Size FAWM

What do clowns and I have in common? NO, not the frizzy hair. Jerks. No, not the nose. Just stop guessing. This isn't healthy for our relationship. I'll just tell you: It's our feet. Clowns have huge feet, and so do I. I'm not going to tell you what size I am, because I maintain precious little dignity on social media and I'll be darned if you all start checking out my shoes every time you see me. Let's just say my feet are fearfully and wonderfully made, or FAWM for short.

I come by it honestly - there is a not a dainty-footed person in my family. My brother has to special-order his shoes because stores don't sell them. You'd think we'd be taller, but...no. Just my brother is tall. My sister and I have to endure both large feet and not being able to reach the top shelf of our kitchen cabinets. Life is unfair sometimes.

The thing about having size FAWM feet is that you're sort of limited in the kinds of shoes you can wear. And if your feet are also wide, like mine (thanks, gene pool), that makes your choices even slimmer. It's not that shoes don't come in size FAWM - many of them do. But when shoe designers make shoes, they are thinking of average people who have average feet, not average people who walk around with their legs attached to canoes. So they make all these cute designs and add the stripes and make everything reflective and shiny, which is all really cute in, like, a size 7. But when you add a few more inches to that shiny little stripe on the side, suddenly it turns into a giant flashing sign that says, "HEY. HEY, YOU GUYS. LOOK OVER HERE. MY FEET ARE BIG. COME OVER HERE SO YOU CAN BE PROPERLY HORRIFIED." Not a sexy look.

But the worst part of wearing size FAWM is that I almost never find my size out on the floor. Like I said, companies make my size. But I don't know a ton of people who wear size FAWM, and those sizes are understandably kept in the back so that people who don't have freak-of-nature feet can enjoy shopping without having to witness the horror of the giant box that contains the size FAWMs.

My usual MO is to find a few pairs that I like, bring a box of each to the store clerk, and ask him to bring me the shoes in my size. I do it that way so I don't have to ask for my gigantor shoes more than once. Because, inevitably, asking for my shoe size involves a much lengthier conversation than I would like. Well, I would like no conversation, but I would settle for a two-sentence maximum.

Instead, I usually have some variation of the following conversation:

Me: Hi, can you see if you have these in a FAWM? (Don't worry; I give the real size to them)
Store Clerk: A size what?
Me: *shuffling feet, clearing throat* A size FAWM.
SC: Oh. *raises eyebrows* Really? But you're so short!
Me: Yeah, I know.
SC: Are you sure that's your size? We could measure you.
Me: I'm sure. I've been wearing the same size for a while.
SC: Not many women wear that size.
Me: I'm special.
SC: Okay, well, if you're sure, I'll go get these for you. *pauses expectantly*
Me: Yes, please.

It's exhausting. I only buy new shoes once every million years so I don't have to have the conversation a lot, but I think we can all agree that once is enough.

Don't even get me started on the shoes I've worn as a bridesmaid. I have zero complaints about the fashion choices my friends and family have made for their bridesmaids. Cute dresses, cute theme, cute shoes. But nothing looks quite as dainty on a size FAWM foot. During my sister's wedding, you can see me walking down the aisle, a smile frozen on my face, and you start to wonder why I haven't changed my expression at all. But if you listen closely, you can hear a clop, clop, clop, clop in the background. Those would be my super-sized tootsies, stomping their way through an otherwise very quiet church. I was trying to concentrate on walking more quietly while also continuing to smile while also using my Panic Eyes to convey to someone, anyone, that I was aware of the noise and would hopefully be down the aisle in a timely fashion.

The struggle is real. Two kids later, the struggle has become even realer. But I did get new shoes recently, and, wonder of wonders, they had size FAWM on the shelf! I found my people. And my new shoes are black - it's so slimming!

These are not the shoes I bought recently. I ordered these from clownfeet.org. I think they bring out the sturdiness of my ankles!

MOPS

This weekend, I had the honor of speaking at a meeting for MOPS, an organization for moms with kids ages birth to kindergarten. It was such an amazing experience! I had a great time there and everyone was so welcoming. Special thanks to Hannah for asking me to come! A few people asked me to share what I spoke about here, so this is me, doing what you want. Enjoy.

And if you thought this post was going to be about cleaning...No. I don't clean.

Let me ask you a question: What do a dictionary, my favorite pair of boots, and a box of baby wipes have in common? They are all heavier than my son was when he was born.

On February 22, 2013, I woke up to what I expected to be an ordinary day. The first thing I did was shower and shave my legs, which should have been a sign that this day was going to be a weird one, but I didn't think much of it at the time. I was 26 weeks pregnant with my first child and was heading to my monthly check-up at the OB's office. We knew were having a boy, and we knew we were naming him Joshua Michael. Michael, after both our dads and my husband, and Joshua, because that is one Biblical dude you don't want to mess with.

I drove to my appointment, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I wouldn't miss too much work. I was saving up my vacation days for maternity leave that I was supposed to start in June and didn't want to waste any time. Plus I had leftover chicken fingers in the car that I was planning to eat on the way to work because that's how I roll. However, Joshua had other plans. After I arrived at my appointment and had been examined, the nurse realized that I was developing pre-eclampsia, a condition that is dangerous for both pregnant mothers and unborn babies. She sent me to the local hospital. I called my husband on the way there, trying to act like it was no big deal and that he should only come if he reeeaaally wanted to. He really did, so he and my mom met me there.

When I got there I was more annoyed than anything. I knew everything would be fine and I just wanted to get to work. And my chicken fingers. But everything wasn't fine. They checked on Josh and realized he was barely moving, he was too small, and he wouldn't respond to anything. So I was sent to another hospital, one that specialized in helping premature babies. At this hospital, they found that not only was Josh small and unresponsive, he was rapidly growing worse. A doctor came in and did an ultrasound and explained to us that it seemed like the umbilical cord was not giving Josh the nutrition he needed - basically, it was only working about half the time. They said I would have to stay in the hospital and they would need to check on him every day for a while. I didn't understand part of the scan and asked the doctor to show me again. And while he was explaining it to me, he noticed that now the umbilical cord had stopped working altogether. Unless Josh was born that night, he would not survive more than a few hours.

