Little Mint Dress

By next week, my first son will be married.

Of course I am happy and excited, but I wouldn't be a mother if I didn't have mixed feelings. Twice, I have felt overwhelming feelings of sadness at the thought of not having him around anymore so I can kick his shoes out of the way as I walk down the hall past his doorway. I've lived more years with this son than I have with any other human being in my life. And I love him.

Of course I hope that he and his bride will be able to negotiate their marriage with less conflict than I could as a young person. Of course I hope they'll always have health insurance and food on the table, that their mortgage won't overwhelm them, that they'll keep sparkling and laughing as they go along and nothing will ever diminish that.

My main responsibility in this wedding is to pull off the luncheon beautifully. The bride's family has graciously not required me to wear beige nor keep my mouth shut, as the anecdote goes. So, of course, the luncheon and all its details have been much on my mind.

But, honestly, the thing that has taken up the most concern is the same thing that would occupy any normal female--will I fit into my dress?!

Months ago, I found the perfect dressy mint suit--mint being one of the operative colors in this gorgeous wedding, and the bride's mother having rightfully chosen coral for herself. I was perfectly happy with mint. I got the suit approved by the bride, which wasn't a bit hard, and the only problem with it was what size to get.

I know it's stupid to buy a dress for a wedding that doesn't fit you, no matter how far off in the future the wedding is. But, of course, my situation--as fate always seems to have it--was the exception.

When it was the optimum time to find a mint dress in the stores--early spring, I had recently been released from my doctors to do more exercise than merely walking. NOT doing more than walking--and over the holidays, no less--had put fifteen pounds on me. I was making good progress, and I still had, I reasoned, three-and-a-half months left.

So, I didn't want to buy a size fourteen or a sixteen, which would surely drown me by the time of the wedding. The sales clerk talked me into buying two sizes and bringing one back within the month, depending on the progress I was able to make.

After trying on both, I purchased a size twelve and a size ten and kept on working out and hoping for the best. I used to wear a size eight, so it wasn't THAT unreasonable.

After one month, I tried them on again. The twelve fit in the waist, but was getting too big for me in the wide neckline. (See, Dr. Neurologist? That dress has a wide neck, not me.) Not wanting to be spilling all of that out on my son's wedding day, I took back the twelve and kept the ten and continued to work out and hope for the best.

A few weeks ago, I added ten minutes of extra ab work a day to the opposite end of the day of my normal workouts. (A weight trainer suggested this to me fifteen years ago--funny that I never heeded his advice until now.)

One week ago, I realized that much of what I do in my ten minutes of just-abs is fluff. I downloaded some "Flatten Your Stomach" exercises and beefed it up. One web site I saw said something to the effect of, "Honestly, the best exercise you can do to rid yourself of unwanted belly fat is to do cardio." I hit the "pfflbt!" button with my lips and moved on. I have faithfully done several hundred calories worth of cardio daily for six months and still have unwanted belly fat. (As opposed to wanted belly fat. Which would be different.)

I now weigh less than I did last fall when I had to stop working out, but the mint suit is still tight around the middle. I haven't seen my waist since the moment I conceived the son getting married. I am convinced that I could get all the way down to Jillian Michaels arms and legs and lose my bustline altogether (no mean feat), and my waistline would still not budge.

I've switched down to "fat burner" workouts which take me 84 minutes instead of one hour to burn 900 calories. I'm now doing 20 extra minutes of ab work a night. I've trimmed down what I eat even further and added blueberries to my diet (I heard they dissolve belly fat). I've started doing leg lifts in the restroom at work. I'm trying on the mint suit several times a week. Do I seem desperate? Well, it's only because wearing that suit to that wedding is the ONLY OPTION I HAVE!

Yesterday at work, I got a couple of compliments on the dress I was wearing. "It's a ten," I told one friend. "And I wore a ten yesterday. And the day before. I can wear every ten I own now except the one I need to wear."

"Hmmm. It must be the way it's cut," she said.

"I think it's the way I'm cut," I said, miserably.

I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I rented out my mid-section to seven different human beings for nine-month stays. And played the part of the perfect hostess all the while, making sure each of them had every possible thing they could need packed in there with them.

Not that I can blame my babies, the youngest of whom is over three years old.

Maybe I can blame my parents, instead.

Me Wuv Cookie!

Cookies ought to be the perfect food.

