Mama

Mothers fill all sorts of descriptions and come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. I suspect that in all of the Mother's Day festivities, we may forget to honor those nurterers. I come here this evening to honor one of them.

When my sister Liz had her daughter, I was frankly amazed. She could change or bathe her baby before you had a chance to know it was happening. I was eighteen at the time - young and unaware of these things. She's always been dexterous with her strong, beautiful hands, but this was some next-level stuff. Time went on and I sort of forgot, because young people, hello!

It wasn't until many years later that I realized why Liz was so great at these tasks. You see, B. wasn't her first baby. At the tender age of a few days before she turned six, I became her first baby. Perhaps I need to remind you that my mother was probably clinically depressed, and thousands of miles from her own family. I still feel guilty about it, but I know Liz was a good little mama. She provided me with everything but breast milk. I'm fairly certain that she was the only girl around whose baby doll was a real baby.

I don't remember those days, but I know she took amazing care of me. She began school a year late because she was in charge of my care. This breaks my heart, and also fills it with love for my little mama. Liz, I was so very fortunate to have you to care for me, and for you to be the first to show me love with your tender care.

Thank you for being my mama.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Books and Freedom

Well, here I am again, could you just lose it from the shock, or what? Don't let it lure you into a false sense of security; Liz will be visiting in about ten days and I'll be back to my terrible habits and getting great ideas but not getting around to doing anything about them.

Believe it or not, I am here again because I was reading some news stories again, and something got me a bit worked up. Now, you may think I'm highly opinionated, in which case I might have to use the ancient playground retort of, "I'm rubber and you're glue, anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you," or something like that, I never really used that retort. After some soul-searching, I think I can freely say that I don't have strong opinions about everything. Like corn. Corn is a vegetable that not only has many super-scientific uses, but numerous methods of preparation for eating. So maybe I don't like creamed corn but I do like lots of others, like snack chips and popcorn. On the other hand, we have something like canned spinach, which in the realm of The Lunatic is an evil thing which must be avoided at all cost, thereby making us ineligible for a lasting friendship with Popeye.

It was just one news article, my friends, which stirred me up in several ways on related subjects. The events in this story took place somewhere in the state of Texas. I can't remember where, because it didn't sink into my brain, and I really would rather not read the article again. The article was inspired by some mothers and their reactions to a specific book. Since I had never seen or even heard of the book before this evening, I will state that I am unqualified to comment on it because it would be akin to me discussing life on an oil rig, or what flying to Mars feels like.

Now that we have that cleared up, the gist of the news story. Mom gets a phone call from her friend, AnotherMom. AnotherMom is having a conniption over a book that happens to be available for checkout in the library of the High School both mothers' children attend. The book is a graphic novel by an LGBT+ author, and includes sex and gender identity issues. Both mothers jump into action to make sure that not only their children, but everyone else's, are protected from the book by banishing it forever from the School District's libraries.

The story goes on to cover the actions and beliefs of a local politician who is very much against dangerous things like kids knowing about topics like S-E-X, and LGBT+, and non-white people not getting the same treatment or protections that white folks do. The Lefties, these people all went on to say, are going after our kids. The politician and some of the mothers have formed groups with like-minded people, as is their right. These groups have names that include words like Freedom and Liberty. Their goals are to protect their freedom and liberty by making sure the Lefties are not allowed to force them or their kids to wear masks, learn about the history of race in the USA, or have access to any books that they don't want their kids to read.

This is where it all goes very wrong for me, when people profess their love for freedom and liberty by restricting the freedom or liberty of others. If you don't want your kids to read a certain book, tell the teachers and librarians that your child isn't allowed to read that particular thing. But don't tell other parents that they don't have the freedom to allow their child to read it. And if you don't want your child to know about things like racism, civil unrest, unfairness in the legal system, and the struggles of the LGBT+ community, then let your children know it. But don't tell other parents that they have no rights regarding what their kids will learn.

