Scarenting

“How much of my hair has my baby eaten?” is a thought I have about four times every day, because once I saw a documentary about a girl who had to have a sausage made of hair removed from her intestine because she was always chewing the end of her ponytail. My hair sheds like a mofo and always ends up wrapped around Max’s hands and feet and in his mouth. I've even had friends tell me they've found my hair in their socks or wrapped around their penises, it sheds that much and spreads that far. This hair issue made me realise that while I’m a good mum, I’m not a great mum. Don't get me wrong, I change Max when he’s dirty, feed him when he’s hungry and cuddle him constantly, but I have done some things which I definitely lose parenting points for. For example, I didn’t realise I wasn’t meant to eat soft serve while I was pregnant and ate it more than I ever have for the nine months he was in my belly. Since then I've been making a bunch of poor parent choices, sometimes they are born of ignorance, sometimes I've just consciously made a decision that favours me over Max. I like to call this style of scary parenting “scarenting”. Scarenting decisions can range from mild (letting your three month old baby watch True Blood) to major (giving your baby to a strange man to hold while you go to the toilet in a shopping mall). Some scarenting choices I've made in the last few months are as follows.

Mild: Sometimes I don’t soothe Max when he cries because he just looks so hilarious when he is really getting his scream on. Like a furious little beetroot. 

Iffy: When he decides to cry in an enclosed public place, like a waiting room, my go to response is to look apologisingly at the people around me and offer “Would anyone like a baby? He's barely used!” Har har har. The other day I said it in a lift and a lady who I swear to god looked like the witch in Hansel and Gretel responded very seriously “I would take him”. I bet you would scary lady. I stopped talking and just looked at the lift door, desperately willing it to open before my child was abducted.

Not great: I was playing tennis (because I'm a MUM now) and another player's little girls were patting Max. Which was fine by me until their dad offered me a great bit of “advice”. 
“Did you know no one had peanut allergies until vaccines were invented? I don't think it's right to put something so artificial as a vaccine into my young children’s bodies.” 
Aaaaaaaaarrrrggghh. I didn't know how to politely snatch Max away from his, surely disease ridden, children. So I let them keep patting him. And just so you know antivax man, if you don't want artificial substances entering your kids bodies, here are some natural things which might enter their systems: measles, mumps, rubella, whooping cough, diphtheria, smallpox. And FYI I'd rather my child have an allergy than be DEAD thank you very much. 

Pretty bad: I moved out of our marital bed and into the spare room with Max for a few weeks when Nick went back to work, because I am a very considerate wife and it also meant I could watch netflix all night. Meanwhile our cat Jenny moved into our room to keep Nick company. A week later when Nick went to change the doona cover he discovered that Jenny had actually done a poo in my side of the bed and he had been sleeping next to it all week. I was out, so he sent me a picture, FURIOUS. Then to make matters worse he went to send a picture of Max to his parents but accidentally sent the poo picture, meaning that he then had to explain to two of the cleanest people I’ve ever met why the cat had pooed in the bed. This was not, strictly, a parenting faux pas but definitely not the best housewifery ever. 

Major: I don’t think this is too bad, but from the looks I’ve been getting from everyone when I ask this question, it is a major no-no for me to even be thinking in the privacy of my head. You know how you find your partner attractive and that’s why you have a baby with them? And you know how sometimes babies look exactly like one parent? Max is like a tiny clone of nick (which is rude because I spent all that time growing him, both when he was in my belly and when he was out of it, literally all the food he’s ever eaten has come from me, he could at least look a bit like me. Boo.) So how is it that you can have a child who looks EXACTLY like the person you are attracted to, but you’re not attracted to the child?! I’m talking about when he’s older, obviously not now when he’s a baby - I'm not some sort of creep. My mum suggested that maybe it was the age difference. And pretty much everyone else just looked at me, disgusted. But I reckon you guys can suck it because, think about it, it's a valid point. 

So I'm not Mum Of The Year, and I may have spent a lot of time explaining to people why Max’s arms are covered in bruises (they're hickeys ok? He sucks his arm until he gives himself hickeys, what can I do?) but as Nick told me when we brought him home from hospital “our only job is to keep him alive.” And, as I find every one of the ten times I check he's still breathing during the night, I'm doing alright at that!

