply care and it shows. People need you. I think I saw you save someone’s life today. You bend over backwards and upside down for your patients. And for your work family too. You usually carry a heavy load of emotional work-related baggage, rolling it down the long hallways on your way out. It follows you home. It causes you to over-think, over-feel and fear and love harder. It nudges you to look at life differently. Better and also worse.

You’re constantly growing, changing and sacrificing. And sacrificing again. You adapt like no other. You always want to be better. You’re probably too hard on yourself. I feel honored to work with you. Like I got picked to play on the best team.

I know all of this as truth because we’ve worked a long side each other. Right next to each other. Across a hospital bed from each other. In the halls with each other. In the break room sharing stories. When I was blowing bubbles, I also saw the compassionate and fierce look of determination on your face. I heard the click of the needle retracting. The sound of success. You do really hard things all shift long like they’re no big deal. With ease, confidence and grace. You’re phenomenal, one of a kind, not many can do what you do. The way that you do. You’re extraordinary. Every damn time. I appreciate you. And so do all of the others who just couldn’t say the words.

Until Next Summer…


I decided to write a tribute of sorts about some of the things parents do for their kids. All summer long. I just love summer. Always have and I think I always will. Though I enjoyed school as a kid, I still dreaded going back after the relaxed, fun-filled long days of summer. Now, as a mother, I get to relive summer fun through the eyes of my kids. It’s a different perspective but still pretty stellar most days.

Now that school has officially started, I am a lot sad to say goodbye to summer. I will definitely look forward to next June as long as it brings anything but showers. I will try my hardest to appreciate all of the seasons in between. But until next summer…here is a list of:

Ten Awesome Things Parents Do for Their Kids in the Summer:

1. Set-up the slip’n slide….yeah!

Then, attempt to blow up the deflated side over and over again. Before you realize there’s a hole. Not just any old hole. A massive hole. So, you patch up that whistling hole with really expensive waterproof medical tape. And blow up that left side. Again. One more time. Until your lungs and mouth quit. Tape can only do so much. The kids are ready for a Popsicle which brings us to…

2. Open up Popsicles.

With your teeth, kids scissors, or with that dull kitchen knife. It’s nonstop. You’ve given up on how many Popsicles the AAP recommends. It’s like 115 degrees outside. You don’t want your kids passing out. They need energy fast…in the form of Red Dye #40. Airheads Popsicles, Freeze pops, old school push-ups if you can find them anywhere. Where have all the push-ups gone? Does the Popsicle brand really matter? It’s cold and face it, the majority of the freezing cold goodness will end up on their faces, their shirts, or the ground. Or in a melted pile on the counter. Oh, the forgotten Popsicle. “So, yes, sweaty flush faced child, of course you can have another Popsicle. You barely got any of the first one into your belly.”


3. Apply Sunblock.

Ahhhh, sunblock. Spray sunblock. Stick sunblock. Baby sunblock. Spider-Man sunblock. Sunblock in their eyes. Their hair. All over you. The sole reason you have a tan is because after lathering up all of your kiddos, you only have the stamina to put it on your face. Meanwhile, your youngest kid is tugging on you to catch him off of the diving board. Sorry neck, shoulders and back, it looks like you will be getting (more) sun today. And most every day of summer. High five for protecting your face, Mama. You won’t look a day over 33….until someone looks down at your hands.

4. Tie water balloons.

Yep, here’s proof that love hurts. Repeatedly wrapping the cheap latex around your giant fingers and having water balloons pop in your face as you attempt to tie those suckers up, that’s pure love. You can’t keep up with the demands of the tiny hands who would be much better at knotting the water grenades, if they only knew how. Right as you tie one up, splat, it’s done. You’re soaked and your hands feel abused by the slippery broken latex pieces splayed all over the ground beneath the hose. The most you can do is have your kids pick up pieces while they wait for the next “big mama.” No wonder you helped kickstart the “Bunch O’ Ballooons” project. Too bad they’re so expensive you can’t afford to incorporate them into your cheap summer fun. Surely the price will go down by next summer.

5. Take the kids to the library.

It’s free. Well, until you can’t find the books, audiobooks or DVDs you’ve rented. The late fees can be a little extreme. That’s beside the point. You’ve got about 30 good minutes of picking out books, old school DVDs like “Free Willy” and playing with the random summer activities. Good clean free summer fun. You still feel a little pressure to “shhhh!” your kids when they’re getting loud. And you definitely have to reinforce the “no running…or wrestling” in the library rule. You generally reward yourself, and the kids too, with a cookie after leaving the quiet zone. You earned it. And you know, since you’ve gotten all of the free books and stuff, you quickly justify a Blue Chip Cookie. Maybe you can get another one when you return all of your goods back to the library on time. Ish.

