Companions on Earth and Heaven

Well, it's been awhile since I wrote anything. I'm super excited that now THREE (3), yes THREE people have asked me "when are you going to update your blog?" Now, that makes me feel special!

All kidding aside, it's been an extraordinary couple of months. In many ways, it has been difficult, but also amazing. Some of the difficulty has come through learning a new job (I changed positions at Rainbow) and through losing my Grandaddy six months after losing my other Grandaddy. That was very hard for us. It's also been challenging because we are still in this slower-than-molasses-moving uphill-during-freezing temperatures journey toward adoption. And it has also been difficult because we had to put our sweet dog Jack down. This time last year, we had just lost John's dad, and then we lost our big great Dane, Hercules. Later in the year, we had the breakdown of the adoption of Canaan, and then we lost my Grandaddy D. in July. So far, this year, we have had more loss in JUST TWO MONTHS than we did in twelve months last year. We said goodbye to some old friends and neighbors of my grandparents, and have been touched by the deaths of many others who were gone far too soon.

I've been reflecting on all of these things, also during this season of change in my own life- related mainly to my work at Rainbow and my infertility journey. When we lost my Granddaddy Guillebeau in January, I had the honor of speaking at his funeral service/ worship celebration. The emphasis of my speech was on the concept of Gratitude because I am truly grateful to have been his granddaughter and to have known him and be touched by his legacy and his faith in the Lord. I think the hardest part of the funeral process is putting the body of a person in the ground. It has always been really difficult for me, because although I know that the person is not there anymore, and the body is empty - it's still hard for me to see the body of that person I loved so deeply being lowered into the ground. And that night as it rained, it was hard to think of his body being there in the cemetery and rain falling onto his grave. I really still don't like to think of that. I guess it's one of those things you have to put out of your mind. I like to think of him when he was alive- so big to me when I was little- such a strong, capable, larger-than-life person. A man who fought cancer for twenty years, who served in the military, and who worked in a homeless shelter until about a year ago when he started getting too sick and weak to do it anymore. And the other thing about him is that he was hopelessly devoted to my grandmother, Jean. Rarely in a person's lifetime will they encounter two people more committed and more deeply in love. They were, in every sense of the word, true companions. They did everything together. So it was not only hard to see him go, although he is way better for it- but it was also hard to see my grandmother without him. He was her partner, her confidant, her chaffeur, her ministry partner, her one true love and companion on earth.

When John and I were dating, I heard that cheesy eighties love song, "True Companion" and I fell into a puddle of tears and snot. Although it is corny to the extreme, and evokes images of thirteen year-olds "couple skating" while sporting stirrup pants and too-high hairdos, it is true. There is nothing in the world- this wacky, crooked, sometimes beautiful world- quite like having your one true companion.

When we put Jack (our beagle terrier) down about three weeks ago, it was really rough. Jack was fifteen years old. The kids did not know life without him. He was another constant companion. He was always there for the kids, always happy to go on a hike in the woods, always good for putting your cold toes in his fluffy fur. He was always so loyal. He never minded if Mitchell pulled out clumps of his white chest fur while watching cartoons in the living room floor (guess that's an autistic thing?) And when it was time to let him go, it was nearly unbearable for all of us. He had collapsed that morning, and while John was getting dressed, I gathered him into my arms and wrapped him in a fleece blanket. For the next two hours, I rocked him in the rocking chair and told him what a good dog he was, what a good and loyal companion he was to us all. John brought the kids into our bedroom to say goodbye while I rocked their beloved pet. They kissed him, petted him, cried, and told him they loved him. John and I watched with broken hearts, unable to change to course of nature, unable to change the forces of life and death here on earth. Two hours later when the vet's office opened, we all marched in with our heads hung low, the kids following me as I carried our furry little bundle. Two ladies sat on benches waiting with their dogs and each turned and wept into their pet's fur when they saw our funeral parade coming through. The vets led us into a small room where we said our final goodbyes and Jack breathed his last breath.