Smotherhood

The day I had our baby was not the best day of my life. Are people kidding when they say that? It was the scariest day of my life, sure, definitely the goriest and most gruesome. It was a day I had to get stitches in my private parts while the obstetrician talked to me about Star Wars (way to instil confidence Vagina Doctor!) It was also a day that I may or may not have crapped myself (I will never know if I did, but that is okay) and it felt like someone put a firecracker up my nether regions and rendered me unable to walk without the gait of an aged cowboy. Nick summed up his experience with the old adage that watching the birth of our first child was “like watching your favourite pub burn down”, suffice to say neither of us particularly enjoyed childbirth. For sure it was sweet as a nut getting to see the person I’d been growing for nine months, but let’s be honest, all newborns look the same: like little squashed goblins wrapped up in that pink and blue hospital blanket. I didn’t realize that getting him out would be the easiest and least terrifying part of being a new parent; so I have chronicled the horrors of the first two weeks of parenthood that maybe you should consider before you decide whether or not you'd like to go and get a hysterectomy.

Minus One Day Old: December 29th
Nick’s anal Dad side was already in full swing when my waters broke and he yelled at me to quickly get out of bed and off the new carpet, so as not to ruin either of them. He ran to get an (old) towel for me to stand on so I wouldn’t do any damage to the floorboards either. BTW guys, your amniotic fluid keeps leaking throughout the whole of labour. Disgusting. Just disgusting.

Born: December 30th
While the hospital brought with it myriad new experiences and emotions (Nick actually got to milk me regularly while I was in recovery, a very interesting first for our marriage) the horror of what we had done to our lives only really hit me the night we got home.

3 Days Old: January 2nd
Within the first few hours of being alone with Max and not really knowing what I was supposed to do when he cried, I had the following thoughts:

“Can I return him to the hospital?”
“I have stitches in my downstairs and am scared to ever poo again. Why did nobody warn me about this? I'm mad at all the mums who didn't warn me about the scary first poo.”
“I definitely can NOT do this. How do the 16 year olds on 16 and Pregnant do it if I can’t? I am less capable than a Teen Mom.”
“How quick is the adoption process and do you get money for it?”
“My boobs hurt” at which point I punched myself in the sore boob out of frustration. It didn’t make my boob any less sore.

The crux of this freak out was that I have never had to take care of myself, and have always been looked after by everyone else; and I mean, for my whole life. My mum still peels my oranges for me and from the age of 15 I had a boyfriend who would share the great responsibility that is Maz, with my mum. Seriously, my first boyfriend cleaned my room for me and found ten forks. Another time I had my current and ex-boyfriends come to my house to repaint my bedroom. Cut to now and I married a man, who I constantly joke, can’t die because I don’t know where anything is located in my kitchen. So the weight of the idea that now I was not just in charge of myself, but also of someone else who can do nothing on their own was CRUSHING.

5 Days Old: January 4th
I had assumed that the minute I had a baby, I would have infinite patience for them. Turns out, this was not the case. At five days old Max cried for four straight hours and no matter what I did he wouldn’t shut up or go to sleep. It got to the point where I had to give him to Nick before I punched him. I conveyed this desire to Nick and he was beyond horrified. It’s not like I wanted to punch him in the face, just give him like, a little dead arm for being such a dick. Note: I told the nurse who comes to visit and check on him that I wanted to punch him and she said that was fine as long as I didn’t actually do it.

Seven Days Old: January 6th
Having a newborn is the most intense experience ever; you are literally just holding this other person all day, everyday. And I mean all day. It is not, as I imagined, watching real housewives of everywhere while my little angel cooed politely in the other room. I have to hold Max constantly; while I’m in the toilet, while he smells, when he is literally climbing up me to get to my ear and scream into it as loudly as he possibly can and all I really want to do drink a six pack of UDLs and run away (I've even planned my outfit for this, it involves a leather jacket and some sunnies, I call it my delinquent mum look). But do you know what helps temper this partly awful experience of clinging to a person while they void their bowels on you and vomit your own milk back onto the boob from whence it came? I am finally part of the group that knows everything in the world/is better than people who have not had unprotected sex and conceived a child: parents. Now that I too am a parent, I can finally give unsolicited advice to all and sundry whilst smiling smugly. Some of the great advice/wonderful stories I have been given/told and will be sure to perpetuate:

  • Teach your newborn to sleep all night by putting earplugs in and refusing to get up to them between 7pm and 7am. If they REALLY scream, get your husband to get up and give them some water
  • When teaching a baby to eat, just put food in its mouth and then hold its mouth shut until it swallows
  • Various accounts of babies being stillborn/dying in the womb - very appropriate and comforting stories to tell a pregnant woman
  • This is a burping cloth. In case you don't know what that is, you use it to burp your baby


Two Weeks Old: January 13th
In case I didn't convey it earlier, the aforementioned human holding is boring. Actually, newborns are really boring in general and anyone who disagrees is a liar or has incredibly low expectations of what constitutes entertainment. This means that you want to shirk the responsibility of them as often as possible and will hand them to anyone who will take them. That's when fathers are useful. Who's turn it is to hold the baby may also become one of the biggest points of contention in your marriage/possible grounds for divorce with said father. It is amazing how angry holding a baby all day can make you. Unfortunately for Nick he cops the brunt of this anger (although to be fair to me, he is at fault for the following):

  • He asked me to hold Max when it was his turn to hold Max and did chores instead of holding Max
  • After two hours of trying to get Max down and finally succeeding,  busting to pee, I rushed to the bathroom (the only one in our house) and was pipped at the post by Nick who slipped in before me
  • He had the audacity to say he was tired. NEVER SAY YOU’RE TIRED if your night’s sleep has consisted of eight solid hours vs mine which involves cleaning up both baby and cat spew in amongst my four hours of broken sleep

Six weeks on and Max’s belly button bit is still sitting, dried out, on my bedside table because I don't really know what I'm meant to do with it. Despite that, I feel like I've come to terms more with this whole parent thing. I've managed to have at least one conversation not about the baby, I've put something on other than pajamas, I've even started to find the things Max does slightly less than boring and Nick and I are not even divorced, so if you want some advice from someone who’s basically parent of the year now, hit me up!


How To Punish A Child Who Squeezes Your Cat So Hard It Farts

Mamamia recently published an article entitled “Things your family does that you didn’t realise were weird” cataloguing the things that the author, Lucy Gransbury, thought were normal but upon leaving home discovered they were actually super weird. I’m calling bullshit a bit on this article because it lists things like Dad Tax and Wish Chips, which also existed in my household, and undoubtedly thousands of others. Compare this to, say, when I was little and every morning without fail my dad would tell me that while I was asleep he and my mum put me on the road, put yoghurt on my face and a truck ran over me and then I think we can discuss what constitutes weird family shit. Yogurt Truck would stress me out to no end. My parents loved my adverse reaction to their story and no explanation for the yogurt part was ever given. So, sorry Lucy, but you can take your frozen cheese and shove it, because I have a list of things that my family did that were actually weird.
  • At 5 years of age I squeezed my cat George so hard that he did a terrible fart. As punishment my parents made me ring the vet and apologise, the vet sounded confused and just told me not to do it again.
  • My dad used to take out his two false teeth and chase me around the house yelling “I am Gunkafore, you are Labrador” it used to horrify me and I still don’t know what it means.
  • On long road trips my parents would buy us cheap little items to keep us entertained. To prolong the excitement and to keep us quiet for as long as possible they would give us these items piece by piece. For example, one year on a road trip to Uluru we were bought walkmans. At 5am we were given the Walkman. At 7am we were given the batteries. At 9am we were given the tape. And at 11am we were finally given the headphones – the puzzle was complete and we were over the moon! I’m still amazed that these little bits and pieces, which did fuck all until all put together, sustained our excitement for six or seven hours. Ah, times before the internet…
  • My mum used to make crosswords for us to do at our birthday parties as they offer some “quiet time”.
  • My dad wore a night gown instead of pyjamas.
  • Until I was 20 I thought yellow was pronounced “yallow”.
  • My dad used to pretend to be the ten year old version of himself and tell us all about his life in his hometown of Guilford. This was done at night, in a high pitched voice while walking around on his knees (in his nightie).
  • My dad also used to do this character called “Marty Mosquito” (basically his hand scrunched into the shape of a “mosquito”) who would wake us up in the morning. Marty was friendly, but if his friend Boris showed up instead of Marty, you were liable to get pinched incessantly. Like, really pinched HARD.
  • My dad thought it was HILARIOUS to make incest jokes. Nothing too rough, but still pretty blue. Eg. When I was asked by a girl in the grade below me why I had been performing, alone, alongside a teacher (my dad, who taught at my school) at the end of year concert, my dad felt strongly that I should have responded “because he’s my boyfriend” and walked off. Just to freak them out.
  • I think this may be something that lots of peoples’ families did, but my family used to speak the internal monologue for our cat Jeffrey. If he was hungry or in a mood, we would voice his opinions or disdain or even just his general thoughts on the weather (he hated the wind). For a really stupid cat, I was always amazed at how articulate he was.
  • Speaking of Jeffrey, we used to have a theme song we’d sing for him when he came into the room, along the lines of “Jeffrey the cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat”. Not lyrically superior, but effective enough.
  • My brother and I used to have a song that we sang AT each other when it was the other person’s turn to wash up, a sort of musical bullying. It went “Guess who’s turn it is to wash up? You-rs. Yeah yeah. Woo.” It drove my mum insane and was eventually banned in our house under threat of being made to do the washing up when it wasn’t your turn.
Who knows what repercussions these oddities have had on my life, but I’d be intrigued to meet the Maz who had never experienced any of them. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be writing this blog though. Or gently feeling Nick’s eyeball through his eyelid whenever she got a chance.