Have you ever gone down the steps and missed the very last stair? It's so surprising, so unpredictable, and a jolt of fear goes through you that is so deep and sudden that it takes you a minute to recover, even though you are okay. That's what I felt like. When they told me Joshua would be born that night, it felt like I was missing stair after stair and no one could catch me.

I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency c-section. It was so surreal. I felt like I was watching my life on a movie screen, like I wasn't really even part of it. At 7:08 in the evening, my son Joshua was born. He weighed one pound, seven ounces, and was 12.5 inches long. He was smaller than this Beanie Baby. I could have fit him in my shoe. But the doctors advised against that. The doctor brought him to me, told me I could give him a kiss, and then took him away to the NICU, where they would work for hours to save him.

My son was in the hospital for 115 days. He had dozens of blood transfusions, was on a ventilator for several weeks, and had a level two brain bleed. During his time in the NICU, he developed a blood infection, had both of his lungs collapse multiple times, and stopped breathing on several occasions. I didn’t get to hold him until he was two weeks old. It was a terrible, difficult time in our lives. But God is good, and on June 17, when he was four months old, we finally brought our boy home. Today he weighs eighteen pounds, is trying to walk, and has the biggest ears I have ever seen.

The first few months with Joshua at home are still sort of a blur. He needed to see a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, an audiologist, an optometrist, and basically any other doctor that ends in “ist.” He was on oxygen at all times and we had to cart his tank and monitors with us wherever we went. And let me tell you, there is no graceful way to unload an oxygen tank from a minivan. None. Don’t even try it. Just accept that you will look ridiculous and move on.

At night, Josh had to be hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart rate and oxygen levels. My husband and I were regularly heard asking each other if we had remembered to plug the baby in. It was stressful, but we didn’t know any other way. We just did what we needed to so Josh would be happy and healthy. And after a while we fell into a routine that, while not exactly easy, was at least doable.

When Josh first came home, my husband and I decided we would wait for several years before discussing any more children, if we even decided to have another one at all. That was the plan that we thought we best for our family. But have you ever heard the saying "We plan and God laughs"? Well, God is still laughing over what happened next. When Joshua was barely seven months old, we found out that we were expecting our second child. We were floored. I took about twenty tests just to make sure I hadn't gotten it wrong. It turns out it's pretty difficult to mess up peeing on a stick and we determined I was indeed pregnant.

I was not excited. This was not our plan. At this point, Josh was still on supplemental oxygen and monitors and saw a specialist of some kind about once a week. I had been laid off from my job just before Josh came home and we had moved in with my parents. We were barely keeping our heads above water. Long story short, another child was not ideal for us at the time.

I know I sound cold. I promise I'm nicer to my kids when I talk to them. Most of the time. But I was panicked. With Joshua, everything had gone wrong. What if the same thing happened again? What if this baby was born even earlier? What if she needed oxygen and specialists and was sick? I didn't think I had it in me to do all of that again. Everyone around me told me God had it under control, and I knew that He did, but I still worried about what that meant for my family.

We found out we were having a girl this time. After a fairly uneventful pregnancy, our daughter Jenna was born on May 29 of this year. She was perfectly healthy and we were able to come home after only a few days in the hospital. Just like with Joshua, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

But Jenna also kind of scared me. Not like she was scary-looking or hid in my closet at night with a Freddie Kruger mask; just that she was so totally, completely…normal. There was no monitor attached to her so I could check her heart rate. She didn't need to see any specialists and had no breathing problems. My entire experience with babies until Jenna was born had consisted of hospitals and cardiologists and oxygen tanks and physical therapists. To be able to take her with me to the grocery store, to not have to worry if someone got too close to her at church, to put her to bed without taping a little monitor to her foot - this was all brand new territory for us.

And then the comparisons began. I want to state first that I love my kids equally. I am so proud of both of them. Josh has a pretty significant developmental delay but he works really hard to catch up. And Jenna smells like strawberries, which I appreciate. But it was hard not to separate my children into a "failure" and "success" category. I never realized how behind Joshua was until I saw what Jenna could do. When she grabbed for a toy at two months - something Josh hadn't done until he was almost a year old - I called my husband and told him our daughter was a genius. I tried not to compare, but with every milestone that Jenna met, I would mentally put her in the "success" column and then wait for Josh to do something so I could put him the success column, too.

And after a while, I started to resent Joshua. I know. I am the mother of the year. I was just so tired of dealing with everything. I was tired of explaining our lives to people. I was tired of smiling politely while people informed me that my son was a little small for his age, and they wondered if I was concerned about it. I was tired of working so hard for the tiniest victories that other people got to take for granted.

Are you familiar with Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live? She was a character that always brought down the mood of whatever room she was in. Any time someone would say something happy or encouraging, Debbie would counter it with something incredibly depressing and ridiculous. Her statements were accompanied by a sound effect that went something like wahhhh, wahhhhhhhh.

I always loved the Debbie Downer skits. But even though the skits were funny and not meant to be taken seriously, it felt like Debbie Downer was following my family, waiting for something good to happen so she could bring us all down again. With every issue Joshua faced, I heard the wahhhh, wahhhh in the back of my mind. He finally started babbling! Yay! Except he should be saying at least ten words by now so we should focus on that. Wahhh, wahhh. He finally learned to hold his own bottle! Wow! Except by now he is supposed to be using sippy cups and we need to take the bottles away. Wahhhh, wahhh. You get the picture. I was so frustrated that he was still behind after all of his hard work, and I started to be angry with him for not catching up faster. And then I compared him and Jenna more and more, to the point where I would write down when Jenna reached milestones just so I could compare to when Josh met the same milestones. It was like a I was keeping a scorecard of my children’s accomplishments.

It took me a while to realize that I was even doing it. And then it took me even longer to realize why I was doing it. Why did I feel the need to compare my children? They are so different in so many ways it would be like comparing an ostrich to an alligator.  I knew that comparing was pointless and would ultimately only hurt me and my kids, but I still felt the need to keep score. I think a lot of us are familiar with that feeling. As moms, we are constantly surrounded by people who are judging our choices and making us feel like we can't even blink without causing permanent damage to our child's psyche. Just look at the arguments between mothers, more fondly known as the mommy wars. We argue about eeeeeeverything. Whether it's where our babies sleep or what kind of surface they will poop on, we find a way to make sure that everyone knows how wrong their choices are. And when we run out of things to argue about, we rehash the original arguments over and over again.