Think about it. They come in a variety of flavors, shapes, colors, sizes, and textures. They are ready when you are. They don't need to be refrigerated. You can make them ahead and they last a good while. They are easily stored, and easy to transport. They contain a certain amount of energy. They taste better than anything.

If they hadn't already been invented, NASA would probably have invented them.

I've hardly met a cookie I didn't like.

The problem is, cookies unabashedly feature three dieters' no-no's: sugar, fat, and white flour. Not just one, but all three--together! With sugar's main role being to make you fat, white flour's main role being to add mega-calories (in the form of carbs!) with few nutritional compensations, and fat's main role being, well, to be fat, to the dieter, cookies spell doom.

It's a tragedy, really.

I keep thinking there should be a way for cookies to become a healthy choice. You can replace white flour with wheat flour, with some success, but the cookies are heavier and don't taste the same. You can use a sugar substitute with limited success, but, again, not the same. You still need some fat, too. I'm sorry, but diet cookies just don't do it for me.

It's not them, it's me.

Just as I was about to give up my cookies-are-the-perfect-food fantasy last time, my thoughts turned to another food--round, sweet, filling, and possessing some of cookies' best features. I mean, they come in a variety of flavors, shapes, colors, sizes, and textures. They are ready when you are. They don't always need to be refrigerated. They last a while. They are somewhat easily stored, and easy to transport. They contain a certain amount of energy.

Of course, I'm talking about nature's cookie--fruit. There are enough kinds of fruits that there ought to be a few favorite kinds for anyone.

This thought is a little depressing to cookie lovers like me, but, hey, it's a thought.

Which brings me to the following update: where a few months ago I could hardly bring myself to actually eat an orange although I don't mind the taste, now, I can't live without them.

We ran out of oranges for a few days, and it threw my eating off completely.

When I start my eating for the day with an orange, it sets the stage for healthy eating. I have an orange first, then my two boiled eggs and a tall glass of milk. This is enough to hold me for a while. Later, I have a small nut snack and then my lunch. However, when I don't have an orange, I have to start off with just eggs and milk, and, somehow, this isn't enough to eat. So, then, I'm looking around for something else. I can have my nuts early, but then I need my lunch early. I'm more tempted by the staff meeting treats, and I'm looking around for something else to fill me up.

Seriously. I told my husband (who does the grocery shopping) that I must have an orange a day now, and he looked at me like, "Who are you and what have you done with my wife?"

But the weight continues to slowly come off. Even my brother noticed!

That seems worth switching fruit for cookies, if anything is.

Good as New

Yesterday in church, the little girl sitting next to me showed me that right smack in the middle of the skirt of her Cinderella brand dress, a rosebud was missing.

It was a beautiful dress with a white satiny top and a light pink skirt, covered with a layer of tulle sprinkled with tiny sewn-on pink rosebuds.

Not because of any specific memory, but just on a hunch, I hunted through the cash part of my wallet and found the missing rosebud. It had apparently been there for two or three years, since her older sister last wore that dress.

I guess I have been using this wallet for years. The problem is that I too-seldom have the opportunity to get into the cash part!

To her delight, I showed my younger daughter the rosebud and promised to sew it back on when we got home.

This was a good thing, partly because that little girl was scheduled to be baptized later that evening. I whispered in her ear, "This is just like what happens when you are baptized and repent--the missing piece is found--has been there waiting for you all along--and things are made whole and well, good as new."

She smiled, and I smiled. It's great when events in life just snap together to give parents the perfect object lesson to support their teachings.

Got Your Back

Right now, as we speak (so to speak), I am not washing off the patio chairs. Yes, I know we're well into June, but in Utah, it just barely got warm. In fact, in today's paper was an article officially stating that we had the coldest May in 57 years.

I was amazed when I got the patio swept off and cleaned up in the hour I had before picking up the children from school. While on a roll, I planned to set out all twenty patio chairs and spray them down. I imagined my newly-released-for-summer children blissfully wiping down the chairs after I hosed them (wearing my fifties pearls and nylon stockings, I suppose).

It didn't turn out that way.

My husband, who had been working in the front yard the whole time I was sweeping up the patio, came around after I had set out half the chairs on the lawn, and told the kids to pick them up. What he was doing--spreading seed, fertilizer, and dirt on the lawns--was going to take precedence over what I was doing.