John had to go open his store, so it was up to Mitchell and I to dig the grave. We picked a nice spot for Jack next to his best friend, Hercules, and we started to dig. We dug for an hour, with Mitchell stopping every ten minutes to ask, "Is that deep enough?" Images of Chewy the guinea pig's return from the dead kept coming to mind, and each time I answered, "Keep digging . . ." We dug for what seemed like another full hour, and I noticed something interesting about grief. As Jack's lifeless body lay there in a cardboard box, we first cried while we dug, then we sniffed while we dug, then we talked about Jack and how special he was, and we dug, and we dug, and we dug. Our arms were tired, our hearts were tired, but we kept digging. And I noticed that as we dug this grave, we worked through some of our grief that morning. As I mentioned before, I think the burial is one of the hardest parts of a funeral but in light of what transpired in us, I think the digging into the ground is actually therapeutic, in a strange way. Maybe just the physical act of digging puts your body to work in a way that you can let out your pain and sadness.

All of this gets me thinking- sometimes about deep things.

But on a lighter note, I want to share about a new companion in our home. Just a few days after we lost our sweet little Jack, we noticed an immediate and alarming change in Porky's personality. She wouldn't get out of bed in the morning, and she slept on the couch all day. I took her for a ride in the car (usually her favorite thing) and she laid down in the backseat with her head down. It was so depressing, and yet not surprising. From the time John and I married, over three years ago, Porky had her doggy companions. She had Hercules and Jack for the first two years, and then for the last year, she had just Jack. And in the end of his life, I became Jack's nurse. I gave him his medicine every night, and he followed me and John and Porky into the bedroom at night where he slept right beside me. Porky was suddenly and naturally lonely, being here all day in the house by herself. So we looked at some dogs online, and thought we had decided to get a German Shepherd. John found one at the animal shelter here in town and on a Tuesday when we were both home, we took off to meet some dogs. We took the German Shepherd puppy out and also a boxer puppy, but both were extremely hyper- nipping at us and unable to walk on a leash. Putting them back in their pens, we saw a sweet, sad-looking black and white bird dog. He watched with big sad eyes as we put the wild puppies back into their cages. When we walked through again, I pointed him out to John. "I like that one," I told him. John agreed we should take him out and see what his personality was like.

Behind the animal cages was a fenced-in yard, where we walked this gentle dog with the black ears. He was as skinny as Skeletor, and he had small cuts and scabs all over his face, neck, ears and back. The vet tech told us he had likely never been indoors, was found beat up from a raccoon attack and eating out of the garbage. The animal control staff had cleaned his wounds, and had caught him up on vaccinations. They recorded that his demeanor was "friendly" in every appointment. We asked if we could return with Porky and let her meet him before we just charged home with him. The staff agreed and so we loaded Porky up at home and returned to the animal shelter. An inmate wearing a striped jumpsuit brought the dog outside on a leash. John walked him while I walked Porky, and they sniffed each other to make friends. After awhile, we traded leashes and I walked the new fellow. Then we tried the ultimate test- to see if Porky would allow this new friend into "her" car. Everything was peaceful, and we decided to take our new buddy "Otis" home to be part of our family.

Today John and I took the dogs hiking at DeSoto Falls, which is not far from our home. I love it here in the mountains, and one perk is all these beautiful places we get to visit on our days together. The kids all decided to stay home (they did a 3 mile hike with us last Sunday) so it was just me and John, and Porky and Otis - companions. We walked up the long trail toward the waterfalls, and enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine. Every few yards, Porky stopped to check out a fallen log, a mysterious plant, or a group of rocks. Otis made sure to sniff everything right after she did. He enjoyed the adventure, just happily bounding around with his long black ears. I thought a lot about life and loss while we were walking. There are dead, fallen trees around, crunchy dried leaves that didn't make it through the last hard freeze, and there is, underneath all the winter and decay, new life that is just beginning to edge its way to the surface. It's true- nothing is wasted in the woods. If something dies, it nurtures something else, makes way for something else, or becomes food for something else. I won't get too deep on this subject, just wanted to say I thought about all these things today. And then, while I was lost in my thoughts on life, death, resurrection, rebirth, and the like, we reached the top of the trail. Big yellow signs warned us not to go any farther because "People have DIED going beyond this point!" We obediently followed the signs and stayed on the safe observation platform to watch the waterfalls. I stared up to the top, to the glorious edge of the fall that juts out from the mountain and perfect, crystal clear water races downward. I tried to watch the water falling to the next level, then to the next level, and the third level, but the water was moving so fast my eyes couldn't keep up. The waterfalls here in Dahlonega are beautiful and awesome. But I can't help thinking that my Granddaddy (and my other Granddaddy, and my father in law, and our dogs for that matter) are enjoying scenery that I cannot comprehend. In a perfect, holy place with the most exquisite natural beauty, they live forever. They live forever in a place where no death or darkness or winter ever takes place. And they wait for their earthly companions to join them.

