Collecting Attributes

"Each man has his own gift from God;

one has this gift, another has that."

1 Corinthians 7: 7

   
  I'm a collector from way back. As a child I collected fancy paper napkins. In high school, candles. Pitchers, irises, fans. 
   I've enjoyed my collections, even as I've abandoned one for another. There’s joy in the searching, joy in the gathering, and joy in the sharing. And for me, the search usually starts where there are antiques.  My favorite haunts are antique shows where dozens of dealers assemble their booths, teasing me with aisles and aisles of displays, just waiting for me to dive in. And drool.
   As I enter such a show, my eyes scan the booths, skimming past the Fiestaware, the Depression glass, and the Monkees lunchboxes. Like a missile locking onto its target they find what they are searching for: antique purses.

   Ooh, there’s a beaded one from the twenties. And another marked with a Whiting and Davis stamp. There’s a Lucite purse from the fifties (the fifties . . . does this mean I’m an antique?) The purses are not in perfect condition, but the fact they have missing beads, torn linings, and tarnished handles only adds to their character. I make allowances.

   I usually enjoy such gatherings, quite willing to drown in the smell of old wood and dust. Yet on one day, in such an antique-lover's paradise, I had trouble concentrating. Among the Chippendale chairs and the tin toys I was drawn to the dealers instead of the deals. A lady from Texas greeted every customer with a firm handshake and a southern drawl. A dealer from Oregon charmed with a soft voice, wearing a veiled hat. Another had a laugh that ricocheted off the glassware. Turns out the people were as interesting and unique as the items they sold. They were collectible.

   That's when I started collecting people—or at least their attributes Smiles, thank yous, the twinkle in their eyes. The way they sang in their cars, kissed their baby's nose, or offered me their place in line. The by-product of collecting strangers' attributes was that I began to open my eyes to some attributes in my own backyard.

   I now notice how my husband always warms my ever-cold feet when we share the couch—without me even asking.  I enjoy how our oldest daughter Emily emails photos of family events within a few hours of getting home (I am quite willing to relinquish the pressure of chronicling every gathering to her able hands.) My heart swells when I watch the face of our son Carson light up when he makes his new baby smile (wasn’t he a baby just yesterday?) And I marvel at the stories our youngest daughter Laurel shares (she's a special-ed teacher) about the students that challenge her—and that are changed by her.

   Once I started to look at the amazing qualities within my own family, it became easier to skim past the parts of their personalities I didn't want to collect. For just like antiques, my family is not in perfect condition—and shocker—neither am I. Yet the fact we have missing beads, torn linings and tarnished handles only adds to our charm, and even our value.  I make allowances for them, and I appreciate them doing the same for me. "Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven." (Luke 6:37)

   Although my collections come and go, I hope I never give up collecting attributes. There is joy in the searching, joy in the gathering, and joy in the sharing. There is good happening all around us if only we open our eyes and see it. The special looks, idiosyncrasies, and attributes of the people in our lives make them as collectible as precious treasure. And as such, they are . . .
   Priceless.

***   

        

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms       

Don't Hurry Worry

"Do not be anxious about anything;
but in everything, by prayer and petition,
with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."
Philippians 4: 6

       If worry were chocolate, I'd weigh—it's none of your business. Let's just say I'm a professional worrier, and have been since my feet dangled from a chair.

God will take care of everything.

I know that. But giving up worry is as easy as giving up coffee . . . cheesecake with cherries . . . biscuits drowning in sausage gravy. 

It's not that I don't trust God. But I figure He has to be swamped, what with problems in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East . . . Certainly He doesn't need to be bothered by a bevy of everyday concerns rising up from Overland Park, Kansas. Worries about Emily's history, Carson's math, and Laurel's spelling tests; my husband's fatigue from dealing with 700 phone calls at work before noon; or my penchant for impatience because I'm not a best-selling author—yet.

So what if I handle a few things on my own? Is that so bad?

Yup.

But I'm an independent woman! I can install a light fixture without shocking myself, I can mow the lawn with only one five-minute nap behind the azalea bush, and I can whip up homemade treats for Girl Scouts with ten minute's notice (take the Chips Ahoy cookies out of the package and place them in a Tupperware container). Surely God likes independent people.

