%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
|
Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| Prompt: Who are your three favorite book characters? What makes them so great? I have been an avid reader since early childhood and so there are no shortage of memorable characters for me to consider as contenders for my favorites. In reflecting on the prompt, I'm a little surprised to find that; I can easily come up with three right away, they are all girls and they don't necessarily hail from my most favorite books. The first one is immediately apparent. My absolute favorite literary character is Alice, from of course, Alice and Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I have always identified with her curious nature, her stubbornness, her bravery. By far though it is her emerging sense of self that draws me to her the most. The knowledge that she might be exactly what she suspects about herself, good and bad, and her resilient acceptance of those truths and traits. I love Alice because I'm still very much a young girl inside who "always gives myself very good advice, but seldom ever follows it." I'm fascinated by the possibility that fighting off my own fierce and loathsome Jabberwocky might be as simple as believing in "impossible things". She is all at once endearing, candid and mighty! My second favorite character is from a Scott Odell book, Isle of the Blue Dolphins, based on the true story of a young girl abandoned on a island for nearly 18 years. This was the first book I read at such a young age that has stayed with me my whole life. The story so impacted me that it ignited a passion for the ocean that influenced the majority of my academic and extracurricular plans. As a young reader, I identified immediately with Juana Maria, who was very close to my own age at the time. I remember hanging on every word of her story, through all its tragic and terrifying twists. Juana Maria was simply the smartest, bravest person I had ever read about and she was girl! She made me proud, she empowered me. This is one of the books, and she is one of the characters I most look forward to introducing my own daughter to one day. Lastly, this last character was hard to accept. When I was forced to read Sylvia Plath's, The Bell jar, in high school I remember not just hating it but being appalled that they would assign us something so morbid. I thought, why give a book about a troubled young woman to a bunch of emotional high school students? It wasn't until, years and years later, I realized how much the character of Esther Greenwood stayed with me. I think it would be most accurate to say she haunted me. The book terrified me. The concept became a visceral one in which I could easily picture myself as a woman, going about her everyday life - always with that bell jar perched precariously above my head. I feared madness because I would come to know it in others. I feared madness because I would lose others to their battles with bell jars. So Ester makes the list because she becomes the one character I can never fully and completely shake off. She is at all times both easy to relate too and easy to reject. I remember how often I would be angry with her choices, her weaknesses but at the same time, drawn to her vulnerability, her intelligence and her earnest attempts to fight her demons. Esther makes me peer around the corners of my own mind, fearfully but with purpose, to make sure that same brand of madness isn't in there somewhere, slumbering and waiting to wake. Looking back over my choices, I have to wonder if Madness is not some time of subliminal theme...after all Alice found herself trapped in the mad world of Wonderland. Poor Juana Maria had moments in her long isolate when she had to fight from going mad from sheer loneliness and grief. Sadly, Esther Greenwood's entire existence was plagued by her own slow descent into madness. I wonder what it says about me, these three mad women that I carry around with me? |
| We woke to rain this morning. It was the dark and dreary variety that muted all colors of the changing trees and set the mood to melancholy despite the upbeat pop songs pumping from the radio. It was the first day back to school following the long weekend and my first drop off since returning from a four day business trip. Jaden was quiet the whole ride listening to the music. I suddenly remembered that our umbrella was still in Daddy's car so I told her I was going to get us as close to the school as possible. Jaden sat up. "You could try dropping me off in the drop of line?" I looked up at her in the mirror, surprised. I realized it had not really been a question. Since the start of school I've been parking and walking her in, not just to the door of the school but all the way down to the classroom. We have done this every morning since she started kindergarten. It has been a solid routine. I park, upload her and she slips her hand in mine and we are off. Some mornings I stay until the first bell, sometimes I leave her off with her friends in the line outside her classroom. I knew the day would come when she would be ready to walk in on her own, I figured I would let her decide when that was. I had not expected it would come along so quickly. Her little face was unreadable in my rear view. I couldn't tell if she was nervous or excited but then she smiled and I just thought, "okay, here we go...she's ready." I didn't want to put any pressure on her so I told her if she changed her mind to let me know when we got