That bow on your mailbox is getting on my nerves

I realize that I do a lot of venting (a "nice" word for complaining) on this blog about my battle with infertility and the longing to be a mother. God has really been clearly defining my role as stepmother lately, and also as the woman "now playing the part of mother . . ." And slowly, painfully, begrudgingly, I am taking to my position - my lot in life, if you will. So you can imagine that as I am trudging though this "waiting" process to be matched with children in foster care, and as I tiptoe along the delicate tightrope of step-parenting, there will obviously be some tricky spots along the way. And here is a prime example:
My neighbors around the corner recently put a big pink bow on their mailbox. I am about 99.9% certain that no one else in my household saw the dang thing, but it might as well have been that Mount Rushmore had been relocated to my front yard when I went out to my own mailbox one morning. Yes, just minding my own business, checking to see if we won any large amounts of money from Publisher's clearing house, and there it was: the symbol of babyness. It seems like yesterday, this same family had a big blue bow on their mailbox. Well, isn't that sweet? I know it's the same people - although we have never met. I know this because Mr. Baby maker is meticulous about his yard, and has one of those really loud trucks. He is always working in that yard (well, obviously not ALWAYS) and she (whom I have never met) keeps the decorations looking oh-so-nice. There were three or four of those light-up reindeer on the lawn just a few weeks ago, and there is always a nice wreath on the front door.
And yes, I will admit- confess, I was jealous. Now before you go off worrying that I will break in and steal one of their babies and try to pass it off as my own- and end up on an episode of Snapped, let me assure you that in the realm of this infertility journey, it was really just a punch in the guts. I stared at that pink bow for a minute. I felt that lump in my throat. I looked up to the sky and reminded God that things like this do really still hurt me very much. And I swallowed that lump in my throat and continued back up my own driveway.
I came back into my loud, chaotic house full of funny smells, dog hair, junk mail, and that sticky stuff that keeps reappearing on the floor. I looked at the stack of mail in my hands, and there was a letter from our adoption agency. It was meant to come on that same day. It was meant to be there in my hands to remind me. There are some children out there who can't wait to come home - to my home! There are some little ones out there who really do belong to me, but they just don't know it yet, and we are still looking for them. These kids probably didn't get the fanfare and welcome at birth that my neighbors gave to their little blessings. But they will be celebrated when they get here. Believe me- there will be a bow- maybe three or four bows! They will each get a bow, and I will tie them on my mailbox - maybe for a month or more. And I will make sure those children know they are wanted, celebrated, and loved every bit as much as if the stork himself brought them to my door.
So, in closing, I really should say "Congratulations!" to my neighbor. It is a wonderful thing for you to celebrate. Soon, I will be celebrating too.

Advent

I never knew a lot about the word Advent when I was growing up. It seems like we didn't use that word very often in the Baptist church. I always associated it with the Catholic Church, and never took the time to really discover what it means. But now that I am part of a Presbyterian church with my husband, I am hearing this word more and more.  Sunday, one of our pastors was talking about the meaning of the word Advent while leading our adult Bible class. I was struck there in the middle of Bible study with just how meaningful this word is for me now - at this exact moment in my life. And then . . . during church, our other pastor called us out as the word was mentioned again, saying: "Melissa and John are in a season of advent right now . . ."

According to Wikepedia (not always a reliable source, but sometimes helpful and accurate) Advent (from the Latin word adventus meaning "coming") is a season observed in many Western Christian churches, a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas.

The reason this word means so much to me is that I am in a season of waiting in my life. I am waiting for the children that will call me their mother. Though I will not be their first mother, I will be their forever mother, through the gift of adoption. John and I began this journey several months ago, and through many ups and downs, and the loss of many precious children that we only had for a short time, we are waiting and "expecting" a great celebration.

We are completely done with our home study process, we loved our case worker, found the process with Families First to be a positive one, and now we are "waiting" for the "coming" of our new family members. We are "waiting" for the last document to arrive in the mail, and then we can begin to search for the children that God has out there "waiting" for us.