I'm certain that someone reading this might be saying something snide to me along the lines of me having no right to open my big, fat mouth because I have no children. Good for you, aren't you the clever one. May I remind you that I was a child in these United States of America, and was raised by people who held this county's values close to their hearts? Let's talk about that for a moment or two, shall we?

My parents and my siblings risked their lives to leave their native land and travel thousands of miles to a country where they could be free. They could read, think, or say what they wished without the risk of losing their lives or jobs or freedom. After the loss of my parents, I eventually came under the care of the woman I came to know as Gram. When I came to live with her, I was nine years old and she was sixty-two. Although she came from a far different generation (and had an incredible temper paired with a sharp tongue) here are some things about how she raised me. 

Gram never forced any political ideas upon me. She felt that it was my right to learn things and decide how I felt about them. When I was a skinny nine-year old girl walking to the local library, that heavenly place filled with books and words and ideas and the wonderful smell of paper, I was never told what books I could or could not read. I honestly don't think it ever occurred to Gram to censor my reading experiences in any way. This is undoubtedly related to her own upbringing. She was raised by a single father years before the phrase was ever invented, because her mother died in childbirth when she was twenty-two months old. Her father, who had vision problems due to an accident he experienced when working in a mill at the age of seven, would have her read books to him since he could only clearly see print the size of a newspaper headline. And any time the Catholic Church forbade its members to read a particular book, he would immediately buy it for her to read aloud. Bless him for that.

There were moments during my formative years that impressed me greatly. One of my favorites, which I've written about before, happened when I was in High School. My Social Studies teacher gave us an interesting assignment. We were told to go home and ask our parents if they would be willing to sign a document stating that if the government of our country no longer represented the wishes of its people, we had the right to overthrow it. I eagerly signed the document and felt sure that Gram would do so as well, which she did. When we had our next Social Studies class and the teacher asked about parents' reactions, there was quite an uproar. Kids were talking about how their parents were angry and said the teacher was a Communist or un-American. Who had signed it, and whose parents? I raised my hand with a smile on my face while people around me expressed their shock and disgust. When asked why I would sign such a thing, I told them it was simple. I would gladly put my signature on the Declaration of Independence, which was paraphrased in our assignment.

It wasn't until I was old enough to vote that Gram and I discussed political affiliations. She simply asked, after I registered to vote, if I had chosen to declare a party, and did I mind telling her what it was? I learned that the party affiliation I had chosen was the same as hers, but she never told me her party affiliation, not wanting to unduly influence my choice. And in case you're curious, I was raised by one of those lefties, and without even trying, she turned this kid into one as well. It must have been the books.

Postscript:  Incidentally, I don't think that the loose reins regarding reading caused me any harm whatsoever. I never felt the need to hide what I was reading, even though I read primarily from the adult sections of the library from around the age of ten. I'm pretty sure that if there was anything in those books that was over my head, it flew on by without doing any temporary or permanent damage. Also, all of this made me think about things like people not just banning, but burning books. It made me think of when Gram, her daughters, an adult granddaughter, and I all went to see the movie Victor/Victoria. Gram and I told each other later how much we enjoyed it, but Alice and Jackie deemed it filth and said we should throw rocks at the theater and then burn it down. Oy.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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The Lady is a Misogynist?

In retrospect, perhaps I should have shared online the article I've been mulling over for several days now. But then again, my strong opinions are what gave birth to this blog in the first place. Or at least its title. Seriously! A number of years ago, Trent and I were in the car and another driver did something terribly aggravating (which I can no longer remember) that irked us both. I've always taken my front-seat passenger duties very seriously, so I gave the other driver a talking-to that they, of course, didn't hear. I mean, everyone makes mistakes, let's not turn it into a road rage incident that gets on the evening news. But a little this-outburst-stays-in-the-car moment can sometimes cool down that adrenalin burn you get from a near miss. After the outburst was delivered, I told Trent that some day, if I ever started to write a blog I would call it (the) Ravings of a Lunatic. So there you go.