closer. The rain had stopped when we rode up the hill to the school. I looked back and she nodded. I joined the drop off line that marched through the middle of the parking lot and eyed the flagpole where the aids stood waiting to help the students exit the cars. She unhooked her seat belt. I told her to be careful crossing in the bus lane. I realized with dismay that this new arrangement meant our farewell hug got skipped. The principal was already stepping to the car only to find Jaden's door locked. I fumbled with the locks, apologizing that it was our first time in the drop-off line. The principal leaned down to peer at me. "Well then, welcome to the melee," She said smiling. Then, to Jaden, "Good morning honey, be careful in the crosswalk." Then like that, the door closed and my daughter was off making her way toward the doors of the school, so small in her bright pink hood. I watched her for as long as I could easing through the parking lot and catching one last glimpse of her shrugging the straps of her pink leopard print backpack onto her shoulders like she'd been doing it for years. I pulled away, my throat thick with the mix of emotions. I was proud that she had taken this step but sad to know she had grown up just a bit more. I was crying a little, missing our sweet hugs and last minute kisses, but also impressed that she had simply just decided she was ready. Just before she had left the car she had said, "we can still park sometimes Mom", and I knew she meant it to comfort me. She had embraced her new kindergarten adventure, wholly and completely at each step, this was simply the latest one. These little moments are the ones I most need to commit to history. If I fail to pay close attention, to document them in anyway I fear they will be lost in the momentum of her evolution. Missing out on memorializing them would be a tragedy because I want to remember everything, all the sweet and bittersweet. I want her to be able to read my words one day and know that I couldn't have been prouder or loved her more through all the moments in her journey to becoming who she's meant to be. |
| Think of three cities you have visited. Imagine three things that are happening in each of those cities right now, and share them with us. Make them real for us. I have been fortunate enough to have traveled a lot in the years before marriage and motherhood. I think the cities I remember most are the ones outside the borders of the US, excited as I was by the languages, the culture, the music of those exotic locations. On the flat rooftops of Cuernavaca, a woman is hanging laundry as the sun begins to rise. The air is still cool and she can see the bougainvillea flowers all along her neighbors walls, the bright pink and violet blooms bouncing gently in the breeze. The neighborhood is waking up, the music and laughter traveling from the open air courtyards all around her. The smell of propane waifts upward carried on the currents, as women fire up their stoves to prepare breakfast. In the distance she can hear the chime of the tamale cart making its way up the rambling streets. This is her city and this is her favorite time of the day. In just a few short hours, the sun will be high. It will bake the clay streets and burn the backs of the stray dogs that roam them. The cool air will become super-heated and the horizon will be marred by the wide column of smog that hovers over Mexico City, the seething metropolis forever lurking in Cuernavaca's peripheral vision. The woman clips one last sheet to the line and bends to pick up her basket. Balancing it on her hip, she walks to the edge of her roof and gazing out at her city. Cuernavaca, the city of eternal spring. The Zona Rosa is pulsing with life tonight. The open air restaurants and clubs that surround the center green on all sides, are spilling the music and sounds of the young, cosmopolitan crowds onto the busy streets and sidewalks. A young man walks alone to meet his friends, passing the courtyards of bustling bars and restaurants filled with beautiful people, the tiny tables they sit around littered with cell phones and the latest tech devices available. This is clearly the place to be in the beautiful, bountiful city of Bogota. He knows what the world thinks about his home and he wishes they could see this now, this modern, thriving heart of his city, devoid of devious lurking drug lords and camo-clad rebels. There is great energy here, great beauty too. High above this zone, winding roads crawl up into the hills where lovely stone houses sit perched above lush terrain, with their Spanish tiles roofs and rustic charms. Bogota’s hotels and municipal buildings gleam gold and impressive in the sun and preside over the clean, efficient streets of a city filled to the brim with a warm and candid people. The man spots his friends waving to him with wide smiles and raised glasses and he rushes to join them. The skies have darkened outside her hotel room. Several stories below, the streets teem with activity. Great red double decker tour buses barrel down the narrow roadway, barely dogging the hapless tourists that stumble out of the casino. They cross to the waterfront park so that they might lament their losses before the rushing torrents. She watches them, stumbling and giddy, and for a brief moment, she wants to join them. Then, deciding against it, she pulls the curtains open exposing the floor to ceiling windows that afford her a view of the falls in all their glory. It is nighttime and they are lit with colors, vibrant reds, greens and blues. The raging waters are a violent, rushing rainbow and she is in awe of their beauty and power. She had seen the falls for the first time in daylight and they had taken her breath away but by night, they were beyond spectacular. She sat down before the expanse of the windows, reluctant to miss even a moment of the majestic view laid out before her, a true wonder of the natural world. |