6. Dry a lot of swimsuits, towels, wet clothes, etc.

There are a lot of sacrifices in summer and the one that takes the brunt of them is your poor van. It becomes the haven for sweaty kids and their wet clothes, towels, and swimsuits. A non-creepy sauna of sorts. If you’re on top of it, you unload the damp played-in clothes to the laundry room immediately as you get home. Yeah. You go. If you got distracted, because, well, it happens, you may have left wet clothes in the van. Overnight. Good thing it’s not 100 + degrees outside. Oh, wait. The next day, you open the doors to the ripe moist smell of mildewed swimsuits. Your kids ask while holding their noses, “what’s that smell?” Your wet swimsuits. They’re not exactly wet or dry. They’re in between still. Only they’ve taken on the putrid smell of forgetfulness. Surely, the chlorine will knock the stink right out when they jump back into the pool today? One of the joys of all boys is they won’t cause a big fuss. They’re used to stinky feet, amongst other unfavorable bodily odors. They won’t put up a fight when it comes time to throw those pleasantly, or creepily moist suits back on. Or you just won’t hear it if they do. “Do you guys wanna go swimming or not? Well?”


7. Go to a Royals game.

Nothing beats the “K” on a summer night. It’s like everyone out there is a part of a big happy family. Even if you chose not to look at the forecast and end up sitting under an umbrella with your family of five. For five innings. It’s family bonding time. One of your sons may ask, “where does everybody get those trash wrappers?” And you may realize he’s talking about rain ponchos. You will laugh at his awesome six-year old description of rain gear. As you state that those are the loyal and smart fans. The prepared ones. We just came for the cotton candy and the clapping. And it’s always memorable. And worth it. Even if you leave soaked in the sixth inning. First base line seats? Yes, Hosmer. Yes.

8. Go to the zoo.

Where else do you get to watch your kids play peek-a-boo with a toddler orangutan? Or give high fives through the glass to a back stroking polar bear? Ride the train. Check. Ride the shuttle all the way to Africa. Done. Help celebrate a chimp’s 21st birthday. With Jell-O shots. Sort of. You may just get to witness a few chimps “riding each other’s backs”and explain why the girl chimp’s bottom looked so painfully swollen and red. Poor girl chimp. That’s rough. It’s always an exhausting, semi-sex educational fun-filled day. And all of your boys may fall asleep on the ride home. Always. And you may wish they would hand out iced coffees and a sticker to the parents on the way out. “I Zoo’d Today.” It’s pretty similar to voting or giving blood. Well, almost.


9. Help catch tadpoles and frogs…

And lightning bugs. And dragon flies. And butterflies. And all the summer creatures that your kids are fascinated with keeping for a day or two before setting them free. You’re hoping they will scurry, hop, swim or fly out of their makeshift bug hostile equipped with grass, a rock and a bottle cap of water. It’s not quite as dramatic as “Free Willy” but this is Overland Park not Hollywood. “Jump, Frog, jump. Just go.” Let’s celebrate that frog’s triumphant return to nature with a Popsicle.


10. Lastly, and most importantly, summer helps us slow down and take the time to gaze at our children’s summer sun-spotlighted beauty.

When they ask you to open their Popsicle or jump up into your dry lap, you should pause and look at their freckled faces. Their red stained lips. Their crazy blonde hair. And then you’ll also notice that their thick, long black eyelashes are bleached out on the tips. And how those eyelashes cast the most delicate shadows on their faces. You feel humbled, and all the sudden, tearful, overwhelmed, like you’ve been granted the most amazing wish. The honor of being their mother. The gift of being the one who gets to open their Popsicles, tie their water balloons, resuscitate their slip n’ slide, and on and on. All summer long. You get to be front and center to their endless beauty, their innocence and life-filled eyes and their constant requests, cuddles, and love. Because you possess the most coveted lap..that is, until Daddy walks into the door.