I'll freely admit that when I peruse the online news I don't just focus on what you might call serious news or hard news or please could I read something else because this is depressing news. I'll say, "How does this qualify as news?" even as I click on the stories about friendly dogs and the UPS drivers or US Postal Workers they love. And all kinds of other stuff, honestly, because news reading can be depressing, aggravating, worrying, and a slew of other adjectives which I shan't use now because it would seem like Showing Off.

Now, back to the article I mentioned at the beginning. I'm not quite sure where the story originated, but I suspect that it was lifted from the AITA (Am I The A-hole) forum. For those who may be unfamiliar, this is a virtual place where people seek confirmation on whether or not they were the jerk in a situation that they will describe and opine upon. Readers then have the opportunity to share their thoughts on whether the OP (Original Poster) qualifies as NTA (NOT the A-hole), YTA (You're The A-hole), or something like NWH (Nobody Wins Here). 

You will soon be fully aware that I am iffy on several of the fine details, because my little brain became hyper-focused on one particular facet of the story. The OP wanted to know, AITA? She is engaged to be married soon, and is observing and enjoying many of the rites of passage that are attached to this momentous occasion. The facts, as I recall them, are like this: the bride-to-be is going to have a bachelorette party with her bridesmaids. Bachelor and bachelorette parties have been happening for years, a last hurrah to one's life as a singleton. Depending on those involved, they may run the gamut from fairly quiet local soirees to trips to Las Vegas or other destinations full of temptations of debauchery. The point of these gatherings is generally for the couple to have a last chance at fun with friends before becoming part of a committed pair. Simple, yes?

Not so in this case. FH (Future Husband) wants to be in attendance at the bachelor party, to which the OP said no. She may have also stated that she has no desire to attend the bachelor party, I can't recall. We all know that a lot of the traditions around weddings have changed, such as couples coming to bridal showers and such, but the OP wanted a traditional bachelorette party, a chance to have fun with the women who have been her friends for years, maybe even longer than she has known her FH. Well, this didn't go over very well. At this point, while reading the article, I am having thoughts that maybe FH has control issues, or is insanely jealous, or perhaps doesn't trust the OP, maybe judging her by his own bachelor party behavior? I am also thinking, "Run, girl, while you still can. You don't need an obsessive, controlling person trying to run the rest of your life!"

When OP told FH that he was not invited to her bachelorette party, and stated all of the obvious reasons, he developed a fixative problem. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he came unglued. and argued at length that she should allow him, and any other interested significant others, to attend. She stuck to her opinion, which resulted in him saying that by only allowing her female friends to attend the party, she was being a misogynist. At this point, because I know what the word misogynist means, I am eager to read the answers/opinions in response to this OP. Also, I've decided that not only is she NTA, but that he is a JACK-A. He has responded to his future wife's desire for a females-only party by calling her a misogynist, a person who hates or despises females, someone who is anti-woman. 

I eagerly searched the responses for someone who would tell the OP that she should run like she's on fire to get away from Jack (-A), as I now think of him. I am excited to see someone tell OP that she needs to school her not so bright, potentially controlling or abusive FH that she is not by any means a woman-hater, but could possibly be developing a case of misandry from prolonged exposure to this man. Of course, I exaggerate, but I think you get the picture. The Lunatic thinks that when he pointed a finger and said misogyny, he forgot about all of the fingers that were pointing back at him, to borrow from an old saying.

And then my disappointment grew. In fact, it branched out and bloomed. Yes, the overwhelming consensus was that the OP was NTA. There were comments about FH being a person with low self esteem, being a controller, being a potential abuser. Heck, there were even comments that said that her decision didn't make her a misogynist. But the moment of reason I longed for never appeared. Not a single comment in the article mentioned that she wasn't a misogynist because she didn't disrespect herself or other women. Maybe they read the word and confused it with misanthropy? Or maybe everyone is TA? Or maybe it's just me. Oh, no, AITA? I just may be. Sigh.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Timing is Everything

I now publicly state that I must quit dwelling too much in my thoughts and instead type some of them down. I could, at this time, elect to elaborate on that train of thought, but let's do something else this time, shall we?