Maz Tries To Escape From The Dwell Well

I’ve never even seen Frozen, but the song “Let it go” has been stuck in my head for days. In a strange way though, it’s kind of become my 2015 mantra. Every time I find myself dwelling on something, I hear that little blonde wizard in my head telling me to let it go. It’s actually been quite cathartic. I’m not sure what issues and niggling memories other people hold onto, but mine are all super trivial and incredibly old. I feel it necessary to get these down onto virtual paper in order to leave them there and move on with my life once and for all. So here it goes, my most painful memories.

My First Rejection

When I was eight my parents enrolled me in netball, because I was an Australian girl who was eight. And that’s what eight-year-old Australian girls do. They go to a really cold dewy field early in the morning in winter, in skirts, and throw balls at each other, then buy killer pythons. But before I had even made it to the dewy field I went to my first ever netball training. I knew no one, but as a precocious and tiny human I had no fear. Until we were paired up to do drills, that is. As the coach designated each of us a partner and the group started to dwindle I felt, for the first time, that fear of possibly being the odd one out. Sure enough, I was the last to be picked and was paired up with a girl named Rebecca (name not changed for shaming reasons.)

“Marion,” Netball Coach had said “you’ll be practicing chest passes with Rebecca”

Rebecca’s response to having me as a partner came so quickly and emphatically it made my head spin.

“Oh, poo!”

What. A. Bitch. What a little 8 year old bitch. How could the sight of tiny little 8-year-old, scruffily charming me, conjure up thoughts of defecation? What was so good about her anyway? She was freckly, plain and wore glasses. I was scabbed from adventure and endowed with knowledge of monotremes. She eventually went cross-eyed. And you better believe I don’t feel even the tiniest bit sorry for her. Because while all that happened to her in the subsequent years was the onset of severely impaired vision, I’ve had to harbour the sting of that cruelly delivered “poo” ever since.

My First Public Shaming

When I was 13 my dad bought me a bike. Being my dad he didn’t buy it in the way that dads usually buy bikes. I assume generally, that this would involve a trip to the bike shop, followed by the brand new bicycle being secreted away in a cupboard or shed until birthday morn when said shiny bike is wheeled out with a curly ribbon tied to it. My dad is not an ordinary dad, so he didn’t buy me a bike in an ordinary way. Dad chose me the best bike Kmart had on their racks (despite my protestations that I really did not want a bike), paid a deposit and then made me go into Kmart for MONTHS to pay it off in installments – literally $8 and $14 installments. I hated the bike before I even got it, so you can imagine how depressing it was to have this as my sole birthday present for my 13th birthday. But, lucky me, my dad had made sure I had one surprise waiting for me. He’d secretly bought me a helmet. A bananas in pajamas helmet. For my 13th birthday.

And of course, no bike-receiving birthday is complete without a bike ride to top it off, so my dad made me ride with him into Hornsby to test out my new wheels. I donned my B in Ps helmet and hit the road. I was actually starting to like it as we cruised along, the wind in my handlebars, until we hit George Street, one of the main roads that lead into Hornsby proper. And by “we hit George Street”; I mean I hit the gutter and face-planted onto the footpath in front of about a million motorists stopped at the lights. In my children’s character helmet. On my birthday.

