I know it seems to soon for another one but I have a current momentum that could die any day now and it would be a shame for you all to miss out on this!
My brother called me. "Hey, mum sent me something". "what?". "I don't know but its in the bin now". "I'll call her and ask for you"
My mum. Currently holed up in a lovely new set of units with fresh paint, new furniture, meals catered for and lots of friends to mingle with. Oh and locked gates. She developed early onset dementia last year and well went down hill pretty quick. She gets to meet new people every day which was a particular love of hers, one that I have inherited I'm afraid. We had what can only be regarded as a tumultuous relationship and to be honest, to have her just lose her memory of me is not such a bad thing. Harsh I know but there was so much of her I didn't like. That's all gone but the good stuff went to so we will wait for the inevitable I suspect. Anyway, mum was a cheap skate. Big time cheap skate. Jane describes her meal management as being a "food Nazi". If there was 6 people and 12 prawns, woe betide the individual that went for a 3rd portion. Part of me understands as we grew up with only one parent working, but I came to realise mum was just lazy and didn't want to work. 4 kids and 2 grown ups on one wage, yes, I suppose she had to budget. I don't accept she had to save on postage decades later though.
My elder brother lives in the UK, he ran away from us (well not specifically me) way way ago. His career flourished and he was mum's pride and joy. I'm sure she'd have rather he be the 'only gay in the village', but his gaiety was her frame of reference in absentia. "oh yes, my eldest boy, he's abroad..and he's gay"
One year, mum decided he didn't have enough Australian stuff so bought a nice large jar of Vegemite. 750 grams of black yeasty goodness. The story would be great if he hated it (as it's a you either love it or hate it condiment) but the fact of the matter is that he was indifferent to it. Upon checking her trusty post office booklet on overseas mail charges, found that the jar and its contents would be far too expensive to send. the weight and size of the package prohibitively expensive it would seem. She had never considered that somewhere on a supermarket shelf, they already had Vegemite in the UK. This was an imperative mission for her now.
Zip lock bags are useful things I find. I've even seen them being made in China but that's another story. They do however give you a false sense of security. Spooning the contents into a ziplock bag, mum had resolved her 3 dimensional problem into what can be regarded as a 2 dimensional solution. Brilliant! why doesn't everyone send wet, sticky pastes across the planet in such a way I hear you say. It had arrived as one would expect after travelling in a few lorries, going through sorting machines and hands, being loaded into a crate and onto a plane then repeat the process at the other end.
It had arrived remarkably at my brothers but was an unintelligible mess. He binned it and rang me. "mum sent me something", "what?", "I don't know but its in the bin now", "I'll call and ask for you"
Do you have any idea what its like to listen to your mother describe the facts as related above and not think you just have to be adopted? But I'm not, I like to talk to lots of different people, I am multi dimensional.
Thursday, 27 September 2012
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
The fortress
It was pointed out to me I idolise my boys. I do, as does Jane. As age claims more and more of me, I cannot fathom those parents that don't absolutely pour their hearts and soul into their offspring. I cannot understand how any parent could just up and leave never to look back. In general, my age has allowed me to calm down and consider things a bit more than I used to. But not this. The father of a friend of mine just up and left the family and country when he was about 12 never to return. I can understand calculus from first principles but not this. As disturbing as it is, I can fully understand the dads that lose the plot after falling victim to a family law court order or just simply after a relationship breakdown and suffering the loss of that family fortress that I find so incredibly powerful and treasure above all else. To have a family that sits at the dinner table together and laughs at the worst joke or discusses who had the best day is just about the most rewarding thing there is. As you sit there, the feeling of mile high walls of love to keep out the nasties in life is a nice feeling. The fortress around our family is impermeable. Piercing the walls unimaginable. The boys don't know the fortress is there I don't think. That's our job to make it as seamless as possible. They feel secure but aren't conscious its because of the intense love and respect Jane and I have for each other. In fact, the little one will screw up his face and turn away at the sight of me holding Jane tight in my arms and quite frankly kissing her inappropriately in front of a 10 year old. Now that I think of it, Jane tends to screw up her face at that too but I don't care. Its keeping the fortress strong. My ability to express my love for Jane is limited to a 46 year old office working, numbers driven, man's brain. I have not much imagination (but am working on it). I could copy paste some great stuff off the net now I suspect and MediaWatch would be my only threat of exposure. I won't though. I've spent 30 years with Jane. We met at high school in March of 1983 I kissed her at a party at my place June 13th of that year. Although we had the odd short 'break' (well I broke off our engagement and we didn't see each other for 6 months but that's another blog post) have been together ever since. That's a long time. Sometimes it feels a very long time and other times not so. At no time does it ever feel wrong. Our longevity is a crucial part of the fortress. I'm sure outsiders see it as a big deal but to me, its just the way it is, the way it should be for me. I simply cannot imagine living without her. There are some lovely cliche's like "we finish each other's sentences" (well actually Jane prompts me to finish my sentences is more accurate) but that's how the fortress works. Its built of solid stuff, not flowery and unsubstantial tripe. Its built of time, love, understanding, kids, houses, cars, jobs, food, fights, and the dog. I love my Jane, for being my wife, for being the boys mother, for being employed, for being my lover, for her beauty (her hair will grow long again one day I'm sure) and mostly for loving me and helping me keep the fortress strong. I can do better though, I know that. If ever I think I can't be better at it, I'm must be doing it wrong.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Ponies
the current debate raging in Australia and recently put (unsuccessfully) before Parliament regarding gay marriages is just such utter bullshit. Its the sort of mindset that is imprinted into someone. You either are homophobic or not. You either can have empathy (not sympathy, that's different) and understand what it means to be gay or not. I find debating with them such a pointless exercise as all it does is highlight their ignorance and misconceptions and fuels further bigotry. I hope with this post, to enlighten maybe one person but honestly, know of the 5 people that read it, you are all more than likely of like mind in the first place. But here goes.