Hard Decision Hangover


My brain hurts. From over thinking. My heart hurts. From over-feeling. My ears hurt from over-listening. My mouth hurts from over-talking. My eyes are bloodshot and dry from over-crying. And under sleeping. I’m tired, restless, confused, certain. Uncertain. I don’t have an appetite. Or, maybe I want to go to Waffle House or somewhere really greasy. I think I just want some chocolate. I can’t decide. I know only one thing: I don’t want to be a grown up today. I would like to hire a “decision maker.” Someone who thrives on decisivity, seeing all sides of the decision equation, and maybe also someone who has the ability to see the future.

It’s hard to make a decision that I know will involve change, and most likely, hurt, whichever way we go. Change is good, but change is hard. It’s even more difficult when you’re not the only person involved. And especially hard because I tend to be a confrontation avoider. And perhaps a person who weighs the response of loved ones more heavily than my own. I can cry all day, but when I see those I love crying, I will go to great lengths to plug up those waterfalls. I won’t go chasin’ those waterfalls though. A valuable lesson I learned from TLC.

Inevitably, in life, there are these forks in the road. Life decisions that are HUGE. (All caps for added effect.) You can only ride the brakes for so long. Before you curb check, maybe lose a hubcap Or two and then swing your van full of boys to the right. Or wait, no, to the left.

We’ve made a pros and cons list. That didn’t help much. We’ve talked to a lot of people who are invested in us and who love us. That helped and made it harder too. We’ve said a lot of prayers. Had a lot of people praying for us. Talked a lot to God. Listened intently. Searched. Read a lot. Can you ever truly know if the decision you make is the right one? The best decision? Maybe later, like years down the road. Maybe not ever.

I am pretty certain that having deep meaningful conversations with people who care about you and some who feel like they may lose you from in front of their faces is not a bad problem to have. Sometimes, as an adult, metaphorically speaking, you need to get your yearbook signed to know you really matter. We’ve been honored to have so many friends that care so much and really want the best for us, even if that meant moving away. We have asked a lot of mentors, old friends, new friends, coworker friends, mom friends, and family for advice. What should we do? Please just tell us. We’re laying all of the cards on the table. It’s a gamble. We give you our money, we’ll trust you, you take the risk. If and only if you agree to not conclude our conversation with, “It’s a really hard decision.” Peace. We realize that every person who offers advice is typically seeing the situation through their own eyes, experiences, hopes and fears.

Despite my tendency to over think and outweigh everybody else’s opinions above my own, it comes down to what will be the best decision for our family. The family that lives in this house. Under this roof. The husband and boys that I wake up to and tuck in each night. It’s a lot of pressure.

At midnight, when I’m driving home from work, I pull into our neighborhood and there are four deer, running right next to the road. I pull over, stop the car. One brave deer stops, or maybe I was brave. I stopped too. That deer stares at me, as the three others move on. And it wasn’t staring at my headlights, they were facing the other direction. It was for-real staring, like we were having a contest. Or like it was trying to tell me something.  Maybe he just liked my new glasses. Great. Now, I need a weird animal encounter interpreter. Should we stay or should we go? If that deer could talk….It may just ask me where some water is. I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing my mind.

The uber bizarre part is four days later, I’m driving to pick up my boys around 2 in the afternoon. On the same street, in the middle of the day, out of nowhere, a deer is running along side of the road. Just one deer. Confused and out-of-place. Running around the neighborhood. In broad daylight. What?? Really. Craziness. And I just happened to be thinking about this really hard decision. Seriously bizarre-o, right? I think so, and don’t try to tell me it was a coincidence. Too strange. It means something. I just know it. I just don’t know what it means. Yet.



Will you please tie my boys’ shoes? I’m sorry. I hoped to take a chunk of time this summer to practice with them. I eventually resolved to double and triple, sometimes quadruple knot their shoelaces. Their constantly running, jumping, and kicking bodies manage to loosen up all the knots. Always. All days. We just got so busy. And even though summer started out with all of the June rain, July raced by too quickly. It always does. Long sun-filled summer days won’t be had again until my boys are older, bigger and smarter. Mostly because of your patience, your expertise, and your passion for teaching them.

A lot of the time, I have a hard time managing my three children. I don’t quite know how you can captivate an entire classroom of six to seven year olds for an entire day. All week long. You must have an endless supply closet filled with patience. And you’ve got to be exhausted at the end of the day. I heard you say that you have three children of your own. You help kids learn all day long. And then you go home and help your own. I wholeheartedly believe that you have one of the most important jobs. You truly help shape the lives of the most precious boys and girls that fill your brightly decorated, first grade classroom. Even if they all may not act so precious at times.

