This blog has moved to asoulmama.wordpress.com.

Mama Moxie

On most days, my life events are cataloged as happening before or after having children.  Once I earned my procreation stripes, much like all big events, things changed:  little, creepy fingers appear under the door when I urinate, orange rinds and stale goldfish crackers line my purse and upon removing clothes from the dryer, I am gifted a pile of used band aids.  Three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, I spend my energy building up and growing the hearts and minds of my offspring.  Today, folks, I am choosing to think about my mothering mojo:

1.      I am a mama-explorer.  Move over Lewis, Clark and Dora.  I used to spend my time looking for the perfect red shoes.  Hours were given to discovering the perfect inclined path to give my quads a worthwhile burn.  Now, 53% of my energy is spent looking for my children.  When in public, there is the rare occasion they are exactly where one would expect.  On most days, restaurant jaunts involve one of them under the table grabbing toes for entertainment.  I assume this may grow into some form of a fetish.  To you, strange child, I will slightly judge you and whole-heartedly support your tootsie needs.  Even the new one is hard to find (Evidence A).  I know he can’t be the one at the top.  That child is much too clean to belong to our grimy clan.  

So, even as the owner of bifocals and likely undiagnosed hearing loss, I consider myself a badass seeker of small children.  Record shows I have not lost one yet (for more than 27 minutes).

2.     I am an anomaly.  I have discovered that I am able to defy the laws of science.  I am a freakin’ specimen of scientific art.   I no longer sit at a table to complete a meal.  Eating junctures entail me getting up approximately 13 times to retrieve various items.  Even without the consumption of a whole meal, my waistline magically continues to expand.  Amazing, right?  It’s like math doesn’t work on me.  Figure this out, Einstein. 

3.     I laugh in the face terror.  As a mother, I can (kind of) handle all versions of terrifying moments.  Honestly, I loathed scary movies.  As a tot, I saw Carrie’s hands come out of the soft earth to grab Sue’s legs, and I was never the same.  No longer the watcher of chilling cinema, I now tap into my fear with my own children.  A few weeks ago, Story’s cry woke me up from a brief slumbering jaunt.  Slightly nauseated from the lack of sleep, I stumbled towards the bassinet only to be confronted by Evidence B.   

It took me a few seconds to realize that my real child was residing in the living room, and the demon baby in the crib was a product of one of my children’s emulations of parenting.  Truth be told, sleeping can be horrific as a mother.  On most nights, a small child is guaranteed to come into our chambers.  Bennet usually enters moaning and with hair covering a majority of his face.  He moves slowly, and that adds to the horror of it all.  Ruby, on the other hand, enters like a ninja.  She will stand at the door or in front of your face with a large, disturbing grin.  The eyes, in the daytime, are lovely and hold so much joy.

Once the sun sets, this shit gets scary.

4.  I dress for success.  Gone are the days of trying to squeeze into my pre-baby jeans one week after expelling a human.  Folks, I have figured out how to have the perfect body after having a baby. Listen closely. First, I cinch my vanity with a belt of reality.  I just did the most amazing thing by growing a human, and real postpartums include soft bellies, sore lady parts, tired eyes and happy hearts.  Next, I accessorize with comfort and ease.  Take note of my standard wardrobe:

Monday:  Clean nursing tank and holey maternity yoga pants

Tuesday: Same (slightly stained) nursing tank covered up with holey t-shirt, same holey maternity yoga pants

Wednesday:  Same (aromatic) nursing tank complemented with husband's hooded sweatshirt, same yoga pants with unidentified stains, heating pad accessory to unclog milk duct

Third, I coordinate my daily existence with a bold sense of humor.  Case in point:  I finally put on some jeans.  They felt funny, and I chalked it up to my motherly body.  After lunch and four hours of wear, I realized the pockets of my pants graced my new hips.  Backwards, comfy and bigger, front pockets--all the makings of pants for a 90's music video.  This stuff is just too legit to quit.  

Last, I relish in my post-baby body badges.  The line down my stomach accentuates the vessel that carried my little bug.  Sore and tender mammary glands turn this middle-aged woman into a superhero who makes human food.  The skin tags on my neck kindly remind me of the hormones and magic that took place within my 5'1" frame to nourish my son.  

