To Whom It May Concern

Dear Tricksy Gas Stations:

Listen. I know you need to make a buck. We all do. But being shady and less-than-direct is not the way to do it.

ESPECIALLY TO A MOM WHO HAS TWO VERY GRUMPY AND TIRED KIDS IN THE CAR AND SAID MOM HAS JUST REALIZED SHE IS COMPLETELY OUT OF GAS BUT STILL HAS QUITE A FEW MILES TO HOME.

Because when this Mom comes across your station, the first in about 15 minutes after her realization, and sees that your sign has a nice and reasonable price for unleaded gas, she will pull in.  She'll sidle right up to an open pump, even though her kids are whining and fighting and possibly poking each other to insanity in the car (because that's what sisters do: they poke. Poke. Poke. Poke each other. Little fingers jabbed into someone else's pudgy arms. Until one of them breaks down and totally loses it. I should know. I am, in fact, a big sister myself).

This mom will get out of the car in a hurry, because the clock is ticking toward bedtime and she doesn't want to miss her window of getting these kids to sleep. So she'll throw open the door, whip out her credit card and slide it through the card reader. Secretly she'll be glad that for these few moments there is respite from the screaming and crying, although she can still view the poking war happening inside the car. She can't hear it though. And this is bliss.

The screen will prompt her to choose a gasoline grade. And this is where things get sticky. Because the price listed on the screen is at least 10 cents more than that advertised on the street sign. This confuses her. She makes sure she is looking at the unleaded pump. She is. And it's still expensive. More expensive than other gas stations. This cannot be right. As she tries to discern the disconnect, she'll look up to the street sign. And there, she'll see the answer.

Because there, in the teeniest tiniest barely readable script  are the fated words, "Cash only."  Words that only a microscope would be able to decipher. Certainly not readable to your regular consumer passing by in a moment of gasoline need. 

And an anger will begin to boil, deep down inside of her being.

An anger that started first thing in the morning, when her youngest wakes at an ungodly hour. An anger that continues with every resistance by her offspring to get out the door on time. An anger at realizing she has left her phone at home. An anger at the traffic. The rain. The injustice of the world.

But most of all, the anger at tricksy hobbit gas stations who fool innocent prey into buying overly-expensive gas.

Never underestimate a mom on the edge. A mom who now has to enter her Poking War Zone of a car. Who has to hope and pray there is a gas station somewhere between here and home. A mom who has had enough of this day.

Because she may come in and yell and throw things and gnash her teeth and bite her thumb at you.

Or, at least, she will in her head. 

Which will only make her more angry.

So shame on you, Tricksy Hobbit Gas Stations.

Your time will come. And angry moms all over the world will revel in your misleading misery.


LYLAS,
Steph

To Whom It May Concern: Old School

To Anyone Who Attended Middle School in the Early 90's:

So once upon a time, we were eighth graders. Oh what turmoil!  What bliss!  While this complicated age came with a plethora of frustration, there were the inevitable benefits.  One such benefit was upgrading to the Middle School Cafeteria (complete with Slush Puppies).  Another was Middle School Dances.


We lived and died for dances.


I'm not completely sure why.  It was such an awkward thing. A dimly lit gymnasium.  Littered with teachers who didn't want to be there chaperoning.  Girls hanging out on one side, boys on another. Each gyrating to the fast songs (including, but not limited to Ace of Base, Alanis Morissette, Notorious BIG, Hootie and the Blowfish and Sponge),  seemingly unaware of the other.  Each secretly hoping for a chance at the opportunity to be in close proximity of the other.


And then. AND THEN.  A slow jam comes on.


Slow.


Jam.


Your chance. Possibly only chance. At love! At a future! At a fairytale ending! Or so our dramatic hormonal middle school minds told us.


We lived and died for slow jams.


So imagine the rush of emotions that accosted me today when this song came on the radio:











Someone hold me.


No really. 


Hold me.