I am certain you must have moments when you need to escape to a secret hiding place to take deep breaths. I am sure you have moments where you need a coffee or a coke or maybe some chocolate. Maybe a margarita. You don’t have that luxury because you constantly have all of these big, beautiful eyes staring at you, watching your every move, especially when you wish they weren’t. You possess the power to forever imprint the hearts of my children. All of our children. You have the privilege of spending more waking hours with my boys than me Monday through Friday.  That hurts a little. Actually, a lot. It makes me worried. And nervous. And also hopeful. And beyond grateful for you, even though I just met you.

I know you will do your best to teach them all of the confusing sounds that letters make together. Just today we were talking about “pharmacy.” Tricky old pharmacy. Why does the “ph” make the sound of an “f?” my boys asked me. You will be able to answer these questions much better than I can. That’s hard for me to say. It’s hard when somebody else, specifically another woman, can do something better for my kids than I can. It’s humbling. It makes me want to show you how great of a monster I can be on the playground or show you how much my boys love to snuggle right up next to me, even on top of me, when we’re watching a movie. I don’t think I need to show you these things for you to know how much I love them.

I’m confident that you will teach my boys math tricks and reading skills. You probably have the coolest, most fun and exciting ways to do it. But I can’t stop thinking about something else that matters more: I’m trusting you to guide them gently and show them love. I don’t ask for help often. I can be puffed up and proud like that. But I want you to know that I’m depending on you to recognize when somebody hurts my boys’ feelings or when they hurt some little boy or girl’s feelings. Will you please teach kindness and forgiveness and compassion too? And hopefully, you will notice when they’re having a bad day. It pains me to think that I can’t be there in these moments to help make things better. I know they will be proud to show you all of their work. They may even like you so much that they call you, “Mom.” That’s the greatest compliment you could ever receive, in my opinion.

They are two of the most beautiful, unique, inquisitive, loving, kind-hearted and energetic boys I’ve ever met. I know I’m a little biased, but I have worked with a lot of kids. I hope you will look at them and appreciate their passion, their joy for life, their imperfections and also their fragility. I hope you will remember that they’re still learning a lot about life. From August until May, you will have an enormous impact on their little hearts and minds. Thank you for teaching my boys.

And thank you for taking the time to kindly bend down and tie their shoelaces. I recommend the triple knot.

Fourth Birthday


Keep sleeping, my sweet little boy. It’s your last day to be three or “fwee” as you say. Your legs can only run so hard for so long. It’s a neverending job keeping up with twin big brothers, but you do it so well. Though, you always succumb to the moving van and your broken-in car seat at this time of the day. Those heavy long, bleached-tipped eyelashes win. Again.

I wanted to wake you up when we got to the park so you could hide in the bushes with your brothers, but you looked so peaceful. I just couldn’t do it. I really needed to go pee but I just sat holding you on that rock wall. I took a picture of your sun-kissed eyelashes. I absolutely love them. They cast the most perfect summer shadows on your face. They remind me of how the tiniest things can be the most beautiful if we stop and notice. Your brothers keep running over to check on you sleeping on my shoulder. They’re whispering, “he’s still asleep” as they sneak off. They love playing with you. I’m pretty sure everyone loves playing with you. You have always gone with the flow so well. You’re as easy going as they come unless you’re tired and want ice cream for dinner. Then, you can throw yourself on the floor with the best of them. And you’re a strong little boy.

It would be wrong for me to say that I don’t want you to turn four. It’s your birthday. That happy day when we first met you. Your broken little nose. Your big little hands. You needed to snuggle and rest. Being born is exhausting. I still love your cuddles and I really love carrying you, especially when you ask, “could you pwease hold me, Mommy?” Even when I’m tired and my back hurts, I love the feel of your soft bed headed bleach blonde hair on my face. I love watching your chest rise up and down with each deep sleeping breath. What I truly love and miss while you sleep is the innocence in your voice, the way you say things enthusiastically like, “I’m okay!” When you fall down. Or “No, I am’nt.” When you’re falsely accused of something, like being tired. The way you combine your brothers’ names, “June-Asher.” I love the way you grab my face to get my full attention. I love when you ask me the sweetest questions like, “Where are all the stars?” Or “What does God wook wike?”