Really, this third go around, I finally understand.  Magazines and society tells us that we should prioritize erasing/eradicating/eliminating everything that contributed to that sweet baby being cradled in our arms.  I'm okay with moms eating healthy and feeling good about themselves.  I am not okay with women feeling ashamed about their warrior body.  We have done something miraculous, and we should honor our miracles.

So, there you have it.  This is what 6.1 years of mama experience gets you.  It may not be the prettiest or useful of information, but it's all mine.  And, I am okay with all of it.  On days when this mothering thing gets hard (which is all days that end in a "y"), I'll keep all this in mind and heart.  And, if that doesn't work, I still have my fun crew to create some new (and likely awkward) adventures.  

It Takes a Village, People

My brain is numb from large amounts of worthless, oh-so-good-bad television.   My shoulders and neck contain a deep rooted pain from holding a new human—a pain that I have only felt once before trying to peer across a sea of pretty men to taste the ache of Erasure’s onstage Oh l’amor.  And, the front of my shirt has hardened from repeated exposure to dried, leaking human milk.  I am living the life of mothering a newborn and existing as a non-practicing zombie.  Today was a pretty good day.  I thought about showering, and I discovered that I could put on a cardigan to cover up my stains—this is wardrobe upcycling at its best.    At this moment, I am sitting here, consuming a huge bottle of Topo Chico and listening to the silence of 3 sleeping children, 1 slumbering pug and an exhausted husband.  And, even with the continual undercurrent of exhaustion, I feel lucky.  My village has provided and provided and provided.  And, this time around, I chose to accept the love. 

Rewind to four weeks prior.   Jeremy and I were getting the girls ready for school.  Baby Story was still in the intensive care unit at the hospital, and we were getting into the routine of our new normal.  My days were spent attached to a machine that would artificially tell my body to dispel milk into plastic bottles of various sizes.  When not feeling the harsh tugs of the pump, I was transporting the milky goods to baby boy 2-3 times a day.   On this particular morning, I was suffocating from life’s thick, heavy air.  I felt annoyed with all I had to do, and I could sense my husband trying his best to appease my (unsure and likely unrealistic) needs.  “How can I help?” he kindly asked as I packed lunches.  Let’s make it clear that his daily existence continually puts forth energy to make my life better, and my brain knows this.  I, however, chose snarkiness to accompany my purposefully curt words, “Usually a mom comes and helps when her daughter has a baby.”  “I don’t have a mom,” I said looking at his sad eyes.  “So, I’ll do this by myself.”  I chose hurtful words, and he did not fault me for it.  As I reflect on that particular day, I feel ashamed for indulgent pity party.  I acknowledge that I am human, and my ego, hormones and exhaustion reigned that morning. 

Growing up, Mom assured me that I would always have my family.  I needed to put life’s eggs in baskets weaved with genetic twine.  Living Queen’s mantra, she expected friendships to eventually bite the dust.  She acknowledged when classmates would wrong me and highlighted when friendship went awry.  During her last year of life, loving people tried to help.  Trudy would come and visit, and Mom would go into her bedroom.  Dee offered to take her to yoga to ease her pain, and Mom declined.  Fannie Mae would call and Mom would give me the phone.  Day after day, I felt the affection of those of who loved her.  Day after day, I watched her dismiss the compassion that was readily there for her.  As the buffer to the kind and good world that surrounded her, I ate the leftover kindness that was set before us.  And, I indulged in the humanity.  With life’s additional lessons (and the recipient of poor night vision and neck wrinkles), I now understand that my parents’ hard work did not allow for more than meeting our household needs.  My parents sacrificed.  They forewent the luxuries of companionship, recreation and  respite from daily responsibilities.  They let me win.  I get to be the champion of a full life that holds lasting friendships, breakfast tacos and afternoon naps. 

Fast-forward a decade and four pregnancies later and I clearly see the full scope of my village.  A cooler sits in front of our door, and food magically appears from our lovely, tall elves.  These same people, I know, are managing their own lives:  growing people in their tummies, managing ill parents, transitioning to new jobs, trying to complete the second season of Orange is the New Black.   Vehicles arrive at our house at the end of the school day containing little people with our genetic make-up.  Vehicles also come to take our children on playdates to give us a reprieve from thrice the power of kid-energy (kid-energy = 9X adult-energy).  Messages are sent with witty humor, heartfelt words and tips for unclogging milk ducts (put something with vibration against the evil blockage—it works!!!).  An entire suitcase arrived containing baby clothes, lactation cookies, handmade art and gifts for all members of the household.  I awoke from a nap, and there was tower of diapers and sea of baby clothes beside me.  I am the lucky one walking on postpartum sunshine. 

