Archive for category Family
A Mother’s Day Poem for the Puddinette
Every morning she wakes them, to groans and denials
Packs healthy lunches and sends them off with smiles
She works through the day, makes their home clean and neat
Guides them through homework, and cooks dinners to eat
She laughs at little jokes, plays games that don’t stop
Run to practice and scouts, ’til she feels like she’ll drop
Never a complaint, or a word of despair
She sees to their needs, their every last care
She soothes tender feelings, breaks up small fights,
Makes sure they’re all happy, and kisses them goodnight
Four little birdlings fill up her nest,
The mother bird toils, never time enough to rest.
Four little birdlings fill up her nest,
And for four tiny lives, she’s quite simply, the best.
Happy Mother’s Day to the Puddinette and all the mother’s out there that work so hard to make our lives seem easy.
Pud’n
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Saturday Debate: Mother’s Day
Posted by Puddin in Blog, Family, Saturday Debate on May 12, 2012
When I asked the Puddinette for ideas to use for this week’s Saturday Debate, she said I should make sure it’s something topical, maybe even controversial. I suppose there is that whole Time magazine thing blowing around, and “Parenting: Helicopter or Hands Off” might have made for an interesting discussion. Heck, we might have gotten some good old-fashioned name-calling, finger-pointing, and perhaps even a dollop or two of trolling if we were lucky.
But ultimately I decided I had better things to do with my Saturday afternoon than moderate a flame-war between two 30 year-old men pretending to be 18 year-old single mother in the comments. So, we’ll skip that topic for the day.
Instead, let’s go with something just as timely, but a little more personal. We’ve all got a mother, right? So, then here, you go then:
The World’s Best Mother: Mine or Yours*?
You know what to do in the comments, I hope. Also, don’t forget to vote in this week’s Mother’s Day poll.
Pud’n
*I’ll be abstaining from participation in the debate, because I think we all know I’m in a position to skew the outcome (also, because my mom’s the best and it’s not fair to you other people)
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The obstinate child and four little bites
There are a lot of things about being a parent that will likely drive you to the brink of hair-pulling frustration. Trying to get an 18th month-old to stand still long enough for a diaper and outfit change can test the patience of a stone. And you know that stubbornness you pride yourself on? Yeah, well, apparently that’s a dominant genetic thing that most definitely wiggles its way down to your kids. Which means, of course, that no matter how many times you tell your self-assured offspring to quit bickering about who ate the last freaking Double-Stuf cookie last night, they aren’t going to give up on the argument until someone is proven correct. Or a fight breaks out.
Which is how you find yourself, at 39 years old, uttering seemingly incoherent interjections like, “Aaaah”, “zzzzi”, “ohhhp”, “naaaah”, and “shhh” while standing in front of a pair of kids, each with a face screwed up in self-righteous indignation, to keep them from getting out That. One. Last. Argument.
For the record, I’m pretty sure all my kids are going into litigation of some form or another.
All the other frustrations of parenthood, though, pale in comparison to the nightmares that can be visited upon you at the…
Duh, duh, duh.
*thunder crash*
Dinner Table.
In the first part of his classic epic poem, Inferno, Dante outlines the nine circles of Hell. But if you ask me, and probably any other parent who’s ever attempted to get an obstinate three-year old to eat at least some portion of dinner, the First Circle, the Limbo circle, is almost certainly populated with nothing but children with sealed steel-trap mouths and lukewarm plates of spaghetti. Oh, yeah, and the poor, tortured souls trapped there until they manage to get a kid to eat something.
Which is exactly how I felt last night.
The Attitude, who thankfully is becoming less, well, attitude-y, as he gets older announced last night, after idly pushing a few noodles around his plate, “I done, Daddy. I be escoosed, please?”
The kid gets points for politeness, of course, but in general, left to his own devices, he’d live on cheese sandwiches and applesauce.
And so, being the theoretically grown-up in our relationship, I decreed he must eat four bites before he could withdrawal from dinner.
You’d have thought I demanded he kill a newborn chick barehanded.
For the next 20 minutes of my life, I waited patiently as my three year-old sobbed, wailed, and gnashed his teeth over the injustice of having to eat four little bites.