| "No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't.” ~ Stephen King Do you agree or disagree? Give us an example of that blue and lonely section...} Nearly ten years ago I went through my own "blue and lonely section of hell". My then-boyfriend of five years was slowly, agonizingly losing his personal battle with addiction. It felt like we had already come through hell together, our affair having been the badly needed catalyst to free me from an abusive marriage. It had felt like my life was beginning again, having found love with someone who's gentleness and kindness had been magnified in the wake of my ex-'s rage and cruelty. The reality was, as I would painfully come to realize, was that I had merely left one bad situation for another. I would come to learn that despite his loving nature and zest for life, Seth was a high-functioning alcoholic trapped in a serious downward spiral. We talked about marriage and children and our new life together, as he battled the shakes and went to imaginary AA meetings and counseling sessions. I wanted to believe so badly, that I failed to recognize the truths that were right in front of me. He was slipping away and not at all "in recovery" as he would have his family and I believe. First came the repossession of his car, the lost of his management position and then his job of more than 10 years. When Seth really began to fail me, the wheels came off the cart. I remember that day, the day it was all supposed to begin. He was going to meet me at my old house, we were going to tell my ex together that we had been having an affair and I was going to demand a divorce. Seth didn't show and I ended up with a smashed cell phone, and an irrevocably broken heart. I drove aimlessly for a while, pressing a package of frozen peas against the side of my throbbing face and praying to God to save me from my own shame. It was the first of many broken promises and aimless drives. The damage had been done and my love was wounded to a point I feared it would never recover from. It would be almost a full year late the morning when I found Seth bleeding to death in our bathroom. What followed was a truly horrific roller coaster ride of long and critical hospitalization, a last minute life saving procedure, a year of slow recovery and finally hope of a return to a quasi-normal life. I think that this, more than anything, was the most heartbreaking because after all the hope and support and promise, Seth would be dead in less than twelve months. The last checkup at Yale, the team of doctors had all come down to see him. They smiled, clapped him on the back, kissed and hugged me. They promised we could still have a normal life, babies...happiness and health. All Seth had to do was never drink again. I know now that he must had started again that very afternoon. My blue and lonely hell feels like it lasted five years. I felt scooped out, as if someone had simply gutted the person I was. I had spent so many nights on my knees, in an uncharacteristic show of faith I hadn't even know I possessed. I had once prayed that God would save Seth's life, and now my prayer was that he would take away my love for him, wipe it from my heart so that the hope and despair would not destroy me. I felt my soul breaking off at the brittle places, the important pieces flaking off with each late night phone called punctuated by slurred words of devotion and the dull ring of denial. I prayed for numbness. I prayed for an antidote to the toxin of my own heart. I was lost. Then, there came a moment that I distinctly remember. I woke suddenly with a pounding heart from a sleep induced by a nightly cocktail of Benadryl and too much wine. It felt like all my nerves were on fire at once. I knew that I was going to go down with him, he was going to take me down with him after everything. It had become Seth or me now. That night, and for each and every day after, I chose me. "You just come out the other side. Or you don't" I came out the other side. Seth would have turned 45 years old today.  ** Image ID #1774840 Unavailable **  |
| My daughter informed me yesterday that she has been in school for twelve days now. She said this with a smile and no small measure of pride as we climbed the hill to her school. On the sidewalk, I stopped her for a minute. We had agonized so much with our decision on schools, I really wanted a sign to know we had chosen right for her. We leaned against the railing, watching the buses roll up. "12 days already? Wow!, You like your school then still? I asked She nodded vigorously, still smiling. Then she caught sight of a friend and started to pull me along toward the doors. In a few moments we were swallowed by the chaos of a 600 plus capacity elementary school in full morning mode. We walked to her class where a few more of her friends waved and smiled at us from their spot in line outside the classroom. I left her there after a few hugs and kisses and tried not to look back as I walked away back down the hall. Twelve days in and she's still smiling, still circling a five star day in her agenda. Twelve