Showing an Attitude of Gratitude

"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it." ~ William Arthur Ward.

Wow. What a crazy last month this has been. I've been wanting to share this story for quite a while, because it's really taught me a lot. It's reinforced my love for my family, strengthened my admiration for my friends, and even made me admire some things about myself.

Legally, I'm being prevented from talking about the actual accident itself. So let me start with immediately afterward...

...when my left leg was facing sideways, my hip was dislocated and I was balancing on one leg and trying to convince the paramedics I wasn't crazy...

"Ma'am," one told me. "You need to sit down on this stretcher. Then we're going to swing your legs around so you're laying down."

I barked out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and sob. "Right," I said. "Well, you're going to need a baseball bat to knock me unconscious because there is NO WAY I am going to let you guys swing my legs anywhere. I am in so much pain right now."

I could see them exchanging looks, probably attempting to gauge my level of irrationality. I felt the need to explain things to them so they didn't think I was going to be as difficult as a homeless crackhead.

"See," I told them, "I watch those shows like '911' and 'Cops' and 'Trauma: Life in the ER' and I see all those crazy people with paramedics and I am NOT LIKE THEM, I promise. I'm normal, I have kids and I'm not difficult but I swear to God you are not going to swing my legs around anywhere." That was the first time I started to cry during the night.

Somehow, during the next several minutes, between negotiating and assurances and an adjustable stretcher, I found myself horizontal and being loaded into the back of an ambulance, on my way to the hospital. Within a few minutes, I was hooked up to morphine and asking one of the EMTs if he was single and what was the craziest thing he's ever seen on a call. I'm curious like that. I'm surprised I hadn't sent him a friend request on Facebook by the time we got to the hospital.

The next several hours involved xrays, being surrounded by doctors, going under anesthesia and having a cat scan. 

Before I had my first xray, one of the two nurses in my room said, "We're going to need to take your jeans off, honey, before the xray."

I started to panic. "W-wait," I stammered. "Please don't cut these off. I got these in California and they're my most favorite jeans. They have bling on the butt, just the way I like 'em. Ladies, let's put our heads together and figure out a way I can take these off without cutting them." 

So very gently, and very carefully, they slowly slid them off my hips and down my legs. Without cutting a single inch of denim. How they did that with my dislocated hip and with me not crying out I will never know. I'm going to chalk it up to their compassionate care and skills as nurses, along with the pain killers I was on at the time. 

The first time they were going to put me under, I asked what they were going to use. They held up a vial of white liquid and told me, "Propofol."

"That's that shit Michael Jackson died from," I responded, just in case they weren't aware and hadn't watched TV for the last several years. I was assured I'd be fine.

Unfortunately the attempts to put my hip back into place were unsuccessful, and it was determined I needed surgery. I was transferred to a hospital room to get prepped and ready. Two more sympathetic and caring nurses had the unfortunate duty of informing me that I needed to be rolled to my side during a sponge bath and it was going to hurt.

They weren't a kiddin', either.

That was the second time I cried.

A couple hours later I was waiting to be wheeled into the operating room. The two orthopedic surgeons came in to discuss what was going to happen. One told me that I was going to have a long incision on my leg. I could tell she felt bad.

I waved my hand and laughed. "No worries. I gave up my dream of being of a string bikini super model YEARS ago."

She smiled and went on about the surgery itself, how long it was probably going to take, and what was involved during the procedure.

It was then I found myself crying for the third and final time. I realized this was all a much bigger deal than I had thought.

Thankfully the surgery went fine and I woke up a few hours later. As a nurse wheeled me down the hallway to my room, I could see my parents waiting for me. Also, I noticed warily, my brother was with them. I love my brother very much but he works a lot, is very busy, and it made me nervous to see him.

"Why is my brother here?" I asked the nurse. "Am I dying?"

Apparently my brother was just being a good brother. I should give him a little more credit.

I spent a few more days in the hospital, learning some basic skills such as getting in and out of bed, getting up and down stairs and using a walker and crutches. 

The first day was kind of a blur, thanks to the IV of morphine that was being administered. At one point I woke up to a nurse checking on me. In a moment of semi unconscious confusion, I sat up and blurted out, "I like butterscotch and black boots!"
She smiled at me and replied, "That's nice, dear."

My family and friends began to start showing up to visit. I love that my friend Nicole was one of the first people there, bringing a bag of what she knew I would consider absolutely essential:

Cosmetics, magazines and a Diet Mountain Dew.

She listened intently when the doctors came in and remembered details for me, since I was in a bit of a fog. She hugged me close and told me everything was going to be all right.

Other friends and family came in with flowers and books and candy. They kept me laughing and made me realize how lucky I was that I had such amazing people in my life.

Even my kids surprised me a bit.

My daughter Sophie, a typical 13 year old, stayed with me one evening while everyone else was in the gift shop. She painstakingly waited while I inched my way across the floor to the bathroom. She held my gown and my hand and made sure I didn't fall. She helped me back in bed and when she saw me wince with pain, she made sure I had everything I needed. Never once did I see any typical middle school teenage angst; just a lot of patience and generosity. My other kids were so sweet too. Maybe it takes a debilitating accident to happen to their mother to make them stop fighting for a few hours. Whatever, I'll take it.

On the day I was getting discharged, a nurse was going over my recovery plan. I told her that luckily I lived with my parents, and my mom was a registered nurse. "That's good," she said. "Because this is the type of injury you need to go to a nursing home to recover if you don't have any help at home."

Oh. Wow. Talk about an eye opener.

All of this happened almost five weeks ago. Since then I have been completely humbled by the love I have been shown. I have spent my time resting and healing and trying to shuffle my walker away from my mother whenever she tries to administer my twice daily injections into my stomach so I don't get blood clots. I'm not that fast. She always catches me.

My parents are amazing. They now spend their days driving my children to school, buying all the groceries, cooking all the meals and taking me to medical appointments. My bedroom looks like a storage closet at a nursing home: a walker, crutches, a tub transfer seat for when I take showers, a raised toilet seat and other physical therapy tools. I am sure they didn't expect the first few months of their retirement being my driver and errand runner. I'll never be able to fully thank them.

My friends have also taken it upon themselves to make sure I still get to my hair and nail appointments. They pick me up and bring me with them, knowing sometimes I just need to be outside. They know my ridiculous desire to just drive around downtown River Falls, and wave at people I know. They make sure to hold the bathroom doors open for me as I navigate my walker in various businesses. Even though I know it is a monstrous pain in the ass to bring me anywhere these days, they act like they are honored to do so. 

When I think about the actions of my family and friends, I am humbled to tears. How do I ever explain to them how much I appreciate the love they've shown? How will they ever know that their laughter has been my best medicine?

I am one lucky girl.

I looked at the incision on my leg this morning. It's not as bad as what I had feared. As I traced the scar with my finger, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself, too. 

This scar doesn't just show where the doctors had to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but it shows something even more important. 

It shows that I SURVIVED. 

"What a drag it is, getting old..."

"After age 40, it's all about pluggin' holes in the boat." ~ George Clooney

I remember shortly after I graduated college, I was talking to my aunt Bonnie. I mentioned that I was still waiting to feel like a "grown-up."
She laughed. "You're never going to feel like an official adult. I still feel like I'm an 18 year old on the inside, with just a ton of life experiences."
True dat.
Sometimes I can't believe I'm living the life of an actual adult. I'm almost in suspended disbelief that no one has jumped out from the curtain (think Wizard of Oz) and exposed me. "She's not a real grown-up! She's faking it!"
When my first baby was born, the nurses handed me a chart and instructed me to document every time she pooped or peed. Several hours later a nurse checked the chart and said, "You didn't mark down how much she ate?"
I was surprised. "No one told me I was supposed to feed her! She's been sleeping the whole time. Aren't we supposed to let sleeping babies sleep??!"
Apparently not. Lesson learned. I still can't believe the nurses let us take her home with us.
But even though I still feel 18 on the inside, my body screams otherwise.
I feel like I've been blessed with some pretty good skin, so the beginning of wrinkles and laugh lines don't bother me as much as I thought they would. I'm a little perturbed with the parenthesis forming around my mouth, though. And once I turned 35 my forehead declared, "Either bangs or Botox. You choose."
I chose bangs.
Yesterday I went to a sports doctor to finally deal with years of back pain. He took one look at my x-rays and said, "I can see now why you're in a lot of pain. You have degenerative disc disease."
"What?" I asked him. "I don't think that's right. That sounds like something old people have."
He raised an eyebrow. "Well, your chart does say you're 42."
Ugh.
He gave me instructions on what I should be doing when I work out, and a name of a clinic that can help with physical therapy.
I promptly called my personal trainer, The Tin Man, and told him about my appointment. "And my doctor also said I should concentrate on my core muscles for stability. And I shouldn't do things that hurt my back. So maybe you should take it easy on me... and maybe even buy me a candy bar?"
The Tin Man wasn't buying it.
Oh well, at least I tried.
One of the benefits of getting older is all the great ideas we (think we) have now.
At my recent annual exam, I told my gynecologist: "Have you ever thought about putting a flat screen up on  your ceiling for your patients?"
"Um, no, I haven't."
"Really?" I continued. "At the very least, you should think about selling ad space. Talk about a captive audience. You could have these businesses advertising specials for bikini waxes and things like that..."
I don't think he was paying a lot of attention because he just nodded and asked me to "Scoot down please."
All in all, when I think about the hands of time, I can handle all of the creaks and pops and wrinkles and saggy butt cheeks. Because along with all of that comes wisdom, education and confidence.
And those traits, I believe, are the most attractive of all.

Pimples, Pit Sticks and Puberty

"Growing up as a girl is always traumatizing, especially when you have the deadly combination of greasy skin and getting your boobs at ten. But I think it's good to grow up that way. It builds character." ~ Tina Fey

Too bad girls in 5th grade aren't just handed a gift box that includes a dozen sticks of deodorant, a case of Proactiv and an extra large bottle of Agree Shampoo. Remember that shampoo from the late 70s, early 80s? I don't think I could have survived puberty without it. "Help Stop the Greasies Between Shampoos" was a mantra I held dear to my heart. It was my favorite shampoo, second only to "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific". Which, unfortunately, always reminds me of one of the first dirty jokes I was ever told: "What did the midget say to the woman at the bus stop? Gee, your hair smells terrific."
Hey, I never said it was funny.
With three of my four children being girls, escaping puberty unscathed in our house would be akin to seeing the Dalai Lama in a porno.
Not. Gonna. Happen.
It all started with shower time. I used to waltz into the bathroom when my daughters were in the shower, putting away towels, grabbing a hair brush, whatever. If I happened to catch them climbing in or out of the shower, it was no big deal.
Then one day everything would change. It's how I know when they started puberty.
God forbid I would catch them naked, either in their room or in the bathroom. I would hear a shriek, a door slam, and an unmistakable growl: "MOTHER! I am CHANGING! Can't anyone KNOCK?"
I don't know... can't anyone lock a door anymore?
One time I walked into Chloe's bedroom when she was about 6. She must have inherited her modesty earlier than her sisters, just by observing them. I walked in, carrying an armload of freshly laundered clothes. She was topless, just in her jeans, staring at her closet and trying to decide what to wear.
Before I could even say anything, she folder her arms across her (non-existent) chest, looked over her shoulder at me and snipped "It's a new thing. It's called knocking. Maybe you've heard of it?"
My 7 year old son is a different story. He doesn't care who sees him naked. I think it's because we first taught him to pee outdoors, standing up. Since then, pants (and underwear) can be a complete nuisance to him.
This weekend we were all at my parents' retirement party. My son was playing with another boy, who was a couple years older than him. They were sitting at a table, guzzling their root beer floats, when Wyatt announced to me: "Hey Mom. I know what puberty is. He told me."
I raised my eyebrows. "Oh really? And what do you think that is?"
"It's when I'll get my period, grow taller and my balls will drop."
I didn't really know what to say. The majority of what I know about boys going through puberty comes from what I've learned from Judy Blume books. I didn't know for sure about the balls dropping part, but I was absolutely sure he wasn't going to get his period.
I leaned forward and told him, "Ummm, maybe you can talk to your dad and clear up any misunderstanding."
At least for now, I can focus on what I know best - girls puberty.
This morning I stopped at the store and bought 4 sticks of Secret deodorant.
In another week or two, I'll be standing in front of the "feminine products" aisle at Walgreen's. Where, once again, I get confused and forget what I bought the previous time.
Am I supposed to get them something with wings?
Scented? Unscented?
Do I need to buy Always, or is the generic version good enough?
It makes my head hurt.
As for now, I have several years ahead of me filled with exasperated sighs, pimpled foreheads and a new found love of Justin Bieber perfume. Oh, and plenty of "winged" products on stock.
Goody.
I can't wait.

Gym Shorts, Flat Irons and Generation Gaps

I know every parent thinks this, and most every parent says this at some point in time. It doesn't matter what decade or even what century we're referring to, but at least once... every parent has exclaimed, "I can't believe how different kids are these days."
A few nights ago I was at the high school for a parents meeting dealing with next year's class registrations for sophomores. As the teachers took their turn explaining the requirements for graduation and college, I glanced at the list of classes being offered.
I was stunned.
And a little jealous.
"Crime and Delinquency"? Part of Social Studies. "Lifeguard Training"? Part of Physical Education. "Sports and Entertainment Marketing"? Part of Business Education. How fantastic!
And then, of course, there were the math classes listed. I didn't look at that section too closely because my mouth got dry and my hands got sweaty. It's safe to say my 4th grader's mathematical abilities surpass mine, so there's no way I was going to be giving any math-class choosing guidance to my honor roll daughter in high school.
I know we had various options at my high school, but they usually involved if we were going to make a pillow or an apron in home ec, or if we were going to make a coffee mug or a painting in art.
There were no classes like Digital Media and Website Creation. Our kids are lucky.
And not even in just class selection. Some of the accepted methods of teaching in the early 80's still make me shudder.
Does anyone else from my era remember roll call in gym class during middle school?
At our middle school, we were all issued the standard red and white gym uniforms. It was our responsibility to make sure we took them home once a week and threw them in the laundry.
At the beginning of each gym class, after we had changed into our uniforms, we would line up in the gym for roll call. Boys on one side of the gym, girls on the other side. Our gym teacher would have us call out our number. Since we went alphabetical and my last name started with an S, I was always one of the last ones to call out my number. When we yelled out "23!" we also had to say if our uniforms were washed. Our roll call message for that was "clean."
Now to top it all off, to make matters even more horrific for middle school girls... had to deal with if we had our period or not. Because the teachers wouldn't expect us to take a full naked shower after gym class if we were riding the cotton pony, but they would expect us to wash our pits in the sink. Hence, we had to also call out if we were going to be taking a "half" shower.
So our roll call had to be yelled out in front of everyone: "23. Clean. Half!"
Pretty awesome, wasn't it? It almost boggles the mind when I think about it now.
And for years the boys in our grade confessed they thought it meant we only washed half of our uniform.
Now I can't imagine anyone conducting a phy ed roll call like that. My kids don't know how good they have it.
But isn't that part of what's wonderful about being a kid? They think every option they have is the best ever, and why on earth would their parents want to do anything differently?
Those that know me understand my love of big hair. Go Big or Go Home.
Maybe because I was a child of the 80's, or maybe I just love things over the top, who knows. My daughters, however, cannot even begin to comprehend why I would want my hair to be "poofy." The sleeker the better, for them. And they always try to convince me to use a flat iron on my hair before I go somewhere.
This fall my 9 year old daughter Chloe even begged me, "Mom... all I want for Christmas is for you to use a flat iron and go out with straight hair for a day."
Seriously, she begged for that.
Who does that?
And do you think I could acquiesce her request? Just one day with flat hair?
Hell. No.
I would look like a drowned rat. No thanks.
I'm really happy and excited when I think of all the opportunities that our kids have. It must be crazy for our parents to see it too. It's hard to compare when our parents can mention their memory of getting a color tv for the first time in high school, to our children getting their first iPod in elementary school.
I think Bob Dylan said it best: "The Times, They Are A-Changin' "

Boomerang generation...who me?

"Humor is... despair refusing to take itself seriously." ~Arland Ussher

Oh yes, 2011 was quite a kick in the pants. I think Life tends to throw you a few curve balls whenever it sees you getting too cocky. And apparently I was getting a little cocky because I've had more curve balls the last couple years than a major league baseball game. But this blog is not a woe-is-me entry....because I have my health and my kids' health and ultimately that makes me wealthier than a lot of people.
But after the divorce last year I found myself in a really bad financial spot. My parents were wonderful enough to step forward and offer a solution:
"Why don't you move back in with us for awhile?  You know, until you get back on your feet again."
At first, I vehemently opposed it. "What?! I'm 41 years old. I have a full time job. I should be able to figure this out myself."
My dad told me to just think about it. Then a few days later he casually mentioned, "You know, I'm sure if you chipped in for groceries your mother would make a lot of the meals."
My ears perked up. Now that sounded like a possibility.
So right around Thanksgiving I packed up my belongings, my four kids and my dog....and moved back into my childhood home.
My dad had spent weeks getting their house ready. He made the downstairs a regular little girls dormitory, with bunk beds and storage and reading lights. At first I told him not to bother. "Dad, they can have my old room. I'll just sleep on the couch."
"Oh no," he said, shaking his head. "You need your own place that's just yours."
I smiled and couldn't resist asking, "Well....what if I meet someone and want to have a sleepover date?"
He replied calmly, "Your mother and I are hoping that you would have a sleepover at his house."
"But Dad....what if I meet someone and he lives with HIS parents?"
I swear I saw my father's shoulders slump. He just gave me a look that I interpreted as, "Aim higher. Please."
At first I was embarrassed to tell people I moved back in with my parents. I felt like I had failed somehow at one of life's basic tasks. Amazingly though... my friends and co-workers have been incredibly supportive. "There's something to be said about multi-generational living," more than one person told me.
And it's true. In addition to being able to breathe a financial sigh of relief for the first time since I can remember, I'm getting to know my parents again on a whole different, adult level.
My parents do not even have basic cable, so my nightly television viewing choices no longer include "Real Housewives of New Jersey," "Intervention," or anything else on A&E.
Let's just say I've been watching a lot of "Antiques Roadshow" and "Cash Cab."
Last week my dad changed my oil, and unbeknownst to me, filled up my gas tank too.
"Hey Dad, thanks for filling up my tank. You know," I teased. "You keep this up and I'm never going to leave."
"See," he told me. "That's why I fill it up. So you will leave. But you just keep coming back."
My dad is such a kidder.
I think.
So I'm going to make the most of this time given to me. Financially I'm going to get back on my feet and build up a little nest egg so I feel more secure when I eventually do move back out. Hopefully this is sooner rather than later.
I've been enjoying it more than I thought. My mom and I have been having a great time. We both love good movies, chips and Tylenol PM.
And yes, I have discovered ways to find a lot of humor in this unexpected situation. I was dating a guy, just briefly for a few weeks, when I decided to end it. I sent him a text basically saying we wanted different things, but I thought he was wonderful and wished him the best, etc.
He responded back with a curt: "Fine, whatever....BYE."
Then he sent another angry response within a few seconds: "Well, you still live with your PARENTS!"
I couldn't help but throw back my head and laugh.
Why yes, yes I do.

9th Grade Health Class...am I ready for this?

"A birth control pill for men, that's fair.  It makes more sense to take the bullets out of the gun than to wear a bulletproof vest."  ~Author Unknown

A couple days ago my 14 year old daughter told me that a public health nurse came to their 9th grade health class. "She told us about the 15 methods of birth control available."
Wait, what?
There are 15 methods of birth control available?
That's amazing to me. When I was in high school we had the Holy Trinity of birth control:
The Pill
Condoms
And the Pull & Pray method (also affectionately known as Catholic Roulette)
I think our mothers had IUDs, but no one our age even really knew what an IUD was.
Nowadays there are more options for birth control than ever before.
When I was 15 a few of us decided to go on the Pill. Now keep in mind, there was absolutely no reason for me to go on birth control at that time...I'm not even sure I had let a boy get to second base by then. But it didn't matter... my friends were going to do it so I did, too.
Since my mom was a nurse at the River Falls Medical Clinic, I knew I had to go somewhere else. My friends and I decided to go to a clinic in Hastings, Minnesota. We had our exams and then walked out of there with a 12 month prescription for the pill.
One year later, my prescription was done. The pharmacist told me that he could no longer give me anymore until I had another prescription from my doctor. I shrugged, because truthfully it didn't matter if my prescription ran out. I had absolutely no use to be on the pill. The novelty had worn off.
And then, for reasons still unknown, that pharmacist decided to call my doctor to let him know that my prescription was done. Only he didn't call my doctor in Hastings, Minnesota. He got confused and called the River Falls Medical Clinic instead. He got a nurse on the phone and announced, "I'm calling about Vanessa Simonet's birth control prescription."
Yep, you guessed it. My mom was that nurse.
Talk about busted.
I'm fairly certain that pharmacist would be in gross violation of some HIPAA policy now, but back then it was just an unfortunate circumstance.
With one daughter in high school already, this birth control issue is coming up faster than I thought it would. It doesn't seem like that long ago that I was picking out Barney pajamas for her. Now the choices are much more complicated. And the possible ramifications are a lot more serious.
This parenting thing is so tough. I wish someone would clue me in on the perfect balance of helping your teenager make mature decisions and also enforcing expectations and boundaries with them.
This fall my 14 year old and I were hiking and I told her, "I promise I'll take you to go on the Pill when you want, but you have to promise me you'll still be smart about things and always use condoms, too."
She rolled her eyes and walked ahead of me. "Mom! You've been saying that for as long as I can remember. I told you I would."
I hurried to catch up. "That's good, honey. Because you know what they say... you gotta wrap it before you tap it. You gotta cover your stump before you hump."
She looked at me, horrified. "Stop it!"
Yes! Score one for Mom Mortification.
So I will do my best to keep the doors of communication open with my children. I will hope and pray that they will come to me with questions and more. I honestly don't know how I'll react when they do, because in my mind they're always be the sweet little toddler sitting on my lap.
And I promise...if they're mature enough to come to me for assistance...I'll try to be mature, too and do everything in my power to NOT leave them a note that says "It'll be sweeter if he wraps his peter."

Life Lessons Volume 1

"My Mama always said you've got to put the past behind you before you can move on." Forrest Gump


I'll never be the type of mother who will be able to leave to her children vast wealth, a huge inheritance or an immense jewelry collection. Nor will I ever be able to pass on patent-creating knowledge or information. I will, however, be able to share with them some lessons of life I've learned along the way. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing life-changing....just some tidbits that will hopefully save you some heartache and dirty underwear.

Make sure you learn to drive a stick shift. Not only may it save your life some day, but you look cool shifting gears. It helps to have a song in your head, too. I used to imagine myself in a Great White video while driving down the highway. With a Big Gulp in my lap.

When wearing a white blouse, make sure to always wear a beige bra underneath. Preferably something with a decent lining, too. The women in our family have nipples that like to announce themselves. A lot.

When it comes to choosing a career, follow your heart. Don't major in business because you think you should. Business majors are a dime a dozen and you'll end up having to take a statistics course.

Starting your working career means you'll most likely have to start with a job that requires you to wear a polyester uniform and a hair net.

If one of your grandparents start to tell you a story of when they were little, LISTEN. You might not get a chance to hear it again. Besides, they might also give you a butterscotch hard candy to suck on and a stack of Readers Digest to bring home.

Do not ever allow yourself to take Tylenol PM and Dulcolax within a couple hours of each other. I cannot be more serious about this one. It's never, ever a good idea.

Never charge whiskey or gasoline to a credit card; by the time the bill comes they've both been pissed away.

If some one's online dating profile says they're an entrepreneur, you can expect that to mean they live in some one's basement and most likely have a criminal record of some sort.

When on a first date, see how much they tip. If they short change the server, it can be a good indicator of how they treat others.

When you have that dreadful stomach virus and you're running to the bathroom, not sure which end it's going to come out of.... always, always SIT. Trust me on this one. Please.

If you get a chance to study abroad or travel overseas, by all means DO IT. Don't be afraid of what you might miss at home - I assure you the cows will still be here. Be more afraid of what you might miss OUT THERE.

People enjoy being with you because of how you make them feel. So when you smile, smile with your whole face. And not the lame-ass version, either. Smile so your teeth show and your eyes crinkle up.

When someone makes something for you - whether it's a scarf or a drawing or a home cooked meal - recognize that it's a gift from their heart. I know my children have a hard time believing that beef stroganoff is a loving gift, but I want them to know to be gracious when people cook for them. Because the older you get, the less it happens.

This list is not all-encompassing. That's why it's Volume 1. It's something I intend on adding on throughout the years.
And that's part of the fun of the unknown, isn't it? Who knows what sort of shenanigans are in store for us, that will cause us to have to write down a "Life Lesson" about it?
I can hardly wait!