Isn’t that crazy? Just look at how angry we get with people we barely know. Half the time it’s people we have only talked to on the internet. And I am as guilty as the next person of getting sucked into a good cloth versus disposable diaper debate. It’s funny because before I became a mother, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get worked up about stuff like this. I only had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. But I was sure I could rise above such petty and insignificant arguments.

And then I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory. And the next thing you know, you’re typing in all capital letters on Facebook to some idiot who thinks that people who use strollers are turning their kids into serial killers while your husband begs you to just walk away from the computer because you’re starting to turn red and the children are scared.

Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you. None of us are immune to the mommy wars. It sneaks up on you suddenly, usually over something you didn’t even realize you cared that much about. I remember one time I was in a debate on Facebook over the cry it out method of sleep training. I was halfway through typing a really long paragraph when I suddenly wondered why in the world I gave two flips about which sleep training method a stranger from Canada was using. I couldn’t think of a good answer, and it dawned on me that maybe I was arguing just for the heck it.

Which brings me back to my original question: Why? Why do we do this? Why do I compare myself to other mothers? Why do I worry about what my friends think of the way I raise my children? Why am I online at three in the morning making some poor girl cry because we disagree on which brand of formula is best?

I thought about this for a long time. I felt like the answer was right under my nose but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then it came to me: Guilt.

I don’t know about you, but I have never been less confident in any decision I’ve made than I am in the decisions I make as a parent. Every little choice causes me to worry. For example, my son has recently gotten into the charming habit of throwing his sippy cup off his tray, a past time I’m sure many of you are familiar with. Every time he does this, I wonder what I should do next. It’s like my brain suddenly kicks into overdrive with all the possible responses I can give and the possible consequences they can have. If I get angry at him for throwing his cup, he’ll know it’s bad and he will stop. And then he will resent me for yelling at him and never be able to make friends and he won’t do well in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could ignore him when he throws his cup and he will see that misbehaving does not get him attention. And then he might try even harder to get my attention because he feels so ignored and he will start lighting dog poo on fire and leaving it on people’s doorsteps and then he will vandalize the school gym and won’t get into a good college and have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could pick the cup up and give it back to him, showing him that he has a second chance to do the right thing. And then he will probably learn that none of his actions have consequences and he will never learn manners and will disrespect his teachers in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

See what I mean? I know this struggle is something we all deal with. It’s silly but it’s also serious. My kids are so young that right now I have ultimate control over their lives. I decide what they wear, what they eat, where they go, who they see. And while the control freak part of me likes having that security, the worrying part of me finds it overwhelming and terrifying. I am far from perfect. And honestly I find myself wondering why in the world God would give me two children, one of whom requires a lot of special attention.

And because I feel so unworthy and unable to make these decisions, I look to other mothers to see how they are handling it. That’s how the comparisons begin. I see that Sally Smith is using cloth diapers and I read about how they’re better for the environment and better for babies’ skin and I start to feel really guilty because my own poor kids are in disposable diapers and if I am going to use those I may as well just dress my kids in garbage bags because it’s basically the same thing. And then I start to resent Sally because who is she to tell me how to diaper my kids? My kids are very happy in their disposable diapers and they have pictures of Mickey Mouse and Big Bird on them and those guys have educational shows so I am educating my kids by putting them in disposable diapers. And before I know it I hate Sally Smith for her judgmental ways and for making me doubt myself and for her stupid opinions on her stupid diapers.

That might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. In the scenario I just described, no one judged me. No one tried to make me feel guilty. It was my own guilt, my own insecurity, that turned a simple observation into an argument.

And please hear me - I am not trying to shame you or blame you for feeling bad when someone judges you. I know that some people are just itching for a fight and go to great lengths to make others feel bad. I know there are bullies in the world who just want to hurt other people and more likely than not, we’ve all run across at least one.

I just think that mothers are easy targets because we are already constantly second-guessing ourselves. And that’s truly where I think the mommy wars come from. The worry that we are not enough for our children, and the guilt over not giving them our best. Even the bullies that have hurt you or told you you’re a terrible mother because of a choice you made - I would bet that they are feeling pretty lost and insecure themselves and just want reassurance that they are doing okay with their own kids.

But I’ve got some good news. It won’t sound like good news at first, but trust me; it’s good news.

We are not enough. And sometimes we won’t be our best. But we serve someone who is always enough and who only gives His best. It isn’t up to us to be perfect. God has promised us that though we will mess up, He will be there to guide us back on the right path.

That can be a scary thought. But it can also be a relieving one. It isn’t up to me to be the best mom on the planet. I don’t have to worry that because I made the wrong decision my child will be permanently unhappy. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it so amazing to know that the very creator of the universe is investing His time into our children, and that he is allowing us to be part of that?

Don’t get me wrong - I am not giving you permission to stop raising your kids. When little Timmy asks you for some breakfast, I am not suggesting that you stay in bed and tell him that God will be along to butter his toast in a few minutes. God has placed with us the task of raising our children and teaching them and loving them. But he didn’t just drop these kids off on our porches and run away. He is there with us, protecting us, redirecting us, showing us that though we are still sinners He still desires us.

When Hannah asked me to speak today, at first I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I had much of a story to tell. But over the last few weeks God has shown me so much truth that has set me free. I still struggle. I am still tempted to keep a scorecard for my kids. But now that I know the reasons behind it, it’s not so scary to deal with. I am able to enjoy my family more and rest in God’s promise of redemption for me as a mother, daughter, sister, and so much more.

And now I can compare my kids in a much more wonderful way: I can look at their different personalities and gifts, not as a way to decide who is doing better, but as a way to celebrate their unique identities. My son Josh is a thinker, like his father. He never does anything without deliberate consideration and planning. But he likes to giggle. And he loves people. He would sell me online in a heartbeat if someone gave him a hug and a pop tart. He likes to pretend but he is too excited to keep it up for very long so any games of pretend usually dissolve into giggles pretty fast. He is my strong boy, a living example of the way God works all things together for good. My daughter Jenna, though only five months old, is already much more of a drama queen. She feels every emotion with all of the power her little body can muster. She is impulsive and moves from toy to toy, trying to gather all of them in her hand at once. She is slower to give a smile but once she does, it’s always worth the wait. She is my passionate girl, a living example of God’s faithfulness to His people.