Some in our village we have known for decades.  You are our chosen family, and we love you.  Others have only had one conversation with us.  We look forward to making more memories with you, and we love you, as well.  Regardless of our mutual history, the care is evident.   We are overwhelmed.  Considering the increase in my waking hours, I have spent a significant amount of time feeling your loving hands and thoughtful sentiments.  As I look at the sleeping baby face next to me, I am reminded of the matriarch of my village.  I am grateful to you, Mom.  Thank you for giving me life—a world beyond endless work hours and hardship.  And to my entire village, your love fills my soul with the best stuff and my belly with scrumptious food.  Sweet dreams are made of this—it just so happens to be my wonderful reality.

Our Story

Timing is a funny thing.  It comforted me when I decided to quit my doctoral program in December of 2003.  Soon after, Mom's cancer returned, and I moved back home without regrets of completing my academic marathon.  Timing can be brilliant for self-preservation.  Sometimes, the magic of timing reconfirms the kismet nature of all that is meant to be.  This happened when I realized I "liked-liked" Jeremy in college.  After a week of not being able to eat (this never happens), I finally realized that my good friend had stumbled into the land of "Hey, let's kiss!" instead of "Wanna eat some tacos for lunch?"  It was a Sunday, and I tried to track him down.  Finally, at 1am, I sat in front of the campus library, exhausted from my daylong search.  Then, he walks up to the library entrance to study for a test.  I confessed my love, he said thank you, he bought nice, pleated pants the following week for a date and the rest is love-history.  Timing brought me him. 

So, Lady Time, has graced me with her whimsy and magic a few times.  This last week, she threw me a doozy. I can’t help but think that Mom was slightly amused.  And, she completely expected it all.

Mom,

I know I keep you alive with my words and actions.  Therapy taught me this, and it works…on most days.  I have figured out how to bear the sad days without you.  It’s the proud moments where I find myself foraging through the past to feel and see your pride.  Twelve days ago I stood in front of a lovely sea of speech-language pathologists and audiologists and talked to them about my profession.  I worked hard for months, and the morning was grand.  When they asked me to speak last fall, I started crying.  And, I really haven’t stopped.  I just know you would have been so proud.  So, I found a way for you to be there.  I shared our stories.  I told them about Dad being a POW after the war.  I showed them your wedding photo.  I told them our most meaningful tale—you and Dad escaped Vietnam in the middle of the night.  Gold bars were exchanged with the Vietcong for passage to Hong Kong.  Dad navigated a 10 feet by 80 feet wooden boat holding the hopeful wishes of 56 people.  Then, Mom, I told them about the storm.  Strong winds rocked the boat from side to side, each time bringing all passengers closer to the depths of the South China Sea.  It was going to capsize. The audience was in awe when I recounted how the whale appeared and held the boat upright until the waters calmed.  They clapped when I said everyone arrived safely after 11 days on the water.  They gasped when I revealed that you were 9 months pregnant, and they smiled when they realized I was born the following day.  The day was the culmination of our family’s hard work.  

For an hour and half, life’s timing aligned:  my passion for my job, our family history and validation that abiding by my true self is always the best route.  Jeremy sat in the audience, and his pride was overflowing.  Jennifer and her wet eyes were there, too.  Between the two of them, I know they tried their best to represent you.  And, they were successful.  Afterwards, I sat on my hotel bed, ate a big burger and settled my happy heart and 8-months-of-pregnancy-body down for a much needed nap. 

The big day was over, and I was ready for calmer days.  My intuition was wrong, and Lady Time let me know that I was not in control.  The very next evening my water broke in the hotel room.  I was only 34 weeks pregnant.  We drove 100 miles in the middle of the night to get back to Austin.  It was a peaceful day of laboring and (more) hard work.  With each contraction, I would turn inward and gain strength from the women in my life.  Their voices and encouragement would take me through the intensity of my body’s work.   When I had to work the hardest, I saw you behind my closed eyes, holding the baby we lost last year.  Your voice did not waver, and your words brought me so much comfort.  After pushing for a few minutes, I gave birth to your grandson.  I have a boy, Story Matthew Palafox.  