Nope.

I discovered this truth when the ravioli boiled over.

It was the end of a soap-opera day. Not the typical soap opera where my long-lost sister appears on my doorstep, a nympho-schizo who ran away with my fourth husband once removed while my evil neighbor plots to torch my house because my clothes are whiter than hers (surely, you jest). That, I could have handled.

It was a day when the cat piddled in the philodendron. We were out of milk and bread and eggs, forcing us to eat Doritos and orange juice for breakfast. Somehow, the kids managed to find a matching pair of shoes, and most of their homework. One off to school. Two. Three.

I had just scooped up Pepper with all intentions of having a serious discussion detailing the differences between potting soil and kitty litter when Laurel called from school. She'd forgotten her library book—which was already two days overdue. She couldn't check out Little House on the Prairie until she returned Little House in the Big Woods. And her book report was due in three days. Grabbing the book and my car keys, I wondered if any modern family was as organized as Pa and Ma Ingalls. The world could be so... trying.

After returning the book, I stopped at the school door. The sky had turned from blue to blanched—accompanied by a torrent of wet stuff. Never fear, my umbrella was . . . in the car. I made a run for it, stifling the urge to rotate slowly in the rain, saving my clothes a trip through the washer at some later date.

While I was in a library sort of mood, I headed for the main branch. I needed to research the effects of oleander for the mystery I was writing. As the weather progressed from raining cats and dogs to dumping an entire pet store on my car, the windshield wipers chose to deviate from their normal 4/4 rhythm. They tried a quick waltz . . . before giving up out of rhythmic frustration.

Brake lights! Oh, no! Whew . . . a near miss. I collected my scattered wits and pulled into a gas station to replace the wiper blades. Unfortunately, they cost more than the seventy-three cents I dug out of the glove compartment. My checkbook was at home. Charge it.

The library, groceries, lunch, laundry, writing.

Finally, a hot bath. I was just sinking into the steaming water, having discovered a way to get my knees and torso warm at the same time, when the phone rang.

It was a neighbor near my son's school. Carson fell off his bike. His arm was broken.

I wrung out my hair, pulled on some clothes, and raced out the door. I found Carson sitting on the curb, his right arm held gently with his left hand. A few brave tears escaped. His, and mine.

Off to the hospital where he got x-rayed, delayed and okayed—and became the proud owner of a fluorescent green cast.

I zoomed home, planted Carson on the couch armed with the remote control. I considered making him chicken soup (feed a cold, starve . . . an arm?) I wondered how he would do homework with his right hand encased in its glow-in-the-dark prison.

I headed for the kitchen to start dinner. I tossed a rock of frozen hamburger into the microwave and punched enough buttons to launch the space shuttle. Nothing happened.

"No! You can't do this to me!" I yelled, punching the sequence again in case I wasn't speaking coherent micro-ese during my first attempt. Zippo, no zappo.

Oldest daughter Emily bopped through the kitchen on her way to work at the local ice cream store. "See ya at eight," she said.

"Don't you want some dinner?"

"I'll eat something at work."

Chalk up one serving from the dairy, fat, and sugar food groups.

The clock said Mark would be home in fifteen minutes. I hoped he wouldn't mind ravioli with meat sauce a' la iceberg. I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes.

"Whatcha doing, Mom?" asked Laurel.

"I'm trying to remember how I cooked hamburger before the invention of the microwave."

"How 'bout the stove?" she suggested.

Cocky kid.

I pulled myself out of my catatonia and followed her suggestion, browning the frozen hamburger in one pan while water boiled for the ravioli in another.

The doorbell rang. Another lawn service wanted to take care of us. Was that a hint?

That's when it happened. That's when the ravioli boiled over.

And that's when I realized this particular independent woman couldn't do it alone.

I removed the pan from the burner and shut off every appliance in the kitchen hoping to prevent further mutiny. I escaped. To the bathroom. I locked myself in. Voluntary exile.

"Mom?" Laurel said, tapping on the door. "Are you all right?"

I took a deep breath and held back a primal scream.

"I will be," I said.

She left me alone. But I wasn't alone.