(And to those wondering, I cannot confirm or deny having owned several Boyz II Men albums. Or still having those albums in my possession. Or listening to said albums on a regular basis).












LYLAS,

To Whom It May Concern...

To All the Nay-sayers




Mark my words: there will come a day when my extensive and questionably useless knowledge of Air Supply Lyrics (arguably of super-hero power proportions) will quite possibly save all man kind.




On that day, you can thank me.




And on that day, I will do my best to refrain from saying, I told you so.

LYLAS,

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Weather Channel...

I love you.  When I was young, I was quite the weather nerd.  I remember distinctly being in fourth grade, and spending my summer watching The Weather Channel. For hours at a time.  Like in the same way some kids compulsively watch cartoons. This is saying a lot, since 1 hour of the Weather Channel is pretty much the same stuff over and over. But not to me.  No, I was so fascinated by the forecasting, the radars, the maps, the national weather outlook, and how things could change in an instant.


Don't judge me.


You are my go-to Weather source.  Hands down. So when I got a droid in April, I immediately starting using your Weather Channel widget. I loved that the weather was always visible on my home screen, and with a quick click on the button, I am able see the weather for the next week.  Minute by minute temperature reads, severe weather notices.  


It's awesome.


I always check the weather as soon as I open my eyes in the morning. It's how I start my day.  The moment I wake up, before putting my feet on the floor, I grab my phone off the nightstand, wake it up, and see what the weather is forecasted to bring to day.  


This morning, my cute little widget was all....

Which to me, translated, means...

So you can imagine my surprise when the following takes place, in no particular order:

Thanks for a great morning.

Not.

LYLAS,

PS -  It's still cloudy. In case you were wondering.

To Whom It May Concern...

Dear Hub TV Network


Here's the deal. I don't really know you.  I'd love to know you, as I've seen you from afar.  I've caught glimpses of your schedule.  But, since we are on the lowest Verizon tier, we do not get to experience the fullness of your glory.


At least, I thought I couldn't.


Confession: I've taken a liking to perusing Verizon's On-Demand button.

It's the little things in life, isn't it?


There is plenty you can pay to see On Demand: movies, tv shows.  But, there is a lesser-known On Demand universe, one that is not fully appreciated.


You see, there is FREE stuff On Demand.


This discovery has breathed new life into my sometimes-monotonous days. There are TV series I can watch if I miss.  There is a small assortment of free movies.  And there are networks of children's channels and shows that I can pop on for Little Chica if there is nothing currently worth watching.


It's awesome.


Sometimes I find myself completely caught up in a maze of TV mystery and intrigue.  Like some online funhouse, there is no end to trap doors, sneaky hallways and open windows one click through to explore what Verizon On Demand has to offer: games, trivia, fitness, language, nearly unknown shows...


...And shows you might have all but forgotten.


What a treasure it is to happen upon a show from another season of you life.  One time I saw that HUB showed reruns of The Wonder Years (hands down one of the best TV show ever to grace cable), as well as Family Ties and Doogie Howser, MD (I LOVE YOU NEIL PATRICK HARRIS!). After totally peeing my pants (and subsequently changing them), I clicked on the guide to be taken to that channel.  Only. We don't get HUB.  And I mourned my loss.  So I then immediately went to On Demand to see if we could catch it there.  And there is was!  So I clicked on it!  Only to be given a message reminder that we don't subscribe to that channel.  So I mourned again.


Until today. Today made up for every missed opportunity I've ever had with On Demand.


Earlier today, I was looking through the Free Kids Shows category.  We almost always go to Sprout (which we also are not subscribed to. Sadness) or PBS Kids. I wanted to shake things up a bit, so I continued clicking through other options in the category.  It did not take long to find there are shows from HUB in this section.  I didn't get my hopes up, as I've not been able to watch other shows from HUB on Demand.


But then one amazing TV show caught my eye and I fainted and woke up and fainted again.  Yes, friends. HUB offers:

JEM.

