Archive for the ‘questions’ Category

Speedy help!

April 26, 2013

Fuuuuck. We finally have a chickenpox hook up. The baby came up with the rash two hours ago, and we are invited over tomorrow. I think the best time of year for the pox is spring/summer as we still have the great outdoors to go out in without coming into contact with others.

Of course, the pox is more common in the autumn. We have been waiting forever to get it.

The only kicker is that the child Snort loves more than all others is having a superhero birthday party exactly three weeks from tomorrow. With superhero capes. We have been talking about and planning for this party for literal months.

If they got chickenpox and it took two weeks to turn up, maaaaaybe they’d have scabbed over for the birthday. Any longer than two weeks incubation and the party would be off.

Is it totally fucking ridiculous to not expose them just so they don’t miss a birthday party? Because I think it is, and yet I still don’t want them to miss it. Snort would be beyond devastated. Of course, I also have my rescheduled dentist appointment for the cracked filling and have not chewed on the right side of my mouth in two months. And we have to resubmit the adoption paperwork in the potential pox time frame as well, but I think I have those two areas covered. There is never a convenient time to get it, but…..well…

Birthday party of the best friend, or pox? Tell me as soon as you read this, because it is getting late and I have to make a pox party date with the mum within the hour.

I wish I’d exposed them a year and a half ago when we last had the chance, but I felt like they were too small and I was a wuss and I thought Snort’s inhalers made him at risk for complications, but I’ve just checked and they don’t. Argh!! And how awful if we don’t expose now and they get it before our Italy trip or something. Jesus.

But the birthday.

Yes, I know I am ridiculous.

But feedback??

okay, someone say something. We are planning to go over in the morning, so you have about ten hours to state your case. I’m so excited to get chicken pox out of the way, but this birthday party thing is gutting. I guess we can just wait for the next opportunity, but keep in mind as we aren’t in preschool the likelihood goes down. Sigh.

IVF questions from you guys!

August 17, 2012

So, I’ve had a couple of questions regarding our current IVF plans. Both require longer answers and will no doubt be talked through in full detail later, but here’s the quickie version.

How many embryos will we be transferring?

I don’t know. We want one baby this time, though of course you know The Crazy in me would love two. But one is what we are aiming for. In this country, you can transfer two embryos – though one is often recommended. In exceptional circumstances, three may be transferred.

We are not an exceptional circumstance, but we would never transfer three anyway. I guess my current thinking is that if we had an embryo of the same stellar quality of the existing Snort and Coconut, we would transfer one. If the embryos were not as high quality, I guess we’d go for two. It’s sort of a gamble either way, as I know women who had very high grade embryos and IVF did not work….while on the flip side, a set of twins we are very close to was the result of two very low grade embryos.

It’s hard, because IVF costs so much money and is so demanding on time, emotional energy, and physical bodies. It’s a lot to go through to purposely reduce your chances of success. Our last pregnancy the initial tagline could have been, ‘We’d rather have two than none,’ but alongside that was the weird expectation that we’d have twins anyway….and that is an outcome we wanted. We wanted multiples, and we were lucky enough to get them.

I hope we’re as lucky this time around, but perhaps with just one little baby who sticks, grows, thrives, and is born.

Are we using the same sperm donor?

No. We did ask the clinic if his sperm was still available, as we did not purchase ‘sibling sperm’ at the time of our first IVF. I don’t know why not. I think we were just so happy and felt blessed to have two babies growing in me that it eclipsed all other practical considerations.

We would have liked to use the same donor, but he is no longer available. That being said, our baby will be our baby. Love makes a family, and I’m sure whatever donor this third baby (and fourth?? Ha!) has will be the right donor for this time and space.

Prior to having children, I thought it mattered who the donor was. Physical characteristics, intelligence, hobbies. I thought it all mattered. Turns out that, for us anyway, it didn’t. Does not. What matters is the end product, a little person to love and nurture and be amazed by.

Do feel free to ask any other questions. I’ll try to answer them.

Hope you are all well. I’m writing this Thursday night, and as yet have not heard from the clinic. If we haven’t heard by Monday, I’ll call them again then. Our only concerns about IVF this time around are the dates -TMD can’t be officially pregnant before mid to late September for work reasons, so that means an egg collection at the end of September should be okay. (As you are technically pregnant from the date of your last cycle, so that means about two weeks where you are ‘pregnant’ even through there’s no kid in you! Fun facts.)