It's not a noble position, sitting on the toilet seat next to a sink that needs scrubbing, a mirror that needs shining, and a used Kleenex next to, but not in, the waste basket nearby. But God didn't mind since He finally had me where He wanted me—ready to listen.

"God, it's too much!"

I didn't hear a celestial voice echoing off the faucet. I didn't experience a flash of light as God granted me His revelation. God's voice came from within and was as comforting as a hug.

"It's about time you came to Me," He said.

That's when I gave my worries to God. I relinquished the pesky cat and the freshly fertilized philodendron. I gave Him Laurel's forgetfulness, Carson's arm, and Emily's junk food dinner. I asked Him to take care of the weedy lawn and the pasta-encrusted stove. And I asked if He had any good ideas for dinner—now late and getting later.

And He answered. Not with words but with feelings. Serenity. Peace. Everything would be all right.

I transferred the Kleenex from the floor to the waste basket, re-entered the world, and pulled out a phone book. I ordered pizza—with extra cheese.

God approves of pepperoni.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

What a Parent Wants

"Lord, you are my God; 

  I will exalt you and praise your name,
for in perfect faithfulness
  you have done wonderful things,
  things planned long ago."

Psalm 25: 1

     Our family is going through a season of babies. Children having grandchildren, a new generation springing to life.

Evelyn, Lily and Jackson

     I remember childbirth. It wasn’t easy, but it was far easier than what happened when we got the baby home from the hospital. I don't think any parent realizes the time involved in taking care of the bun-in-the-oven who's bigger than a bread box.

Jamison and me

     The sacrifices mothers make during pregnancy—the sacrifice of our waistlines, our wardrobe, and our freedom to eat the foods we really love—pale in comparison to the sacrifices we make once the bundle of joy has arrived. Every minute of our day is spent focused on this wiggly little being who has no inkling of our sacrifice. If our time is not spent actually touching them, talking to them, and caring for them, it is spent thinking about them, fretting over them, and talking about them.

Oliver

     Our baby is totally helpless. And so are we as we’re lured into their world and the spell of their tender existence. We revise our purpose for living to provide, protect, and prepare our child to be all they can be. They cry and we rush to their sides, eager to fulfill their every wish. If they are hungry, we feed them. If they are wet, we change them—or con Grandma into doing it. We give comfort and take it. We wrap them in too many blankets when we venture outdoors. We shackle them into car-seats when we drive. And when they start crawling, we follow their every move to protect them from stairs, sharp corners, and the consequences of porcelain knickknacks.

Hazel

     What do we ask in return? We don't ask for monetary consideration. We don't ask for awards or a write-up in the newspaper. We don't even ask for a thank you. All we expect as payment for our loyalty and attention is their love. And we aren't even picky about how it is extended to us. A smile. A laugh. A child's outstretched arms. The indescribable moment when their head rests against our shoulder. And eventually the most loving words they could ever say: Mama or Dada.

Oscar

     As we provide for our children, God provides for us as He protects and prepares us to be all we can be. What does He ask from us in return? He doesn't ask for monetary consideration or awards or a write-up in the newspaper. He doesn't even insist on a thank you. All God expects as payment for His loyalty and attention is our love. A smile. A laugh. Our outstretched arms. The indescribable moment when our head bows in surrender. And eventually the most loving words we could ever say: Father. Lord.
     In this sacred season, give our Heavenly Father what He wants.
     He wants you.

But from everlasting to everlasting

the LORD’s love is with those who fear him,

and his righteousness with their children’s children—

with those who keep his covenant and remember to obey his precepts.

Psalm 103: 17-18


***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

Eluding the Perfection Police

"There, in the presence of the Lord your God,

you and your families shall eat and shall rejoice

in everything you have put your hand to,

because the Lord your God has blessed you."

Deuteronomy 12: 7

     I am not the best housekeeper. Our house has dust bunnies that I've made into pets. I see no reason to vacuum the carpet just to remove footprints. And I know for a fact that a few water-spots on my kitchen faucet will not cause a plague.
     It's not that I don't know how to be a perfect Suzy Homemaker. Hey, I’m well aware of Martha Stewart’s obsessions. Yet, after decades of marriage, nine houses, three cats, two dogs, and three kids, and six grandkids I've chosen to take it down a notch.