Holy retro tv, Batman!  My fingers shook as I clicked over to the show.  With heart racing, I selected my option, said a prayer and pressed the button.

And I heard this...

Outrageous! Truly, truly, truly outrageous! With all of its big hair, synthesized music, cheesy animation and implausible story lines, there was Jem in all of her glory.  Can I tell you that I somehow, even after 25 years, still remembered all the words? I took it all in.  


It was so 80's it hurt. 


But the good kind of hurt.  


I still have no idea why they painted their faces like they were in the broadway musical Cats, or why one pair of earrings held so much power.  But I don't care.  


HUB, thank you for your amazing taste in old-school television.  You have top-notch variety of 80's and 90's TV shows and cartoons.  I will continue to gaze at you from afar, hoping that today might be the day Verizon decides to let me subscribe to you.  A day when I might be able to watch nostalgic tv shows freely and proudly on your television network.


Until then, carry on, friend.  Carry on.

To Whom It May Concern...

I was raised on a steady diet of bad music.  Both my parents had a particularly poor taste in music, and our minivan was stocked to the hilt with the music stylings of (but not limited to):  The Bee Gees (you've got to love those Gibbs, am I right?), Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, Dion and the Belmonts, Barry Manilow and the Cocktail movie soundtrack.

Do most of those artists sound completely unfamiliar to you? You should be so lucky.

But for years and years, these are the cassette tapes that blasted music throughout our vehicle on short trips to the store and long trips to the beach.  I knew the albums inside out, had memorized every lyric, and grown fond of the melodies.

I had been brainwashed to love crappy music.

It took many years of fighting through the muck, but I believe I've grown to have a good (albeit eclectic) taste in music.  My playlists span a range of genres, but most artists are modern. Or at least make reasonable music.

While I've overcome most of my bad music addictions, there is one that has withstood the war I've waged, and I believe it is here to stay.


So I am here to confess:

I kind of sort of not-so-secretly love 
Air Supply.

And I may or may not know all the words to every song on their Greatest Hits album.


And I am no way apologetic about it.






That is all.




And for your awesomely bad 80's rock viewing pleasure:

To Whom It May Concern...

Dear Ann M. Martin,


I know when I write your name, there will be many people scratching their heads, trying to determine why your moniker looks so familiar.  Is she a family friend? A famous actress?  Someone I used to know a lifetime ago?


When I see your name typed, warm memories of my childhood flood my mind:  Summer nights frolicking around my yard in the hopes of catching lightning bugs; Winter afternoons snuggled under a blanket with a good book as the snow falls lightly down.


You see, your name adorns an important talisman of my childhood: a large collection of some of the most moving, life-changing pieces of literature that have ever graced this earth.  I cannot think of my childhood without being reminded of you.


For you, Ann M. Martin, authored:

Oh, how I loved The Babysitter's Club. I knew each member by heart, loving their unique personalities, and trudging through life with them, book by book. I can't tell you how many days of my youth were spent tearing through the pages of these books: on the couch, in bed at night after the lights were supposed to be off, at the dinner table while I anti-socially ignored the rest of my family.


Oh how I wanted their lives to be real!  If only Stoneybrook, Connecticuit had truly existed, I could have moved there and joined their entrepreneurial organization!  I could have known the families!  I could have attended BSC meetings!  Visited Disney World with the whole gang!  And, I could have secretly broken up Logan and Mary Anne and stolen that boy for myself!


Oh, to be frozen in time for over a decade.  Is it me, or did these girls enjoy the perks of Never, Neverland?  I could only assume they were trapped in the 8th grade forever (and seriously, what a crappy year to get Groundhog Day'd in, right?)




All pleasantries aside, Ann M. Martin, I would be remiss in not mentioning that I do have some business to take up with you.