Those Twenty minutes stretched out before me as if time stood still. New species were born and became extinct, civilizations rose and fell, plants died, were crushed, and squeezed into diamonds, the Simpsons celebration their millennial continuous season on TV, and the universe contracted and exploded anew while I waited.
And then, finally, the wailing stopped, the tears dammed up, and the Attitude picked up his fork.
Together, we counted as he took bites…
1…
2…
3…
(“How many more, now?” He sniffled and extended a single, lonely finger. He may not eat much, but his math is pretty good)
4…
“Now, was that so hard?” I asked. With great, anime-shining eyes, he looked up at me, pouting, and nodded in the affirmative.
Well, I guess I can’t expect win them all.
But at least I won the epic Battle of Four Little Bites.
Pud’n
Surviving the Weekend of Doom
Weeks ago, when I first noticed this past weekend on my calendar, I raised an eyebrow. And when that plus the subsequent glare of suspicion didn’t clear away any of the events squeezed onto those two blocks of dates, I shuddered.
Saturday: 1 overnight Cub Scout campout + 1 Little League baseball game + 1 overnight sleepover event for Princess Puddinette.
Sunday: Pack up and return from camping + 1 family First Communion party locally + 1 simultaneous family First Communion party 90 miles away.
Those are just the events, too. That doesn’t include all the typical stuff that keeps the modern family moving forward instead of devolving into a dirty, stinky, 21st-century version of “Sanford and Son”. You know, cleaning, laundry, bathing, etc. Sure, sure, when you’re a 20-something bachelor living alone, if you miss a week of laundry and let the living room go without a dusting for another week, you’re not asking for much trouble.
But when you add four kids, a dog, and a spouse whom you still can’t believe was willing to overlook the general state of filth you lived in when you first met, that doesn’t really fly any more.
So, anyway, that was my weekend. At first glance, I thought it was enough to make even the shiniest, happiest person weep. But, hold on, there, Chuck, that’s not all! As an added bonus, all that outdoor camping and baseball fun on Saturday afternoon included, free of charge!, the occasionally bucketful of rain as well as a 15-degree drop in the ambient outdoor temperature.
Now, one would think that a measurable amount of rain would perhaps simplify things somewhat by postponing the baseball game. But noooooo. The rain arrived strategically, just spaced out enough so as to ensure that somehow we could enjoy the cool, comforting sensation of soaking-wet socks while taking in four hours of little league in an invigorating 43-degree breeze.
And then I got to sleep on the ground.
But hey, I shouldn’t complain. I suppose the ground could have been harder; it was, after all, you know, sodden.
The good news is that we made it through our gauntlet of a weekend, sanity still largely intact. The scouts had a blast camping—rain or no rain, the baseball game was won, and my daughter had more fun at the sleepover than she could shake a My Little Pony at. And after the Communion parties were celebrated and the weekend chores largely done, we all collapsed pretty much where we stood and gave a great, collective sigh.
There may have been napping.
The only one a little worse for wear is me, still a bit tired two days later, and more sore than I’d care to admit as sleeping in a tent apparently leaves one a bit stiff in the neck and shoulders at my age. Sure, I might have called in Exhausted this morning, were that really an option, but then, this isn’t France. So I dragged myself from bed, feeling what can only be described as a bit hungover, which is supremely unfair as I’d done nothing over the past 48 hours to deserve it.
Which brings us to today’s lesson: when you reach a point like this in life where you have to stoically persevere through the Weekend of Doom, you might as well set aside some time on Sunday evening to tie on one.
Probably earlier on Sunday rather than later, though, since, you know, you won’t be staying awake long.
Either way, if you’re going to be stuck feeling the hangover, you might as well get to enjoy the fun part of that too.
Now, can someone please pass me the Icy-Hot?
Pud’n
Gone fishin’ with the boys
When we were younger, my older brother hated to go fishing with me. Nonetheless, two or three times every summer, we’d go together anyway. Of course, we’d inevitably choose the most sweltering day of the year, when eggs fried in their shells long before they even got close to the sidewalk. So with our too-shaggy hair (as was the custom in the early 80′s) plastered by sweat to our foreheads, we’d grab our beginner’s thumb-button Zebco rod-n-reel combos and a small plastic box of tackle—which included a number of lures we’d never understand or use to any positive effect—and hike a mile or so up and across the “new road” (a four lane, divided highway, so think Frogger-with-fishing-poles) to our pond.