days in and she has twice as many friends. Twelve days in and she's proudly coming home with fistfuls of the blue tickets the school uses to reward good behavior and academic achievements. These all have to be a good signs. Getting dressed that morning, she capped her uniform off with brand new knee socks. She seemed delighted, pulling the bright white socks up to her knees then rushing over to show me. A big girl's uniform. She even let me take a few pictures of her standing proudly in her pigtails and matching blue cardigan. It tugs at my heart, bittersweet and beautiful, how quickly she is growing up. The routines are setting in now. Our morning commute has developed into an ongoing conversation on animal adaptations or review of magic words she's learning that week. We have just enough time at drop off to snag an extra hug or two and I know some of the teachers well enough to have brief conversations on my way out. Pickup isn't as frightening as it was in the beginning. I find her easily, sitting crissed-crossed and apple-sauced among her classmates. She takes my hand and once we are outside, she usually is eager to answer my questions about her day. I may never know 100% if we made the right choice for her but all signs so far seem to indicate that she's happy there and that's as good as we can hope for. Looking back on all my angst, I can see clearly now that this transition was something I had dreaded far more than she had. My adaptation to the new routines and new environment has been much slower than hers. She had been ready, I, simply, had not. Twelve days in now and I think I might finally be getting there. |
| This blog entry has been a long time in the making. I’ve been writing it in my head for a few days, hoping that by the time I had a chance to commit it to paper, my words and phrasing would shape as readily and clearly as they had in my mind. I can only hope because this is an issue of great importance to me and one that has affected me and my family in an unexpected and largely disappointing way. I am an advocate of free speech. I have been writing for as long as I can remember. It has been as necessary for me as breathing at times. Aside from its personal significance to me, I have been fortunate enough to have had publication success in a few commercial markets. It is not lost on me that the genre for which I have received the most publishing credits would not exist today were it not for the First Amendment. I understand that I am able to have my successes, however humble they may be, because of those brave pioneers of the pen who committed their acts of rebellion with wet ink and courage. Freedom of Speech is one of our most fundamentally important rights and with that right comes an immense responsibility. As much as we are free to say what we what, how we want to – it would serve the world well if we could remember that spreading messages with incendiary images, words of hate and intolerance and disingenuous political propaganda do not make us the brave, human citizens our ancestors were. Social media has provided the world with amazing opportunities to feed revolutions, inspire greatness and enact sweeping social change but it has also become a portal to mislead, miseducate and spread hate and discontent. For every person sharing a video of toddlers playing with puppies, there are three more sharing an image of evil or hate, and attributing it to one group or another. Social media allows us to be masters of our own universes, promote our talents, share our feelings and support our causes in a public, global way. It also allows for far less appealing pursuits by those who use the same freedoms to recruit, poison, corrupt, enrage and mislead. We are social creatures, most of a drawn to want to talk about our passions. Social media gives us a vast platform to commit our two cents to just about anything we want to – that goes for everyone. So, the question I’ve been asking myself is this, should there be standards of decency applied to this medium? Should certain images and commentary be subjected to a standard of common decency or at least feature a rating system so as individuals we can decide what we chose to see, to read and to ultimately share? Is this a violation of our rights or rather the equivalent to the content rating system we subject other forms of entertainment too? I was under the impression that several of the social media sites had guides to limit potentially offensive and graphic content but as of late, I see that may not be the case. By way of an example, the recent death of a toddler made international headlines when the refugee ship he was traveling in with his family capsized. A photographer snapped and shared an image of his lifeless body washed up on the beach. It is important to note that several major newspapers refused to publish that photo out of respect and human decency. At least one newspaper chose to publish a photo of the child delicately cradled in the arms of a rescue worker instead of the graphic images from the beach. I commend that organization’s choice. The tragedy didn’t become less so because a more respectful choice was made by those editors. I take particular offense to the notion that as humans we need to be confronted by images or stories of atrocities to be spurn into action. As humans, are we really so desensitized to violence that we cannot act without being exposed to graphic content? I don’t need images of bodies falling from burning buildings to remember September 