     When the kids were young and the perfection-police invaded our domain, I’d bark orders: "Carson, you cut a swath through the family room. Emily, hose down the kitchen, and Laurel, capture all the dust bunnies. I'll conquer the laundry.  Any questions?"

     Carson raised a hand.  "Why are we doing this? Is Grandma coming to visit?"
     "No."
     "The pope?"

     I glared at them.  "No one's coming to visit.  We're cleaning the house for us. We do like a clean house, don't we?"
     Realizing this was a trick question, the kids looked at each other and shrugged. 
     "What's that shrug supposed to mean?" I snapped.
     "We'll help," Emily said, "but we don't understand why you're so . . . so . . ."
     "Zealous," Carson said.
     We all stared at him.  "Where did you get that word?" I asked.
     Carson looked at the ceiling, trying to remember.  "I think I read it in an article about wild-eyed fanatics who tried to take over some country."
     "Are you implying I'm wild-eyed?" I asked, brandishing a broom in the air like a sword. 
     My children's silence was my answer. I looked around at the morning newspaper strewn on the coffee table, a lone pair of shoes by the wall, the couch pillows which would only take a few moments to straighten. "Maybe I was exaggerating a bit," I conceded.  "Maybe things aren't as messy as I thought."
     The kids' shoulders relaxed. They'd been given a reprieve from the perfection-police, and their zealous mother—who was (and is) far from perfect.
     The perfection-police visit far less often now. The popcorn bowl in the sink, mail on the counter, a basket of socks that need matching, and a baseball hat flung over the stair post are not capital crimes. They're proof that a family lives here.
     And that is true perfection.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

Getting Ahead of the Game

"Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.

Each one should use whatever gift 
he has received to serve others,

faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms."

I Peter 4: 9-10

     I always vow this will be the year I get ahead of the game—whatever that game might be. 
     I'm tired of procrastinating.  I'm tired of feeling the pressure of should-dos. I'm tired of being tired. So . . . my solution is to embrace the Boy Scout motto:  be prepared. Ahead of time. A little at a time.

     The first test occurs right away as I make preparations for some family visitors who are staying two nights. I need to be domestic and clean and cook.
     Unfortunately, none of these attributes are my attributes, unless I’m in the mood, and I’ve long realized those moods can easily leapfrog months. Or years. 
     But this year, with my new resolution in tow, I vow that I will get ahead of the game and get the entire thing under control. D-day (done-day) is five days away, when the guests will arrive.
     Day #1:  I psych myself up to do it right. 
     However, as the day wears on and I haven't actually done anything beyond thinking about doing something, I end up feeling very much like Scarlett O’Hara:  I’ll do it tomorrow.  After all, tomorrow is another day. 
     Day #2:  I look at my to-do list and divide the house into battle zones:  basement, main floor, top floor. When the kids were little, I used to draw squares in the carpet of  their bedrooms with a finger, telling them to “Clean up this square” in an attempt to make the chaos seem more manageable. This might have been a helpful memory until I acknowledge the first floor of my house is mostly wood.
      Instead I collect dirty dishes from all three floors and fill the dishwasher. 
     I forget to turn it on.

     Day #3:   Feeling guilty for yesterday, I make a menu and a grocery list.  I even recopy the list according to sections in the grocery store:  Produce, Dairy, and the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle.  Knowing this is above and beyond any “getting ahead of the game” scenario I ever aspired to, I feel smug and done for the day but . . . I refuse to give into the temptation and actually go to the grocery store and buy the things I need.
     It takes two carts.
     Back home, enticed by the food in the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle, I make lunch. And since that makes a mess, I dive in and cook the menu items that can be frozen until the weekend. Adrenalin kicks in. Four hours later I have made sweet & sour chicken, coffee cake, muffins, crumb cookies, and a monstrous mess. I wonder if Merry Maids has a 911 number . . .
     I clean up and collapse on the couch.  I fall asleep to "Law & Order" reruns.