The First Time Photoshop Made Me Feel Bad About Myself – And Not In The Way You’d Expect

I went to a Photoshop course for work to upskill my skills and have some time out of the office to dick around. It was a pretty basic course full of mums who, well into day two, were asking, “Wait, what’s the shortcut for copy again?” It was great, until the instructor got around to teaching us airbrushing. In order to demonstrate what sort of things need airbrushing in an image, instead of having an un-retouched image prepared in advance like a good, professional non-psychopathic instructor would, he singled me out and proceeded to let the class know all the things he would airbrush ON ME. Including, but not limited to:
  • My flyways
  • The little wrinkles around my eyes (or “crow’s feet” as he called them)
  • A few small pimples on my face
  • This weird hard little lump I have in my hairline
  • Some dark bags under my eyes
  • My skin tone

It was really a fabulous moment in my life, and I left there able to mask an image, with a thorough knowledge of copy and paste short cuts and some severely damaged self-esteem. 

I know I started this post preaching about letting shit go, but having written all these memories down it’s just served to reinvigorate my fury at all these people and events. So let’s just revise 2015’s new anthem to CeeLo Green’s Fuck You and call it even.

The Four Reasons Bogans Are Happier Than You Are

People are unnecessarily mean about bogans. Sure they sometimes err on the side of being a bit yucky with their Southern Cross tattoos and their ridiculously broad Australian accents, but they also have a zest for life that to be honest, most corporate, conservative, clean-shaven types do not have. I would know this because my pedigree is roughly three quarters bogan. I pronounced yellow like “yallow” until I was at least 20, I would give my right arm for a turbo charged diesel Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel and a two inch lift, and my favourite drink EVER is a passionfruit UDL. Whenever I get too stressed out by corporate or classy life, I take a breath and remember the four bogan commandments…


Thou shalt not be too precious

When I was 11 we visited a wildlife park in Tassie. They had animal feed which was sold according to an honour system. Unlimited bags of feed were piled into a bin with a moneybox attached into which you were supposed to pay 50c per bag. Being 11, I had very little money or regard for rules, and the temptation to become the ruler of these animals with an unlimited supply of feed at my disposal was just too strong. My parents must have noticed that I had more feed that the $2 they gave me would buy, but just let me go about my business, as they were always wont to do. Ten minutes later, tiny arms laden with feed, I was bailed up against a fence by a donkey that was ferociously snapping not just at the food but at my clothes and hands too. My parents thought it was hilarious and took as many pictures as my supply of feed and their 24 exposure film would allow. At no point did they try to intervene. I’m still scared of donkeys.

Thou shalt have no shame

I went to a high school where my dad was a teacher. Most people I know whose parents taught at their school kept a safe distance. Not my dad. Every December my school would see out the year with a concert called “lip sync” where everyone mimed to pop songs. Usually reserved for cool girls with crimped hair and boob tubes singing Brandy and Monica “The Boy Is Mine” my dad and I broke the mold performing a duet together every year. Over the course of my high school career dad and I mimed in full costume, to the entire school, the following hits:
-       Sonny and Cher “I Got You Babe”
-       Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow “Cruisin’” (in which I mimed Huey and he mimed Gwyneth in drag)
-       Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers “Islands In The Stream”
-       Sandy and Danny “You’re The One That I Want”
-       Jasmin and Aladdin “A Whole New World”
Sometimes people would ask me why I was performing duets with a teacher. My dad maintained that I should have told them that he was my boyfriend, just to freak them out. That’s another thing bogans like – incest jokes. And let’s be honest, they are hilarious.

Thou shalt never be subtle

Sometimes my dad would decide that he would like to do our clothes shopping for us. For months afterwards my brother and I would be getting around town in hideous shirts, emblazoned with “AUSTRALIA” featuring cartoons of koalas bouncing on trampolines, purchased for five for ten dollars from Go-Lo. In a further attempt to win “father of the year” my dad would take out his false teeth (he only has a couple of missing teeth, so don’t judge him) and would chase me around the house, gnashing his good teeth and growling. I’ve never asked my dad why he’s missing teeth, but I certainly enjoyed all the laughter it brought me. And never let it be said that stereotypes aren’t accurate.