As sometimes happens, I think what I am doing is more important than what he is doing, and he thinks what he is doing is more important than what I am doing. But we've learned through trial and error and error and trial not to fight about it.

So I came in and good-naturedly plunged into the dirty work of reading the newspapers I hadn't gotten to and doing the Sudoku puzzles so the papers could be thrown away.

But it put me in mind of today's topic, which is marital teamwork. Not that I'm an expert on that subject, but, in several years of marriage, I have learned a thing. So now, while my husband sweats in the sun, I am doing the hard work of posting my next article.

Recently, two of our children had birthdays. Our son chose to have a birthday cake that would look like a computer motherboard. We had done one in the past, when our oldest was first becoming entrenched in the computer world. (My nephew had promptly informed us then that we had decorated the cake with candy and frosting in such a manner that a motherboard would NEVER be hooked up, so this time Paul did some research.) Our daughter chose to have a Little Mermaid cake, for which we already had a pan.

Paul, the number one family cook, decorated them.

While I did two loads of dishes by hand and made the dinner. (I had also baked the cakes and made the frosting.)

Paul posted pictures of the cakes on Facebook. They were truly amazing looking. He got a lot of compliments, including from me. Also my appreciation.

Somehow, no one mentioned that the cakes looked delicious, which they were. Which was my part. Part of my part.

But that's how it goes.

Together, Paul and I have put on sixty-six birthday parties for our children. By now, we are truly a team. Paul is better at cooking, wrapping presents, and decorating the cakes than I am. So, as time allows, he usually does more of those things. I usually do more of the cleaning, planning, and baking. Together, we shop and decide how we will divide up the work. In this, we are flexible, depending on what is going on. As we work, we often feel a real spirit of teamwork building that is very fulfilling.

We pull off the party together. Whatever went right--we'd both contributed to it. Whatever wasn't so great we'd both left undone, sometimes by mutual agreement, sometimes by simply running out of time. We improvise together. We're getting good at it.

This past weekend, another daughter needed a costume for a play. Paul had ideas for the hat/crown that I could not even comprehend as he described them. I know he would have been lost trying to sew a tunic. He did his part, and I did my part. At the end of the day (literally), the costume was complete. I could not have done what he did; he could not have done what I did. We both appreciate each other's contribution.

In some ways, we are quite a traditional couple. In others, we're not. This is what I believe about marriage--the husband and wife need not be forced into fixed roles; they should figure out between them how things work out best and do accordingly. Their work as the joint heads of the family is both of their work.

If I cannot deal with mold without having PTSD symptoms of recurrent visions and anxiety about it for hours afterward, it becomes Paul's job to deal with it. (Which hopefully means more than he just dumps it out and leaves the dish for me to deal with.) If there's something that Paul has trouble doing, I often step up to do it.

We both earn money. We both take care of the children. We both cook, although Paul does the majority of that because it is his favorite way to contribute. We both clean, although I do the majority of that. Without spelling it out, over the years the laundry has evolved into my job; grocery shopping has evolved into his. He does more yard work. I do more planning. We both do dishes. (Of course, he does them his way, and I do them my way. Because we're both right.)

We have learned to not keep score, but to each do what we reasonably can and appreciate our partner for what she or he does. This goes a long way toward marital happiness. We both expect each other to contribute. But we also are able to give each other a break, cut some slack, when needed.

My dad used to say that each partner cannot give 50% to the marriage, or it will fail. Each partner has to give 100% of all she and he can.

When our daughter's birthday party started, Paul was still decorating the Ariel cake. This isn't how we had planned it to happen, but I rounded up the kids and took them to the family room and started the party. He joined us as soon as he could. While he was leading a game, I sneaked upstairs and set the table. It's so much nicer to have a feeling of, "Wow! Thanks for doing that!" than "I did this much and you only did so much."

We've got each other's backs, as well as our own. It feels a whole lot better than the alternative.

Um, How Do You Spell That?

Yesterday, my friend sent me a one-word instant message: Ryatt. Actually, it was a two-word message: Ryatt (male). She did this because she knows I take delight in scoffing at the stupid things people name their kids. It's one of my faults, I guess.

I promptly added it to the list, nearing 700 names, which I keep. My first thought was that poor little Ryatt's parents must have a sort of reverse-lisp problem where they say R's in place of W's. Then I remembered that, ages ago, when I was young, there used to be a comic strip in the newspaper called, "The Ryatts." Ryatt was the surname for this comic strip family. The kids were, supposedly, "riots," and it was a play on words.