Two girls and a boy—just like our family.  I can’t help but think that it’s more than just coincidence.  Time seems to be repeating herself.  There’s a part of me that strangely feels that I was supposed to have him the day after our meaningful moment on that stage.  My moment did not involve a boat, a storm or a whale, but it surely contained some pretty big feelings.  Gut says that you held onto powerful feelings while on that small vessel. Time found a way to weave a common, connected thread between us.  Though unintentional, I am the exact age you were when Dan was born.  Time has a sense of humor and fun, as well.

A few days ago, someone asked me how I was doing with everything without you here.  And, to be honest, I realized that my usual heartache has dulled this past year.  I have found ways for you to be a part of my days.  I miss you terribly, but I found comfort and light in the smallest of life’s crevices.  I just keep my eyes open a bit more.  Time has given me scope and strength.  Time has also kindly given me sweet reminders that our lives are continually connected.  Me and you, Mom.

Ten

It has be ten years since Mom passed away.  I am overwhelmed by this time marker.  Part of me cannot fathom that it has been more than a week.  It feels fresh and raw and nonsensical.  Then, there is the other half of the (much too tart and burnt) pie—it feels like decades.  So much has happened since that winter day:  marriage, moves, sweet babies, a stroke, Dad moving in and out, a miscarriage, new homes, new jobs.   I am not sure how I have managed to keep moving forward.   Jeremy found me in bed crying the other day.  I mumbled something about always having such immense feeling about all things and nothing at all.  As always, he validated, consoled and weaved the kindest version of his humor into my tender being.

On the eve of her anniversary, we drove homeward.  The car was packed full of Christmas presents and a quiet undercurrent of heartache.  My strong need for emotional stability is always ruffled by the events that transpire between the 20^th of December and New Year’s Day.  Within the timeframe of a week and half, we have my brother's birthday, the anniversary of Mom’s passing, Christmas Eve anticipation, Christmas hullabaloo and the inconsequential events that transpire before the shiny ball of New Year’s eagerness dropping.   With the bustle of the holiday madness, we always make the time to be together to honor Mom on the 23rd.  Flowers and a homemade wreath, made by my sister, are always in tow on the thirty minute drive to Restland.  I quietly sit in the car.  Jeremy gives me this time to quarrel with the quiet musings of my brain and heart.  Essentially, I am laying the final bricks of my wall to ensure that I can hold my angst safely inside.  This year my mammoth feelings overfloweth—maybe it was the extra-hard year we had, the doom of the decade mark, the meaningful accomplishments missed by Mom?

We were the first to arrive at the site.  Miss Bennet enthusiastically awoke and wanted to see the beautiful grounds.  Fearing what would happen if I just stood still, I gave myself a menial task.  I carefully lifted the bronze, inverted vase.  Benny quickly pushed me aside to look down the hole that held the vase since last winter.  “Ya-Ya!!  Is she down there, Mama?!  Mama?!  I don’t see her!”  Her words were both endearing and cutting.  A few of us laughed and that helped break up the thick, cold air.  Thankfully, she was appeased with my vague response entailing spirits going upward and bodies staying in the ground.  Her need to be mentally occupied was already fulfilled by how to arrange the flowers in the vase and the best way to stand the wreath she helped craft with Auntie Kim.  As we quietly stood by Mom’s gravesite, Bennet continued to be her lively, loving self.  She ran around, made silly jokes about bouncy body parts and laughed her sprightly laugh—oh, I was so thankful for it.  She kept my heart from sinking down a steep hole of self-indulgence pity and grief. 

I reminded myself that even after ten years, we were all there together.  Since that day a decade ago, we have now added two little people (one who looks like Mom and the other who acts like her), a baby making his/her presence known with little kicks and jabs felt in my tummy and our dear, lovely Lisa—they all add so much to our already-quirky, loving family.  With time, the circle will grow.  And, with time, more healing will be done.

I must admit that this year, compared to the nine others, restored the most to my soul.  I have tried my best to harness my big feelings into gratitude and reflection these last few weeks.  So, I wrote 10 letters to 10 individuals who have been instrumental in my continual healing. 

And, for every single person who has given love and care the last decade, I have 10,000 years worth of gratefulness for you.  Mom's hand kept me safe in the picture above.  I now have many more hands holding me up, cheering me on and loving me so.

