Monday, June 29, 2009

Boom Boom Pow For Y'all.

Recently, I was in a parade with my daughter and we put together a cd for our float. We blared "Boom Boom Pow" by the Black Eyed Peas, as well as some other little goodies.

I'm realizing too late the lyrics were incredibly inappropriate. I didn't realize we were blaring, "Shittin' on y'all with the boom boom", at all the good citizens of our suburb.

Shitting on y'all. The singer is claiming to be shitting on me, yet I can't help but pump my fists in the air and sing along. What is wrong with me?

And there wasn't much improvement with Lady Gaga's Poker Face since the lyrics speak of bluffin' with my muffin, which apparently is my crotch.

I have never referred to my crotch as a muffin and probably never will. "Morning honey, would you like a muffin for breakfast?". Give me a break.

We seem to be listening to music younger than we are and we love it. I wasn't the only mom popping my hips to that simple beat.

When did this sharing of music happen?

When I grew up, my parents listened to Barbara Streisand while I was grinding to Prince. There was a total disconnect, a chance for me to rebel against my parents via music.

I had a poster of Prince in my bedroom and my mom said, "Who's the little black man on a purple motorcycle?" Hello.

I'm thinking it's a way for us to dip our toes into our children's lives. After all, the unknown can be threatening.

So what if we peek into their world a bit to see what's up? Perhaps it makes their entry into the teen years a little less scary for us.

Plus, that simple beat can be a nice break from our responsible lives. I listen to every genre and language of music and my family is usually held hostage to my choices. But sometimes that easy boom, boom, boom, can hit the spot.

But from now on, only clean versions will be downloaded.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Drama Mamas.

"Hey Kelly, I hate to tell you this, but..."

Stop right there. I'm guessing I'm going to hate receiving this information, more than you hate telling it to me.

Everyone has this person in their life. They're the grapevine, the news-breaker. The drama-lover.

I hate drama. There's just no need for it, yet I always seem to be cast as a starring role in a lot of other people's drama. I need to figure this out so I can stop attracting this situation.

And really? Do they really hate telling this to me? Because the drama-lovers seem pretty pumped up about being the first to break whatever shitty news they're about to tell me.

I always feel manipulated when they begin their conversation with the 'ol standby, "I hate to tell you this, but..." Frankly, I'm guessing they're incredibly grateful they're not me.

They seem to want to share the shock/shame/embarrassment with me, which is confusing to me. I'm pretty good at feeling any one of those emotions, so I don't need a co-pilot. I can drive that ship pretty well myself, thankyouverymuch.

Life already has all kinds of organic drama baked into it. Why do drama mamas create more of it? What is behind this over-inflation of information? Are they bored?

Perhaps they should try skydiving or heck, I don't know, focus on their own life instead of mine. That could be helpful. I'm a big girl and can handle my own life without a personal reporter narrating all my experiences for me.

So there we have it. Drama mamas, take a break this week. Look at the glass half full and enjoy everything life has to offer this week. No crisis, no emergencies, nothing to panic about. It's all good.

Thursday, June 25, 2009


It's no secret I muddled my way through postpartum depression/psychosis. Here's the interesting part about surviving it...the aftermath sucks.

I felt like I woke up from being drunk on a neurosynaptic cluster-fuck. I disengaged from life and it had the audacity to go on without me.

Where was the fucking rewind button? Now that I was back from my sabbatical in hell, I wanted to go back and re-experience birthday parties, happy hours and anniversaries with the real me.

Through the depression, I became a shell mimicking authentic life. A copycat.

In the haze of delusions and depression, I forgot how to be me, so I became other people. A chameleon of the masses so no one would think I was different. If could I act like a normal person, then I could convince myself I was normal too. Nevermind the psychotic thoughts of death, I was laughing like other people at happy hour. If they were happy, I was happy. If they were sad, I was sad.

And trust me, it's fucking exhausting trying to be someone other than who you are. And it made me feel even more alone. Because not only was I lost in the company of other people, I lost my own self.

I've lost keys, money and shoes. But my own self? Isn't it supposed to be tucked inside our bodies for safekeeping? How did I fucking lose that?

But maybe that's what survival mode is about. Drawing into yourself to take a look around inside. Find yourself again. Repair the wiring and hit the reset button.