On a day not long ago, I took a walk in the warm afternoon to my mailbox. My mailbox duties aren't performed with the same dedication they once were. Once upon a time, I would dutifully check my mailbox every day, making sure to keep on top of bills and grocery ads and whatnot. Of course, when you move across the country, it takes a while for your mail to catch up with you, even if you file all of the necessary paperwork. Add to that the lovely humid Florida weather, and sometimes that walk just doesn't seem as urgent as it once did. Throw in the variable of constantly getting mail for your deceased spouse, and it starts to seem even more aggravating.

When I get around to ending my dereliction of duty, sometimes the box is crammed full of all sorts of things. Grocery ads and catalogs and bills are jammed in the little box. Occasionally there is a package that's been waiting for someone, anyone, to pay it some attention for two or three days. There's even occasionally an announcement of impending nuptials or a card or note or something else not involving the goal of separating me from some of my money.

(I interrupt this blog-in-progress to wonder what the heck is up with my flowery language and dollar-and-ninety-eight-cents words tonight. Sometimes it's just like that. Seriously, I don't do it on purpose, it just happens. As I've been writing this I've been thinking that I make me sick with all of this hifalutin' talk, haha.)

We return to me and my poor, neglected mailbox. On a particular day recently, I headed over to my Fail Box, which I just decided is the name for a mailbox which is being neglected by the human it so faithfully serves. As has become my habit recently, I approached with a reusable shopping bag tucked under my arm, and an eye open for exotic bird, gecko, and squirrel buddy sightings. And yes, the box was crammed with an assortment of things just as I expected. But in front of it all was The Key.

The Key is often the provider of magical moments. It means that there is a parcel of some sort eagerly waiting to be taken home so that it can produce oohs and ahs, or comments about the color looking different on the website but that's okay because this color is nice, too. This was an unexpected package from a friend, just when it was most needed. And I will be completely honest. I had to take a little peek before I got home. Just because you're a grownup doesn't mean you can't be excited!

The first peek - a box of Junior Mints! Mint and chocolate, one of my favorite combos! I knew this was going to be a fun one! Everything in this box was something that I would enjoy and that would put a smile on my face. There were elements of chocolate, cashews, cherry, all sorts of yum! There were rolls of Smarties, and the treasure of it all, a Halloween card. Not just any Halloween card, mind you, but one that was affixed to its envelope, on which there was an original work of art from my friend. 

You know how sometimes everything about a situation is a delight? This was one of those times. All of the flavors in the box were ones that I love. The Smarties took me through many Halloweens of the past, especially the first one we had with our poodle, Paris. We had left a large bowl full of Smarties out where they'd be handy if anyone rang the bell, and little Miss Smartgirl decided to give them a try. And she didn't do anything gauche like chew them down wrapper and all, or crunch them into dusty chunks scattered everywhere. No, our girl managed to neatly unwrap them and eat them like a lady.

And not only was the card just a really great idea and so fun with the original added artwork, but it seemed as if the artwork was tailor made for me. The witch was riding her broom past a house in my favorite color - purple! Gah! The card is now in a safe place, the Binder of Important Stuff that is to be retrieved and rescued in the event of fire, flood, or other valid reasons. It is the item that, when we've moved, hasn't been packed into a box. On our move here, the Binder of Important Stuff was actually in my carry-on bag along with other treasures.

I am (not) embarrassed to admit that when I opened the little dispensing and reclosing doohickey on the Junior Mints box, I not-quite-accidentally made it unable to be refastened. Instead of transferring the contents to one of my hand-dandy resealable silicone food bags, I made the courageous decision to spend the afternoon and evening doing my best to make sure those little chocominty pieces of yum would not have to face the prospect of becoming stale (the dreaded process often known as Going Bad). Yes, I stayed up until I had protected every last bit. Sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Yes, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it! Here's to more memories that are sweet!