Every day, I hold my breath when checking the mail. It's totally different from all the times I "waited" for a birthday card, a love letter, a check from a tax refund, or some new purchase from a catalog. I am waiting in earnest and hopeful expectation, for this promise of God to be fulfilled.

Some day I believe that I will show this blog to my children, so they will know how much we wanted them, prayed for them, hoped for them, and how they were already in our hearts - even before we met. And I hope that in some way, they feel the season of advent in their own hearts as they wait for us.

Two Slushies and a Tank of Gas

You never know when a simple outing can turn into an adventure, as was the case for a trip to the lake house a couple of weeks ago. Samuel had won a county competition with 4-H for a project he did on white tigers. When we went to the county meeting and he won first place, we were given some paperwork for the next level of the competition - that would take place at Rock Eagle 4-H center. Samuel was so excited, but he begged me to go along as a chaperon. Now don't get me wrong - I love kids, and I love nature, and I was a 4-H member myself in the fifth grade. But something about a 2.5 hour bus ride with fifty 5th and 6th graders, and a handful of acne-covered high school kids as "counselors" just didn't appeal to me. Not to mention getting up at 5 am to catch a school bus. "I have an idea," I told Samuel, "I will see if someone will cover my shift at work that weekend. We can go up on Friday and spend the night at the lakehouse. It's just a short trip to Rock Eagle, so we won't have to get up at 5 am. We can have breakfast out, and go meet your classmates at the competition." Samuel thought this was an enchanted idea. He bugged me nonstop until I had emailed the 4-H office to make arrangements, and had found a staff member to work for me for part of the weekend. For two weeks, we talked about our trip, and how we would leave Friday night and go to the lake house by ourselves. "Mitchell and Georgia can't come," Samuel told me, "Because they would be bored at the competition. And besides, I want it to be just me and you." How sweet is that? So Friday FINALLY came. I packed an overnight bag for us, with our clothes for Saturday and warm pajamas. I knew that the thermostat is normally turned way, way down when the lake house is not in use. Three cheers for thinking ahead.  After dinner, we kissed everyone else goodbye, and headed out of town with our overnight bag and one awesome presentation on White Tigers.  Just outside of Gainesville, I stopped for gas and let Samuel get a blue raspberry slushie inside the gas station. All the way through Athens, Samuel raved about that blue slushie, "Mmm! Mmm! This is the best slushie I've ever had! Mmm! Mmm! This is a great trip, Melissa! This is the best slushie in the world!" in his usual dramatic way. When we finally got to the lake house it was late. It was dark outside and we hurried to get the water turned on and the heat going. Inside the house was very chilly- and I was thankful for the warm pajamas. We were both tired but I let Samuel stay up watching cartoons for a little while, just to make the trip even more special.  On Saturday morning, we woke up and got ready, left the house around 8:30 and headed over to McDonalds to grab some breakfast. From there we headed over to Rock Eagle, which is 12 miles from the lake house. We found the bus from our county and were right on time. Samuel gave his presentation on white tigers at 10 am and afterward we ate lunch with his classmates and another mom.  I watched in amazement as Samuel and three classmates ran around the Rock Eagle campus, happily experiencing a little independence - or as much as eleven year old should be allowed to experience. He ate his brownie before his chicken at lunchtime (I didn't say anything about it) and picked out two small items in the gift shop, totaling $7. I took a few photos of the kids, and soon it was time to head to the awards presentation. Although Samuel didn't win, I think he had a good time and grew more comfortable with making public speeches. As we headed out of Eatonton, Samuel asked me if we could stop for another blue raspberry slushie. I told him yes, we would find another Quicktrip gas station on our way out of town, and we did. Samuel sat back in his seat with that slushie in his hand, slipped on a pair of Cody's sunglasses and looked over at me with a smile. "Well," he said, "This has been the best weekend of my life."

Wow! What a compliment! The best weekend of his life- and all it cost me was two slushies and a tank of gas. And so, friends, the moral of the story is this: never underestimate the value of time together.