After all, no one can fix you, but you. Sometimes the road is a journey of one, but when you come back, it's worth it.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Sibling Rivalry.

I'm not confident we'll make it through the summer without my daughters kicking each other's ass. Yesterday in the car, this is how the conversation went:

Paige (7 yrs old): "Mom? Remember when you and I went to the bakery and had a doughnut and it was just you and I and not Parker? And we laughed and looked at the cool tables without Parker being there? That was so great.

Parker (9 yrs old): "Mom? Remember when I was a baby and Paige wasn't even born? I had you and dad all to myself. Remember that? Paige wasn't even alive. That was so great."

Then we went swimming and they begged me to evaluate their jumps. I wasn't going to fall for that. I explained that under no circumstances was I going to rate their jumps, which would result in having one child conclude they are not loved and not the favorite.

No fucking way. If I participated in "Evaluation Of The Jumps", I would have to make damn sure I set aside money for a good spot on a therapist's couch.

One of them would be laying there explaining, "It all started that day at the pool. I knew she loved my sister more than me. I mean, give me a break, she basically stumbled into the pool and my mom gave her an 8 out of 10 which was bullshit. I completed a fucking somersault and got a 6? Bullshit."

They'd also talk about how once I gave one of them 12 chocolate chips on her ice cream and the other got 13. Or that I made one brush her teeth and the other one just rinsed with water.

They count everything. Is the barometer of my love based on how many M&M's I pass out? Or who I enlist to feed the dog? "She fed him last night!" To which I replied, "Who gives a shit who feeds the dog? Seriously." For the record, no, that was not my proudest parenting moment.

One day Parker, the oldest, had a confession. "Mom? I have to tell you something. There's a reason I eat fruit and let Paige eat all the cookies. Because then she won't be as healthy as me and she'll die sooner. Is that bad?"

Uh, yeah, wishing death upon your sister is not cool.

So I'm at stalemate. There is no way I can make sure everything in their lives is perfectly even and matched. It's impossible.

But the shit that can't be measured is what's always important. Love, esteem, confidence, self-worth...those are the ingredients I give them in spades. They can't be counted or weighed because they're endless. Thank God for that.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Kids...or are they?

My daughter had a fastpitch softball tournament recently. She's nine years old, but the girls, excuse me, women, she was playing? They had to be drinking age. They were 6 ft tall and ready to rumble.

We watched our little rugrats giggle out to the field, completely oblivious to the ass-kicking that was about to happen. The first girl up to bat was ready to crush it. She let out a breath and I think she said, "fucking kill it".

What is injected into food these days, pure steroids? These girls were wearing makeup and bras for crissake. And they needed the bras, which is even more baffling. This is an 8-10 yr league.

Is the rest of the world evolving into larger, stronger people, and our entire softball is exempt?

I looked over at their dugout. I think one was spitting out chew and another was nursing a hangover with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Let's put it this way: if they were in my wedding, they would not have stood out as being children.

The assault lasted one hour and thankfully no one was hurt. But I'm still left totally confused. We're they 8-10 years old and we need to seriously contemplate the hormones in food? Or did the entire team push the age limit on the league?

I'm hoping they were assholes that pushed the age limit on the league. Because if some of those girls were 8 years old...damn. Childhood is getting cut too short.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

The Massage.

I went to Happy Hour with my friend last night. Here's a sentence I've never heard: "I was so stressed out in that massage room. It ruined my day."

A massage ruined her day. Not traffic, not shitty colleagues. A massage. At the Ritz.

She gets all fucked up with what I call "ticker tape" thoughts: should she leave her underwear on, what if they get too close to her vagina during the thigh part, why do they "mess" with her hands during a body massage, she forgot to shave her legs, what if she farts...

All of these things have happened to people, so it's all good. One masseuse was doing a yoga-type move with my leg once, when the tiniest fart eeked out. We were both horrified, but our looks conveyed an agreement to pretend it never happened.

Back to my friend.

The undressing part proved to be a challenge. At least she was undressed this time. For her last massage, she wore a swimsuit, so this was progress.

The story continued with more anxiety. "The massage lady told me to 'get comfortable' and left the room. What the fuck does that mean? What exactly is required with that statement? And enough with that frou-frou lemon water. All I wanted was a Diet Coke, but noooo they're all healthy and shit."