Those are the comparisons I want to focus on. Those are the things I want to remember in twenty years when my kids are in school (or living in a refrigerator box) and I am reflecting on their lives. Those are the things I want them to remember when they have their own kids and struggle with wondering if they are doing a good job raising them.

I will make mistakes. You will make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I can sleep easier tonight knowing that our Heavenly Father makes no mistakes, and that He loves my kids even more than I do.

The Mommy Wars

Before I became a mother, I had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. It was one of those subjects that I was woefully but blissfully ignorant of - I really didn't have much use for information like which brand of diapers was best or how you need to move like a frickin ninja to escape infant projectile vomit.

I am still far from an expert, but after I had kids, I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys (seriously, do they even work in the plastic cars? Then WHAT IS THE POINT) and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory.

The parent side has lots of surprises. You learn words like "Wubanub" and "cluster feeding" and, in our case, "hyerbilirubenimia." But one of the most unexpected surprises I encountered was the Mommy Wars. If you're not familiar, the Mommy Wars is an ongoing battle between mothers (and occasionally fathers) over various methods of parenting. For example: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, strollers vs. babywearing, cloth diapers vs. disposables, velociraptor vs. t-rex, etc etc. I tend to bop through life in a cloud of glitter and Skittles and assume everyone does the same, so I was really surprised to see how often these issues popped up, not to mention the intensity of the arguments they caused. Articles are flung left and right; everyone from psychologists to school teachers to children's birthday clowns seems to have a scientific opinion on whether letting your baby sleep in your bed will scar him for life. Sometimes people start snapping their fingers and singing and that's when you know that it just got real.

As much as I love a good argument, I found myself avoiding these particular fights as I delved into research of my own (fine, as I copied every single thing my sister did). Not because I was offended. Not because I wanted to interview those birthday clowns for myself to see if their science was accurate. No, my avoidance was due to something much simpler. Something that I think has the potential to end these Mommy Wars forever. Are you ready for this incredible secret? Here you go:

Apathy.

Yes. Apathy. I do. not. care. I do not care if you feed your child formula. I do not care if you breastfeed your child. I do not care if your child only eats hot sauce. Not because I am a serene, peace-loving person who can rise above such petty conflicts as I practice yoga in my meditation garden. I am just too lazy to care. I am tired. I am busy. I am constantly losing one of my children. So at the end of the day, whether you strap your baby to your back in a pretty wrap or with several socks tied together, I'm cool with it. Just don't drop the kid because that's not cool. I mean, I probably wouldn't turn you in or anything. Actually, just writing about it has pretty much sapped my energy so go ahead and drop little Timmy; I won't tell.

This isn't a humble brag where I toot my own lazy horn and show you how I win all the Mommy Wars due to my lack of judging others and indifference to others' judgment of me. Despite the awkward, chaotic mess that is my daily interaction with people, I do care what other people think of me. I'm only human. But I am a lazy human, and while I have tried hard to get worked up over the fact that Sally Smith doesn't believe in disposable diapers...eh. What do I care? Is Sally at my house, throwing away my diapers and forcing me to use cloth ones? Has she hired Tonya Harding to bash me in the knee so I can say a lot of embarrassing things on national television that will follow me forever? No? Then...eh. Sally can have her cloth diapers and I can have my disposable ones and somehow I think the world will keep turning.

So, parents and people everywhere - join me on the Other Other Side. The side where you always feel accomplished because your kids are alive at the end of the day and that's really all you were going for. The side where all your decisions are right because no one was paying attention to them anyway. You don't even have to put on real pants. Take the plunge. Cross over. Drop your cares and worries at the gate - your toddler or dog will probably eat them and then you won't even have to step over them.

Apathy: The real future of parenting. I'd put that on a t-shirt, but...eh.

Clearly my parenting is superior to yours.

The Five Types of Facebookers

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. Like, a lot. I imagine my kids' first sentences will be something like, "Are you going to update your status soon, Empress of the Universe?" Also I will be teaching my kids to address me as Empress of the Universe. And since I not only spend a lot of time on Facebook but also have a degree in public relations, which means I am basically a Facebook expert, I have noticed a trend. The majority of Facebookers I see fall into at least one category, sometimes two. Sometimes three. I fear those people the most. And, lucky you, I have decided to share these categories for your benefit and enjoyment. Which one are you? Are you more than one? Tell me all.

The Liker:

This person may or may not comment, but as soon as your status goes up, you can count on them to click the "like" button to show their approval of your latest update. This person moves like a silent ninja, liking things all over the place, even if what they like makes no sense. Sometimes this person likes other peoples' comments - people they don't even know. The most terrifying power this person wields is the notifications. Oh, the notifications. There is nothing like opening up Facebook, clicking on your notifications, and seeing the same profile picture eighteen times in a row because The Liker has struck once again to express their approval for everything you have written in the last three hours. Well played, Liker. Well played.

The InstaCommenter:

I don't know how this person moves so quickly, but within five seconds of you pressing "post," this person has already commented on your status/picture/link. This truly baffles me. I am not judging how much time The InstaCommenter spends on Facebook, because people in social media houses shouldn't throw virtual stones. But how does this person react so fast? HOW? What's even more impressive/confusing is that this person, much like The Liker, moves swiftly and silently. They may not have had any activity on Facebook for six hours. But the moment you respond to their comment, there they are, ready with an InstaFollowUp. I can only imagine they have some kind of pager attached to their wrist at all times that alerts them to the exciting news that they can once again comment on a Facebook status. Or maybe they're psychic.


The Drama Llama:

My goodness, this person has a rough life. Or so they would lead you to believe. I am not the Facebook police. You can write what you want on your Facebook page. But there are some days where I see a Drama Llama and have to resist the urge to find a way to cut off their Internet access. You will recognize the Drama Llama because while their crisis will seem urgent and/or terrible, further inspection will show you that what they are experiencing is not, in fact, that big of a freakin' deal. The Drama Llama is crafty, and toys with your emotions using lots... of.... ellipses... to build up... ... ... suspense... before doing... a... big reveal IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. An experienced Drama Llama could make buying new shampoo a nail-biter of an event. It's hard to tell whether the Drama Llama is really this upset about a non-issue, or if they just really like typing sad faces. This is one of the mysteries of life that may never fully be solved.