Our pond, of course, wasn’t so much actually ours as it was some farmer’s who we never saw. Frequently, cows would come to visit and hang out while we offered our bait to the water’s fishy denizens. They seemed unimpressed with out fishing prowess.
Did I mention that we might have had to climb a fence or two, at least one of which was barbed, to get there? In retrospect, it’s lucky we didn’t get shot.
Ah…childhood memories.
Anyway, as I said before, my brother hated fishing with me. It’s not that I was troublesome or anything; I clearly wasn’t that kind of little brother. At least, I don’t remember it that way. I suppose he might have a different opinion.
He hated it, though (and will attest to this today, almost 30 years later), because I’d catch a bass or two in the first five minutes of our arrival, typically before he even had a line in the water. Of course, after my lightning-quick success, neither of us would get so much as a tiny bluegill nibble the rest of the day, no matter how long we risked our young lives fishing in Farmer McShotgun’s pond stayed.
The best part of it for me was the pride I’d see later in the eyes of my grandfather, the same one who eventually gave up trying to teach me to color inside the lines, when he came over and gauged my hard-won (read: lucky) catch in the freezer. I didn’t see it at the time, but I realize now that there’s always been some innate connection between fishing and grandfathers.
My father, on the other hand, who had to clean said catch when we returned with a pair of stinking fish that had been flopping in the weeds of the pond-bank in the sun for two hours, was often less than thrilled.
I can’t say I blame him.
Which is, of course, why I was very glad to hear that yesterday’s Annual Cub Scout Fishing Derby would be catch-and-release. No bloody fish guts for me, thankyouverymuch!
The Puddinpop, Mini-Me, myself and their grandfather took our fishing poles and our tackle-box (which still has lures I don’t understand the use of) to a local apartment pond yesterday with the Pack, and we fished to our little heart’s content.
Try not to get too worked up over my sexy pale legs, ladies!
The weather was nearly perfect, albeit a tad gusty, but the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and at about 75 degrees, my hair wasn’t sticking to my forehead. Then again, I don’t really have too much hair anymore. Nothing’s been left to get sweat-plastered to my forehead for fifteen years.
At any rate, we didn’t catch much, just a couple of bluegill early in the day. But I still have my old touch. In fact, I managed to catch a fish with my first cast. I was intending to demonstrate to the Puddinpop how to cast with an open-faced reel, something he’d never used before. So I opened the bail, swung the rod, and loosed the bait into the choppy water.
Two seconds later, I was reeling in the only fish I’d catch all day—and it wasn’t even my rod.
The Puddinpop, of course, thought that catching a fish on a demonstration cast was the funniest thing he’d seen in a week.
I’m pretty sure that, this time, my brother, thirty years later, might have agreed with him.
Pud’n
This weekend, by the numbers
5 – Number of processed, frozen, chopped, formed, “breaded” fish sticks eaten Friday. Um, yay, Lent. Or something. I guess.
4 – Number of children spoiled with post-Sunday dinner spring evening Icees.
3 – Number of nights of falling asleep in my recliner for an hour or so before shuffling up to bed. Err, well, that’s a guess a moment, since I’m writing this on Sunday evening. But I’d say odds are good I fall asleep in that big comfy chair here in a few hours, long before I make it upstairs to begin plaguing the Puddinette with The Nightly Snoring.
2 – Number of times I attended Mass.
1 – Number of family weddings the Puddinette and I had to privilege to enjoy
0 – Number of UK Basketball games watched. And as the Wildcats advanced to the Final Four with a pretty commanding defeat of Baylor in the South Region Finals on Sunday, go ahead and feel free to thank me for not watching the games and potentially invoking the Puddin UK Jinx. I encourage the Big Blue Nation to send checks, money orders, small bills, or gift cards. Or, just name your first born after me. That’s cool, too.
For those of you that know me well or have been visiting here long enough to have a sense of my priorities, this weekend’s #2 item is likely to raise some eyebrows. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement. Depending on how well and how long someone’s known me, that little particular might be enough to send him/her and their entire extended family into the underground bunker with a few tons of canned goods and a long-term water supply.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure me going to church twice in the same weekend easily would’ve once been seen as one of the Seven Signs.
But then I had kids. Kids change a lot of things.