Probably, though, Ryatt's parents are too young and uneducated in historical comics to have used the name for that reason. Probably, they were following the current misguided trend of trying to find a unique name for one's baby, which often calls for purposely misspelling a name and/or mutating a common name into something freakish in order to meet that end. Or, maybe they honestly couldn't decide between Wyatt or Ryan. (As in, "Hey! Look! The first syllable of Ryan and the first syllable of Wyatt are almost identical! Wouldn't it be a riot to confuse them?!)

A woman once told me--with a straight face, no less--that she had named her daughter Nichelle because she wanted her name to be different but "not weird." (Close, but not quite, I thought to myself.)

Close, but not quite names on my list include Chasidy and Chasity. The word, people, is "chastity," and I wouldn't recommend using it as a name. I can easily see any child saddled with it hurrying off as soon as she finds out what it means to disprove it. Another is Calicia, which was supposed to be pronounced Celisia. Okay, folks, without a French cedilla beneath the C, it is not going to make an S sound. Another in this category is the name Lily Vyne. Lilies don't grow on vines. Another is Marry. The name Mary has one R. I have also seen Merry used as a name. But Marry with two R's means, in most cases, pretty much the opposite of chastity. I wonder if they are sisters.

Other close-but-not-quite names on my list include Skigh, Tishelle, Storie, Myangel, Skylee, MaDawna, Ralinda, and Xzyle (what the?). Exile would be a horrible moniker without the atrocious spelling! Also notable is that Gage is the name; Gauge is a tool. And then there's Spechele. (Ain't that "special?") And Deseret, pronounced Desiree. Deseret is. . .something else, not a French name you can ignore the T on.

Another category is words--or misspelled words--that are simply outrageous as names. These include (for boys) Bugzy, Cage, Nazareth, Oreo, Pastor, Fate, Flapp, Fonzy, Success, Christ, Lucky (last name Lee--luckily, his parents. . .I can't finish this thought), and K'Arrion. (Do they know what carrion means?) For girls: Bethlehem, Baby, Cocoa, Dezire, Embrace, Genius, Heavenly, Kindness, Memory, Miracle, Miseryrose, Sorrowlily, Promyse, Nymphmedusa, Treasure, Tender, Unique, Trylogie (how can one child be a trilogy?), Thoery (in theory, if this were a name, which it isn't, it should be spelled correctly), Zion, Sunny Star, Legend, Louxious, Aborijahnae (shuddering), Jerzeigh and Jersi. And my personal favorite, Purgatori. (Why not just name her Hell?)

Another is Hunee. We knew a woman named Honey, and my husband felt really silly saying hello to her when he encountered her at the kids' school. ("Oh, hi, Honey! I mean. . .er. . .) But at least hers was spelled right.

Which brings us to the equally awful category of names that have been purposely misspelled by the parents, so that the poor child must spell it out every. . .time. . .for. . .the. . .rest. . .of. . .his. . .or. . .her. . .life. Whew! What a sentence!

My own name has an unusual spelling. I wouldn't say it is misspelled, as there are several authentic variations of my name, but it is unusual, and, yes, I have to spell it for people. But at least it doesn't have a lot of X's, Y's for I's, or other unusual and unnecessary letters.

Take Aamber and Aautumn. Is it soooooo important to make sure your child's name will be at the first of any list that you have to put people in mind of an aardvark instead of your lovely child? Or Abbygail. Yes, it is possible to call her Abby without it being spelled exactly that way inside of the formal name. We get Jim from James without spelling it Jaimes. I've seen Lieu Anne in lieu of Lou Ann. I've seen Mahalet, which was supposed to be Molly. I've seen Shyanne, which, I suppose, is meant to emphasize a possible negative quality the child might understandably develop instead of putting people in mind of a town in Wyoming. I've seen Anthonyy. (One Y will do, thanks.) I've seen Antwon. (Gag!) Sometimes, in the case of Rackel and her sister Stephine, I have to conclude that the parents probably really didn't know how to spell. (I'm sure a nurse at the hospital could have helped out if asked.)

