Tag Archives: Parenthood

Food lovers’ food fight

In September of 2010, our son was 6 months old when his first little tooth was starting to poke through. With the exception of a few weeks when my post-partum depression had been especially exquisite, and my husband David had to step in with formula a few times, our baby had been nursed exclusively throughout those first 6 months. We had been told that this was an appropriate age to start babies on solid foods. So, at our neighborhood Farmers’ Market one weekend, David and I bought a sweet potato to prepare for our sweet angel. I rinsed, peeled, cooked it until it was just tender, and pureed it. So exciting!

This was his reaction.

I can almost hear it, “What the hell, man?!”

Baby 1, Parents 0. Thus began our endeavor to feed our baby anything other than Mama’s milk. And then, one month in, with my mother in town, it just happened–Boom! Maybe she deployed a secret technique one evening that she was alone with him. All I know is, just like that, we went from the photo above to the one below. Baby 1, Parents 1. Win-Win! Then we couldn’t feed him fast enough.

What followed were several very happy months of experimenting and making him all sorts of food combos. When the time came for us to begin introducing our own foods to him, things started to change. Again. Maybe one mistake was to start him on bland and vaguely sweet stuff, per the recommendations of pediatricians and “experts” everywhere, before transitioning him to what we normally eat. It made enough sense to us at the time. We were rookie parents in this era of ever-increasing food allergies and unknown scary crap being put into our food. Now, I am convinced that folks who start their kids eating what the grownups eat from much earlier on have got it right.

That transition, in our case, has been an ongoing issue. When he was a baby, I had virtually no tolerance any time something new made him gag. Still, in fact. Is that so wrong? There were times when we probably gave up too quickly. I take responsibility for that. And four years in, enforcing that he eat something new or go to bed hungry is simply not happening; can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.

Having your child help with the food shopping and preparation to get him interested in different types of food? Done, and done. He loves food in an abstract sense. And he has been exposed to a much larger variety in types of food than either my husband or I ever were growing up. These enthusiasms have simply never, or very rarely, translated to an interest in eating the foods.

Helping Mama make breakfast for dinner (with awesome veggie sausages). Trimming green beans. Declaring that monkeys live in broccoli. (Monkeys live in trees, broccoli looks like trees, it stands to reason…)
The truth is there’s no telling how different things would be based on changing a few key elements in our approach 4 years ago. These days, there are certain things that our son eats with consistent regularity. Oatmeal, fruits of any kind (just don’t try to get him to eat kiwi, kiwi freaks him out!), other cereals, rice, raw carrots, garlic-roasted broccoli, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, milk, yogurt, pretzels, anything sweet. Foods that he eats with varying consistency include chicken (only when it’s been prepared by me at home), couscous, peppers, feta cheese, olives, tortilla chips, pancakes, hard-boiled eggs, beans.

My goal? To be able to go into a restaurant and order something for him other than rice. If it isn’t the type of place that serves rice (and forget pilaf or wild), everywhere else we go, we bring his food. To that end, I spent some time one weekend bribing him with Disney videos on my phone if he would eat the chicken nuggets we ordered for him.

Feel free to judge. All these years, I have taken such pride in the fact that no fried chicken tender/nugget had crossed his lips. Eh, I was over it; now I wanted him to eat the chicken tenders!

This is particularly ironic given how much my approach to eating and cooking has changed in recent years. Home-cooked non-(or minimally-)processed foods, and no meat other than fish–and the occasional bacon. Some examples:

Cream of vegetable soup. Roasting the veggies with garlic first makes it extra special.
I have made more salads at home in the past year than I did in my previous 37 years. Raw brussel sprouts? Radishes? Never made anything with them before this year.
Fish and veggies every week, usually more than once. Sometimes I fry the fish, when we have a hankering for Baja fish tacos.

I obviously love to prepare rich, sweet, indulgent stuff sometimes, too. Using real sugar, dairy, and gluten–no subsitutes. Yet still made from scratch.

Last Christmas.
Because yum.

So you see, we eat pretty well in our house. It’s not as though we are trying to get him to eat lima beans. Boiled cabbage. Hemp loaf. Cabbage or hemp in any incarnation, really. And he has been excited to help shop for and prepare the vast majority of the things in these photos. Will not try a single one–except for the sweet stuff.

I marvel any time a parent tells me their child eats “pretty much everything.” Okay. What I really marvel at is whenever I confirm that they are actually telling the truth when they say this. But I get it. My kid won’t even eat pizza, and odds are good that theirs does. Most picky eaters will eat at least one of the items typically featured on restaurants’ children’s menus. And I have seen with my own eyes some kids who really are wide open, easy eaters. Kudos to the parents. Or congratulations on lucking out? Don’t know.

Meanwhile, we have the first of several summer trips in less than a week. Road trip to Florida. And we will likely go everywhere with our loaf of bread, and jars of peanut butter and jelly. Maybe I’ll throw a jar of Nutella into the mix, for variety. Pretty sure he’d eat a Nutella sandwich! Just don’t tell our pediatrician. And David and I will bemoan the fact that we can’t just order spaghetti, pizza, or chicken tenders off the children’s menu for him. Ah well. Ultimately, though, I’ll still be glad that he’s not eating the “chicken” tenders, that he has no concept of McDonald’s, and that thus far we have been spared the slippery slope of our kid enjoying and craving fried junk foods.

It obviously isn’t about keeping score or who wins or loses. We want him to be healthy more than anything, and thankfully, he is. We also wouldn’t mind a little more practical ease when traveling and going to restaurants and birthday parties sometimes, that’s all. Just eat the pizza, kid! But if modeling behavior is the most important way to teach our children valuable habits, then I have to believe that eventually, our sweet, highly demanding and discriminating little angel-man will indeed eat a very wide variety of foods, just like his parents do. I’m prepared to wait it out. I mean, right … ?

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Parenthood

On the occasion of my beloved little boy’s 4th birthday last week, I’ve spent some time these days thinking of what a wild ride parenthood has been so far. The better part of the past four years has been filled with laughter, wonder, silliness, lots of cuddling, and so many lessons that I now ask my husband with some regularity, “how do non-parents learn all this stuff?” Then there’s the truest cliché of all, that the heart swells with the most transcendent, indescribable love. This is why we thank our children for making us their parents. We thank them for a love we never thought possible, and which is now a daily occurrence. If my boy could see what I see when I look at him, he would never, ever, waste a minute of his life questioning whether he is good, worthy, lovable enough, exactly the way he is. Sure, the stresses are magnified when you are a parent. Naturally, this is because everything is magnified, including the joys too.

Birthday cupcakes

Another true cliché is that if I could take away any form of hurt and pain in order to spare my boy, I would gladly take it on myself. And don’t go thinking I am one of those parents who’s scared to say no, to spare my child any disappointment. Ha. No, trust me. I am not talking about pissed-off-ness over not getting that extra cookie or TV show, or over relinquishing a toy because another kid had it first, or being reminded that he’s not actually the boss-man of our house. I’m talking about real physical pain. Fear. The injustice, confusion, heartbreak of rejection. Oh I so wish I could spare him! But I know I can’t. I know it, okay? But I will still wish, not even secretly, that I could. Always. And it will break my heart into a million pieces when I can’t.

A couple of weekends ago, I came down with a bad stomach episode. All I could think was, “Thank goodness it struck me rather than the little man.” Fast forward two weeks, and my husband and I are rushing the little man–two days after his birthday–to the hospital, to treat him for dehydration after several jarring hours of sickness.

Here are some of the lessons and observations from last Friday night.
1. The hardest one, that I can’t keep my kid from getting sick. Period. Ugh. But also that when it does happen, it’s not my fault. Oof, this is at least as hard for me to embrace as the fact that illness happens.
2. I still need my Mama. One of the first things I did Friday night was to get my mother on the phone, and my sister on text. What a difference it made. They had advice and comfort to offer (more comfort than advice), and wanted to stay informed every step of the way. The anchoring, soothing effect of having the women I love there with me when I need them, even if they are physically hundreds of miles away, is a blessing in my life.
3. The temptation to become a germophobe is a very real fact for me right now. I prided myself, once we were home again, in getting the surfaces of our house to a hospital-operating room-quality of sterilization. I’m not kidding, I should buy stock in Lysol. Check out my shopping basket below. And my knuckles were bleeding for days from so much hand-washing.

There was already plenty of disinfectant at home. And this additional supply has been used up–and replenished–since this photo was taken.

4. When you have made it four years without having to take your child to a hospital emergency room, you have a lot to be thankful for. Here’s to (at least) four more years! And may I never go a single day without thinking of, and praying for, parents who are in a hospital this minute with a child who is unwell.
5. You lose weight. It just happens. Before I knew it, I was in a state of panic thinking I had caught the stomach virus too (or again?), because I was queasy and dizzy. Turns out I was just hungry, lightheaded, gassy. Because I had barely eaten for days! But hey, I woke up this morning and discovered a bit of hipbone that I hadn’t seen or heard from since at least 2005. Just like the sun is always there, even behind the darkest clouds, so hipbones are still there underneath the extra padding. I will remind myself of this when the padding comes back. And that will be just fine, too. Besides, this is not a method of weight loss that I would recommend.

6. Kindness is real. When Monday morning dawned, we were under a few new inches of snow, and my husband was in bed after catching what our son had. So, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to go out and shovel the snow. Who was going to watch our recovering son, take care of my sick husband, cook soup, and keep up with laundry and the Lysoling of the house? I thought of asking the neighbors. But I was embarrassed. I’d asked for Pedialyte Friday night, I wasn’t about to ask for someone to shovel our snow come Monday morning, too. Next thing I knew, someone had already done it, without me ever having to ask. I nearly cried when I saw it! Kindness moves me like that. And I received two emails from neighbors, each about a different issue, but each wishing us well, each a kind gesture of concern.

The view from our front door Monday morning. Next time I looked out, all the snow was gone from the front of our house.
7. I married a man who is wholly, selflessly devoted to his wife and kid. Wow.

8. Everything passes. It was, after all, just a 24-hour virus and nothing worse. And now everyone’s fine. And the fear of the next time it happens–a recurring problem of my anxious personality type–is tempered by seeing just how well we all are now. By knowing that just because illness happens sometimes, that doesn’t mean we haven’t been blessed with good health. By the trust that we’ll get through it again just as we did this time. By the absurdity of me smiling when I found my long-lost hipbone this morning, and the kind of perspective that gives me.

I wish you health. And just in case, ask for help. We’ve got plenty of Pedialyte to share! And I am happy to report that I already used a lot less Lysol yesterday, and even less today. A recovering chronic worrier-germophobe, one day at a time.
What are you grateful for today?

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The Spirit of Christmas (Movies)

It’s been three days since Christmas, and the child gift report is in: Hands down, the LeapFrog tablet is the winner, with the small kitchen and appliances coming in second place. Our boy also received a set of tools. So far, he is partial to the kitchen: Mama feels validated.

Happy 3-year-old’s Christmas kitchen. SHOP EARLY! This doubled in price after I purchased it, and trust me, that means a lot to our little family right now.

There is still some toffee and cookies left, and we’ve resumed exercise and some measure of lighter, healthier eating–before we go to Puerto Rico for New Year’s and Three Kings Day, and it all goes out the window again … Plus, my husband and I finished our Christmas champagne on Boxing Day. It’s a tradition we have, opening a bottle every year on Christmas Day, but we haven’t been able to finish it in one day for years. On Boxing Day, we also wrapped up the final installment in our annual Christmas movie rotation.

Sure, we’re lightweights these days, but the bubbly was just as bubbly the next day.

There is some variation in our rotation from year to year, usually in the first movie we watch early in December. This year, for instance, Home Alone was our first movie of the season. It had been a few years, and boy, how parenthood changes a person. I sat down for a carefree treat of mindless, predictable slapstick, and instead found myself getting worked up. Any time Kevin was terrified was very hard for me to watch, I don’t care how much attitude he had at the start. Also, all the previous times I’d watched this movie, I had disapproved of the mother apologizing to Kevin upon her return home. Ha. Not this time. Finally, there’s the “I would never forget my kid!” judgment element. I will say this, though. When I was very new to parenthood, there would be times in the car when my baby was so quiet, I panicked, thinking, “Oh my God, did I leave him?!” I’d have to reach over with my right hand, left hand still on the steering wheel, to pat his little head in his car seat for reassurance. And I have been known to order a meal at a restaurant and completely forget to order him food. It’s not the same as getting on a plane to Europe without him–I still don’t think this could happen but mostly because he’s an only child so he’s a lot easier to keep track of–but there have been brief moments of “forgetting,” or of fearing that I did.

The second movie we watched this year is a regular. Love Actually. I first saw this one when it was released in theaters, and I found it ridiculous and over-the-top sappy. It’s all about setting the scene properly, folks. The second time, I was on a plane coming back from Paris, where my husband and I had just gotten engaged. Oh, and they poured a lot of free champagne on the flight. The tears flowed freely and shamelessly. Several airplane napkins were required. It’s been true love ever since. I even love the idiot who travels to Milwaukee, and I find the adult film stand-ins adorable.

Professor Snape and Professor Trelawny play husband and wife! 🙂

Is it ridiculous that whiny Hugh Grant is the Prime Minister? Of course it is. It’s also annoying that Colin Firth flies to Marseilles to find Aurelia, only Marseilles is in France, and Aurelia and everyone in her community/town are Portuguese speakers. And don’t get me started on “molto … is Spanish!” I could pull my hairs out. But I forgive them; the appeal to me doesn’t lie in the stories’ elements being plausible or even sensible. I dare anyone to not feel anything–besides derisive cynicism–when Liam Neeson’s stepson runs through Heathrow airport while Colin Firth rushes through the streets of the Portuguese-speaking Marseilles village. I’ve made that sprint through Heathrow airport, more than once, under far less romantic circumstances; that they can make it look so beautiful and touching is nothing short of a miracle. And if that doesn’t do it for you, the scene also involves Bill Nighy performing a hilarious strip tease on live TV. By the time random people are greeting and embracing each other while The Beach Boys sing God Only Knows in the closing credits, I am a weepy mess. Oh, I loveLoveLOVE it!

Scored this bit of awesomeness as a stocking stuffer.

Last weekend was all about Ralphie, Randy, Flick and the flagpole, Schwartz, Schwartz’s hat, Scut Farkus, a Major Award!, and a “Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time.” I could go on and on about the many things I adore about A Christmas Story. But I’ll just mention a few. Ralphie winking at his teacher when he turns in his theme about what he wants for Christmas. The lamp. The Orphan Annie Secret Society decoder pin. Randy in his snow suit. The line to see Santa Claus in the department store. Lifebuoy soap. The Old Man and the furnace. Plus, I really love the moments of tenderness between Ralphie and his mother (after his fight with Scut Farkus), and with the Old Man (Christmas morning).

This hangs on the wall above my dresser.

Finally, we save It’s a Wonderful Life for last every year, and this was no exception. There is something so fundamentally resonant, so powerful about unseen acts of kindness having a profound impact on our world, I believe it’s a story that needs to be told and retold, in as many ways as possible, forever. I live in a city largely populated by the Harry Bailey’s and Sam Wainwright’s, individuals who have succeeded in “shakin’ the dust” of their respective hometowns off their feet and seen the world, and become “important.” I suppose I am/was among them, too. I love our successes, feel strongly about the value of being highly educated, and I know a lot of DC people who do good, good work (I am married to one). But whenever I feel conflicted about a standard of so-called success and importance that I often see around me, I take comfort in this Dalai Lama quote that I so love.

My favorite characters in It’s a Wonderful Life are Clarence, Annie, Mr. Gower, Martini, Uncle Billy … okay, most people except Mr. Potter. And the old maid-librarian routine in the alternate life never fails to crack me up. I mean, old-maid Mary is wearing glasses, and she has bad eyebrows. The horror! I love it. Then, at the end, when Harry comes home from the war to a hero’s welcome, and says, “A toast to my big brother, George, the richest man in town,” I swear, my heart grows a few sizes. I know I am no George Bailey, but I can tell you this: I haven’t had a paycheck to my name in years, and our traditional Christmas bottle of Veuve Clicquot has long been replaced by much cheaper stuff, but after I am finished watching this movie, I might as well be “the richest girl in town!”

Thank you, O Magazine (Dec 2013 issue)

 

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Extreme novelist: Living the dream!

The eight-week class called Extreme Novelist has ended! Before I can say anything about it, I need to share with you a little bit about the journey before that.

I wanted to write books since I first started reading books by Roald Dahl, Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, etc. in the early eighties. Another favorite book back then was called Be a Perfect Person in Just Three Days! by Stephen Manes. Spoiler alert. After the initial scenes where the main character does a bunch of funny things in pursuit of perfection, the instruction for the third and final day is this: do nothing. Because if you do nothing, you don’t risk getting it wrong. This sums up how I dealt with my dream of writing for 30 years.

 

Wordoverpixels.com

In graduate school—late nineties—I started to buy books about creative writing. I kept them hidden at the bottom of a drawer in my apartment, where I lived alone. Ten more years went by and nothing. Okay, not nothing. I did write several academic papers and one doctoral dissertation. Once that was done, I still wanted more. Stephen King, in his book called On Writing, says this, “to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” I certainly was doing a lot of both, only it was all academic stuff. My heart and soul weren’t fully in it, and I was so burned out that I couldn’t see beyond it.

Aside from academic fatigue, if I even thought of saying that I wanted to write fiction, I felt that I might as well be saying, “I want to be a Hollywood movie star.” I had the paralyzing fear that others would think: delusions of grandeur. Honestly? I myself thought I had to be some kind of superior being to feel worthy of saying it, let alone pursuing it.

I had been married over four years before I told my husband, the person I share my bed with, that I wanted to write fiction. It was summer of 2009 when I “came out.” Finally! I’d also had an idea for a book that very summer, after a trip to the Tenement Museum and the Merchant’s House Museum, both in New York City.

urbanspiritual.org page by Terence Stone

Emboldened by the fact that I had shared my dream with my husband and my mother, and neither had laughed or balked, I signed up for a creative writing class that summer. And another sickening fear I’d held about “writing types” seemed to come true. I got the impression that the folks were spending an absurd amount of time and energy engaging in a deep-high-brow-interestingness competition. Nooooo! Ugh. I never even finished the class. It was so disheartening. Plus, by then I had learned I was pregnant. Soon
after, I resumed my teaching job and was thoroughly absorbed by the work of my day job and planning for baby.

 

Funny how things work out. Because it was motherhood that had the effect
nothing else had. Simply going back to my old self was no longer an option to feel fully like me. And in order to encourage my son to always be himself and follow his bliss, I  knew I had to teach him by example. That’s when I knew I had no choice but to face my dream head on. This was it, man. And the assault of fear, doubt, and embarrassment made its appearance, right on cue. The difference now was, I didn’t have a choice. What I had was an urgency to get over myself and just do it.

I began the research for my book and started to write. Trips to New York followed. I met the fabulous Merchant’s House Museum historian, Mary
Knapp, whose book on the history of the home has been an invaluable resource.

Slowly, soooo slowly, I began to tell people, “I’m writing a book.” It’s one of the most vulnerable things I have ever, ever declared in my life. It makes me feel naked. I am not a very naked person. In fact, I sometimes still follow
up the statement with body language that conveys a timid dismissiveness, “I’m
writing a book but it will probably suck anyway and please, please don’t think I am an arrogant a-hole!”

Week 8 milestone: 70,000 words

I also signed up for the eight-week class this fall, taught by the novelist Kathryn Johnson. It involved a commitment to write 90 minutes a day, six days a week. Amid the countless gifts I’ve received since I began this journey in earnest, forming a rigorous writing habit is a huge one. I no longer get hung up on perfecting (please … trying to perfect) a scene, the language, the structure, or waiting to be enraptured by an otherworldly fit of inspiration. I make the time, sit my butt down wherever I can, and I work, work, work. By the end of week 8, I had written 70,000 words. The finish line for the first draft of my first novel is within sight. And the dream to have it finished by my 40th birthday looks well within reach! Very importantly, I have also maintained a steadfast writing schedule, even writing every day of our family trip for Thanksgiving. Now, I don’t mean to speak in clichés, but maybe I’m about to. Wanting to do this has been like a like allowing a major part of me to breathe. Either I stayed in the safety of my comfort zone, or I finally let that part of me breathe. Freeing myself of my comfort zone, I discovered one of the weirdest and truest clichés: That regardless of the outcome, the process is in itself its own reward. Just another one of the countless gifts … living the life I always dreamed, and breathing easier!

My husband took this photo and captioned it “Extreme attitude.” This is me: 1) Wearing the t-shirt my writing teacher made for her super-popular class, 2) Feeling a little naked (in the figurative sense) but with some sass to show that I’m proud of it, 3) Doing an awesome duck face
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Things I would say if I didn’t have a filter, Part 1

To the library staff during these freezing library days.
I know you mean well, I do. And I think you all do a terrific job. But look at me for a minute. I am wearing two shirts, two sweaters, a hat, a hood, my coat, fingerless gloves, and a third sweater around my legs. I am also drinking hot tea. Here, feel my nose. Is it still there? ‘Cause I can’t feel it anymore. Every person sitting in this section is wearing their coat. That poor woman over there hasn’t taken her hands out from inside her coat sleeves in at least ten minutes. How about you taste my water? Tastes like it’s been sitting in the fridge, doesn’t it? It’s just been here on my table for two hours. It takes me longer than this to get a bottle of wine chilled in my refrigerator at home.

To the woman who comforted my son on that particular day when he was inconsolable and I felt alone, and the one who told me he looked like a very well-fed baby when I most needed to hear that, and to my Whole Foods parking lot angel when I broke my pinky toe.
I don’t really know you, but I think I love you.

To the mother who has a conversation with me about how her child eats everything (but never candy), watches no TV, is always in bed and asleep before 8PM, was one hundred percent potty-trained by age two and half, adjusted seamlessly to preschool, has outgrown at least half of their toys, and how she, the mom, never loses her cool.
Unless I can have a conversation with you where I call your bullsh!t or your delusion, I’m not sure I see a lot of conversations in our future.
(The same general principle applies to women who talk about how they can basically binge-eat everything and anything, do nothing physical in the interest of their fitness/health, and look like a stick. I know about two people who could say this in earnest; they’re the ones who don’t need to talk about it. The rest? No tengo tiempo.)

To the two women who were having dinner together at a nearby table at a restaurant recently.
Could I be your friend, too? You two seem so cool. The parts of your conversation that I overheard–it was more than I care to admit–made you sound like terrific ladies. I am a good baker, I’m reasonably smart, loyal, and a good listener. Plus my husband also tells me I’m funny. I swear I’d make a great girlfriend!

A time in recent memory when it felt awesome to not have a filter.
Saying a loud “Thank you!” that’s dripping with sarcasm when someone just went through a door and didn’t hold the door for me, especially when I’ve been pushing a stroller.

Times when my non-filter makes me go woops.
About once or twice a week, with my husband. When something comes out of my mouth and then I say, “Wait. Did I really just say that out loud?”

The day when having a filter was the right thing to do.
I was going for a walk in my neighborhood and I saw a young woman sitting on the hood of her car, crying. I went to say, “Are you okay?” Then I thought quickly. No. That’s trite, and obviously she’s not okay. But I couldn’t not say anything. Because she was distraught and I was the only other person around, and I happen to believe that this stranger and I are members of the same human family. I had just a few seconds before I was directly in front of her! When I was finally there, what came out was, “I’m sorry you’re upset.” We then proceeded to have a meaningful conversation–that didn’t involve oversharing or violate any boundaries among strangers–about what was upsetting her. I like to think it helped her.

The day when not having a filter really paid off.
At teaching job years ago, I’d had a paper accepted at a conference in Mexico. My passport was going to expire before the trip, and I’d have to request an expedited passport renewal. But I knew I didn’t have any of the reasons that would qualify me for one. Which was precisely what the man at the passport office told me. Angrily. Next thing I knew, I said,
“Couldn’t you at least smile a little?”
“Excuse me?”
“Smile, you know, smile! Couldn’t you at least do that? Or are you having a bad day? I know I let my passport expire and now I have this trip to Mexico. I get that. But as far as I know I haven’t done anything to you personally. So why be so mad? Maybe smile a little instead?”
“Tell you what.” He said, smiling. “Because you made me take a moment to smile, and no one’s ever done that before, how about you come back after 2PM today to pick up your new passport?”
Cross my heart, true story!

Additional photos from Someecards.com, and (I think) Laurie Alex on Flickr.com.

 

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