Howzzat? Well, it’s all started when the Puddinette attempted to wake me early this morning and asked what I wanted to do about Mass. Admittedly, I don’t remember my exact response, but I believe it was, initially, “Mmrbmmr mgmhghghgfpph.”
Following what I can only assume was a quite significant sigh (of epicness), I was then, um, enthusiastically encouraged to wake up immediately, if not sooner. Also, her elbow may or may not have been employed to this end. She then asked again what I wanted to do about church.
Obviously, being Good and Lazy, and feeling smugly satisfied for already having attended Mass on Saturday for the family wedding referred to in item #1, I replied that we were good for the week. Also, that I’d be going back to sleep immediately, if not sooner, thankyouverymuch.
My lovely wife, being a properly devout Catholic, murmured, Marge Simpson-style, and then pointed out that a Saturday afternoon wedding Mass does not, regardless of one’s wishes to the contrary, fulfill the weekly obligation.
I suspect she hoped a healthy dollop of good, old-fashioned Catholic Guilt would seep in to my clearly shriveled, dark, sleep-deprived soul and take root, blossom, and grow into a willingness to get my lazy backend out of bed and Do The Right Thing. Unfortunately for her, I’ve been immune to Catholic Guilt since I was a teenager. I must’ve accidentally gotten some kind of booster vaccine for it when I was young. It’s never worked for Grammy Puddin, either.
At any rate, unconvinced, I rolled over and committed myself back to sleep.
Sometime later, the Puddinette returned to roust me again after seeing to the usual morning responsibilities, e.g, making sure the three year-old isn’t procuring his own breakfast. Oh sure, you’d think a three year-old could handle it, but somehow that typically results in a meal of 3 or more Girl Scout Dos-Si-Dos, a piece of cold, leftover pizza, a handful of marshmallows, and, if it can be reached via kitchen chair, Moose Tracks ice cream.
Anyway, when she came back, she informed me that my three older children had already dressed themselves, and all of them had chosen church-appropriate clothing without having been instructed to do so. That’s right, my kids put on the Sunday morning collared Polo shirts of their own accord.
Now, as a man hoping to have a proper lie-in, this was unfortunate news. All hope of extended laziness disappeared faster than the execution of a Kardashian pre-nuptial agreement.
But…
As a father, hoping that at least some of the potentially questionable “wisdom” one tries to teach your kids will eventually stick, it was a banner moment. Sunday had come, and even though I’ve never met a 9, 8, or 6 year-old who really enjoyed or looked forward to Mass (I’m sorry, maybe that’s just me, but honestly, have you ever met a child that would rather be just about anywhere else?), mine have accepted the weekly practice as a matter of course.
Catholic Guilt wasn’t enough to get me out of bed and ready for church this morning, but the Parental Guilt?
Yeah, that did the trick.
So, two Masses in two days. And the world didn’t end. Well, yet, at least.
That’s means I’m up one, right?
Any chance this works like comp time?
No?
Pud’n
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Reason #316 Having Kids Rules: NCAA Tournament Exile (or, My Wildcat Conundrum)
In roughly an hour, the University of Kentucky Wildcats will be tipping off against the Hoosiers of Indiana University in a NCAA tournament rematch of the only regular season game UK lost this year. As a nearly* lifelong resident of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, it’s obligatory that I watch the game and cheer the cats to (hopefully) victory.
But I won’t be watching.
Now, put down that pitchfork, Buford. And don’t be calling your buddies to come give me a visit, because trust me, I know full well about my responsibilities here. What you don’t realize is that, well, I’m kind of not allowed to watch. In fact, you don’t want me to watch.
See, I’m bad luck.
Hey, roll your eyes all you want. I know it sounds ridiculous. Obviously the universe hasn’t somehow cosmically-linked UK’s basketball program to my attention span. Not that such a thing is really possible, anyway. My attention span disappeared something like a decade ago and hasn’t had even the common decency to so much as send me a postcard with a sunny shot of the picturesque Italian coast signed, “Wish you were here! – A.S.”
Anyway, for some reason, teams I want to win, that ought to win, often don’t win when I’m watching. Don’t believe me? You’re not the first. Some friends of mine didn’t either, until they tested that assertion years ago in Vegas. Georgia was playing while we were there and everyone wanted the Bulldogs to lose (it was UK-related somehow, but I don’t recall the particulars—it was Vegas, after all, I’m lucky I remember even being there). Long story short, said buddies pooled a few dollars, handed them to me, pushed me towards the Sports Book, and urged me to take Georgia to win.