11th…I believe most Americans don’t either. Those poor people had families too, is it really fair to use their last moments in such a public way? Do we really believe that without those horrific images shared on social media, that we will be prone to forget the tragic events? Or that we will cease to care for and honor them as a nation? I don’t believe that for one moment. I have far more faith in us as a nation, as human beings. I support Freedom of Speech but I believe that as a society we should remember the human costs in both attaining and supporting this important right. If each of us as individuals devoted time to really consider the content we post and share, I believe it would help to stem the tide of hate and negatively that now seems to be rapidly overtaking this medium. What if you were to ask yourself, “does this image, do these words, does this message represent my true feelings? Is this a message that I personally want to be associated with? Do I know where this image or this content is sourced from? Does that site reflect who I am? By sharing this content, am I contributing to my own passions and campaigns or fueling someone else’s agenda? And lastly, “Is sharing this image or this post going to make feel better? Is it something I would my children to see? Is this message or content making the world a safer place or feeding into political, socioeconomic rhetoric?” Test yourself. Test your own levels of human decency and tolerance first because ultimately, you can never know the struggles and hardships of others and most of us would want the same considerations from others wouldn’t we? Freedom of Speech, it is simply too important to not give it the thought, the respect and responsibility it commands of us. |
| Precious Memories has been a second home to Jaden since she was just nine weeks old. I remember leaving her there the first time, so small and dependent, in the arms of virtual strangers. It takes a tremendous leap of faith to leave our babies in the care of others. Jaden was the first child in our family to go to daycare and not having a choice to stay home meant finding the best possible care for her. Precious Memories proved over and over again that they were most caring and compassionate partners in her development over the years. We couldn't be more grateful for her time there. Today is her last day at the center which she commemorated by wearing her new kindergarten uniform and bringing her memory book for her friends to sign. It is very bittersweet for all of us. Jaden has blossomed there. She has made wonderful friendships, learned countless lessons...built the foundation of confidence and knowledge that I know will carry her onward into kindergarten and the next phase of her young life. She is ready to leave the warm, honey colored halls of the nursery school for the great wide open of her new school. I know she is ready. I'm not 100% sure that I am. This morning I am drawing comfort from my daughter's cues. She's excited. She feels like a big girl, ready to start her next adventure. She seems ready to push herself to be open and less shy. She's eager to meet her new teacher and classmates. This is part of the process, I know. They grow up in stages, each one strangely wonderful and terrifying in its own right. I'm looking forward to a few days of vacation, days trips and lazy afternoons with my little girl before gearing up for the new school year. I'm sure there will be hugs and tears today at our final pickup but I know once she walks out those doors, she's only looking forward with smiles. |
| It has been a surprising long time since my last blog, shameful really as there has been no shortage of material I could have easily been inspired by. I have to chalk it up to a bitter Winter that lasted too long and a Spring that has been full throttle since the appearance of milder temps, birdsong and persistent sunshine. At any rate, here I find myself in June...weeks away from Jaden's preschool graduation and just a few months shy of kindergarten. Truth be told, I've never wanted the weeks to pass more slowly. Truth be told, I am so less ready for these milestones then my daughter seems to be. Her world is abuzz with exciting changes...and she is soaking it up gleefully. Her room has been made-over. The baby blue sky and butterflies have replaced the peach nursery walls and princess decor. The toddler bed is now a sturdy twin. She has laid claim to her upgraded big girl space with new requests for "privacy" while she picks her clothes from the new five drawer dresser or retrieves them from her closest. She emerges most mornings, clad in whatever ensemble she has picked for herself, donning accessories and smiling, ready for her day. The frilly little girl frocks have been slowly exchanged for maxi dresses and capris, matched with an alarming accuracy, to her headbands and jewelery. The car seats have been retired, replaced with booster seats instead. She can now work the windows, buckle herself in, and get in and out of the car unaided. She sits in the back and I watch her, smiling to herself in her big girl seat, waiting for her favorite songs to come on the radio. One does and she sits up and starts to car dance, singing "Shut Up and Dance with Me" louder than she has sung before. She reminds me again that I still haven't downloaded the new Taylor Swift song she likes for her. She talks between the music, about her friends, about school, about everything. She is only five, I remind myself. I take a deep