I’ll be publishing this Friday, which is the first day of Coconut’s new gymnastics class. She’s a short powerhouse who taught herself to do forward rolls at age 1, so I have high hopes she’ll be participating in the next Olympics, should the age requirement be lowered. I want free seats!

Love to you all.

Thing I am most ashamed of.

May 7, 2012

The obvious, and most true, answer is losing my cool with my kids. I have written here before about my struggle with anger, usually on a specific day of my period cycle every month. I am fine the rest of the time – I do not hit, smack, or yell. I’m fucking awesome. Except when I’m not. I am deeply ashamed of this and will probably return to the subject again.

But for now, I’ll talk about what keeps coming up in my head when I read the comment by @tatchull that suggested I write on this topic: a trip to the doctor when I was about eleven or twelve.

I don’t remember why we were there. My mom took me. My mind seems to colour in the details as being there for a jab/injection of some sort, though my experiences in therapy years later suggest something else. But perhaps I’ll return to that. Whatever the reason we were there, my Mom and me, it seemed pretty harmless and not a big deal.

Until he asked me to take off my underpants.

He had asked if I’d started my period, and when I said no, he said he wanted to look inside my vagina to see what was going on. As an adult, this shit boggles my fucking mind. What does my vagina have to do with my period?!?! And why would my mom, a medical professional, countenance this sort of invasion of a young girl?

So I was naked, ashamed, lips spread open while a man I did not know peered into my vagina, his face so close I probably felt him breathing on me. He said my hymen was still intact, and that I would need to come back in six months if I still had not started my period as he would have to cut my hymen open (!!!!!!!!!) so the blood could come out.

My mom thanked him and said we would come back if needed. Thank fuck my period came.

I don’t understand any of this, even now. I am ashamed of my mother, that she let this man do this. That she let him touch me, talk of cutting me. Surely she knew letting a strange guy rupture my hymen was unlikely to suddenly bring me to physical maturity? The whole thing confuses me. And, my GOD, if a doctor tried to mess with either of my children’s genitals – well. I’d stop that shit, and we would never return. I would talk to my child about it and try to help them make sense.

My old therapist, L, (if you are a new reader, I am a counsellor. My intensive training required each candidate to undergo extensive personal therapy – and I LOVED it!!) made a suggestion one day. Might my mother have taken me to the doctor specifically to check if my hymen was intact, given the high probability of sexual abuse from my father? Just to make sure that whatever else had happened, I was intact? As disturbing as this suggestion was, at least it makes sense – and happened because my mother was trying to protect me.

I have spoken to my mother about this incident. She says she doesn’t remember it ever happening. So she either wants to keep the truth from me, or it was a such a non-event to her that she genuinely doesn’t recall it. I think it’s the second option. Given that she insists on keeping me up to date on a family member who DID sexually molest me, given that when I told her she told me to shut up, given that when I repeatedly told her as an adult she just acts embarrased, well, I can believe she might not consider this event a big deal.

I don’t write this to say I had a bad mother. She did, and continues, to protect me in the way she can. But was it enough, when I was so young, and that man looked at me in that intimate way?

It was not.

So I feel shame, on many levels. But the main one is not my own shame, but the shame of my mother. Her shame around my sexual self (another long blog post or two, folks), her shame around any sexuality, how her shame impacted her ability to say NO or to allow me to say it. I don’t remember if I tried. Probably not. Sometimes, when you’re little, you need someone to say no for you. This is a lesson I have learned, carved deep into my core self. I needed someone to say NO, to stand up for me, and they didn’t….in the way I needed. That being said, I don’t remember ever going back to see this doctor, so perhaps she did what she could, when she could. I forgive her.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Figuring out the balance between mehood and motherhood.

May 2, 2012

Lauren says she wants to hear about ‘how being a SAHM is for you.’

Ever since reading her suggestion, the sentence that keeps popping into my head is, ‘It’s not enough for me.’ And it’s not that I don’t love my kids, or that I’d rather go to work every day rather than just see where each day leads. Because both of those things are great. I just feel like I’m losing me. (And did I feel this way before we moved? No, I don’t think I did. So this may be because we are somewhere new, floating with no tethers: friends for me, friends for the kids, a car, routines, and trapped inside by constant rain. But it may be something more. I guess we wait and see.)