Which I did and then watched the game, smirking.
And, indeed, Georgia lost.
I admit that even I think the whole thing is silly. Every now and again I’ll have a lapse, or well, a moment of general reason, and I’ll sit down and actually watch a UK game. I did that just this year, actually. Recently. The ‘Cats were up on Vanderbilt with time winding down in the SEC Championship game. Vandy then proceeded to go on a 16-2 run and UK couldn’t buy a basket, and free throw, or, hell, an old, bruised tomato from a road-side stand. What started as a 7-point lead ended up a 7-point deficit, and my UK basketball-watching privileges were once again revoked.
Look, I don’t care how silly it sounds; I’m not risking the wrath of the Big Blue Nation just because I want to watch the game.
Luckily, I have children. And I’m raising them with the proper respect for the important things in life. Like Wildcat fandom. So, yes, the Puddinpop will be glued to that game from tipoff to the final buzzer. Scoring updates will be convenient and frequent.
And there you have Reason #316 Having Kids Rules: they can watch stuff for you and give you real-time summaries.
Now then, let’s get on with winning #8. Go ‘Cats!
Pud’n
*I was born in Indianapolis and lived there for the first six months of my life. Yes, I am a closet IU fan. Don’t look at me like that; it means nothing in the face of my allegiance to UK.
The changing of the seasons, Batter Up!
Yes, the weather has already been discussed, covered, hammered into the ground, and beaten to death for a season just a handful of days old. We all agree: it’s oddly warm for this time of year. That’s that, then and now you can relax. I’m not going to ramble on and on and on and on and on again about how it really probably shouldn’t have been 80 degrees every day this week. You know, being March and all.
Indeed, this post isn’t about the changing of that season, it’s about the changing of the sports season. Put me in, coach, I’m ready to play.
I suppose some of you might take exception here, since we’re still smack dab in the middle of the NCAA tournament, Opening Day is still a couple weeks off, and the NBA and NHL haven’t even started their respective playoffs yet. Come to think of it, both of those leagues better get started the that regard pretty darned soon; if I recall correctly, diamonds are formed faster than either gets to a championship series. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I heart me some hockey playoffs.
Still…wait, what was my point? Oh yeah, the sports seasons. Yeah, I realize it doesn’t yet seem like we’ve reached The Change, but believe you me, we have.
How do I know? Because I’m at this very moment writing this post on my phone—which, by the way, given the size of my fingers compared to my phone keys is like stabbing at a 19th century typewriter with a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano—seated precariously in an aging, rickety set of bleachers watching the Puddinpop practice fielding grounders with his new knothole team.
Of course, it hasn’t even hinted at rain all week, let alone have the audacity to threaten precipitation. But as I wait here, contemplating the possibility that whatever unholy metal these bleachers are forged from may actually be the hardest substance on the planet (perhaps that same stuff that went into the One Ring), dark clouds are rolling overhead and the wind is picking up. I mean, nothing like flying monkeys, ruby slippers, or “I’m going to get you, my pretty” kind of windy, but the cooling gusty more-than-a-breeze type of thing that seems to be a harbinger of stormy weather.
Last week’s practice was already rained out, so it’d be nice if the team could get through at least one session early in the year. It’s always a plus when the coach knows the kids’ names before the first game. Last year, I seem to recall that easily half of the season’s practices were canceled and the list of postponed games ending up as long as my To-Do list after the Puddinette’s had a few days alone in the house.
Come to think of it, with early spring being when kids should do most of the learning part of playing baseball, its astounding any of them ever actually manage to figure out which end of the bat you put on the ball.
I guess that’s why for the first few years, a kids’ game can last even longer than the NBA playoffs.
And just think for all that time, I’ll be riding these same bleachers, which are undoubtedly a more notorious torture device than anything designed in the dark ages.
Play Ball!
Pud’n
Best Birthday Gift EVAH
As soon as your birthday has come and gone (as mine has now done for 2012), everyone and their third step-cousin asks if you “got anything good”. The answer is, yes, yes I did get something good.