Then there are deliberately made up names. I understand this is a point of pride in some cultures, so I'll tread lightly. But I thought I would just mention Cheynithia, Choisniece, Elyxzia, LaDisha, Fredleca, Nuka-Marie, Pearlynda, Dorothalene, Melverlina, the twins Keon and Keona, and the too-popular Nevaeh. (Yes, I know it spells heaven backward. That's why it's dumb.)

To me, if you want to avoid looking ignorant, one sure-fire tip is to not change the spellings of Bible names or words that can easily be found in the dictionary. The real spellings of these names (and words) are so readily available and have such a long tradition that, well, that is how they are spelled. Yet, we continue to see names like Isaia, Isiai, Izaiah, Izeja, Izrial, Isreal (is that real?), Emanuael, Kayleb, and Jaunathan (he was afflicted with jaundice in the hospital). And Apryl, Aspynn, Candel, Dayzee, Safire, Strawberrie, Jakyl, Realiti and Realitie, Pheenyx and Pheonix.

Last, but by no means least, are made-up names with made-up spellings replete with symbols instead of letters. What, pray tell, is missing that these apostrophes are replacing in the names
A'kneta, My'Kylea, Shammare', R'Mayni, and K'Arrion (forgive me for using it again, but it is so good!). There's also Brie Z. Okay. If you're going to name your daughter Breezy, which, in and of itself is a terrible idea, at least make it one word. I also heard tell of La--a (LaDasha). So clever that my mind stops thinking altogether.

If your child's name is on the list, please forgive my offense, and I will do likewise for you.

In the Eye and Mind of the Beholder

I have good news for my friends.

I read in the newspaper a few months ago that if your friends get fatter, you will tend to get fatter. And if they get thinner, you will tend to get thinner, too. The theory in this article was based on the idea that our perception of what is "normal" alters depending on what we see around us. Shortly after reading this article, I witnessed what could be considered a confirmation of that idea when a person mentioned that another person I consider to be a good thirty pounds overweight is "not overweight at all."

And, no, it was not in reference to me. I would never use myself, because I know how we women lie to each other about that stuff. To each others' faces, at least. And, we lie to ourselves.

Since then, I've thought a lot about this, and I've extended the theory to include not only what we "see" as normal, but what we think of as normal.

I'll explain.

Since I started eating an orange--a real orange that I have to peel--every day, I have lost ten pounds. I'm almost halfway to my goal.

I am not suggesting that merely eating an orange will make you lose weight. It's more about what eating that orange a day means to me and how it has changed my thinking. A couple of months ago, I posted an article about how food, by nature's design, should take some effort to obtain and prepare. Calories should be burned before being consumed. It's not necessarily so in fat America anymore. Only if we so chose do we have to physically work for what we eat.

And America is fatter. I remember as a child that there was a fourth-grade teacher at my school whose girth was truly amazing, but, other than that, I only knew a handful of "fat" adults. Today, I can sit in almost any meeting and look around me and see that about half of us are.

One thing that helped me extend my theory was noticing that whenever my daughter plays with a certain friend, she comes back with reports that they visited an ice cream parlor. And often had cake, soda, and popcorn, too, between school and dinner. Shocked at first, I realized that, to this family, having treats every day--several, apparently--is normal.

So I started eating an orange every day and thinking more about what I was consuming and what effort I was putting out. Small changes can create great benefits.

Instead of sticking merely to a list of foods that were "in" or "out," as I had been doing (with some occasional cheating along the way), I started fueling my body with foods that I knew to be naturally good for me and avoiding those that are not. I no longer have an "in" list and an "out" list. I have a "better for me" end of the list of food and a "not so good for me" end of the list. Instead of pretending I'm not eating much, I think about how much sugar and fat is in everything I eat. Not in a ruminating, self-defeating, worrying sense. In a self-educated, I'm in charge sense.

I select most of what I eat from the "better for me" list. The idea is that if I am busy eating the things that are good for me, I won't have as much time (and room) for the things that are not so good for me. I focus on low-fat proteins, fruits, vegetables, fiber, and whole grains. If I do have something from the other end of the list, I keep my portions really, really small. Like, a bite.

Doing this, I made my box of Girl Scout cookies last seven weeks. Unbelievable! I know!

When I had "in" and "out" lists, if I ate something from the "out" list, I tended to go "out" of control and eat more of it.

Now, I think differently. I think not about whether or not I should eat something, but about how much I want to eat of something loaded with sugar and/or fat, or, in other words, empty calories.