Are You There, Buddha? It's Me, Phuong.

It’s 1:46am, and I am wide awake.  I am going to chalk this up to the fact that there is a growing human appendage continuously punching my lady-pouch.  Or, it could be the fact that I cannot breath because of the influenza that has dug its Jamberried claws into my nasal passages.  Combined with the calming blue night light and cascading vapors of the humidifier (man, I should Instagram this!), my mind starts to wonder about what really is going on inside my body right now.  

Buddha, you epitomize compassion and mindfulness.  So, I thought you may be able to provide some insight into this whole pregnancy experience in a non-judgey way.  Lorde knows that unsolicited advice comes as freely as bathroom treks for pregnant women (and that I’ll never be royal).  So, I am grateful for your discretion (this is my subtle way of letting those who do not want to read deep, inner-teachings of my pregnant body to opt out right now) and pregnancy truths.  Here are my realities:

Why, oh why, the nausea?  I think this is my 22^nd or 17^th week of pregnancy.  This is my third baby.  So, to be honest, I pretty much lost track since the day I had sex.  Based on previous experiences, I have nausea 24 hours a day between weeks 6-14.  You know what, I am waaaay past that timeline, and this whole living-on-a-boat feeling still exists.  What the hell?  Do you even believe in hell? (I digress).  Come to find out, my prenatal pills may be the cause of this trauma.  How can this be?  I bought them at Whole Foods, and everything from there is good for me because it costs a shit-ton. 

Breasts are Unbralievable!  As someone who essentially had concaving breasts until I had my first child, I am thankful for the small mounds that I now carry upon my chest.  And, the work they did to feed Bennet and Ruby was breasttakingly amazing.  I just wonder how much prep time they need to do their jobs, because these ladies are getting heavy.  The daily task of putting on a bra requires forklifts and shoehorns.  The nightly task of taking off a brassiere could result in getting knocked out by two heavy sacks of mammary glands.  Poor Ruby—she was standing too close, and her large, sweet head was just the right height.  It was a good lesson for Benny, though.

What Effing Glow?  I really did marry the kindest man in the world, and I know I am lucky.  On a regular basis, he will make references to my “glow”.  I really do try my hardest to acknowledge his kind words, because I know he means them with all his heart.  When in reality, I know what he really sees is a thin layer of throw-up that I likely did not clean off well.  Or, it could be the stain of tears (damn hormones and Depeche Mode songs) that has permanently made residence upon my cherubic face.

Dry panties are overrated, right?  During my first pregnancy, the principal at my school made a joke about foregoing bladder control once I had children.  I chuckled because 1) it was inappropriate and awkward and 2) I had a bladder of steel (I was raised on bok choy and fatty pork for goodness sakes).  Alas, I realized how true her words rang when I excitedly went for a run at the gym when Bennet was two months old.  As I rounded out my workout, I naturally pushed up the speed on the treadmill.  As my post-pregnancy ego burst wide pride, my legs were being warmed by the continuous flow of motherly urine.  At the time, I was appalled.  After some very intimate physical therapy, a few pregnancies under my belt and lack of all pride, I am now okay with this new normal.  And, I am just happy this bout of flu has only resulted in 1, 253 sneezes.  Pantyliners should definitely be renamed Partyfinders.

What’s the point of nipples?  Again, I know my body is preparing to feed a child—nipples darken and enlarge so the baby can find the food source.  In theory, it’s a very cool phenomenon.  In real life and real time, my nipples are stoic and crazy erect--mounted on my sovereign breasts much like the Queen’s Guards.  With this new superpower, I could land a plane flying through fog by merely lifting my shirt.  Or, if we were all trapped in a glass building, I could definitely Macgyver us out by cutting the glass with the tips of my bosoms. 

And, why do my girls confuse the word pimples for nipples?  Bennet keeps telling people she does not want pimples (nipples, really!), and people just keep telling her to wash her face. 

Memory Loss & Found You know, Buddha, each pregnancy has become more challenging.  One would think that I would choose to forego this tiresome process.   Of course, we have already discussed the months of nausea, sexy incontinence and battery of bodily changes.  This pregnancy has also included some novelty:  a rash under both armpits, early onset of skin tags and an airplane trip that resulted in me filling up many white bags in front of coworkers (bless their hearts for stealing bags from other passengers).  It’s funny how the mind empties the negative and fills it up with a plethora of reasons to have another little human. 