I would make you guess, but the old, “is it bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a tricked-out recreational vehicle” question won’t get you anywhere. Because the best birthday gift ever isn’t material. Oh, sure, the Puddinette gave me leave to purchase myself some new hockey equipment—which is good because my helmet is so nasty your average first-millennial unwashed barbarian heathen wouldn’t touch it. And one of my leg pads is split half-way up the knee (likely from ten or twenty too many violent landings on it). So, yes, the new hockey gear will be very much appreciated!
I also got a pan of brownies hand-decorated by my offspring, which I would totally include a picture of if it still existed in a material sense. But sadly, they’ve been consumed already. They are now back to being metaphysical brownies.
Still…still! The best birthday present EVAH is something the Puddinette wrote for me, to show all the world*.
Yes, that’s right, my wife wrote me a birthday haiku:
I tried to write you
A special birthday haiku
“Happy Day” will do.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have the awesomest wife in the history of wives. I’m totally just not worthy.
It’s okay to be jealous. Tell you what, next time I’ll share my brownies.
That’ll soften the blow a bit, right?
Pud’n
*And by “world”, obviously I mean she posted it on facebook
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Dreams, determination, and the Pinewood Derby Tank
“I want it to be like a tank,” he said, face alight with eight year-old glee. “And I want to paint it with camo.”
A tank.
My son, Mini-Me, held a rectangular block of pine in his hands, undoubtedly envisioning his combat-ready pinewood derby racer as it screamed down the track, blasting opponents out of its way.
And somehow I had to figure out how to make that happen.
At first I suggested that perhaps a tank wasn’t the best possible design for something that was, you know, intended to race. “It’ll be big and blocky,” I told him, “and that might slow it down compared to the other race cars.”
“I don’t care,” he replied, demonstrating the kind of resolve I’d like to see in just one elected official these days.
There was no putting him off, a tank it would be. I had to decide, then, how best to turn a block of wood into a heavy assault vehicle, complete with camouflage and a big honking cannon.
Of course, when it comes to design and planning this sort of thing, I’m about as useful as a frightened box turtle in the middle of a busy intersection. And I only hope my building skill with tools will someday be nearly equivalent to the turtle’s. But I’m the Cub Scout Dad. This was my responsibility. No one was going to do it for me.
Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But that would have been cheating.
So I stared at the block. And stared. And scratched my beard. And poured myself a nice pale ale. And stared some more.
Somehow, slowly, light began to burn away the dimness in the soft, grey, atrophied building stuff portion of my brain.
Cut off a chunk there and mount it on top for the turret.
Slice off a wedge here.
Another wedge over here.
Maybe it could work after all. And really, do aerodynamics mean anything when it comes to a 5 oz wooden car? It’s not like the thing had to be able to escape Earth’s gravity or would undergo wind tunnel testing or anything.
And so the lad and I went to work with my drill and my multi-tool. We lopped off chunks here and there, we sanded it to his satisfaction, we mounted the turret, and we added a drinking-straw cannon. I stopped at the local hobby store and bought three tiny, squarish bottles of paint that took me back to my model-building youth. When we cracked them open and Mini-Me started to apply them, the smell had me reminiscing about the A-4 Skyhawk and the F-14 Tomcat that used to hang above my bed from monofilament fishing line.
More importantly, just like that, the impossible block of wood had become a tank.
But the question still lingered: would its complete lack of aerodynamics doom it to failure?
The first heat it ran didn’t bode well: 3rd place out of three, and trailing at that.
The second heat, though, showed some promise: 2nd place, and a close finish.
In the third heat, on its last chance, our blocky tank crossed the finish line in first place, to cheers and grins (and a great sigh of relief from someone’s old man).
In the end, Mini-Me’s tank didn’t win a den trophy or place in the big pack race. But it was a winning racer, nonetheless, if only in my heart.
My eight year-old knew what he wanted. He dreamed of a wooden tank that raced like a car. When I tried to talk him out of it, to suggest he go for something sleeker or, well, faster-looking, at least, he stuck to his guns and would not be dissuaded.
A tank, he said, with camo.
Lo and behold, by the end of the day, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
Perhaps there’s a lesson here for all of us.
Do you know what your dream is? Whatever it is, stick to it, no matter what they tell you.
And, hey, maybe paint it camouflaged, just for good measure.
Pud’n
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