Just call me Melissy

Mitchell has been the hardest for me to connect with of my three stepchildren. We started off on the wrong foot, because when John and I were dating his mother told him that if he was nice to me, it was a "betrayal" of her love. It's pretty hard to come back from that. But, over the years, Mitchell has come to regard me as a permanent fixture, and if for no other reason than acceptance, he has slowly turned his heart toward me.  As I have learned with other kids, sometimes you just have to be persistent in demonstrating who you really are. We have had many battles, but at the end of the battles, we always say "I'm sorry," sometimes me, sometimes Mitchell. And after almost four years in his life, I have learned about who he really is, and he has learned who I really am.
Mitchell is twelve, almost thirteen years old. His birthday is less than a week after Thanksgiving. He has Asperger's Syndrome - a high functioning form of autism. He is unusually bright, clever and observant. He knows words and their meaning, often to an astounding level. He has an incredible imagination, and is always building or inventing something using physics and his own unique brand of humor. He is the spitting image of his mother, with a round freckled face and the bluest eyes you have ever seen. And like most Asperger kids, he is unbelievably quirky.
As I've mentioned before in my postings, being a stepmother is quite a task. The process of falling in love with your stepchildren takes time. It is not the instant love of a birth mother or "love at first sight" that is attached to infatuation. And while I know that I love him, I am not sure now just when I started to love him. I know that when he was nine I thought I would have to move out of the house because of our personality clashes. I know that for about eight months, he couldn't bear to be in the same room for me for very long. He glared at me with squinted eyes, and he mimicked me behind my back. Tolerance for one another was a task, respect seemed to be light years away.
But somehow, over the course of three years as his stepmom, Mitchell has come to regard me as more than just an annoying clean-freak, barking orders at him every morning and night. I still get the usual response when I leave his bedroom at night after reading and praying with both boys. I say "I love you, good night." Samuel says, "I love you too!" and Mitchell says, "I don't love you!" with the same cheerful tone as his brother. (Fortunately, John has encouraged Mitchell to say "I like you," if he doesn't want to say "I love you.") Yes, I know - love is one of those words that gets all mixed up and confused when you are a pre-teen boy. I get it. But it is frustrating to hear, "I don't love you!" night after night, for three years.
 But somehow, over the course of three years- three Christmases, three New Years - three years of school teachers that he had to tell: "She's NOT my mom. She's JUST my STEPmom" - three years of the flu - three years of Halloween - three years of birthdays - three years of camping trips- hikes - losing a pet - losing a grandpa - starting middle school and much more, somehow, I now have graduated to a new title. I am no longer just "Melissa." Now, I am Melissy.
The change of one simple letter. He changed the "A" on the end of my name to a "Y". Without notice, and without ceremony, he just started calling me "Melissy." And I like it.
I like it because it means I'm important enough for nickname. I'm no longer just someone he has to tolerate. I'm Melissy, maybe a halfway normal and acceptable human being.
 And last week, when all the kids got their flu shots, Mitchell grabbed my hand and held on tight. Yes, it was only for a moment, and I know that it was more of an issue of "needing" my hand, than "wanting" it, but I'll take it any way it comes.
The nurse, who always gets a kick out of our "far from ideal family," looked across the crazy exam room and smiled, "You're stepmom, right?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "just stepmom."
And Melissy!

Dear John,

Tomorrow has been three years since I married you. I think back to that cool October evening when we stood up before our family and close friends and recited vows we had written ourselves. Sometimes I am amazed that after all the struggles you endured because of love in the past, that you even had the capacity to love and trust again. Some people might say the same thing about me.

It's funny that you and I missed each other by minutes our entire lives. We probably stood with our toes in the sand on Mexico beach every summer of our teenage years, never looking far enough down the beach to see one another. We probably passed each other in Gwinnett Place mall, or maybe you came into the food court on your break and saw me standing at a cash register in my red and blue striped chic-fil-a polo shirt. Maybe my family passed yours in a car on Redan road around the holidays. Maybe we were on the same airplane headed to Washington DC in high school, you and Brandon, me and Brandy.

We didn't meet back then because we probably had nothing in common, other than geography.  We missed each other because God had us headed in different paths at that time. I went to Brewton Parker, came to work at Hebron, married someone else. You worked your way up to the top of your stores, became a manager, married and became a father. You and your family moved to Dahlonega. I was in Winder. I never knew about you, and yet, our lives were similar again in so many ways. You were struggling to hold your marriage together, and I was struggling to keep mine together. In 2007, we both reached the end of what we could endure. We both said "that's enough" to the drama, abuse, and the roller coaster of emotions. We were both crushed by the loss of our first marriages, and the realization that we could not save another person from their own destructive habits. We both let go, and accepted that we might never find a partner that would love and us fully.