Buddha, I am not sure my aforementioned sufferings will yield pregnancy-enlightenment.  I do know that based on karma, the law of cause of effect, Jeremy and I are putting some good into this world because we have received so much joy from our Bennet and Ruby.  

(We love how they stand in front of very large, joyful doors.)

(Joy can be found from all angles and in Fort Worth suburbia.)

(Joy can found on the sidewalk and on the streets.)

We are tired as hell, but the wrinkles around our eyes are lined with glee, humor and abounding love.  The wisdom gained and the compassion we have learned to give over the last six years is all we have right now.  Gut tells me this will be enough for our next adventure.

If not, we will still have booby puns, ineffective strategies for escaping a building and George Michael.

All of Me

My little birds,

Mama turns 36 years old today, and I want you to see and know all parts of me.  YaYa has been gone for almost ten years, and I have so many thoughts and questions for her.  I have searched for a close-up picture of just her smiling while she was raising me, and I can't find one.  I want you to have all your serious and silly questions answered. I want you to know the  person that existed before I became a Mama, and I want you to value the parts of me that are outside of parenting, feeding your strong, energetic bodies and folding laundry.  Oodles and oodles of your laundry.

1.  I am a mediocre driver, and I only slightly enjoy it when there is a breakfast taco at the destination.  I am horrid at four-way stops.  In 80% of four-way-instances, I will see fellow drivers throw their hands at me in exasperation or mouth expletives beginning in an "f" and ending with an "-itch" (these are valuable words--remember to use them only in instances that make a big impact and please use them in their correct, grammatical form).  I knew I was a bad driver early on.  I babysat for a family in high school, and on the drive home, Mama ended up in a cornfield.  It was dark and scary, and I remember envisioning a boy named Malakai jumping out with a scythe.  I made it home okay, and I learned an important lesson--cornfields should be avoided at all costs.  FYI:  Years later Daddy and Mama were lost in a corn maze in Wisconsin for three hours.

2.  Mama talks a lot now, but I was a very quiet kid.  As the oldest of three children, I was the first to go to school.  Kindergarten was a scary place, and Mama did not know any English.  So, I did not talk all year.  Two little girls, Sarah P. and Becky C., played with Mama.  They did all the talking.  Most importantly, they made me feel valued.  Remember, I hold kindness in the highest regard, and I learned this lesson first.  So, I started as someone who only knew Vietnamese.  Bennet, this is why I am thrilled you are learning Vietnamese at school.  Your experiences are surely different than mine, but you come from an important story.  And, you are beginning to weave your own story with the thread of our family's meaningful experiences.  This is awesome.

3.  While on the forty acres of the University of Texas, Mama worked hard to keep up my GPA.  I also took the time to make lifelong friends and engage in some ninja-shenanigans.  I was able to secure/steal a child-sized ninja costume from Uncle Nils.  Once darkness settled in for the evening, I would jump out of trees or trashcans to scare friends (this fact may have changed post Mama's ninja-antics).  This was not a smart idea, but it was oh-so-entertaining.  Try to find the fun--even when you feel grumpy.


4.  Mama loved being pregnant-80%of the time.  During weeks 6-14, it was pure, absolute hell.  I would be nauseated 24 hours in the day.  With each pregnancy, horrid symptoms were added.  It was like winning at Plinko on the Price is Right--except I repeatedly  guessed the wrong amount when called up to the stage, threw-up on live television and simultaneously wet myself in my uncomfortable, (classy) whale costume.  I did love feeling your kicks and punches.  It is one of the best feelings in the world, and I was lucky to be your continuous punching bag.

5.  I love, love being your mama.  You may not hear it in my voice or see it on my face, but I love it--I love the crazy, hectic lives we have.  After deciding to tell Daddy I liked him as more than a friend in college, making the choice to have each of you has been the smartest decisions of my life.  You were wanted years before you arrived, and I will bust my rear to see you grow into compassionate, evolving, contributing and content humans.  In the meantime, I will enjoy all of our smallish and big moments.

6.  Here is Mama on her 36th birthday.  I am happy and loved and proud to be yours.

(Photo taken by grumpy, loving, fun Bennet Lien)