The Nostalgic Stalker:

Have you ever gotten a notification that someone has liked or commented on a post, clicked to see the post, and been really confused for about thirty seconds before realizing said post is from 2009 and you barely remember writing it? That confusion is brought to you courtesy of the Nostalgic Stalker. Part of the blame has to lie with the silly Facebook newsfeed that shows you posts from two days ago and pretends they are new. But most of the blame lies with the Nostalgic Stalker as they scroll through your profile and acknowledge every post you have made in the last six months. Unlike The Liker and InstaCommenter, subtlety is not this person's strength. Oftentimes they refuse to acknowledge that any other events have passed since you posted whatever they are commenting on, resulting in gems like, "Hope your wedding is full of blessings!" three years after you get married. Have they not been on Facebook for several months? Do they think you might like to be reminded of the day you graduated college? It's hard to say why the Nostalgic Stalker does what they do. But one thing is certain - they will do it to you.

The Killjoy:

Oh, man. This person. This person bums me out just to write about, so you can imagine what running into one of them on Facebook is like. The Killjoy's main goal is to suck the life and fun out of every hilarious or uplifting thing you post. Writing out your favorite Bible verse and posting it as your status? The Killjoy will comment with a fun fact on how that verse is actually severely mistranslated and really does not mean anything close to what you thought. Want to post some lyrics of your favorite inspirational song? The Killjoy will link an article that explains the artist is now on meth and hates kittens. And heaven forbid you post something a little tongue-in-cheek as your status. The Killjoy does not do sarcasm. Any statuses about how you want to sell your baby online will result in lectures on how children are a precious gift, why DFACS does not want you to sell your children, and articles from parenting magazines about loving the moment. Don't be that person. No one likes that person. At all.

And there you go - the Five Types of Facebookers. They are real. They are out there. I have been all of these at one point or another, and - admit it - so have you. It's okay. We're here for you. But seriously, don't link parenting articles to my status. I will not have that nonsense. I will. not. have it.

The App of Shame

Do you drink a lot of water? I find that when I ask this question (yes, I do ask this question a lot), people fall into one of two camps: Either water is omg the best thing ever and you should love water and do you have any water and is that water I see can I please have some, or water is the single worst thing to ever exist and when Jesus returns to this earth the first thing he will do is get rid of that foul liquid so we can finally be happy. 

I was more in the second camp until recently. I like water but I looooove so many other things. But being pregnant means you have to stay hydrated and something about health and other stuff, too, so back to water I went. I drink a lot of water. A. Lot. Exactly how much, you wonder? Thanks for asking; it's hard to segue into this next part unless someone asks. I drink about 100 ounces a day. I know this because I have an app on my phone that tells me how much I have had (after I tell it) and tells me how much I need to be hydrated according to my height and weight and hair color. Easy peasy, right? 

Wrong. 

See, as I have stated previously, I am not the kind of person who is motivated by goals. Or by anything, really. I need to lose 20 pounds by my birthday? Okay! Or not! Either one is okay with me! But I always start out motivated. Sometimes I'm even really motivated. As was the case when I originally started using my hydration app. But now, several weeks later, I find myself falling off the wagon, as they say, and while I want to get back on... meh. I still drink a lot of water. But the thrill of adding it to my phone has faded somewhat. And I have realized this is true of so many apps I have used in the past... running, couponing, even Pinterest. Looking back over my lack of motivation I have noticed a pattern, which I will now present to you chronologically. Why? Because I can. 

Day 1: 

New app! It was free! Yay!!! I will now spend the next hour filling out every single question and meticulously typing in my info so I can get started! Weeeeeeeeeeee! Now to choose a username! Oh, if I do a good job I get either a bronze, silver, or gold medal! I bet I can make it to gold every day! 

Day 2: 

Boy, this new app sure is fun! And my user name is awesome: TheHydrator1986. I am a genius. Now to add all of my water so I can get a medal! Wow, up to bronze already? I am so awesome. And it makes a happy sound when I reach a new medal!!!!!11111!!!

Day 3: 

Oops! Almost made it all the way to lunch without putting in my water intake! Silly. There we go. No medal yet? Hmm... I will chug some water right now... type it in... MEDAL, SCORE. 

Days 4-6:

Oh, shoot - I haven't added any water since yesterday. But I know I drank a lot. Probably at least as much as the day before. I'll just say that; it's not like the app knows (or does it?). Okay, silver medal. Not as good as gold but still respectable, right? 

Days 7-9:

Argh. I have absolutely no idea how much water I have had. It felt like a lot. Should I also count the Diet Coke I had? I mean, it hydrated me, right? Sure. That's science. Okay, show me the gold, show me the gold... huh. Bronze. Well, that's okay. It's ridiculous to expect someone to get gold every day. Even Gabby Douglas went home with a few silvers, amirite? 

Day 10: 

Okay, I have to stop lying to the app. The point is to drink a lot of water and lying isn't helping. No more lying. 

Day 11: 

Maybe just a little more lying.

Days 12-14: 

Seriously, I don't see why this is such a big deal. It's just water. I drink plenty. This app doesn't know my life. Maybe if the APP had a baby who needs a lot of attention and a sink full of dirty dishes it wouldn't be so quick to judge my lack of water intake. Get off your high horse, hydration app. 

Day 15:

I will just move the app to the last section on my phone. That way I don't have to see its angry, condescending glare every time I unlock my phone. 

Day 16: 

I can still sense the app...waiting for me, asking me why I give up so easily. Be quiet, you stupid app. You don't know me. You don't know ANYTHING. I GOT SIX GOLD MEDALS. SIX. 

Fine, it was five. 

Day 17:

Delete app. Eat brownie. 

So there you have it: The quick descent from motivation into apathy. I'm actually really impressed that it only takes me a couple of weeks to make such a drastic change. Maybe I am more motivated than I thought. Maybe I am THE most motivated quitter that ever was. That can be my thing. That will earn me a real gold medal!!! 

I'm thirsty. 