Ever since I was a kid, I was attracted to labyrinths. And not just the sort that featured Goblin Kings. A few years back, I read an excellent blog post about early motherhood and the labyrinth. I’m going to try to hunt it down, but the author’s thoughts have stayed with me and helped me more fully comprehend and explain what I am now going through.

A labyrinth – you start at the outside and walk your way in. There are turns, twists. But there is no wrong way to go – only ever more inward. Once you reach the core, once you have navigated those turns to get to the heart of the matter, of who you are, the only thing to do is turn back around and make your way carefully back out again. You journey back towards life, armed with a deeper knowledge of your Self.

I’m in that labyrinth somewhere, trying to hold the faith that there are no wrong turns. It’s impossible to not find your way in or back out again in a classical labyrinth layout, though of course the time frame varies. Are you a walker, a ponderer? Do you run with the exuberance of a child?

Me, I have ventured in. I am deep, deep in there and I’m trying to figure out things on a pretty basic level. How do I turn around? Is it time to walk out? Where can I get a new pair of shoes for the journey?

I think much of what I’m feeling must be held in common with many mothers of young children. The job definition – whether you are a SAHM or not – means that you are no longer the number one priority. All the stuff I used to do – sleep in late, spend all day cuddled with TMD on the couch watching tv, attending and completing a grueling (and rewarding!) counselling training – it doesn’t happen anymore.

Every day I have to change nappies, wash dishes, do laundry, and suppress myself in some way. I think some of this feeling will be lightened once it finally stops raining (I’m writing this on the 29th, and it’s been raining steadily since the 14th) and I get a car. But some of it won’t.

The battle for me is: how do I give my children the best AND honour myself? Right now that seems like a seesaw. For every thing I want to give them, it means less that I can give myself. And much of what I want to do in raising creative, brave explorers of this world seems to negate me being able to have these things for myself. I tell myself it’ll get easier as they get older.

And while I’m sure that is true, I also know that it feels like my SELF – the part of me that exists independently to my wife or children – is on hold until….when? The kids are in university?

Every day I grow as a person because of my children. Every day. I would not trade being here with them, trying to help them experience and grow in the world, for anything. They make me laugh, they make me love love love. But I need something more than simply growing in relation to them, to being a mother. I need to find a way to create space for the old me, or the new me, or just me. A hobby? Dedicated time to write? Time to go out by myself?

I want my children to see me as a creative, dynamic person; I want to model that life for them not JUST for them, but because it is the life I wish to lead.

I feel like I want and need something big. A larger purpose. And is it possible to figure this out, to try to pursue dreams, when I am at home with toddler twins? Maybe.

I’m in that labyrinth, after all, and I know I’m no longer on the way in. I’m in the middle, and I’m probably facing outward. Now all I have to do is walk that path, trust in the twists and turns, and keep going. Because sunshine is there, purpose is there, connectedness is there. If I keep going.

I hope.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Give and take.

May 1, 2012

The awesome pajamamommas (go see their blog!) says: I’m curious to hear more about what it’s like to live in a country that’s not the one you grew up in. What do you miss most about Country A? What wierd cultural differences have you encountered? (if you can say without giving away your top-secret location).

Country B does not have tablecloths as people in Country A know them.

It sounds simple, but that’s a pretty profound difference. Something that a whole country of people – jillions – barely think about. But if you want a tablecloth like that here? They literally do not exist. Other kitchen things are that a ‘spatula’ is referred to as a ‘fish slice,’ which grosses me out considerably because, well, I have a little problem with seafood. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.

I guess there are more important things to worry about than kitchen utensil themed linguistic differences, though. Like the people.

People over here are generally more aware of what is going on in the larger global community. Politics are discussed more in casual conversation (my mother found that quite difficult, particularly our family and friends being critical of Republicans!). Our media isn’t as biased or openly, uh, ignorant as many channels in Country A.