The new mom sitting behind my friend at the restaurant could have used ten massages. Instead, she was held hostage listening to the only woman in the world who hates them. The look in her eye resembled a dog smelling a steak. If she leaned in close enough, she might get a whiff of eucalyptus.

The massage was 90 minutes, which is a dream to me. A nightmare for her. "Who the hell needs to be rubbed for an hour and a half?"

Uh, me? I'd like to be rubbed for four hours, if possible.

I'm happy to report the massage was completed in a fart-free room without accidental vagina-touching. Did my friend leave the room relaxed? Hell no.

I asked that next time she gets "stuck" with a massage to give me a call. I will be more than happy to help her out.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Summer Social Director.

This is my first summer home with the girls. I've worked full-time since they were born, so this is going to be an adjustment.

I made the rule, "Make your own breakfast". This is going well so far, except when they ask for a glass of juice and I pour it for them. And when they ask for cereal and I pour it in a bowl. Damn it. It's not going well at all. I'm even unwrapping their fucking pop tarts for them.

This morning Paige had a chocolate granola bar with chocolate milk for breakfast. She did it herself, which is admirable, but she's currently jumping up and down in her Halloween costume. Sugar highs are a bitch.

Then there's the case of entertainment. I feel like Julie McCoy from the "Love Boat." Apparently, I'm the social director. I have little heads looking at me asking, "What should we do?"

I don't know what they should do. I hunted salimanders in window sills when I was a kid. Now I hook up the Wii so they can pretend to play tennis. What the fuck?

Thankfully, they usually drop the Wii and play outside after 15 minutes anyway. In fact, yesterday they played with actual rackets and balls. Like, in real life.

Playdates are all good and fine, but I seem to get in the middle of them. Whatever I'm doing, is what they want to be doing. I could be watching, "Oprah" and before I know it, they're leaning over my chair watching it with me and commenting, "Why do you watch this?", "Who is that?", "Oh! They said 'stupid'!"...

If I have something to eat, I have 4 or 5 heads peering into my bowl of yogurt saying, "Gross! What is that?" I can't possibly tell them I'm eating yogurt to avoid yeast infections. Good Christ, I'd have mothers calling on that one for sure.

Reading a book attracts even more attention. "That title has a naughty word in it!", "What is that book about?", "Is that alcohol in that picture?"...How can I explain to 7 year olds that "Are You There Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea" is the best book on the face of the planet?

But chaotic structure aside, I like being the "Kool-Aid House", the house where all the kids play. Their laughter and carefree attitude is contagious.

Maybe I'm putting myself in the middle of the playdates hoping my inner child will ignite. Living a life of pure bliss and fun is kind of, well, fun. In fact, I might do a cannonball at the pool tomorrow.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Labor of love.

For some reason, we all love sharing our stories of labor and delivery, don't we? It's like wearing a badge of honor. I didn't endure anything too insane, but my back labor could have killed a horse.

I felt like little trolls were chewing on my tailbone. I pulled the nurse aside and asked, "I need to know. Is it possible for a child to come out of my asshole? Because I'm pretty sure that's where this one is coming."

She replied, "No, we have never witnessed an asshole birth and I've been here for over twenty years. I'm pretty sure you won't be the first."

Then I had my husband leaning into my face while I was pushing, saying, "There is no way in hell you're getting this kid out, there's just no way, it's not possible, you're going to need a c-section, you can't do this, holy shit, this is insane..."

I'm not certain, but I think the nurse told him to shut it. After all, if you don't have anything positive to say, don't say it.

And has anyone actually seen that epidural needle? They hauled that thing in like it was a launch missle. And my nurse, who I'm convinced was hungover with the shakes, couldn't get it together. He was fumbling all over the place and I was still panicking about delivering through my anus. We made quite a team.

But in the end, through the panic, I delivered our baby girl (through the correct hole). My husband and I laughed and cried and shook our heads in disbelief. There she was, our daughter.

Totally dependent on us for her survival.

And we thought labor and delivery was overwhelming.

Friday, June 12, 2009


If we mix the letters around, dogs are actually gods. And trust me, my dog Rocket thinks he's God. There are no rules in his world. Rules such as eating my chairs, digging in my flower pots, shredding our shoes, and taking a dump in the middle of the street. Rocket, have you no shame?