Babies are like dogs (but dogs aren't like babies)

I have now been a parent for almost 10 months (10 MONTHS WHY GOD WHYYYY), and while I am still relatively new to the child-raising game, I have garnered a lot of wisdom in my short tenure. For example, don't get attached to your baby's socks. The cuter they are, the faster they disappear in the Great Sock Void, where socks are drawn in by a guy selling candy and are never seen again. Another fun fact is that toots are deceptive. What you are smelling is probably just a toot, but since you have to make sure and unbutton those stupid PJs, look in the diaper, and stop your baby from wriggling out of his pajamas so he can finally be free like he's always wanted, it winds up being just as much work as if the smell was actually poop.

But the most startling discovery, the most shocking, wild, unexpected bit of information I have learned this year is this: Babies and dogs have a lot in common. 

Let me clarify: Owning a dog does not equal raising a baby. I know that your precious Fifi is a lot of work and the other night you had to stay up with her because she was sick and it was very sad and that you might think it's the same as having a baby. Stop that. Dogs are a lot of work, but at least they take their poop outside (most of the time). And dogs become self-entertaining - that tail is easy to chase pretty early on. But, in spite of the many difference, there are also a lot of similarities. Maybe the better way to say it is that I approach raising my child much like the way I approach owning a dog. Wait. That doesn't sound right. Just keep reading. 

This is my dog: 

Ignore the terrifying eyes. He isn't a robot. 

This is my baby:

Cute, right?? I know. 

At first glance, you might wonder what these two have in common, besides the fact that in each picture they are drooling on something. But while you're looking for the drool in both of these pictures, consider the following list of things I say to my dog and my child on a daily basis:

- "What is in your mouth??"

- "Don't lick that."

- "There is no need to make that noise."

- "Tell me what you want... you're looking toward the kitchen... food? Is it food? It's food!!!"

- "Is this dirt or poop?" (It's poop. It's always poop.)

- "This <insert gross thing> sounds like a job for Daddy... Oh, Daniel!!"

So you can see that the similarities are already building. Both my dog and child would like to chew on every electrical cord available. They enjoy rolling things into small, hard to reach places and then they enjoy crying until I find a way to reach it. They both want something that is totally, completely unreasonable all of the time: The dog would like to be a lap dog and curl up on us in spite of the fact that he is fifty pounds. The baby would like to both turn his head away from his bottle and drink from his bottle at the same time. They both have a knack for ignoring the safe, happy toys right in front of them and instead presenting me with random pieces of trash, in spite of the fact that I just vacuumed and picked up all trash in sight. 

And my baby can't even crawl yet. I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. 

So, other moms - tell me, am I right? Do my infant and my pooch bear a resemblance to each other? Or am I just a really terrible person who compares her sweet baby to her dog?

The Post That Almost Was

Ever since I started writing this blog, I have been trying to think of interesting and/or hilarious things to write about. It isn't easy, you know. I have to work really hard not to do any laundry or dishes so I can concentrate on being funny for you people. It's my sacrifice for you.

Inevitably, the best ideas for blog posts come when I am either in the shower or about to fall asleep. When I'm in the shower, I usually just give it up. I don't have any paper. Daniel gets mad when I write in Sharpie on the walls. If I write it in soap it washes away and I get sad. So those have to go. I just convince myself that whatever idea I have isn't funny. 

If I think of something to write about as I'm falling asleep, I desperately try to remember it. I'll even write the post out in my head in an attempt to remember it. I will stay awake for an hour trying to think of as many details as possible so I don't forget my idea. 

You'd think I would use all that time to go get a pen and write it down. But my bed is really comfy. 

A lot of times I remember the ideas I have right before I go to bed. Unfortunately, I am not the most coherent person when I am sleepy. I can't even say words correctly. Ask BFF Jen. When I get tired I make as much sense as a drunken ferret with marbles in its mouth. So a lot of my ideas aren't exactly blog-worthy. 

Last night's idea was no exception. I am still wondering why I thought this was going to be a good idea - and a really good idea, at that. I was really excited. Way too excited. Wanna hear? Sure you do. 

I was going to write a post about my eyebrows. 

Yes. 

These bad boys right here:

See, I am very particular about my eyebrows. Actually, I am very particular about everyone's eyebrows. I don't really keep mine groomed in any special way. But I can. not. stand it. when eyebrow hair is brushed the wrong way. Or whatever you do to eyebrows to make them do this:

I can't take it, people. Daniel - who, by the way, has magnificent eyebrows - likes to make his eyebrows look all crazy and follow me around until I am forced to fix them. We have a weird relationship. 

Anyway, as I was lying in bed last night, I turned my head to get more comfy and I felt an eyebrow hair pop out of place. Just one. It sprang out of line like it had been waiting for me to make just such a move so it could finally free itself from the oppressive regime of my forehead. I stand for no such mutiny and immediately smoothed it back in place. Better luck next time, eyebrow hair. 

And it was then that I thought, this would make an awesome blog post. 

I know. I'm just as confused as you are. Why on earth would that make a good post? What else was there to tell? That was literally the whole story, in that tiny paragraph above. Not a lot of plot points left. 

I guess I could have embellished a little. Like if a giant grizzly bear came and messed up my eyebrows and then,  when I woke up, tried to eat me. That would make a good post. Or if someone moved just one eyebrow hair to taunt me and left a note threatening to come back and do it again if I didn't leave $1,000,000,000 in unmarked bills at the QT in 12 hours. That would also make a good post. Although if that happened, I assume one of the conditions would be that I couldn't tell anyone about it so I couldn't write the post at all. 

But none of those things happened. My eyebrow got fresh with me. I nipped that business in the bud. And then I spent the next half hour mentally writing a hilarious post about unruly eyebrows. 

I think the NICU broke me. But I like it. And so does my unicorn. He also has nice eyebrows. 

Top 7 Pregnancy Question Comebacks

I've mentioned before that being pregnant has brought on some interesting experiences. And by experiences, I mean judgment. And by interesting, I mean annoying. The judgments are pretty easy to ignore; I just sip my Diet Coke and practice my angry scowl. It's actually kind of fun. I thought at first it was limited to the annoying judgment. Oh, how naive I was. I now know one more key thing about pregnancy: People will say anything. I mean, anything. Apparently growing a child inside me gives everybody and their mother license to comment, question, and suggest.

I only want to say one thing here: Stop it. 

You're being annoying. No one wants to hear from you.