     Day #4:  I remember the Proverbs 31 Woman (sigh) and try to take verse seventeen to heart:  "She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks."  We'll see about that.
     The basement beckons.  As I vacuum, I notice a path in the carpet the cats have made on their way to their Poo-Room. I decide to force them into a new path by pulling out a bar stool, relocating a potted plant, and moving a footstool in the direct line of their padding little feet. I wait for a cat to run the gauntlet. Pepper complies, and I feel momentarily victorious, until I realize a new path will be pressed into the carpet. 
     I also realize as I vacuum the stairway, that the felines are not the only guilty party. Looking down upon my work, I see my own footprints in the plush. Because there is no solution, and because my back hurts, I retire to the couch and watch "Law & Order" reruns.
     Day #5 -- D-Day:  I wallow in the fact the wood floor cannot leave track marks like the carpet, but grieve that it produces a community of dust bunnies. I do my best rounding them up before proceeding to the second floor where bathrooms and clean sheets beckon. I try to imitate a fabric softener commercial by making a sheet float through the air to fall neatly on the bed. I only succeed in getting it caught in the ceiling fan and knocking over a lamp. But I make my mother proud by making everything fresh and new—including hospital corners.
     It’s nearly time for them to arrive. I'm sweaty and want a nap. If I ignore the need for makeup, I could probably slip in ten minutes of rest. I close my eyes (to afternoon "Law & Order" reruns) and am nearly asleep when a kitty jumps up on my chest. From my position on the couch I notice the entry light has cobwebs. The cat jumps to safety as I take care of it. 
     And the windows need washing . . . Hopefully, no one will be tempted to look through them.

     And my roots need touching up . . . If I comb my hair just right or wear a hat . . .
     The doorbell rings. And so the weekend begins. The house is filled with family who bring their coats, suitcases, and oft-heard stories, which makes me realize no one is looking at the house anyway.  We are too busy talking and being.
     The fellowship is awesome, the food edible, and time flies. 
     As they leave I vow to add something to my “get ahead of the game” scenario:  don’t worry so much about anything because my family don’t care about kitty tracks, they accept whatever level of scrubbed tub I can manage, and they’d settle for McDonald’s if that’s what I chose to serve.  

     They love me and I love them, and our time together is what’s important.  "If we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us." (I John 4: 12)
     Knowing that is truly getting ahead of the game.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

Treasure Hunts

"For where your treasure is, 
there your heart will be also."

Luke 12: 34

     

     Some things you never outgrow.

     Like treasure hunts. When I was growing up we had an Easter treasure hunt.  My mom made clues that would take us to the next clue and the next, until at the end we'd find our Easter basket full of goodies.

     I passed the tradition down to my kids. It was not an easy task. Three kids meant three different treasure hunts, each tailor-made to their respective ages. Before they could read I would draw the clues, making a picture of the TV or the fireplace or Dad's shoes. When they were older, I wrote out the clues, but still kept them simple: "Where Mom makes the coffee" or "Where the cat sleeps."  
     But as they got older, they were subject to the full extent of my imagination. Suddenly, "Where the keys are" didn't mean where we put our car keys, it meant the piano, and "Vivian Leigh" would mean they should look for the next clue to be taped to the video of "Gone with the Wind." I liked the fact they had to use their noggins. They hated it.

     When the kids were in their teens I tried stopping the tradition but they rebelled and insisted. As I racked my brain for original clues that would truly test their mental abilities, I had a prophetic glimpse into the future and saw myself making treasure hunts when my kids were in their forties. 
     That future is now. Now I make treasure hunts for four grandkids! Hopefully with many more in the future.
     But enough complaining. The fact my children like the traditions of our family and look forward to them is a comfort. It's also human nature. People seek out what they know, what they can depend on. Whether it be treasure hunts at Easter, back to school shopping with lunch at the food court, or making s'mores in the fireplace on vacation.  All these traditions reinforce the fact we are a family. We are in this together and some things can be counted on no matter what.

     Like Jesus. During this Easter season it's comforting to relive the passion of his death and resurrection. We seek it out. We depend on it. Christ's awesome expression of love reinforces the fact we are a family. We are in this together and some things can be counted on no matter what. He is the true treasure we search for at Easter.