Ann M. Martin, I'd like to let the record show that 20-some odd years ago, I did in fact write you a letter.  Upon a blue-lined piece of parchment, I wrote my Elementary School heart out:  gushing how much I loved your books, appreciating your writing and praising your wholesome storylines.  I shared with you some ideas for expanding the series:  actually letting time pass, having the girls grow up and following the BSC  through High School. College.  Married life.  I knew that leaving these Peter-Panified girls in the 8th grade would eventually lead the series to a dead end (although I would have remained ever-faithful).  And the devoted fans (I know there must have been more than just me??) would have continued reading on.


But.


I never heard from you.


Not.


One.


Word.


In my lifetime, I wrote to many of my favorite celebrities and authors.  And wouldn't you know it, many of them wrote back to me?  Judy Blume appreciated her fans.  Her generic letter even had her picture on it!  And Richard Dean Anderson sent me a real live postcard with his name typed on the back.  MacGyver fans around the world, eat your heart out!


But not you, Ann M. Martin.  Not you.


I'd like to think that you were overwhelmed by the emotion my letter brought to you.  Perhaps you had kept the letter as a keepsake, but lost the envelope and could not respond.


Or maybe you were taking my ideas, capitializing on their brilliance, and not giving me one lick of credit.


You see, several years after I wrote you, a funny thing happened: The BSC girls graduated from Stoneybrook Middle School.  In that time, they even added members to the Club.


Really, Ann?  You came up with that all by yourself?  Or are we too proud to mention the genius suggestions by a young fan?


I think I can forgive you, Ann M. Martin.  Especially since you did come out with some books focused just on Logan (and well worth the Special Edition status, my friend).


But if sometime in the future I happen upon newly released BSC books, catching up on the lives of our favorite Club Members, I will be a little bitter.


And a lot less forgiving.


And I may feel the need to write to Richard Dean Anderson about it.


Don't say I didn't give you fair warning.














Yours Truly,







And just for fun:

To Whom It May Concern...

Dear anyone who blogs, reads blogs or generally knows what a blog is:




As with all things, blogging has its own history.  Something that is now a daily internet phenomenon once started as a person deciding to type their thoughts and share them with all of cyberspace.


Some might wrongly believe that these guys or even these guys created the web hype that is blogging. Alas, you would be mistaken.  If not them, then who? From whence did they come? Who breathed life into weblogs, tenderly weaving together a beautiful symphony of HTML? Who made them popular? Famous?

Was it her?

Perhaps her?

He's pretty popular.

Surely it was this fictional writer who 
brought blogdom to stardom?

No friends.  Eh eh. None of the above.  The history of blogging may be accounted for, but there is one glaring gap that I would be remiss in not correcting. Before Blogger and Wordpress were even dreams in their creator's minds, there was one faithfully logging away on his computer day after day, sharing his thoughts with the world.  


And it is this man  boy  manboy genius that paved the way for the rest of us bloggers to post the typed word:

That's right, people.  You can thank the man  boy  manboy good doctor himself, 

Doogie Howser, MD. 

You remember, don't you? At the end of every day, Doogs would retire to his room and sit in front of his blue-screened computer, philosophically reflecting upon his complicated life.  Which, as a 5-year old doctor, was probably a heck of a lot more interesting than my own:  girl trouble, friend trouble, parent trouble, puberty, surgeries.  


You know, just a normal day.

But I want to thank you, Doogie Howser, MD. Because of you, in all of your meditative doctorness, I have been given the opportunity to have a voice on this here cybernet.  

Interspace.  

Webnet.

Whatever.

Sincerely,

[Disclosure: this post is brought to you by the makers of Prodigy Internet and Commodore 64]

To Whom It May Concern (alternative title: the day I found heaven in a flip flop)

Dear Oboz Footwear (and any one out there who is still in search of the perfect sandal):

Listen. I know you don't know me. I am just one peon in the large world of peon consumers. And until last week, I didn't know you either.

But your sandals have changed my life.

Over the years, I have had many sandal relationships. I've had my share of the thin $5 flip flops from department stores. You know the ones: they come in every color and can match everything in your wardrobe. What they don't tell you is that they are hell on your lower back and the barely-there soles do not protect from, say, stepping on a rusty nail (which, in case you are wondering, WILL break right through the 1/4-inch piece of rubber and straight into your foot nearly giving you Tetanus).