And he eats fucking everything. Last week he pooped out a purple glitter pen. You'd think that would've been painful, but apparently he has an ass of steel because it didn't phase him one bit. I could hear him thinking, "That's nothing, but the fork I ate last week might be a challenge."

Feeding him is almost worse than feeding two daughters that never eat. I have to make it tantalizing with shredded cheese. Isn't it enough that his dog food has fucking blueberries in it? But no, the cheese is required.

I went cold turkey for a week. No cheese. He'd walk over, smell it, then look at me. "You kidding me with this, bitch? Walk your ass over to fridge and get the goods, pronto." He didn't eat for 4 days. He was having hallucinations and bumping into walls, so I gave in.

He's not just picky about food, either. He's choosy about his ladies too. He doesn't just sniff butts and hump on the neighbor dogs. He has a girlfriend. Or rather, a harem, of Barbies. He's obsessed with them. He rips their clothes off and takes them to his diabolical lair (under the dining room table).

One of the Barbies sings Miley Cyrus songs when he pushes a button on her chest. It will be midnight, we're all sleeping, and then, "IF YOU COULD SEE, THE OTHER SIDE OF ME, I'M NOT LIKE ANYBODY ELSE, CAN'T YA TELL...". I picture him changing into a smoking jacket and turning on a secret disco ball after all the stupid humans go to bed.

But all the shitty stuff aside, he's a good little fella. Handsome too. This is the first dog we've had and we wonder why we didn't get one sooner. He is, quite simply, a part of our family. For better or worse.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009


I think people muster up a little too much courage driving their cars. Maybe it's because they're contained in their own special little suit of armor. But the flipping off, nodding heads, shaking fists, and leaving notes on windshields is overkill.

I drove my husband's truck for a week. Big manly truck. I couldn't park the fucking thing to save my life. It was like driving a motorhome. Anyway, I semi-parked at Target to grab the usual: toilet paper, birthday cards, and hairspray.

I got back to the monster truck to find a note under the windshield that read: "Nice park job. Maybe next time you could leave a can opener so I could get into my car. ASSHOLE."

I love that they thought I was a man. And I have to wonder, do they wait and watch to see my reaction? I don't think I'd have the guts.

There are a few other things that annoy me more than unruly driving behavior: bumper stickers, personalized license plates, and beanie babies in the back window.

Are those stuffed animals for my entertainment? Because I'm already a DJ and referee while I drive. I don't need more distractions. So if those stuffed kittens are for me, the person driving behind you, feel free to welcome them back into your home. Line them up on your mantle or something. I can't take it anymore.

The personalized license plates. Good God. My husband and I play this game all the time. I'll get a text from him at least once a week with a stupid plate. "Moms Toy", "2cool", "Irock", "You Wish". I wish? No sir, I don't wish to be driving your car, especially with that plate.

Here's an interesting thing my friend pointed out. Why the kleenex in the back window? If you sneeze, there is no way you're reaching that box. Why not the glove compartment?

Or is it there for backseat liasons? And if that's the case, why aren't the used condoms strewn across your back window? Now that actually would be entertaning. I could count how many times you got lucky this week. It beats counting slugbugs.

Or maybe we could just express ourselves with...oh, I don't know...ourselves. Say what you want to say. Be who you want to be. Two-way communication is good, instead of holding the drivers behind you hostage with your perspective.

If you love kittens, tell me you love kittens. Don't carry stuffed ones around with you.

If you think you rock, then tell me why you rock. I may or may not agree with you, but at least we could debate the topic instead of you announcing it to me via license plate.

And if you are having sex in the backseat of your car, please don't tell me about it. I may be carpooling with you someday.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009


We have a sheet of paper framed in our house. It was written by Parker when she was seven years old. It's a list of Do's and Dont's in order to please a boy. Now, I'm borderline feminist, so this was a little alarming.

One of the instructions on here is, "Do not say 'Hi there, big boy."

I never have and never will, say, "Hi there, big boy" to anyone. Ever. When would that line ever be appropriate? Role playing with my husband on a kinky night? Good God. It's so Mae West.