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic

Rollercoaster, and Not the Fun Kind

I know, I've written before that this year is definitely not the gold standard for most of us. But I just wanted to give you a little taste from my point of view. Maybe this will serve to explain why my writing has been so sporadic lately. As you may or may not know, it didn't take long for my 2021 to start looking like a dumpster fire. By six weeks into the year, I had become a widow. I mention this not for sympathy, but as necessary background for the rest of this post. 

There's a tawdry side to experiencing the death of a spouse, a financial side. I'm neither the first or last widowed person who will have to find a different place to live because of the loss of income. Heck, it happens to non-widowed people as well, and you all have my sympathy as well as empathy. I thought I saw some light in the tunnel in the form of assistance in paying rent. However, the waiting lists are months long, and I can't qualify anyway because I'm trying to be responsible and have a bit of money in savings. No dice. If you have savings, you can't have help. Such is life.

My train of The Lunatic's Variety of Logical Thinking ended up at a simple little whistle-stop station. If I was going to need to get rid of my money, I might as well try to buy myself a little home. While this isn't what I dreamed of when I was younger, there are tons of places, okay, several, in Florida that are age 55+ manufactured home communities. When Liz was out here on her last visit in September, I found the community where I wanted to live. It's a relatively quiet place on the shore of a huge lake. There's tropical bird-critters and squirrels, and friendly neighbors with adorable dogs. And a home I thought I might like.

I was eager to see inside this home, with its new flooring and remodeled kitchen and two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I eagerly filled out an application to be allowed to move into the community (!), and made an appointment to see "my house." It was just the right size. It also had a huge shed that contained tons of storage shelves, a full-size washer and dryer, and a double sink. The shed was even air-conditioned. A few days after Liz went back to Colorado, I received the news that I was approved by the community to move in, and made an appointment to make a deposit on my place. A few hours later, I received another phone call telling me not to bother coming in. They had left a message for another prospective buyer and she had jumped in her car with her deposit. Man.

Meanwhile, life does go on. My apartment lease had expired, but I had an agreement to go on a month-to-month plan until I had a new home. All I needed to do was let the leasing office know by the end of September if I wanted to stay past October. I went online one day late in September to pay my October rent, and the system said nothing was owing. The leasing office person said the rent amounts hadn't been posted yet and not to worry. A couple of days went by, and still no amount showing. Again I called the leasing office to be told I needed to fill out a form. September 30th rolled around and I received a call from the leasing office telling me my request to stay through November wasn't approved. Apparently due to lots of dropped balls and misinformation, I had been promised the ability to stay in the apartment through October, but nothing was put in the system. And I needed to move out ASAP. Gaaahhhhh!

I calmed down and called back to the office and they conceded that I could stay through October, which was a lot better than you need to be out of here by yesterday. I woke up  the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing - it was the office at the community where I had wanted to buy a home. The other client was unable to get her financing; did I still want to buy the home? Heck, yes, I did! I made an appointment to come with a deposit on Monday and did a mortgage loan application with my bank. By Monday morning, I had received a prequalification letter, and was thrilled to get things rolling. Until I talked to the community representative again. The homeowner, whose property had been on the market for six months already, decided that he didn't want to wait for the process of a loan approval and only wanted to sell to someone who could pay cash.

Since I don't have that amount of money just sitting around looking bored with itself, the deal was off. I am wondering if there was more to this than meets they eye. My mortgage banker informed me that for manufactured home sales in Florida, the owner needed to provide various documents in order for the loan to be approved. Perhaps he couldn't readily obtain them for one reason or another and decided to change to a different plan instead. Less than a week later, the home was no longer available for sale.