As an outdoorsy gal, I've flirted with the more hardy sandals. Ones that are made of fancy high-tech fabrics, crazy zip-tie closures, strange adjusting straps and soles made from the same stuff they use to make space shuttles. These hardcore shoes serve their purpose on a short hike or kayaking, but are cumbersome for every day usage. And I won't lie: some of those sandals require a degree just to figure out how to wrestle them onto your feet and correctly adjusted.

For years I dealt with an aching back, because my vanity could not say no to the $5 Flip Flops. Too many times I've struggled over getting adjustable strappy sandals on my feet, leaving me cursing like sailor and throwing a tantrum like a 2-year old.

Any sandal that has come into my life has eventually become a disappointment. If it didn't send my back into spasms or refuse to get onto my foot, it broke or caused blisters or just plain didn't fit right.

My husband, a footwear snob, begged me to just spend the extra money to invest in a good pair of sandals. He was tired of my complaining. So he put his foot down (no pun intended).

And then, last week, I took a trip to my local EMS. I was only there to browse, and happened to make my way over to the shoe clearance section. A large selection of sandals were on sale, presumably from last season. I was perusing the selection, when this pair caught my eye:

The Oboz Women's Sling

Oh. Mah. Gah.

I slipped them on my feet and trumpets sounded, choirs of angels sang, and the sky rained down fire. Glorious, glorious sandals. In that moment I just knew: these sandals were made for me. I loved their slip-on design and nice thick, supportive soul. The straps were durable and did not cut into my foot.

They were, as far as I could see, perfection.

::Gasp:: Could this be? Had I finally found the Perfect Sandal? Or would I get them home, like so many times before, just to be let down?

I showed them to Hubby, who insisted that I buy them. After paying, I immediately put them on. The right sandal was slightly tight, and I began to panic that I'd made a bad choice. Hubby said that I should give them a few days to break in, and see if anything changes (which may have looked like an eye roll and involved the the sentiment "stop being a baby. Give 'em a day to break in. If you don't like them, you can return them").

So I wore them exclusively for several days. And an amazing thing happened: they adjusted perfectly to my feet. The straps, which were initially burdensome to slip around my big toe, took the form of the top of my foot. Soon, even when I took my feet out of the sandal, the straps held their shape. It was so easy to slip them on and off. With 2 kids, it is difficult enough to get THEIR shoes on their little sweaty and wriggly feet without having to meddle with my own sandals.

I was worried that the straps on the right foot were too tight when I first bought them, as they sort of cut into my big toe. After a day or 2, the straps became soft, almost like slippers on my feet. The thick sole is supportive without being too heavy or clunky.

They are, in every way, everything that I've wanted in a sandal and more.

::swoon::

So, thank you, Oboz, for making an amazing sandal. And I'm sorry if I seem like one of those weird obsessed groupies. I'm really a normal person who doesn't usually get hyped up over footwear. But for these sandals, I had to make an exception.

And for you, sole-searching friends, who have lost hope that you might ever find the perfect sole-mate for your feet: Don't give up. The perfect sandal is out there. Never settle for less than the best for your piggies. And don't doubt the power of the Clearance rack.

(And...head to EMS to see if they have any more of these sandals for sale because THEY. ARE. AWESOME. They had them in Men's as well).

All thoughts and opinions in this post are completely my own. Oboz does not know me and is probably a little creeped out that I am fawning over their footwear. So, you can imagine they did not ask me to promote these sandals in anyway.

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Waste Management Services of Kennett Square Borough:

I want to apologize in advance for what you will mostly likely encounter when you come to pick up our trash next Tuesday.

It's been 90 or so degrees here the past few days. And yesterday was a crazy day with my oldest going to her preschool orientation and it was a grocery shopping day. In all of my brilliance, I decided to grocery shop right before I had to pick up Little Chica. It was great to only shop with one kid! My goodness! I got my food in record time!