So this begs the question, just what is it about boys that make us crazy for them? I remember very clearly having a crush on David Parker in 3rd grade. I went to school early so I could push his desk closer to mine instead of Mary Ellen Beacher's desk. She had ringlets down to her ass, so she was major competition.

I'm sure the teacher came into the room wondering why I was basically sitting David Parker's lap while learning multiplication. Maybe that's why I suck so bad at math. I was too busy staring at David's beautiful blonde hair.

In 5th grade I kissed Troy Ashton and ran (actually floated is the better word) all the way home. The principal called my parents and explained their slutty daughter was making out with a boy after school.

Even after being busted by my parents, I held strong and said I was at a patrol meeting. I did, however, have to call Troy and break up with him, per my Dad's non- negotiable instructions.

The next year proved to be worse. I was in lust with David Hansen, but he liked my friend Jenny. So what else would I do except tell David that Jenny hates him, and tell Jenny that David hates her?

They never questioned it and accepted my fake break up. Jenny sobbed for days and to this day, reminds me what an asshole I was in 1982. She's right.

For all I know, that was true love and they'd be married with four children right now if I wasn't such a total prick.

My heart was broken over and over again, but I always put my gloves back on and went back in the ring. Here's my theory on it. I had to experience boys and men to figure out what I wanted in a husband.

Then I found him in 1991. The guy that had all the good things mixed into one person. All the qualities I loved in those boys starting from 3rd grade. The guy with the hair, the athlete, the sensitive shy one, the spiritual one...they were all rolled up into one guy. Fucking awesome.

My first sentence to my future husband was this: "So it's my birthday today. Are you taking me out for dinner, dancing, hot passionate sex?"

He blushed and turned away without a word. That's when I knew I'd have his children someday.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Running With Birds.

I started running again even though I hate it. But I have to be real. These muffin tops are not going to magically fall off the top of my ass without some help.

With each step on the treadmill I think, "This. Fucking. Sucks." Over and over again until I make it four miles. Which takes forever when you run as slow as dirt.

I decided fresh air should help ease the pain, so I took it outside.

It was a bright, sunny day. With my daughters on their bikes, we started on a path around the lake. It actually felt good. I was greeting other runners like I was one of them.

I was basically walking with a hop, which I term "jogging", when a fucking black crow swooped down on my head and attacked my scalp. I was screaming and waving my arms, fighting off this heinous bird. I was throwing punches toward the end just to make him pay with pain.

Seriously, who goes out for a jog and ends up having a fight with a fucking crow?

I'm certain it wanted to take me to its nest and feed me to its young. I don't understand how this shit happens to me. Has any other runner in this world been attacked by a bird while running?

I fucking doubt it.

I ran close to a 6 minute mile to reach my daughters on their bikes. My hair was all over the place and I think I had a black eye from my crow tussle. I was yelling, "Did you see that? Oh my God, did you see that bird attack me!? A bird attacked my head you guys!"

They looked at me like I was certifiably insane. The older one said, "Well, you're safe now, mom." Then looked at her sister like, "Mommy is fucking crazy but don't say it out loud."

I'm proud to say I haven't let this incident instill in me the fear of outdoors. However, I will never run around that again as long as I live. I just don't have it in me to fight off another bird while trying to maintain a swift 10 minute pace.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Mayhem In Paradise.

Sunday night, 6:15 pm. While most of you were eating dinner and giggling over wine, I was 2 inches deep in feces in our downstairs bathroom with a toilet auger (a fancy plumbing tool I can no longer live without).

My theory is that our daughters are wiping their asses with a "toilet paper pillow." I'm thinking 4 squares would do the job since their ass is the size of a stamp, but they're using at least 560 squares per dump. My auger tells me this is so.

I didn't lose my cool until I looked up to see an audience of my kids and their friends. Watching me balance on one leg, while extending the other to prevent the dog from licking brown water, seemed to be quite entertaining. I almost offered them popcorn and Junior Mints for the show.

Then came the questions..."Can Tate eat dinner over here?", "How long will this take?", "What is that thing?", "Are you a plumber?", "What are you making for dinner?".

I said, "I am covered in feces. Trust me, Tate doesn't want anything I will be serving and will you please kick the dog out to the backyard before he barfs up poopy water?"

I'm a little sensitive about the #2 since I got an eye infection on a Disney Cruise a few years ago. I was swimming in the kiddie pool, totally underwater, until I noticed the mad dash of all the legs scrambling to get out. I popped my head up to see my husband and children yelling, "Get out of the pool! A kid poooped!"

I looked over to see a fucking turd floating right next to my head. It took 6 months for my eye to heal from the infection. The embarrassment was too much when the doctor asked, "Are there any cirumstances that could have caused this?"

I couldn't lie. I said, "Yes, actually, I was swimming in poop on a Disney Cruise." He said, "Excuse me?"

I think he just wanted me to repeat it, which I didn't.

So back to the task at hand. My husband returned from work, took a good look at the mayhem, and said, "You're the hottest plumber I've ever seen." This is why I married him. He always puts a smile on my face, even when I'm covered in shit.

Devastation was diverted and I escaped without an eye infection. And I have to say, it felt good to take care of something myself. It was rewarding in a sick kind of way.

Plus, I'm thinking I saved $160 by not calling a plumber, which could score a great pair of jeans.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


I just realized something. The plural form of the word "busy" translates into "business". Am I the only idiot that just learned this ironic piece of information?

This makes me feel a little bit like a schmuck. Like all the "busy-ness" owners were in on the joke. I imagine them thinking, "Oh how cute, she even wore a skirt and heels today to be busy. Awwww..."

I have to say, I enjoyed being busy with a cup of coffee in my friend's office during busy-ness hours. And laughing with other busy people. That was rewarding.

But the actual part about creating money for another person's idea of busy-ness, was not rewarding. In fact, sometimes it sucked. Especially when I wanted to be busy writing, instead of balancing a budget sheet.

So that's why I feel like such a schmuck. I was following someone else's idea of being busy instead of following my own.

How different it would be if we shared the common denominator of wanting to be busy doing the same thing. I'd feel inspired, instead of feeling like a busybee/jackass with a sprinkle of idiot on top.

After all, a business owner is simply someone that owns their busy time. They understand that time is valuable and choose to spend it being busy with something they love to do. This is not rocket science, but smart shit nonetheless.

So my question is this: If you could own your busy-ness, what would it be?

Please hit "Submit" twice on the comments in order for it to publish.

Monday, June 1, 2009

&$!# Disneyworld.

There we were at Disneyworld, hitting all the big guns: Spiderman, Hulk, Dueling Dragons, and more. We did the "Kid Swap" which does not mean you swap your tantrum-filled child for a better one. It means a child goes on a ride twice, once with each parent. Not sure who thought of this sweet deal, but he/she is genius.

Anyway, as I did with many rides before, I waited for the hubbs and our daughter to exit the ride so I could have my turn with her.

I was bouncing around like Muhammod Ali, punching the air, all fucked up on sugar, caffeine, and adrenaline. Those rides are addicting, each one bringing me a little closer death. What a rush!

There she was, off the ride, walking toward me so she could ride it again. "Ready Parks?" I asked, all wild-eyed and hysterical. I needed to get on that ride NOW.

She shrugged tentatively and said, "Uh, you know, it's okay. We don't have to go." I explained that she's safe, it's just a ride, and she'll be fine.

She said, "That's not it. I'm not scared. It's just...well, could you not swear so much while you're on the ride? It makes me uncomfortable."

Wait, what? Now, I realize I swear shit-tons in this blog, but I promise you, I'm fucking June Cleaver around the house. I could drop an anvil on my toe and I'd say, "Bananas!". So this whole "swearing-on-Disney-rides" debacle was a shock to me.

I said, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I was swearing, honey. I will keep my yap shut, I promise." My husband was barely containing himself, picturing how many times he'll tell this story to everyone we know.

We got on the ride, but I have to tell you, it wasn't the same. I don't mean to pollute the family-friendly atmosphere, but some drops and turns deserve a "Holy Shit!". It just isn't the same without it.

I took a break from rides the rest of the afternoon, watching the younger one ride the lame elephants. And you know what? It was just as rewarding, seeing her face light up on that stupid thing.

While she was only 10 feet up in the air, she thought she was soaring through the sky. Here's what is so cool about kids: their imagination still lets them float in the magic of it all. We should all be so lucky to experience it again with a child. It instills in us the imagination that trickled out as we grew up.