breath, attempt to quell the panic. Every day she needs me less and less. Still, there are those moments when she still wants me to sleep over in her bed, do her hair for her, help her get dressed. Is she giving me a freebee or is she having just a hard time letting go of some things too? Its hard to tell most days. For now, I am grateful when she still gets a little clingy. My heart jumps for joy when she clambers out of the car and takes my hand on the sidewalk and doesn't let go at the door. When I pick her up at the end of the day, she still leaps up and throws her arms around me, too big to launch herself up into my arms but still trying to anyway. In a few months, she will hold my hand and walk into a new school, a new phase of her life, a new adventure. I will lose a bit more of her then, and every day after as she grows more and more independent. I am so not ready. I can admit that to myself. Most importantly though, she is. I know when I watch her at graduation with her little white cape and shy smile, there will be tears. And I know those tears will be both happy and sad because I am a Mom and I cry with equal measure for all that she leaves behind as well as for everything wonderful that awaits her. |
| "She discovered with great delight that one does not love one's children just because they are one's children but because of the friendship formed while raising them." Author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez Jaden recently turned five. With the passing of that milestone, I've encountered a daughter who discovers new abilities, expressions and emotions on an almost daily basis. It is a daunting pace of development, an ever expanding learning curve for which I often feel I must struggle to keep up with. For example, I find I am not longer equipped to help her with her piano lessons, she now understands far more about the notes and music than I do. My role has become merely to listen, to encourage and to keep her to a regular practice schedule...all the rest, she does on her own. Watching her play now its difficult to contain my delight as I see her mind making all the right connections with her fingers on the keys. Having mastered many of the basic songs in her book, she has begun to push herself through the more challenging ones, her delicate mouth silently counting off the notes, her brow furrowed with concentration. She is building confidence in herself, and not just in front of her piano. Jaden has always been shy but in the last few months, I see her pushing herself to be more outgoing. Her typical warm-up period has become shorter. She will make and maintain eye contact with most adults that address her and she will verbally answer when before eliciting even a head shake was a near impossible task. Her sense of self, of who she is, has become radically more focused and centered. She will not hesitate to tell me what she likes, or doesn't, how she is feeling and most important, how I make her feel - which is typically "more lonely" when I refuse to play something with her. When I do make her happy, which I hope is much of the time, her favorite expression is to tell me how much she "loves me in her heart"...which is just about the best thing in the world to hear. I try to remember that, especially on the days when I feel she is running too quickly for me to catch up. I try to catch all those amazing moments of sweetness; like when she smiles and bends to kiss her doll goodnight, when she throws a protective arm around the dog after he settles down beside her on the couch or when she bounds into the kitchen to greet me when I get home and her green eyes are sparking with the lovely animation of a pure and youthful joy. I am so acutely aware that time is passing, that we are allotted only so much time to enjoy those stinky morning breath kisses and silly dance party nights. I know one day she will start to resist that extra kiss and hug at the door to her classroom. Soon she may not want to hold my hand so often in public, or want to make puzzles or color with me for hours. I can only hope she will always "love me in her heart" regardless of how fast she is growing and maturing. And while she might not always be my biggest fan, I will always and forever be hers. |
| This morning while I was getting dressed, my daughter asked me about the red scar on my belly. I told her it was my favorite scar because it was made when she was born, that it was how the doctor's had brought her into the world. Jaden looked at me for a minute with wide eyes. Then, she leaned against me and murmured "you are my best friend Mom", as if she magically understood the entire terrifying and wonderful experience of childbirth and sincerely appreciated my sacrifice and commitment to motherhood. There are moments with my daughter when I wonder if she is in possession of one of those rare old souls, as if she understands and perceives much more than she should despite her years. Oddly, sometimes I see so much comprehension in her sea-change eyes, that it is almost unnerving. Jaden is remarkable for many reasons but it’s her often uncanny powers of perception that frequently leave me in awe. She is a quiet and reserved child, an active listener who can express herself as effectively with words as she can with non-verbal cues. When we find her in a talkative mood, she is animated and tends to chat with the comfort and ease of any adult. It never ceases to make her Dad shake his head and smile. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