So, I arrived at her school a little early. And since it was a billion degrees outside, I took Bitty Bug inside to wait for Little Chica to be dismissed. Only 10 minutes went by, I swear.

When we got back to the car, there was a noticeable odor in the vehicle. I chalked it up to a hidden sippy cup full of milk (which I have been known to do). Milk does not do well hidden in cars on hot days.

We got home, where I proceeded to unload the kids and put the groceries away. I wanted to be sure that none of the groceries had spoiled, so I singlehandedly gave every item the sniff test before it was put away in its proper place. Considering I have a very acute olfactory sense, this was a complete act of bravery on my part. Nothing smelled bad, thankfully, and we went on with our day.

Around 4:00pm on the day in question, I opened the refrigerator to take out chicken for dinner. Once again I noticed a very unfresh scent. I peaked around, trying to find the culprit. When I finally checked the chicken, it smelled...fishy.

I figured fishy chicken cannot be good.

So, to avoid giving my family salmonella or botulism, I threw it outside into our garbage can.

The garbage can that had been sitting out in 90 degree heat for 2 days.

The garbage can that will continue to sit in 90 degree heat until this excessive heat breaks.

The garbage can that is already home to a few garden slugs and possibly an old diaper that is stuck to the bottom and refuses to be launched into the trash truck week after week but since it's so gross I refuse to stick my arm in there to unstick it, so it will stay there indefinitely until it becomes compost or a diamond or something.

I admit I could have come up with a better plan.

So, next week, when you kindly come to do your weekly trash pick up, and you find that our garbage can smells like the rotting carcass of death, please do not call the authorities. I promise it is only the festering remains of a package of spoiled chicken thoughtlessly tossed away on a very hot day. And a very old diaper. And a few roasted garden slugs.

Please forgive my indiscretion.

Yours Truly,

To Whom It May Concern...

There is no feeling so helpless than that of being stuck driving in a car with a crying child.

Except that of being stuck driving in a car with 2 crying children.

The drive always starts off innocently enough. The 3 year old climbs obediently into her car seat, baggie of goldfish snacks in hand. She is surrounded by plenty of fodder for the ride: books, toys and a great view out the window. The 3 month old sits contently in her throne, barely able to keep her eyes open. There is the slight promise of a nap as you turn the key and the engine fires up.

You flip on the radio, and soon find a song you love. The tune is catchy, and your head bobs to the beat. After a minute, the 3 year old pipes up. "I don't yike this song Mommy. Change it." It is a demand, not a request. You pretend not to hear, and focus more intently on the radio. You hardly ever get to ride in the car by yourself anymore, you reason. You should at least get to listen to the music you like if you can't be alone. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! I don't YIKE this SONG." Her opinion is belligerent, and before your blood pressure rises, you turn off the radio.

It is around this time you hear the 3 month old begin to stir. At first, she throws out a few cute little coos and gurgles. You smile contentedly, admiring how amazingly cute your child is. Slowly, the coos become less cute and more agitated. Her voice raises until the sounds coming from her seat are urgent and hostile, so you decide to enlist the help of Gumby Arms.

The baby's seat is directly behind you, so as you consciously keep your eyes on the road, you arch your spine and reach your Gumby Arm as far back and around as it can reach. Fingers search and find a pacifier, but just slightly out of grasping range. You dig your heels in to gain another inch, and just before your shoulder dislocates, you victoriously clutch the silicone godsend. In another feat of flexible genius, you find your baby's mouth, and stick the pacifier in. Your body returns to the seat, mentally patting itself on the back for its amazing skills. Seconds later, you hear the familiar "pphthbbbb," followed by the muted thud of the pacifier falling out of reach into the depths of the carseat.

Immediately the baby starts to whimper.

Pacifier Retrieval Mission: Fail.

Your eyes dart to the road, and your heart sinks as you realize you are at least 20 minutes from your destination. Something in the back of your mind tells you that this may be the longest 20 minutes of your life.

As you are calculating the estimated time of arrival, the 3 year old observes there is still quite a distance to go. To confirm this, she asks, "Mommy are we there yet?"

You answer honestly, "No, honey, we are not there yet."

The baby's whimper is slowly building.

"Are we there yet now?" the 3 year old inquires, wondering if in the 5 seconds that have past since she last asked you could have possibly arrived.

"Nope."

It is hard to hear your answer, as the building baby whimper has become a definitive baby cry. She has worked herself up so much, the cry sounds like a bleating sheep. "Ahhhh Ahhhh Ahhhh Ahhhh."

Taking matters into her own hands, as it has become obvious to her that you have no idea what you are doing, the 3 year old gently and delicately attempts to comfort her little sister. "NO BABY! STOP CRYING! STOP STOP STOP STOP CRYING!" The baby cries louder in response. The 3 year old becomes more adamant. The "STOP" and the "AHHH" take turns pounding a beat on the headache being born in your brain.

15 minutes to go.

You find that you were somehow uninformed that today is Drive As Slow As You Can And Take In The Scenery Day. Had you known, perhaps you would have avoiding this route. Or this destination. Or driving ever again in general. The boat-sized Buick in front of you cruises at a cool 10-miles under the speed limit. It is a wonder that anyone is actually driving the car, as no head is visible above the headrest. 15-miles under the speed limit, slightly swerving.

Your hands are shaking now. Your left eye starts to twitch.

And it becomes a real possibility you may never arrive, leaving you to drive forever behind the slowest car in the world to the soundtrack of 2 unhappy children.

Have mercy on me.

Since she is having no luck comforting her sister, the 3 year old turns her attention back to road markers. "Are we there yet?"

Your hands grip the wheel as you gather every ounce of patience you still own. "Is the car still moving?"

"Um. Yes."

"Then, no, we are not there yet."

You are close to shouting now, to override the wailing from the 3 month old. You turn the radio on again, hoping to find soothing music. Protests begin from the 3 year old, who apparently has a very distinct music preference. You push the volume up several notches. This does not help.

WAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. WAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? I dropped my goldfish. I want another book. Are we there yet NOW?" She begins to cry dramatically at the injustice of her life: no answers, lost goldfish, and a lack of good literature. Her world is crumbling bit by bit.

Much like your sanity.

You start to laugh. A maniacal giggle. In these situations you have to keep a sense of humor, right? Or you know that if you don't laugh you'll probably cry.

It's amazing you have kept the car on the road. You are certain that anyone who looks at the car will see visible sound waves emanating through the windows. You are not sure if your hearing will ever be the same again. Your brain may or may not actually explode.

AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SACRED AND HOLY, NO WE ARE NOT THERE YET.

Ahead, there is a beautiful sight: the last turn before your destination. You focus on that one point, and count the milliseconds between bleats and questions, knowing YOU. ARE. ALMOST. THERE.

Labor was not this intensive.

In one hurried movement, you park the car, unbuckle your seat belt, throw open the door and subsequently pull your groin muscle. Could have done without that. Limping, you yank open the back door to take out the baby so you can check her over.

She is asleep.

Of course.

With a weary glance, you see the 3 year old smiling. She is chewing on orange mutilated goldfish bodies.

"I found my fishies."

Clearly.

With hands on your knees, you bend at the waist. Your brain has been deprived of oxygen for a solid seven minutes, and you try to replace some by sending blood to your head. A large garbage truck passes you, but you can barely hear it. You actually cannot hear anything except the ringing in your ears.

With a sigh, you extract your offspring from the car, and make your way into the store. You feel the 3 year old put her soft little hand in yours. It warms your heart and you believe that this simple act of love can overcome even the most difficult of experiences. You look down to gaze upon all of her cuteness and she looks up at you with big blue eyes.

"Can we go home now?"

I need to invest in earmuffs.