People don’t go camping in great big forests, but in wide open fields. This is one of my most difficult things to get over, and I don’t think I’ll ever reconcile myself with it. We have found a few places with trees to camp, but by and large big ass fields seem to be the order of the day. People also often equate trips to the beach with bringing a big windbreak (like a portable wall, seriously) and heavy rainfall.

What do I miss about Country A? My family and friends. Big expanses of land. Huge forests and bodies of water everywhere (where I grew up, you were never more than a mile from running water!).

Generally, though, I prefer it here. I like the history – you can be in a McDonald’s and it happens to be a building older than Country A. Political ideaology is a lot more progressive and liberal. We, as a gay family, have rights here that are probably years away in Country A. This year, in fact, our civil union will probably legally be changed to marriage.

I don’t like that the houses are waaaaay smaller. That closets really don’t exist. That most houses are attached to the houses on either side.

I used to not like the crazy ass driving – cars parked all over the fucking road, and you just weave back and forth over the centre line like nobody’s business. That doesn’t bother me anymore. Nor does driving a manual/stick shift – most cars here ARE manuals. If you can only drive an automatic it says so on your license, like, hey, check out THIS fucking loser!

I guess the odd thing for me is that I’ve lived virtually all of my adult life here. After I completed my first degree in Country A, I had a year in between where I alternately lived out in the middle of the woods – just me, alone, on 500 acres of woodland – and lived illegally with TMD in her dorm room in Country B. Then I moved.

It was difficult having to learn many skills I had previously learned whilst in university in Country A – everything was different. Cheques/checks, bus riding procedures, big ass city subways/tubes, just everything. Rather than being an adventure, it made my first year here rather difficult as we lived in the country’s largest city and I knew no one other than the other people on my MA course, and we were all mature students living all over. I’ve only kept in touch with one person from that course, and she’s probably reading this.

But many of the true adult skills I’ve learned – how to get a mortgage, starting a retirement fund, becoming a professional accredited counsellor – well, those are things that I would have to relearn if we ever moved back to Country A.

At this point, I’ve been here so long that I have to really stop and pause to think of the ‘Country A word’ for certain things. I’ve always felt more at home stepping off the plane here than when I go back to Country A. Again, ask me and I’ll tell you more about that sometime.

The main issue is really my family. I can’t help but think that we are all getting older, and I am cheating my mother and stepdad out of being involved with my children on a daily basis. That we are cheating ourselves out of being involved with them. My sister is the one we have appointed as legal guardian should anything truly terrible happen, yet she’s only met the kids twice.

I’m definitely past the point of thinking of my primary, immediate family as myself and my sister/parents. Now it has shifted to what is best for me, my wife, and our children. It is better for us to live here. Laws protect us here as lesbian women, as home educators, etc. Our lifestyle here matches what we want – to move to Country A would require massive rejigging of how we conceive of our family as working.

Do I miss nice, big gas guzzling environment killing cars? Sure. Sometimes. But do I love the ethos here of walking everywhere? Yes.

Do I love being able to stay home with our children, secure in the knowledge that no one questions we are both the moms and we can educate our children as we wish? Yes. Do I miss my family every day and long to live within a half hour of them, rather than half a world away?


This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

I don’t really care if you are famous or not.

April 26, 2012

Is there a word for being so cool you don’t realise you are cool at all?

Like, this:

It’s our wedding. We’ve invited a small group of people from a rather wide circle of aquaintance. Most people don’t know each other.

One of my friends from work comes up to me and looks all twitchy. She’s sort of lightly hopping from side to side, and her face looks both radiant and green.

‘Is that ______ from the _________?!?!?’ She then proceeds to freak out and ask if she can ask for an autograph. I’m like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about? That’s just _______, the partner of my friend L. He’s a casual friend.’

Well, folks, apparently this dude was/is in a major band. Like, so fucking big I’m probably the only person on the planet who wouldn’t recognise his face.

She’s all, ‘Why is HE at your wedding? How do you know him? I read that his favourite book is blahblahblah. Have you been in his house? How serious is he about his girlfriend? I saw his group on tour TWICE last year!!!!’

I’m thinking, ‘What? What the hell? He’s famous? Shit, dawg. Have I even heard any of his songs? Does my utter lack of knowledge on this subject make me cool or uncool?’

The reason this shit has risen to the forefront of my mind is that I’m friends with his partner on facebook – and tonight I’ve glanced past the recent picture on her profile like sixteen times. Until suddenly I really looked. WTF was on her baby’s ears?

So I see my beaming friend holding her smiling baby, who happens to be wearing those giant sound blocking headphones they sell for kids. She’s standing backstage, and I can see her husband fucking rocking out in front of like 20,000 people in the background.

See? I didn’t even NOTICE this shit. And her picture has like a hundred comments. I’m personally leaning towards thinking all of this makes me casually cool. Like I fucking hang out with famous people all the time without knowing or caring they are famous. Except it has only happened this once. Well, okay, three other times too.


I think I’m cool.

In other news, though this is posted Thursday morning, I am writing this about twenty minutes after this post where I begged your ass to comment. If you did not comment, now is your chance. And remember, you don’t want to alienate me. I probably have dinner plans in the next few weeks with your favourite celebrity.

Who am I, who have I been, who do I wish to be? HOW do I wish to be?

April 25, 2012

I’ve been talking to David more in the past few weeks than we have in the past few years. I like talking to him. He’s intelligent, funny, and we share a way of thinking. We know each other in a way I don’t know other people, or allow myself to be known. Somehow it’s always just been this way. Easy, and challenging. Our conversations make me think….and feel.

Today I was left with the question: How would I experience the world if I was the adult I would be had I never experienced childhood trauma?

I spent a lot of time locked in my room, trying to not hear the sound of my mother being pushed down the stairs by my father. A lot of time locked in my head, trying to ignore the yelling – or the silences, as these polar opposites were the hallmarks of my childhood. I didn’t experience a lot of the middle ground when I was a kid.

But then the thought occured to me that I’ve had a thousand times, and I know you have too: if I’d never experienced what I have, I wouldn’t be me. And while I have my rusty parts, my terrified parts, my cranky parts – on the whole I like me. So how to move forward?

It’s a fool’s game to try to change the past, to wish things away or into existence. We just can’t do it.

But you know, I think maybe, just maybe, we have the best of both worlds. We get to have learned from our pasts, but we also have the chance to build on that. Everything seems to be a pretty delicate balance, and for me, learning to stay somewhere in the middle has been hard.

I try to be graceful – my experience with a disordered father has allowed me a sensitivity to other people’s pain I might not have known otherwise. I have strong intuition and instincts because I needed them when I was a kid. I am grateful for these gifts….though of course I’ve had some unwanted gifts. A fear of my own creativity, of taking risks. A fear of standing up to people, lest I get punished in some inexplicable way.

We all have our hurting places. We all think we are the only one to have these secret doubts and black places, but that’s bullshit. We all have them. But I think we all have the potential to try to learn new ways of being, to try to be our deepest, most authentic self – yes, the person we would be if we were not scarred by our pasts. It is hard work. It is grueling, painful, and sometimes joyful.

I have gone through cycles of extreme growth, and lately I’ve been stuck in period of grey sameness. It’s been cold, muddy, mostly lonely. Perhaps this conversation, my watching a friend as he tries to force his way out of a concrete cocoon, will be my inspiration to start over.


There’s this one picture I want to show you….

November 13, 2011

I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog. About the blog I used to have before I started this one (and the one before that!). I know some of you followed me here from there, and I imagine there are a lot of differences. For one, I nO loNGer TypE liKe thIs. The backgrounds are not blinding pink, the writing not cursive. Those things are inevitable when you begin blogging when the internet is born, because if you’re my age you were a teenager when that happened.

But there were other things there, too. Real names, pictures with heads and faces. I miss those things.

I debate switching over again. Unlike some people, though, I’ve never been a blog hopper. I’ve been attracted to the idea to starting many blogs, and may have started the odd one or two that fell to the wayside while the number of entries was still in the single digits. The exception to this was a nice little babywearing blog…..which, of course, has now joined all the others on the scrap heap.

I remember feeling confused when I realised many people classed blogging as their job. Some were mothers who needed to still feel like they had a piece of themselves, something to contribute, as they (like me) were trapped in the mindless, wonderful world of childrearing. For a handful, they made a lot of money from blogging.

For me, well, it’s not for me. Not at a place where I want to just have a dumping ground, an old fashioned diary, a place to record some memories or work out some of my mental bullshit. I don’t want to have to write on a timetable, with sanitized topics, to hunt for sponsors. I don’t want the joy of being me to become an obligation. I’m not sure it would, but for now, this is my place. My Place.

And I’m not an anonymous sort of person.

I know a lot of bloggers are witty and fabulous and funny and smart – and I’m always confused when they say how painfully shy they are in real life. Don’t get me wrong. I know the pure pleasure of being truly yourself – which is something the internet does afford those of us who choose to use it in that way. In the 1990s I regularly used primative chatrooms called Talkers. These were places for the geeks, for the misfits, for the wonderful few who knew how to literally teleport into little black screens, adopt a name befitting your personality, and make genuine friends. Perhaps fall in love.

I did a little of both.

But I’m not that blogger. While I may feel insecure and cautious with the best of them, I am really comfortable talking. If I’m somewhere and a new person shows up who looks a bit left out, I always make a point to reach out to that person. It’s how I met Aussie, actually. I love telling stories, I love making people laugh, I become bigger and more grandiose and shinier when I am with other people. When I am with MY people.

And I’ve always been painfully honest online, in whatever form ‘online’ has been. My online persona matches my ‘real’ persona, or at least I think it’s a pretty damn close representation. I talk about poop in real life. I dance in my underwear with (my!) children. I overshare, etc etc.

As a counsellor, I’m also a pretty good listener. And that counselling bit? Well, that’s the reason this blog started. Simply because my other blog was so big, so public, that I was very easy to find online. And I wanted to talk about therapy, oh, I did. It was my love. I still love it. Except I’m not practicing as a therapist at the minute – though perhaps that will come back into my life as I more fully integrate motherhood into my roles – and that makes it difficult to remember why I wanted to be anonymous online.

I’m friends with many people from here and twitter on facebook. I’m shit at replying to emails, I fully recognize and admit that – and apologize to those of you who have waited weeks or months to hear from me. I have trouble leaving comments on other blogs from my phone. But I am here. Many of you have seen my face, know my children’s real names, and two of you have MET my children!

One of you named her child after me. More of you have sent amazing and thoughtful gifts for my children or myself.

The thing is, you know me. So what do I do? Somehow reread and erase past entries about therapy? I think it’d be impossible for anyone who has read any part of this – well, pre-pregnancy, at least – to not understand that I work with other people for a living. With their pains and fears and hopes and pasts and presents. I like it. It’s part of who I am.

So do I acknowledge that and be more me anyway? I don’t know. I feel like going more public is a choice that accompanies a decision to not work as a therapist. Though I also have deep mixed feelings about how much ‘self’ to share with clients – would the world really collapse if they had outside proof I was really human? Of course not.

So, for now, we stick to headless pictures and cute pseudonyms. I don’t link to my blog on facebook, family and old friends don’t know I’m here, I’ve carved this space for myself. I don’t quite know how to integrate the spaces, but I suspect that’s because I don’t quite know how I’m going to move forward in life.

And I’m mostly okay with that.

Who is TMD? How do I ask you more questions?

January 2, 2011

It occurs to me I get a lot of the same questions again and again…or really interesting questions I’d like to think more about. One of the ways people ask me questions is on If you don’t know about that site, it’s an anonymous (or not, if you choose) way for anyone to ask me anything. I don’t know why I like answering these questions; clearly I like talking about myself, I suppose.

But I think in the assistance of lazy lady blogging, every now and then I may put up a post that is copied and pasted from the hundreds of questions I have been asked on that site. Feel free to ask another one there. I have been getting laggy with blogging, and I think it’s because a lot of my energy has been pointed towards a topic I’ve never blogged about on this blog before: paganism. More on that later.

Now, a question I have been asked 6,000 times in various forms:

Who is TMD? What does TMD stand for?

TMD is my wife.

When we were young and carefree (read: not sleep deprived with no chance of hanging out together for any real period of time) we played a lot of games. One of these was based on the movie ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply.’

She’d go, ‘I love you truly, madly, deeply, awesomely…’

I’d go, ‘I love you truly, madly, deeply, awesomely, fantastiscally…’

and so on. I know, we were oh so fun and sappy, hey? The other thing we fucking loved doing (please stop judging me now!!!) is seeing how quickly we could list all 50 states. I KNOW.