Luckily there was no drama with my apartment...wrong! Another phone call asking why my rent was past due and did I want to do anything about it before I was evicted. You see, they had charged me the wrong amount of rent for two months and posted the extra amount owing to the resident application but didn't notify me. Their approach was that since I use the app, I had the ability to know that I had a past due amount. Since my Gram didn't raise me to be a dummy, I quickly made them aware that I wasn't falling for that. Anyone who has paid their rent in a timely manner has no reason to check every day to see if there's any money owing. As it stands, having paid the several hundred extra dollars, I can stay in this apartment through November. I'm planning to contact a realtor to get help finding a home, and hope to find something soon. Frankly, just writing about it has me tired, so it's no wonder I've found myself both wound-up and utterly exhausted from living through it.

As you can see, it's been quite a rollercoaster ride. Not the fun kind like they have at Disney World, but the kind that could possibly leave a person terrified. I'm pleased to report that after each setback or letdown I have eventually managed to regain a calm and positive outlook while still facing reality. Now, if I could only bring that feeling into my mishaps with my grocery deliveries...but that's a different story!

p,s, Please send some positive energy or prayers or whatever you like to call it my way. Every bit of positivity helps. Thank you.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Celebration

About a year and a half ago, when Trent and I knew that we would be moving to Florida before fall, I decided to give him a surprise for our upcoming anniversary. I made a reservation for dinner at his favorite Disney restaurant. The restaurant is in one of the Disney hotels, so we didn't have to pay extra to buy Park entrance tickets. He was thrilled that I was going to take him to dinner at his favorite place after we made our move. And then COVID 19 (or The Plague, as I tend to call it) blew up and many businesses across the country shut down. The entire hotel in question was closed, so we switched our reservation to a different restaurant. Naturally, since it wasn't the place we had hoped for, it proved to be a bit disappointing.

Time passed, and I kept checking to see if Disney was offering Annual Passes for sale again, and to see whether or not The Restaurant was going to reopen. We also were on the lookout to get COVID vaccinations to protect ourselves when these magic moments came to pass. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's came and went, and then Trent got sick. Without having gotten an Annual Pass or going to the Parks or going to The Restaurant, Trent was gone. 

Shortly before my sister's second trip to visit me in Florida, the company announced that The Restaurant was going to be accepting reservations in a few days. When I explained to Liz that it would be open on my anniversary, which would happen during her visit, she immediately accepted my invitation to go to dinner there with me. I stayed up all night when I knew the reservations would be opened up to make sure that I could book a dinner reservation. Imagine my surprise when I did a search on my computer for the confirmation email and found the confirmation from the year before, and saw that the reservations were within ten minutes of each other! It felt like Trent was giving his seal of approval for us going to this dinner of celebration, not sadness.

It was a lovely evening. The weather was beautiful, and we enjoyed seeing the geckos running around at every turn on the winding tropical path from the parking lot to the hotel. Liz, who freely admits to being a picky eater, bravely tried and enjoyed the African-themed foods. And for any of you have figured out that The Restaurant is more commonly known as Boma, I have two words for you: Zebra Domes. Actually, everything was delicious, and as an adult who has no kids and therefore can eat whatever I want and not worry about being a bad example, I will freely admit that I helped myself to several different treats from the dessert station. And ate every one of them. It sort of reminded me of being on my honeymoon years ago and deciding that since I was an adult, it was perfectly fine to eat dessert first. This time I did it at the end of the meal, but the joy and gusto were the same. 

I know that this isn't a grand and glorious story with events of mythic proportions (although I consider my dessert-eating to be a mission during which I exhibited the utmost in bravery), but I think that's okay. Having a good dinner, visiting the gift shop, and sitting in the hotel lobby to soak up the atmosphere were all great ways to celebrate the years I had with Trent, and to honor him with my happiness. I won't lie and say that I didn't feel any sense of loss or melancholy when the date was approaching, because I did. But I tried to turn it around into what I hope I can make a new tradition, going out to celebrate on our anniversary. Maybe it's an idea that you can borrow, trying to make a happy memorial out of a day that could be sad. I think that Trent would like that.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic

Doughnuts and Destiny

It's interesting to me that sometimes the smallest of decisions or actions can become major events. On a mid-October day two years ago, Trent and I were out running various errands when Trent told me that he would like to get a few doughnuts from the nearby Krispy Kreme. I agreed that it would be a good last stop on our list of places to go. I had sort of assumed that he would go through the drive-through, but he said that he'd rather go in and see what was available, so we headed into the garden of glazed delights.