Every year, you grow bigger and smarter, and somehow more beautiful than the last birthday. I think and hope the older that you get, the more people you will affect for better. There will be more happy moments because of your influence. More kindness and compassion filling the spaces you go. A trail of giggles and belly laughs you will leave behind. It would be selfish of me to want to keep holding you in my arms forever. You’re meant to thrive and grow and help change the world. For good. Your meant to be shared. Your cocoon is unique and beautiful but it doesn’t begin to compare to the places your wings will one day take you. And what amazing wings you will have. Not quite yet though. Even though you told me that you would be “supa heavy for your birfday,” I think I will still get to hold you a little while longer. Happy Fourth Birthday, sweet Colbs.

Last Day Kind-of-Love


The past few weeks, I’ve been having a hard time in the parking lot outside of my grandma’s assisted living home. If I go without my boys, I usually cry on my way there. I can’t help it. She’s 93. And she’s dying. It’s painful thinking about the last time you may have your grandma in front of your face. She’s my only grandma. And selfishly, I don’t want it to be my last time visiting her. Ever.

So, I cry in the parking lot for a bit. I sometimes listen to “Flock of Birds” which will probably produce insta-tears now every time I hear it. Under my sunglasses, the streaming kind of tears. Then, I wipe up my face with the inside of my shirt, suck up my snotty nose and walk in. I greet the residents sitting outside. If my boys are with me, I watch them all race to be the first one to press the handicapped door button. Inside, I listen to them decide who gets to press the outside button on the elevator, it’s usually Colby, the youngest. And the older two boys argue about who gets the more coveted job, pressing the “inside” button. Then, we wait semi-patiently on that slow elevator. Once we’re all inside, one of my older boys happily presses “3” and we are on our way up to her room.

One of my favorite memories of visiting her is watching my boys run down her hall. Their six pounding feet. I can’t keep up with them, unless I were to run too, which somehow doesn’t seem as socially acceptable. From behind, I watch them all barge into her room, like a couple of bowling pins knocking into each other. I miss seeing her surprised smiling face because I’m on the other side of the door. I sit and visit with her as she watches my boys play on the ground with the toys. They have learned to speak up really loud when sharing stories with her, although I usually still have to repeat what they said. One of my tall, skinny six-year-old boys always wants to sit on my lap, usually Julian. My grandma dotes on my boys in the most encouraging and extraordinary way. If you think a grandma loves immensely, you have got to witness a great grandma’s beautiful, overflowing love for her great-grandchildren. She talks about how well-behaved they are, even when they’re not. She talks about their hair, how much they love me, and how I need to get a bigger lap. It’s become more difficult to leave without crying. And hiding my tears. I don’t want her to be sad. I keep it together or think of something else, so I don’t have a complete come-apart. I have my boys line up to give her hugs. She holds their faces gently in her arthritic hands. Then, they zoom out the door and down the hall to hide from me. It has gotten harder for me to let go after hugging and kissing her. I always tell her several times, “I love you, Grandma.”

In visiting with my grandma, I can’t help but think about how differently we would treat those around us if we knew that we may not get to have another visit with them. If we knew we wouldn’t get to hug them, or hold them or talk to them again. It’s a painfully sad spiral staircase to go down. I start to think about all of my friends who have lost a dad, a sister, or a husband, or a mother, or a brother or a child. Too soon. It just shouldn’t have happened. It’s not fair. And I hurt for them knowing that they didn’t get the privilege that I am getting with my grandma. The luxury of knowing her days are numbered. The gift of time, even if it is quickly slipping away.

It may sound trite, but it’s true, every day we have here with each other truly is a gift. We owe each other our best. Or we owe each other an apology when our worst makes an appearance. Sincerity, encouragement, honesty, forgiveness, and unconditional love. It’s last day together kind of love. I experience my friends who have lost someone unexpectedly loving others around them fearlessly, passionately, and intensely. They’re not perfect, and they’ll be the first to admit it. But, they do the thing that’s the most important and that’s showing and telling others how important they are. They love people like it’s their last day, every day. And I am inspired and honored to know them. They unknowingly make us better people.

It’s all of our jobs to reach out and hear each other. Loved ones deserve to be talked about, cried about, laughed about. They deserve to be remembered. I will be the first to tell you that it hurts to listen to a friend talk about the person that they are missing the most. There are gaping love holes that will not ever disappear. And we shouldn’t try to make them disappear. We can try to fill them with memories, stories, and moments shared together. And on good days, hopefully, this can help hold us over til the day we get to spend forever together.

So, maybe we can all just start with today. We can all find someone that we love and show them how much we love them. And maybe tell them what you love about them. And treat people with that overflowing last day, last visit kind of love.