On Christmas morning of 2007, we were both alone and didn't know the other existed. I never thought I would find you so soon but I am so glad I didn't have to wait any longer. In the beginning, I was nervous to trust again, and so were you. We both had our "baggage" and we both had our fears. I am sure it was work for you to open your life and your children's lives to me. It was work for me to open my heart and allow someone to see me for what I really was . . . broken.

 I remember how we used to stay up late on the phone talking and laughing. And I remember when we both started sharing about our pasts, and sometimes we would cry. And I remember how, not too long after we met, I knew that we were meant to be together. I knew that we would fit into place like two halves that were always made for each other. Remember how you text messaged me and told me to turn on the radio one day and the song playing said "You're my blue sky . . ." and you told me that song was for me. I really couldn't have said it better, John. You're my blue sky. You were the peaceful, calm, blue sky that was waiting behind all those clouds and the lightning. You were always there, hidden behind the struggles and facing your own heartache. And when the time was right, the clouds parted, the sun broke through, and there was the blue sky . . . waiting for me.

I know this is a personal thing to say for the entire world to read, but I love you so much. Every day that I get to spend with you is a precious gift. I am so blessed to be your wife, your partner, and your friend. Thank you for not giving up on love.

Teach your kids to set the table

After one week in my new position, one thing is abundantly clear: families in crisis do not eat dinner as a family and most likely, they never did.

The girls at the shelter have "chores" they have to do each night. They aren't difficult chores - just basic household things around the kitchen. One of the chores is "setting the table" for dinner. The first night, the young lady with this chore grabbed a stack of plates and a handful of forks. She haphazardly tossed them on the table and threw a fork on top of each plate. There were no napkins, no knives, no spoons. Everyone gathered around the table to eat and started grabbing whatever they found in front of them, never passing the serving dishes, just reaching over each other. On my second night, I gently asked if anyone would be upset if I said a blessing before dinner. They all said it was okay with them, so I offered a quick prayer. Then the girls did as the night before, digging and reaching and shoveling food onto their plates.
By the third night, I noticed the same "table setting" was the norm - stack of plates, pile of forks, no napkins, no knives, no spoons, no manners.
By the fourth night, I had to say something. "Does anyone is this house know what it really means to 'set' the table?" I asked the girls. "Yeah," answered the youngest one who had the chore that very night and had just slapped down the plates and forks, "I just did it." "No, you didn't," I told her, "You threw down some forks and plates. They do more than that for customers at the Golden Corral and it's a buffet." The girls looked confused as I explained that when I was a girl, setting the table meant a napkin to the left of each plate, a fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right. There was a little song that my mom taught me, Emily, and Becky when we were girls. The little song helped us to remember how to "set the table." As a girl, I thought the song was fun, as a teenager I thought the song was "stupid" and as an adult, I think the song was brilliant. Establishing order in a household, even through something as simple and mundane as placing silverware on a table in an organized fashion is a step toward establishing order for an entire lifetime.
I don't remember in all those childhood years (and teenage years) that we ever had a meal together where all three pieces of silverware, and a napkin, were not present. I further explained to my girls that on a few special occasions, my mom taught us girls how to set the table with everything from salad AND dinner forks, to fine bone china, bread plates, dessert spoons, and all. "What's China?" asked the youngest girl in the house. Oh, brother. "You know," said one of the others, "that big country where they eat rice all the time."
So here, my friends, is another fine example of why kids are in crisis. Families no longer sit down to a meal together. Kids are used to eating out of boxes or buckets, or paper bags. No one sits together to eat and talk about their day, instead they just scarf up whatever is around to eat, and go on about their business of watching TV or entertaining themselves.
I am so thankful that I grew up in a family where meals together were the norm. During these family dinners, we talked, we laughed, we shared stories about our day, or we just passed the food around and ate together. And I am also thankful that I knew "the fork goes on the left, the knife goes on the right, the spoon goes next to that, and now your table's set." 
Thanks Mom!