     Blessedly, some things you never outgrow.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

CONFESSIONS OF A VALENTINE JUNKIE

“A new command I give you:

Love one another.

As I have loved you, so you must love one another.^”

^{John 13: 34}

My tongue is still stuck to the roof of my mouth from licking the stamps on the Christmas cards.  Now it's time to send valentines?

Responding to the valentines that grace our mailbox every year, I am supposed to send cards to my parents, siblings, grandparents, children, grandkids . . .  Come February first I've noticed our bank has a special loan officer handling Card Loans—not car loans—Card Loans to help defray the Valentine's Day crunch.



This year, I am not going to succumb. Blame the economy, the barometric pressure or the fact it's Tuesday, I will buy one valentine, and one valentine only:  for my hubby.

While I’m shopping in a neighborhood discount store, I decide the time has come.  I steer my cart toward the valentine section, my eyes locked on a row of masculine-looking cards.  Then it happens.  Out of the corner of my eye I spot a valentine with a white kitty on it, "To a Purr-fectly Sweet Grand-daughter on Valentine's Day".  Maybe, just one more . . .

"No!" I cry, averting my eyes.  My attention shifts to cards that say,

"Grandmothers are Special on Valentine's Day".  I shove my cart into traffic, nearly running into the blazing pole of a blue-light special. A guilt cloud forms above my head.  Lightning threatens.  I duck into the toilet paper aisle.

"Only one, only one . . ."

An elderly woman peers at me over her glasses and scurries away as if I am rabid.  I take a detour through the hardware section.  The red hearts are everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, plastered on displays of screwdrivers and hammers.  I hear their pulse dogging me.

Buy, buy . . . my mother, my sisters, my kids . . .

I feel a jolt as Cupid's arrow impales my cart.  The wheels start moving of their own accord as he reels me in.

"No, no, I won't go!" I yell.  I grab onto a display of bean bag chairs, but am yanked away amid a blizzard of foam beads. 

A clerk rushes out of the music section, smiles a pasty smile and says, "May I help you?"

"Pleeze!" I wail, hanging onto his pocket protector as my cart is pulled magnetically toward the greeting cards.  "Help me!"

He shakes me off like I'm a puppy biting his ankle.

Heart-shaped boxes of chocolate appear on my right. I'm close. Much too close. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I whip my cart to the left, racing past the aspirin and bulk softeners. I commandeer a shelf of antacids. Maybe if my cart is full, Cupid will let me go in peace.

The intercom blares. "Security, aisle three."

A uniformed man with "Bob" embroidered on his pocket appears as I empty a shelf of strawberry essence shampoo.  I risk a glance.  I do not see a gun.

"Take me into protective custody," I scream as I swipe a row of deodorant into my cart. 

"Take it easy, lady," he says, his eyes searching for back-up. "What seems to be the problem?"

I stop commandeering, emptying and swiping long enough to notice a crowd has gathered.  Children clutch their parent's legs, whimpering. Fingers point. They whisper behind closed hands.

"I . . . I need to buy a Valentine's Day card for my husband but I'm afraid. . ."

Female heads nod.  They know.

A woman carrying a toddler ventures toward me, her hand outstretched.  "It will be all right," she says.  "I'll help you."

As I take her hand the crowd applauds.  I leave my cart with the security guard.  He shakes his head, unaware admitting my problem is the first step toward a cure.

The woman leads me toward the cards.  My heart races and my palms sweat but resolutely, she does not let me run away from my fear.

“I'll stay with you," she says.  The little girl offers to share her lollipop.

We stop in front of the Sweetheart/Ex Husband/Significant Other section of the cards.  The woman strategically positions her body between me and the Mother-in-law/Babysitter/ Milkman section.  With shaking hands I make my choice.

She nods, approvingly.  "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asks.  

We head toward the check-out.  I snatch a red box of chocolates as we walk past and clutch it against my chest.  There.  I'm done.  I won't need to deal with this for another year.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I wave to the woman with the toddler.  She was so kind.  So patient.  I really should send her a thank you note. 

No . . . a valentine.

I speed homeward ever faster, feeling the wings of Cupid beating at my back.

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms