Tag Archives: lesbian mom

10 ways to support friends who are parents going through divorce

23 Nov

How do you activate your village in the middle of a divorce? I find it’s hard to put into words what I need while I’m grieving.

In one week, I moved out of our family home and into my own place and I opened a new bank account, while K got a new puppy, who is quite likely the new love of our daughter’s life.

Thankfully, I have a community of family and friends-who-are-family, who check-in with me regularly and field my crisis calls and S.O.S. texts with love, kindness, strength and clarity. Sometimes they even know what I need before I do.

So I thought: If I share some of how my village has shown up for me, and some of what I’ve asked them to do, will it resonate with someone else who’s struggling to activate their village? Maybe.

Here is what I wrote that week, which was first published on The Next Family and then today on page 4 of the Windy City Times. ❤

wct-guest-column-11-23-2016

My Lesbian Divorce –> The Next Family

11 Oct

 

Love and gratitude to the folks at The Next Family, who invited and published my reflection today on divorce:

I never expected to stand in front of a hundred family members and friends in a long white dress, lighting candles, exchanging rings, and proclaiming my love and commitment to a woman. I never expected a ceremony like ours to be fully and legally binding. I never expected to want to be legally bound.

I never expected to be a mom, or a stepmom.

I never expected to sit around my dining room table in pajamas one Saturday morning, breaking the news of our divorce to my twelve-year-old daughter. I never, ever, ever expected that.

And yet …     [read more]

The Big D-

28 Aug

“The two of you need to agree on when the relationship started,” the mediator tells us both. She and Kelly and I are sitting at a small round table in her office.

In order to dismantle this life we built together, we have to agree on when we began.


Our first date. The day I moved in. Her first business trip, when young Grace and I sat at the kitchen table playing cards, entirely unsure of one another and both of us – I think – trying not to cry.

Our first Christmas together. Meeting Miss E for the first time, all three of us holding her in our arms, marveling over her.

Grace’s prom. Our year in London. Moving houses. Moving houses again. Changing jobs. Not working. Working part-time. Leaping from the corporate world to real estate. Not moving to Texas. Getting legally married in front of family and friends.

Our family narrative is rich with milestones. Beginnings. Endings. Change.

Bringing the girls to college and Kindergarten on the same day.

Now this.

Now: Divorce.


Is it only people from broken homes who understand?

You need to be intentional about keeping your home intact. You change the oil in your car. You oil your wooden counters. You replace old furnace filters. If you don’t, there comes a point in your marriage, too, where simple maintenance won’t help. Oiling won’t help. New filters won’t help because you’ve allowed the damage to permeate so deeply it’s beyond repair.

How do people not know this? Does no one listen? Why do people believe they’re exempt from the hard work of keeping love alive? Why do people think their lives, their hearts, their love, their families are different?

Hey! Hello! Whoever you are, you have to nurture love every single solitary day.


At the grocery store, I pay special attention to the middle-aged women. I’m drawn to the women who move with confidence and decisiveness, whose faces tell me they’ve weathered some storm and come out the other side.


I am who I am because of the life we shared. She is who she is, too.


Like our dogs yesterday, I am always listening for her car door, the beep of her car alarm engaging, or the rev of her motorcycle arriving home again, her steps on our front porch, the squeak of our kitchen door.

I am listening for her.

She is not coming.

I am still listening.


“Tell him how you feel,” I tell my friend.

“But he doesn’t mean it like that,” she says, shaking her head.

“I know. That’s why you have to tell him how it makes you feel: He doesn’t know.

I want love to last. I want love given a fighting chance.

I do not let people off the hook easily these days.

She sent me a small sweet gift a few days later – after she told him how she felt, after he changed his behavior. Her relief was palpable. My gratitude was deep, is deep.

We are all here for each other, here on this planet. We forget, but it’s true. I am grateful to be reminded.


Someday, there will be a study on our generation of queers, to see how marriage equality unbalanced the long-term relationships we carefully built outside the legal system.


Meanwhile, my grief is every day.


I don’t blame marriage equality. We just sequenced things badly, Kelly and I.


When did we begin? When did we end?

There is no great entry point for this story — the story of my family, the story of my marriage, the story of my divorce. It’s why I’m telling it in pieces.


Every morning when I let the dogs out, I make a point to notice the weight of the sun on my porch – the slant of its light, the intensity of its heat. My morning communion with the sun is what carries me through the day.


In my twenties, I had whole days without people – waking when I wanted, moving from sleep to coffee to… whatever whenever the spirit moved me. I could stay in my pajamas all day long. I could write, nap, talk on the phone, turn off the phone – whole days where nothing was expected of me, days where the only expectations were those I had for myself. I had forgotten the simplicity and the beauty of this kind of unfettered time just billowing out in front of me like a sheet lifting in the wind, anchored by one corner in each of my hands, gently tugging me forward.


The sun. My daughters. Friends. The wind.

Pulls me forward.

Even when I am in the house alone for

Hours. Nights. Days.


My gratitude for friends who simply take me as I am goes far beyond words.

My gratitude for friends


We are all here for each other, here on this planet. We forget, but it’s true.

I am grateful to be reminded.


Time for a Change

15 May

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my name. My blog name. About changing my blog name to something like Poet by the Side of the Road or From the Parking Lane.

I do my best writing – or most consistent writing anyway – parked in my car. Between other activities. Blissfully alone. In fact, the only time I can count on being alone is in my car between other things.

Do you feel me?

My youngest certainly appreciates the screen time I allow her while I’m trailing words across the page in her presence – but then the mom-guilt kicks in, my words get messy and eventually whatever I’m writing implodes. Often. Not always, but often. Which means I’m better off in my car while she’s doing something else – making bracelets, practicing yoga. Okay, she hasn’t made bracelets in a good long while. Maybe ever. But you get what I mean?

While the tween is busy with something besides a screen: That is my best writing time.

That time with sun streaming through the car windshield. With chirping birds, newly arrived. With wind chimes, lulling me gently.

I need a name from my own point of view. From the driver’s seat. Right? Not from the point of view of my daughter’s friends.

But even if I change my name, my fonts aren’t quite right. My colors are abysmal. My photos are busy. My poems are spotty. My vision is muddy. I feel like the puppy is trotting around the room with my bra in his teeth.

* * *

Our puppy scampers

around the couch,

head held high, my

bra tucked in his teeth.

* * *

When Company Comes:

Our puppy scampers

round and round the couch , my silk

bra tucked in his teeth.

* * *

It isn’t my bra. It’s my Honey’s. And it hasn’t been – to my knowledge – trotted out in the presence of company. But it could have been. Right? Poetic license.

This is how my brain works.

Not long ago, the dog almost ate Miss E’s homework. For real. For weeks, she prepared for the academic fair: One hundred facts onto note cards –> a 10-page paper –> a visual display –> everything back onto note cards for an oral presentation.

wpid-20150426_125848.jpgI pick her up from school, where her display board waits safely in the gym with all the others. I shuttle her to YogaKids, breathe through the next hour with a mom friend on the couch beside me and a pen in my hand, and as we get back into the car 30 minutes before she needs to get back to school for her presentation, she says to me, “Mom, we have to go home and print my paper.” Again. Apparently, she needs two copies – one for the academic fair and one to turn in.

Home is 10 minutes away from yoga class and 10 minutes away from school. We haven’t eaten dinner yet. You do the math.

As soon as we hit the front door and we’re in WiFi range, Miss E deftly opens her research paper on the school-issued iPad, converts it to PDF, and sends it to print. She staples it together (quickly, but still, 5 minutes have passed), she sets it on the dining room table so she can use the bathroom before we leave.

It seems the puppy’s legs have grown. Before we know it, he’s snatched the entire paper off the table and is prancing around the living room, pleased as punch, shaking his head while a trimester of work dangles from his puppy mouth.

“What?! Wait! What does he have?!”

His bite marks are only on the title page, happily, so out the door we go. Snip Snap! We rush through a drive-through for dinner and reach the academic fair hardly late at all. Sweet!

Maybe my new blog name could be Things the Puppy Has Chewed.

When I started this blog, my intention was clear. I was writing to make space for lesbian moms. I was writing so allies would have something to share. I was writing for younger lesbians who couldn’t imagine becoming moms. I was writing to say: We’re here. We’re queer. And the kids are alright.

But times have changed, both inside my house and outside it. Mombian is fan-flipping-tastic – has been for a whole lot longer than I’ve been in the blogosphere – and of course, there’s the truly awesome Village Q. And both sites, besides sharing their own stories, list blog after blog after blog worth reading.

Lesbian moms are everywhere in real life, too. There are lesbians parenting kids in every grade at my daughter’s school. We’re in the news. On TV shows. We are VISIBLE.

It’s fricking amazing.

Even more important for me, though, and for my blog… my 5th grade daughter doesn’t want her business out in the world for everyone to see. I mean, if my mom had a blog when I was her age, I would have died. Truly. So I get it. But what do I write about now? Where do I steer? Where is my new true writing north?

Maybe a new name, once I land one, will give me a place to begin.

Now That Marriage is a Choice

30 Oct

Fox JournalHome from our honeymoon, I’m back in my car office, wondering what I might write or which scribbled-down words I might tweak. This is my pre-writing hour, this time while my kid is in yoga class stretching her limits … I find it more challenging lately to stretch my own … I page through my journal, the one with a fox on the front …

Those words I wrote about marriage in Asheville …

Those words about being a child of mental illness, a lesbian growing up in a time when “gay” was not “cool,” a young woman whose parents finally – eventually, inevitably, thankfully – divorced …

The words I put down on the page right after my wedding, the choice I made to remove both rings from my finger while I sleep …

Words I’ve written, so many others I haven’t yet opened, unwrapped, let free inside my own mind …

The words I keep coming back to…

The words about marriage trapping my mom (and my dad, too, though it’s not something I’ve heard him say), haunting words that were given to me when I asked, “Mom? Do you want out of your marriage or out of life?” Her response, so shocking to me at seventeen, although it seems a common perspective for women of her generation – her response after two or three attempts to end her life – her response, which was a question but not: “Does it matter? It’s the same thing.”

And when I share that, it feels like if I’ve reached the crux of my own … hesitation … to marry, to hold a ceremony, to invite family and friends, to commit. These words are revealing. Pivotal. True.

But this is only part of my story.

The rest of my story is a thread from a larger story, a story of community, of hope and heat and strength and power and trying and flailing and loving and fighting and working hard and giving up and going on and being.

See, marriage is an option for me – for us – where it never was before – and it was hard-won – and it’s not an option everyone will choose.

We have built our whole lives with or without partners and without the option to marry. So now what?

If we’re part of a couple, how do we merge our finances if we haven’t already? Do we really want to own our partner’s car? Or debt? Or house? Is that who we want raising our kids if something horrible happens? We’ve never had to be sure. Until now.

As I said to a gay colleague on the phone, “I have the option to wear fishnets, too, but that doesn’t mean I will.”

The pressure!

And maybe it’s the pressure our straight friends have felt all along – When will you marry? Or – Still waiting for the right man/woman to come along?

Marriage was the right choice for me. I haven’t always known it – and, in fact, it hasn’t always been – but I want to say to every same-gender-loving person I know:

Make the choice that’s best for you. I’ll have your back.

Choosing not to marry your partner of twenty years – even choosing not to marry your partner of twenty years now – does not invalidate your love, or the life you have built for yourselves.

Choosing not to build a life or a family with one other person does not make you unlovable or unloved or broken or damaged or wrong.

The point of marriage equality is having a choice, having the option, and making the choice that’s best for you.

Queer people have spent their lives outside the mainstream to one degree or another, but we have found ways of being that work for us, that work well for us, ways of moving through our world and lives that help us feel strong and whole and proud. I see nothing wrong with continuing to be how we’ve always been.

And yet, who hasn’t called the question? Who hasn’t asked themselves sometime in the past one or two or three years: Would I or wouldn’t I? Whose life as a same-gender-loving human in this country has NOT been altered by this string of marriage wins?

Inside a romantic relationship or outside of one, we are seen differently now. We are seen more completely. We can live more openly. In some places. In some families. Sometimes.

We feel it.

Slowly, the tide is changing. Love is winning.

Let this string of wins be an opening.

I don’t want us now living in wedded bliss to come inside and shut the door, forgetting how cold it can be outside.

I want this to be an opening.

I want us to continue loving one another and supporting one another’s choices, whatever our political beliefs, our connection to the state, our personal histories.

I want us each to choose from a place of strength and hope and love.

Because beyond the choice to wed or not to wed, for me the goal has always been – and always will be – to feel and to be seen as whole.

Image

My LGBTQ Family

2 Jun

P1000150This is my family – my LGBTQ family – see? We’re two moms there on the left.

Here, we are in the back of a pick-up truck in Guatemala, on the coast of Lake Atitlan, exploring the birth country of our youngest member. Our new bisexual friend Tania ( 🙂 ) took this picture. We met her in the garden of the B&B where we were staying and she invited us to travel with her and a young guide, Casimiro, for the next couple of days. We were – all of us – delighted to do so.  Our day was lovely. Our trip was lovely. More pictures of our 2013 trip to Guatemala here.

This coming Saturday, Kelly and I will have been together twelve years. Our state began officially supporting marriages like ours yesterday. We haven’t done the paperwork yet, but it’s on the horizon. I promise to post pictures when we do – not of the paperwork, but of us signing on the dotted line to make our union, our marriage, our lives as a lesbian couple with two kids, a matter of public record. More thoughts on marriage here.

I am amazed that state by state, day by day, our country shifts, making us free-er to share who we are, wherever we are. I am impressed. I am excited. But we still need models and we still need to model for one another. We need to remember that life on our own terms is possible and beautiful, no matter who we are. We still need days like today, Blogging for LGBTQ Families Day, to remind ourselves and each other there’s a wide wonderful embracing world out there, whether or not we can see it right here, right now.

And we need to stand up for one another. For our lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender friends, and for strangers, too. Because not everyone lives in a welcoming place, has a welcoming home.

This is how the world changes. This is how people begin to understand. By seeing our faces, hearing our voices, reading our words.

This is how the world changes. When we make ourselves visible.

And when we create a circle of safety for the people around us to make themselves visible, too.

 

 

 

 

Mother’s Day 2014

8 May

DSCF0116“I love you, Mom.” My ten year-old wraps her arms tightly around me. I feel her heart beating. “I’m glad I’m not an orphan.” My breath catches.

“I love you, too, Sweetheart.” I wait a moment. I kiss the top of her head. I imagine there will come a day when the top of her head is harder to kiss, but today, she is the perfect height for head-top kissing. “Why are you glad you’re not an orphan?”

“I mean I’m glad I don’t live in an orphanage. I’m glad you’re my mom. You hold my hand when things are hard, and take care of me.” She has stepped back a little, and is looking at me intently. She wants me to feel what she is saying. I do. I feel her. I love her. I smile. My whole heart melts.

“I’m glad I’m your mom, too.”

We talk about orphanages for a couple minutes – our conversation not hard this time, not deep or intense – we talk about people who care for kids in an orphanage, how they are and are not like parents, how many kids live in one space together and eventually, she tests an idea she’s tested on me before. “If you and Mama didn’t adopt me,” she suggests, “I wouldn’t have a family. I might live in an orphanage.”

She’s wrong, but how do I tell her? Before she was allowed to live with us, while we waited for the endless paperwork to clear, she lived with her foster mom. She never lived in an orphanage, and she never would have. It isn’t how the system in Guatemala was set-up. Not the system she was in. But how do I explain? I decide it’s only reassurance she needs today. Her probe for details and information feels different to me; this conversation is all heart. I go with my heart.

“Honey, your birth mom made a plan for you – she made a plan with an adoption agency, to make sure you found a forever family.” I go on to tell her how I feel we were matched intentionally. By spiritual guidance. By hands unseen. She likes this idea. I’ve never said this before, but it’s true. It’s how I see it. She decides – for now – that’s how she sees it, too. We are silent for a stretch, comfortably so.

“What does she look like? My birth mom?”

“We have a picture of her on the side of the fridge,” I remind her.

“Oh, right!” She runs into the kitchen and pulls down the magnetic frame. As I follow her, she is already removing the black and white photo from its hot pink frame. She hesitates. “Should I – I mean, do we –“ I assure her we have another copy of the picture, and I feel her hesitation give way to hope, relief, glee.

“Can I keep this one?”

“Of course!” I tell her.

She scampers off into her room to find a place for her birth mom’s photo right by her bed.

“I love you, Mom,” she says again, an hour later or more, before nestling into her blankets, ready for sleep.

“I love you, too, Precious.”

And there it is – my Mother’s Day complete, and it’s not even Sunday. Yet.

 

Stories of Motherhood: LTYM 2014

17 Jan

I had a tremendous experience last year. I submitted a story to Listen to Your Mother. I was invited to audition, and ultimately got cast in the show. I met bloggers, writers, moms, not-moms, creative people. I got to stand in the light. So. Much. Fun.

Why am I telling you this now, today, one year later? Because now it’s your turn! Submissions for 2014 in Chicago are OPEN  until January 29 — but if you don’t live in Chicago, don’t despair — Listen to Your Mother is in 32 cities nationwide.

Everyone has a story to tell, a story of being a mom, having a mom, knowing a mom . . .

Here’s what I shared last year, before this story – my story and the story of so many other families – changed:

The Real Thing

My stepdaughter mentioned in passing one day when she was about 12 that it was “illegal” for two women to get married. She stopped me dead in my tracks as I was crossing the living room. “What do you mean by ‘illegal’?” I asked her. Did she feel my relationship with her mother was something to be ashamed of? After years of my partner’s care to be always “out”, everywhere, casual but proud, seamlessly dropping my name and our relationship into conversations with teachers, other parents and caretakers… I needed to know.

“Well, I just meant… I mean… isn’t it illegal?”

I said, “It isn’t that we are breaking the law – It’s just that the law doesn’t recognize our family. The law doesn’t support us, but it doesn’t make us criminals.”

Her eyes relaxed, her body softened, and the corners of her mouth turned up, almost into a smile. She seemed relieved.

But this is why I believe marriage should be legal for any two women or two men who want it.

There are plenty of practical reasons involving inheritance and hospital visitation, taxes and property rights, but for me the main reason is that without the law, our children – and colleagues and friends – remain confused.

My stepdaughter’s 22 now, but my partner and I were chatting about marriage and civil unions in front of our second grader before bedtime, and she – the little one – interrupted to declare that her Mama and I should wait until the laws are completely fair before we get married, because it’s just not right to have some of the benefits but not all of them and we should hold out for the real thing.

Wow! Times have changed.

But what is the real thing? Does the state define what’s real? Do the feds? The feds hold the power to award more than one thousand benefits, rights and responsibilities with that certificate of marriage. So even though I really, truly, deeply believe that what I have at home is the real thing – no matter what it’s called – I want a piece of that, too. That contract. That security. I do.

Because how do you explain to an 8-year-old why her family is not protected and revered and respected the same way her friends’ families are, when the love and commitment are just as real?

I shouldn’t worry, though. She gets it. The young one. The older one, too. They know what’s real.

I went on a business trip last year and my first morning home, I saw my daughter’s outfit for school – the young one – laid out on the floor of her bedroom – a pair of leggings and a t-shirt I haven’t seen in a long time. “I {heart} my moms,” it said boldly in purple on the front. I think she chose it because she missed me while I was gone. Little cutie. I was touched, but I wasn’t sure she was ready for the comments it might invite.

I debated silently how I might open a conversation that would show me whether or not she was prepared to wear this t-shirt all day, but she opened the conversation on her own. “I wish it didn’t have an ‘s’,” she said. About the word “Moms.”

“Is that embarrassing?” I asked.

“No,” she said, picking up the shirt with her chin thrust forward. Pride or defiance? I couldn’t be sure.

I needed to know if she was ready before she got that shirt over her head. How many years of “lesbian moms totally rock” would be undone if she had to take the shirt off her body before school? I had to talk fast.

“Anybody who sees your shirt will know you have two moms. But most of them know anyway, don’t they?” She shrugged, lifted the shirt to pull it over her head – and stopped.

She noticed the back of her shirt had words on it, too. “Fighting for our rights,” she read. “I can do that!” she threw a couple mock karate kicks. “I can do karate! Or guns.”

“This doesn’t require that kind of fighting.”

“What kind of fighting, then?” She answered herself. “Fighting with words.”

“That’s right!” I said. “We’ve got to fight for what’s right with our words.”

“Is that because people think gay is bad?” she asked.

“Yup. People sometimes think gay is bad when they don’t think they know any gay people. People have a lot of wrong ideas about things they don’t understand.” She nodded decisively and began brushing her teeth.

She knew what she was doing.

I decided she was either tough as nails (sometimes true) or confident she had the support she needed to pull it off. And if she changed her mind partway through the day – well, she was wearing a sweatshirt she could easily zip over those words any time.

In the end, she reported only one negative comment, although I suppose there may have been others. “You can’t have two moms,” an older student apparently said. “Yes you can,” my daughter replied. “No, you can’t,” insisted the girl.

My daughter stopped, looked at the girl and said, “Well, I do.”

Since you asked…

7 Nov

After eleven years with Kelly – an international move, three local moves, adoption, working together to parent a teen, more than one family health crisis, after… well … eleven years of sharing meals, job struggles, job changes, cars, friends, pets and travels, (there is no way to put this into perspective, but) after eleven years of life together, Kelly and I are engaged.

She accepted my proposal via Facebook. She said, “Dear Roi, since you asked… I’ll answer. YES.” The day the Illinois House voted for equality.

This is when elation finally lifted me over the clouds like a super-helium balloon. For years, this has been a civil rights moment to build for, an unrealistic goal, a pie in the sky dream, a possibility, an eventuality, a likelihood, a shocking inevitability and then BAM, it’s done and not only that, but now it’s a romantic moment, too, and my whole heart explodes. How do I express this? I cannot.

We have details to decide – size and style, timing – but there’s no rush. The law doesn’t take effect until June, when Illinois will be the fifteenth state to affirm same-sex marriage. Have you heard the radio reports?

We told the girls, of course. They are happy. All night, Miss E kept saying, “I’m so excited!” Grace called us, and posted to her Facebook page – where more than 80 of her friends clicked “Like.”

And yet… we’re here already. Right?

How many times have I explained us as married to Miss E’s friends, referencing the white gold band on the ring finger of my left hand? Talking about promises, vows, love, our life together. How many times?

Will marriage change our everyday lives?

There have always been more important things to fight for, so many important struggles – more tangible, more urgent, closer to the ground, more central to survival. I know this. Some of these are fights I’m fighting now.

But there is something magical about this moment and I am deeply grateful to the people who would not let go. Now. This. Is a cultural shift. This feels like my heart exploding. Simply love, simply being who we are. How does the law touch me like this, at my core?

I continue life today as I lived it last week and the week before. I travel to the office, to school and home. I interact with my daughter’s friends (and sometimes my own). I eat, sleep, write. I watch TV with my loving partner, our days and nights punctuated by the barking of dogs.

Summer 2013 Ice Cream Eating DogsBut there is something new here now. Inside me. Security? Bravery? Resolve? There is something in me that doesn’t worry anymore that my life as I know it will one day be taken away. The fog around the edges has cleared. Because of Kelly? Because of the law? It was never a conscious worry – but it was there, nonetheless, and now it is gone.

Is it really this simple? No. There is something more. Something I cannot explain. But this – this feeling – is something I want to save. To savor. Even if some of the words are not yet right. This is the beginning of something new. A moment in history. So –

Thank you to everyone who made this happen. Just – Thank you for hanging on.

I Cherish Clue

25 Oct

cher·ish

transitive verb \ˈcher-ish, ˈche-rish\

: to feel or show great love for (someone or something)
: to remember or hold (an idea, belief, etc.) in a deeply felt way

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Green GogoI cherish the day my nine year-old daughter first flashed me her famous grin when I came to pick her up and announced, “I did my homework already, Mom,” with a bounce in her step. It brought a bounce to my step, too, so that both of us bounced to the car with the evening stretched out like summer in front of us.

I cherish, too, the night I left a biography of Barack Obama in the backseat and she hardly spoke except to say, “Thanks!” She read voraciously in the car and didn’t turn on a screen until we’d been home twenty minutes or more.

Slowly, we will bring our reader back, despite the lure of the bright lights, clicks and beeps – slowly, we will rein in the time she spends on her new device, and build up her stamina again for the printed page.

Growing up, of course, I had only TV to lure me with its’ bright light magnetism, so this is a whole new world of technology, with rules she and her mama and I have yet to learn. Or set.

In my twenties, I didn’t even own a TV. I planned to change the world; I was hardly ever home; I was always at meetings or protests or speak-outs or actions. I didn’t have time (or cash) for TV.

I now have a giant TV in my living room where my family spends plenty of time, but lately, we also like to play Clue. In our house, Mr. Green is a Gogo and when homework is done and the dishes are washed and the evening still stretches in front of us, we spend our time guessing, gaming, giggling, eating cake or snacks or not, and occasionally telling stories about our day.

I cherish this. What do you cherish these days?

Green Gogo w Friends

 

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