However, since people will inevitably say something anyway, I have decided to come up with some comebacks that pregnant women can respond with when asked extremely personal questions about their lady parts. For example...

Q: "Wow, are you okay? You look so tired."
A: "Really?? Do you mean it?? I spent all morning throwing up and was really worried I looked too refreshed. I'm just glad you said something."

Q: "Do you know what you're having?"
A: "No, but I think it's a velociraptor. I've always wanted one so keep your fingers crossed."

Q: "Will you be sad if it's a <insert sex here>?"
A: "No. I'll just give it up for adoption if it isn't what I want."

Q: "Are you going to give birth naturally?"
A: "I'm actually really hoping to give birth through my nose."

Q: "Get ready, <whatever you're complaining about> will just get worse when the baby arrives!"
A: "I sure hope so."

Q: "Were you trying to have a baby?"
A: "You know, it's the darnedest thing. I didn't even know how babies were made until this happened."

Q: "You're getting big!"
A: "So are you."

Q: "How do you feel today?"
A: "Hang on, the voices are telling me what to answer."


...just to name a few.

I realize that many of these aren't that intrusive. I don't mind being asked how I'm feeling or answering someone's honest question about pregnancy. But - and I can't believe we're in a time where I have to say this - other peoples' reproductive choices and habits are none of your business. I know. It's hard to hear. But trust me - in this case, less is more.

I hope we've all learned something today. And I really hope I've offended at least one of you... after all, what are Mondays for?

Conversations that can only be had with your BF4L

BFF Jen and I argued about orphans and snow today. And, lucky you - I have captured the moments below for your viewing pleasure. To give it some context, I had just told Jen that I had accidentally spilled water on a book of poems Daniel wrote for me, ruining the first few pages. I tend to be "over-dramatic" and react "dangerously out of proportion to the situation" so I was very sad.

Aaaaand, cue convo:

Jenna: I know, that's a bummer. But at least you still have it and now you have a good story to go along with it. Or you should make up a good story to go along with it.

Me:  The story of my sorrow.

Jenna:  Daniel was away on a trip for days and it was the first time you had been apart. And it was Christmas. And it was raining...it hadn't turned to snow yet. You had gone out Christmas shopping alone and had taken the book of poems with you to have a little piece of him, and when you were coming back into the house, they fell into a puddle.

Me:  Awwwwwwww that's sad, too.

Jenna:  Well yeah, it's supposed to make everyone pity you in your sorrow.

Me: How about an orphan was in our house and knocked a cup of water onto my night stand. He gave us 6 million dollars to make up for it. And why would Daniel leave me on Christmas?? I don't want him to. He never travels.

Jenna: Oh for the love. Fine, the kid knocked it over and gave you a bunch of cash.

Me:  I mean, what, is he going to leave me on VALENTINE'S day, too??

Jenna: Yes. And leave you with the orphan again.

Me:  I hate that orphan. He always wants to talk.

Jenna:  Shouldn't have let him in the house.

Me:  He just walked in.

Jenna:  Well next time push him out.

Me:  It was raining! About to turn to snow! On CHRISTMAS.

Jenna:  You can't mix stories!

Me:  I just did.

Jenna:  Well then that also means Daniel was still gone.

Me:  Nuh-uh! Aren't you listening? He NEVER travels!

Jenna:  Yes huh, it’s my story.

Me:  It's my poem book.

Jenna:  That you dropped in the puddle.

Me:  I DIDN'T DROP IT. THE ORPHAN SPILLED WATER ON IT.

Jenna:  Yeah, yeah.

Me:  I'm still sad.

Jenna:  Then I can’t help you.

Me:  Then I have nothing else to say.

Jenna:  yes huh. HEY IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY ONE WEEK FROM TODAY

Me:  YAY YAY YAY I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY YAY

Jenna:  Told ya. Bwahaha.

Me:  Aw, shoot. You win this round, Cooper. But I'll be back.

Jenna:  HAAAAAAAAAA. Yesssss.

B. F. 4. L. 

Everything I never knew about babies

Daniel has a general knowledge of just about everything. The Bible, history, mechanics, television - he knows a lot.

I, on the other hand, live my life in a land where unicorns and Pop Tarts reign supreme. Sure, I don't know who my Senator is (I totally do), but I can find you pictures of six cute cats in thirty seconds or less.

So it didn't surprise me to find out that I didn't know a ton about babies, either. When my nephew was born, I discovered all sorts of things. I would share them with you, but I don't want to be on DFACS' radar before my baby is even born. Let's just say I didn't know much about babies. Daniel knows a lot about them, so our kid still has a good chance of eating every day and going to school and whatever else children do.

I am still learning about babies. I have, however, learned some interesting things about pregnancy. These revelations aren't "scientific" or "medical" or "useful" but if I had realized just how true they were, I would have prepared myself more for them. You want to know what they are, don't you. Come onnnn. Say yes. Say it. Say it say it say it say it say it.

Okay, I'm just going to pretend you said it. Here we go!

1) Pregnancy makes you stupid.  You may not know this, but I totally have a super power: I can remember anything. Birthdays? Check. Anniversaries? Done. Random facts about guns and the history of guns? I'm on FIRE.

But not anymore. Now I'm stupid. Stupid is a harsh word. But I cannot think of another way to describe my brain when I am at the post office, trying my hardest to remember my address and telling the nice USPS lady that I could just drive down the street and look at my mailbox really quick. My mom gave me a notebook to write things down so I would remember them. I have no idea where it is. Sorry, Mom. I teach children's church at my church and called at least 3 kids by the wrong name last week. They kind of just went with it. They also wear name tags, by the way.

So be ye warned, potentially pregnant ladies. It is serious business. Get a notebook. And Velcro it to your shirt.

2) Lettuce is the enemy. McDonald's is my friend. I can no longer eat lettuce. Not sure why lettuce specifically has given me that lovely feeling that I am about to barf at any moment. But it does. I avoided Taco Bell for a while because of all the lettuce. I avoided Taco Bell. Then Daniel pointed out that I should just get my taco without lettuce. I told you he was smart.

McDonald's, on the other hand, is my new best friend. I do not go to McDonald's. Ever. Before these last few months I had gone to McDonald's maybe 5 times in the last ten years. I don't like it. But now I love it. I kind of want to marry it. Except I'm already married. But I think Daniel would let me bring McDonald's into our marriage. He likes it, too. We could all be so happy together.