When we walked in, I noticed a couple with two adorable little girls, and the mother was wearing a Disney Halloween t-shirt. Now, this was a happy coincidence because I was wearing my purple Hocus Pocus Halloween t-shirt. Trent said something, and we were all courteous to one another, and the little girls were entranced when they caught sight of my Pandora charm bracelet. After everyone had purchased their snacks, we walked by their table on our way out. I stopped and asked if the girls wanted to take a closer look at my bracelet. Before we knew it, we had been talking for at least twenty minutes. Disney has a way of doing that to people. 

We exchanged contact information and they said they'd love to see Hocus Pocus with us. They needed to go pick up their other children from school, and we headed home talking about what a nice young couple they were, especially to be so friendly with a couple at least twenty years older than they were. We really felt drawn to them, and decided to contact them and see if they really meant it when they said they would love to have us over. Within days, we were headed over to their house for a pizza and movie night. As we sat around eating and getting ready to watch the movie, I looked at the twins' older sister and thought, "This little girl is going to be my friend." And when I talked back to the movie and the boys repeated what I said, I knew we were all meant to be friends.

We would come over to their home and have fun with everyone of every age. On one occasion when we were all in their car going to the local shopping center (to go to the Disney store, naturally) one of the twins asked their parents if the cousins were going to stay overnight and sleep in the basement, where there was a little apartment. I thought they were talking about some relatives that were coming over, but they were actually talking about Trent and The Lunatic! Over time, the twins kept referring to us as The Cousins, so that became our title. 

We did become friends with all of the kids as well as the parents. The little girl who had sat near me during the movie did become my friend. Any time we rode in the car with them, I sat next to my Lucy, and in front of Noelle and Natalia. Lucy is the only person in my memory that I have felt comfortable with looking through my purse. It is something she started early in our relationship, and I often got in the car and handed my purse directly to her. Everyone knew that if needed, Katrina could be counted on to have mints and at least one band-aid. Lucy almost always remembered that she was in need of a bandage when she looked through my bag, and I shared them with joy.

When The Plague, as The Lunatic calls it, fully knowing the difference, hit, Trent and I knew it would cause problems with our upcoming move. Imagine our pleasure and surprise when we were offered the chance to live in the basement apartment for a couple of months until the world got slightly closer to normal. What a relief it was to know that we had a place to stay, and a family to mingle with! I was reminiscing just today about how helpful the boys were. If we were moving something from our old apartment to our temporary one, Gabe and Eli were right there to help carry things in and down the stairs. The same with groceries or other shopping. I remember one occasion when four-year-old Noelle helped with the toting of the groceries. She slung a bag that contained a two liter bottle over her shoulder and walked in front of me toward the house. When I asked if she needed help, she gave me a confident but polite no, thank you.

We had lived with the family for a while when we learned that from the very first day that we met them in the Krispy Kreme, the twins had begun calling us The Cousins. From the very start, they decided that we were a part of their family. This ended up feeling true. We've been through a lot together, learning to know one another, moving apart, and even loss. When the twins said that they wished they could give us hugs, I got on the internet and ordered them matching pillows. On one side, Trent was sitting with Natalia on his birthday, and the other side was me with Noelle (and Trent) on my birthday. The twins can now hug us any time they want. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to ring the doorbell and surprise them all with a hug in person.

We do all sorts of things at all sorts of times. Sometimes they're routine, sometimes eventful. And sometimes destiny shows up disguised by a doughnut. May all your surprises be sweet.

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