Thou shalt always observe the rule that bigger is better

My parents would scrimp and save every dollar they had. They worked hard, but they worked even harder at squirreling away their cash. When I was tiny my dad would smuggle the bladder from a wine cask into Pizza Hut so that he and mum could top up their wine on the cheap.  Once dad even claimed an abandoned car, which had been left out on the street – which is apparently a thing you can do. It eventually burst into flames while he was driving it. And good on them, because with the money they saved we always had the BIGGEST TELEVISION EVER. We may have had cheap clothes and basic food but we sure could see every detail of the news. Other items that expounded the bigger is better/more is more principle in our house included: the four separate entertaining decks we had, our super loud outdoor sound system and our endless supply of dried beef snacks and smoked almonds.

To conclude, bogans live a magical life. A life where children like their parents enough to make a dick of themselves in front of all their peers, a life where you’re taught to shake off injuries that probably need stitches and a life where laughter reigns supreme. So let me say boldly and unashamedly I AM BOGAN, HEAR MY V8 ROAR.

Maz Reviews Bruce Springsteen's Ass


There is nothing lazier than people who speak in clichés.  Katy Perry’s Roar for example is entirely made up of clichés (I’ve got the eye of the tiger, already brushing off the dust, Cos I am a champion gah!). Instead of inspiring me, Roar makes me want to punch Katy right in her ass. Same goes for motivational quotes on facebook. I don’t feel inspired by a picture of a wishing well captioned with some inane shit like “Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it”. Because really, when you’re reeling off the clichés you’re just saying a bunch of stuff that’s been said so many times it’s become, well, clichéd.
I do however, have to vouch for a motivational image I saw the other day of a little fellow reaching towards the stars. It was captioned, logically, “reach for the stars”. Yes it’s your everyday sub-par vom inducing meme, but I actually did reach for the stars recently and it felt pretty damn delightful.

As you may or may not know, I have a very slight obsession with Bruce Springsteen. My car is called Bruce, I listen to his music every day, a whopping 20% of my instagram posts are about him and most importantly, he is my number one celebrity crush, my religion and my muse. When he announced his latest tour I spent $1000 dollars on tickets for my family, who all get equally as excited about our lord and saviour, Bruce. I made my parents go and queue in the rain hours ahead of time in order to ensure we would be right at the front of the stage so that, just maybe, I could touch that beautiful hunk ‘o’ man. And touch him I did!

Figure 1: My Dad's enthusiastic response to the news I had acquired sold-out Bruce Springsteen tickets for both he and my Mum

Springsteen is the most enthusiastic performer you will ever see. He does three hour-long concerts with more energy than a hessian sack full of toddlers, and during these performances, he likes to crowd surf. Enter the ultimate “it would only happen to Maz” moment. During a particularly badass rendition of Spirit in the Night Bruce launched himself into the crowd. Falling backwards onto the welcoming sea of hands like Janice does after slamming Regina George at the end of Mean Girls, he continued to sing as the audience slowly delivered him to the stage at the front of the arena. As The Boss approached, I craned my neck to see whether or not he was going to pass over my head, and could vaguely make out a figure up and to the left of me. Using my finely honed basketball attack skills, I dropped my shoulder and charged left until I was right in the path of the almighty Bruce.

Time stopped. My heart rate hastened. My mouth dried. I saw his leather lace-up boots, and then his ankles and suddenly the moment was upon me. Bruce Springsteen’s tight little bottom was directly above me. I reached up and with my full, open hand, grabbed his right bum cheek and squeezed. Oh, the ecstasy. For that one beautiful second, I was molesting the man of my dreams. It was a little sweaty but let me tell you, it was firm and pert and round - everything a good ass should be. Before I knew it, he had been placed gently on the stage and, overwhelmed, I burst into tears. I cried on Nick and then turned to my dad and cried on him too. There is very little I will be able to achieve now that will trump the time I grabbed Bruce Springsteen's behind.

And that is the story of the time that I groped the 64-year-old man I am in love with and then cried snot onto both my 61-year-old dad and my husband in celebration. So follow your dreams kids, it’s like the saying goes: reach for the stars, even if you miss, your hand will touch his moon. I know that was feeble, but you get what I was trying to do there.