Ahem. Anyway. McDonald's is awesome.

3) Everyone and their mother has a medical degree. Apparently. I had heard that people were incredibly rude and nosy to pregnant women. Not on purpose, of course (I hope), but it was still an issue. And maybe I didn't believe it was that bad. I'm here to tell you - it is that bad.

Random strangers have told me which veggies to eat, to lose weight, to make sure I take a swimming class so my baby will know how to swim. Yeah. That last one really confused me, too. The Quizno's lady keeps telling me horror stories about parents dropping babies or forgetting to feed them. And once a child at Babies R Us asked if I was pregnant. I mean, yes, I am. But we all know you don't ask. Never too early to learn, right, Johnny? Oh, stop crying; I didn't pinch you that hard.

Believe it or not, strangers are the easiest ones to deal with. I can get all Southern on them and say something polite that on the surface makes me sound so gracious but that really means they have .2 seconds to back. the heck. up. before I go crazy ninja on them. It's the people that I see on a regular basis that really drive me nuts. I have had people email me about how much I am hurting my baby by drinking Diet Coke. One person told me that my highlights have likely damaged my baby forever.

If you are one of those people... sorry. It's better you know this now. We're still friends. It's cool. But how about we all abide by this one rule, m'kay? If you don't have some kind of medical training or degree, I don't want to hear it. 

**There is obviously the exception of other pregnant women and/or mothers that I am friends with. Please give me all of your advice and I will make you a cake. HELP ME.**

The rest of you, go use that eager, helping spirit to build a house for the poor or donate some toys for Christmas. Learn to weave baskets, take up knitting, apply to clown school and buy a red nose - just no. more. advice. My own mother-in-law is actually a real live nurse and I have yet to hear from her about all the terrible things I am doing during my pregnancy. So rest assured that I have medical staff on hand who are measuring my Diet Coke intake by the ounce.

This post seems mean now. Maybe I shouldn't post it. Eh, who I am kidding. But here - have six cute kittens to make you happy again.

Nancy Drew is a Truant Jerk.

My sister and I used to read the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Super Mysteries. Nancy Drew would team up with the Hardy Boys - yes, they're still using their famous "hand signals" to communicate - and they would solve crimes all over the world. It was glorious. And the cover art was just the stuff of legend:

Check out that bad boy. I cannot decide if her hair or the expression on the dark-haired guy's face is worse. Not to mention the kid in the back being chased by a ninja.

Recently, I discovered the best store on the planet, Books for Less.  It has books that are out of print, hard to find, etc. etc. Shockingly, my beloved Nancy Drew books have been out of print for quite a while, but I found them all at Books for Less. Every. Last. One. So I got some. Shut up; they're awesome. Okay, that's a lie. They're horrible. I have discovered that Nancy, Frank, and Joe are all terrible students with no regard for education or safety. And they've started dragging their friends into it.

What's that? You want me to break down a list of examples for these statements? Okey dokey. For you, anything.

I now present to you the reasons that cause me to believe Nancy Drew is a truant jerk and the Hardy Boys should be in prison:

1) She is never in school. Ever. Neither are the Hardy Boys. I could maybe get on board with them being 18 and just not going to college, thus explaining the oodles of free time they all enjoy. But no - the books regularly mention that one of them has a paper due soon, or how Joe is on the football team, or how Nancy knows French because she is taking it in school.

WHY AREN'T YOU IN CLASS, KIDS. I know you have parents - fine, one of you has a dad and a housekeeper - so where do they think you are? Do you live in some kind of time warp with infinite Thanksgivings and spring breaks and summers? Or have you somehow removed your name from the roster so the truant officer doesn't even know you're missing?

Don't take this path. School is cool. I get it - solving mysteries is exciting. You know what isn't exciting? Getting fired from the minimum-wage job you only barely acquired after you got your G.E.D. at the age of 47 because you left for 6 weeks to solve a mystery in China. Get to class.

2) Nancy's fat friend Bess has no brains, no life, and no future. You remember Bess. She is the "curvy" one that all the boys love. However, in the books, she is portrayed as a sad idiot who probably couldn't tie her shoelaces if Nancy wasn't waving a donut in front of her.

In every single book, Bess is hungry. She wines. She naps while Nancy is out crime-fighting. We know all of this because Nancy tells us in her condescending super-sleuth tone of snottiness. It always goes something like this: "Nancy turned around to ask Bess if she wanted to come with her to the mystery mansion, but Bess was sound asleep in her bed. As usual. But that was okay, because Nancy knew Bess would only find a guy to flirt with. Darn her and her socializing, anyway. Nancy left a note and a pastry by Bess' bed as she snuck out of the room, glad her friend wasn't joining her this time. Also, Bess was fat."

That might be a slight exaggeration. But only a slight one. Be nice, Nancy Drew. You keep promising Bess awesome vacations to Seattle and Rome and Greece and France and then you drag her into your quest to catch a serial killer and get her kidnapped. And when she tries to make a new friend or, heaven forbid, eat lunch, you moan about it. She just wants to RELAX, Nancy. Friendship means doing what the other person wants sometimes. 

3) The Hardy Boys are always breaking and entering. I am throwing down a challenge right now. If you can find me one of these books where the Hardy Boys and occasionally Nancy do not break into a suspect's house, only to be caught because ~SPOILER ALERT~ the suspect comes home unexpectedly. I will give you a prize if you can bring me the title of the book.

Do you boys think this will hold up in front of a judge? I've watched Law & Order enough to know that if evidence is seized unlawfully, they can't use it in court. So instead of helping the police, you're really just proving the person committed the crime while simultaneously ensuring that they will never ever go to jail for it. Isn't your dad like an international detective or something? Use your noggins, boys. And call the cops to help you, for crying out loud. I've never been in a dangerous situation and thought "Gee, I hope a 17-year-old kid and his brother show up to save me soon."

Also, it's just creepy to be breaking into people's houses and hiding in their closets and going through their underwear drawers. Fine, the last one hasn't happened yet but you know it's just a matter of time. Use all that energy to play Halo or whatever the kids are into.

Don't forget my challenge. Bring me the book that contains the lack of illegal break-in and you shall receive your prize. And stay in school.