I had a very small piece--a half piece--of chocolate cake at a staff meeting. Naturally, I wanted more, but, first, I calculated how many extra calories were in that half piece. I had made it myself, so that was easy to do. I added up the calories from the amounts of white flour, sugar, oil, and butter I had used in making the cake, divided that by the sixteen pieces I had cut the cake into, then divided that in half. I had had about 212 extra calories.

I know well from daily experience how long it takes me to burn 212 calories. Did I really want to add ANOTHER 212 calories to that in the same day? Did I want 425 extra calories to worry about? This really helped me say no and turn to the apple I had brought instead.

In the past, I probably would have had two pieces of cake. Maybe even a third by the end of the day. Making myself acknowledge how many extra calories I used to eat really helps me see how I came to be overweight.

I watch portion sizes and exercise daily. I know, I know. Wouldn't it be nice if it could be about something other than diet and exercise?

If I think of one piece of pizza as a dinner portion (instead of three), with a little self-talk, I can stop at one. (Much to the amazement of my husband. And myself!) Do I want to eat three dinners in one night and have to worry about burning those calories? No! So I tell myself that's enough and turn to my tall glass of low-fat milk and salad to fill me up the rest of the way instead.

When Easter came, I was really worried. I gained seven pounds last Easter. I tried to simply have less candy in the house this year, but I still had a portion of it in the basket I share with my husband. I thought about what amount of candy a day would not make any difference to my weight loss. I decided one piece would do no harm. So I told my brain over and over that one piece was a days' worth of candy. I could have my day's worth, but not more.

It's all in how you think.

You might eat an apple, but would you eat three? Or would you drink three glasses of milk at dinner? Probably not. I ate my piece of candy, then reminded myself (repeatedly) that I didn't want to eat two or three days' worth of desserts in just one day.

It's like the theory from the news article--readjusting my thinking about what is "normal." If I thought that four or five handfuls of Easter candy a day was a normal portion, I would have gained weight again.

Really, I lucked out tremendously doing this. By the fourth day, my candy was all gone. I couldn't find it. I had only had three pieces, but some family members had helped me. Annoyed, I was also secretly relieved. No weight gain this Easter.

If you've gone from the two cookies your mother let you have to a half-dozen as a "normal portion," try cutting back to two. If you load your bowl with six scoops of ice cream, try letting yourself have just one. You wouldn't eat a dozen eggs for breakfast, would you?

We have only "super-sized" certain foods in our minds and not others--and usually the worst ones. Changing the picture in our heads of what's normal for us--particularly with the not-so-good-for-us foods--could change the view in our mirrors of what's normal for us, too.

Issues of Entitlement

One would think that someone with the lack of entitlement issues that a sixth-of-eighth child can have would know better than to marry a firstborn, only male.

But he was so cute.

The past thirteen years have turned up scores of differences, some of which stop me in amazement.

An example: when I hunt in the utensil drawer for a pancake turner-type tool, I take the best one I can find. If the one I truly prefer happens to be there, I am delighted. I know it must be my lucky day. This is because, as the sixth child, I am not used to getting what I really want on a regular basis. For my true preference to really turn up for me is a coincidence, a lucky strike. I mean, for years, what were the odds?

But if Paul can't find the pancake turner-type tool he prefers, he forgets that something in the pan must be turned right away and launches on a mad search for it. Uprooting dozens of spoons, potato mashers, brushes, kitchen shears, and, yes, three other pancake turners, he cannot, can NOT proceed without the one he likes.

Because when he was a child, he was one of only two children. He was the oldest. He was male. The thing he wanted was there for them. Or it had better be.

In the time that I would have mentally shrugged, grabbed the nearest tool and flipped over the food--ten times--Paul has started muttering about the drawer being a mess and nothing ever being where it should be. EVER being where it should be--when he fully expects it to be there always, unlike me, who considers it a lucky find.

Utensils get placed on the counter. The dishwasher is searched. An inquiry is begun. Now half the kitchen is a mess in addition to the drawer, and I think, "Wow! What would it be like to have gotten what you wanted so often in your childhood that you still expect it, every time?"

I am both amazed and dismayed. In awe and embarrassed. I wonder, "Should I start to act like that? Would it increase my chances of being pleased?" On one level, I'm really envious.

But, as I move to act practically in the crisis, I think, no. I'm fine as I am.