I have read that one argument put forward against marriage is that if there are 2 dads, who will help with the clothes shopping? My response is Ponies.
As a young and virile male teenager tripping around the streets of Goulburn in country NSW in the early 80's, I was the epitome of masculinity. I had hairs growing in most of the normal places and even in some not so normal places (I leave that for another blog) and me and my mates were busy riding bikes, playing footy and starting bush fires (Omg there's another blog - remind me later someone) and essentially having what is a good clean middle class white western European childhood. We didn't do drugs, didn't experiment with alcohol (except NYE and Summer Wine - blog to come) and got good grades in school. I used to get upset if I wasn't in the top 5 of the year for each class. I didn't get upset much except for English but its writing so who cares really! Anyways, what I am trying to say is that how can any parents not be happy with that?
Mum was the one usually to buy our clothes and shoes. She sucked at it quite frankly. Something about budget conscious and style devoid comes to mind. Dad on the other hand, was TOPS! I remember once I needed a fleece. I believe the standard cotton ones were available at Knowlman's for about $10. There was however, in Allen's (the up market shop) a branded hoody with ADIDAS clearly emblazoned across the front, it was tan and cream with draw strings and pockets and a HOOD!!! and it was expensive. I have $23 in my head for some reason but hey, it's 32 years ago so sue me. Dad didn't waver for a second. "Is that what you need?" "YES!!!!!" and so it was. Justin was instantly the coolest dude in the Goulburn universe thanks to my brilliant and loving and great Dad! Mum had a fat attack of course. That's what mums are for. But my mum had special skills in mummery post fat attacks.
I needed shoes too, and she knew it. "here darling, try these on". I was handed a standard shoe box and with some excitement opened it to find a pair of Ponies. For those of you that are unaware of what Ponies are, they are white ladies tennis shoes of questionable aesthetic appeal. The thick sole and white canvas top were instantly burnt into my retina but the thing that troubled me the most was the pink trim. As I sit here at 46 years old, I still shudder at the thought and what I knew lay ahead.
Robert Thompson, Greg Hucker and Steven Sieler were my main cohorts back then. We were playing soccer in the street outside Greg's house the day after the presentation ceremony for the Ponies. It was kind of easy to beat them all that day because its hard to run and laugh uncontrollably at the same time. I took it. I had to take it. I had to be the man. I did however want to kick that ball so far up the street they'd have to chase it for days to recover it. The ball arrived at my feet. I trapped it. It was stationary. I took a few steps back for effect and to provide the most mechanical advantage in the swinging foot about to come to bare on the orb. I was strong, all powerful Justin. He of the massive kicks, he who had perfect timing and alignment. I ran at the ball and swung my leg back in a perfect arc, and then with all my worldly force, swung my foot down to connect with that black and white bladder. The trouble with testosterone I find, is that it provides power but at the expense of accuracy. The toe of my new pink Ponies contacted with the road surface just prior to contacting the ball and as my foot struck the ball and I saw it careering off into the distance, there was something else in my peripheral vision. What was it? had I kicked the ball so very hard it disintegrated upon impact or was it that I'd caught the toe on the road and peeled the sole off the shoe off in one perfect sweep. It was the latter.
There was nothing I could say or do to convince mum it was an accident. Suffice to say I wasn't getting new shoes any time soon. Dad however, found me a pair of Adidas Country that were my Grandpa's. They were 2 sizes too big and they were my dead grandfather but there were Adidas Country!!!
Who says Dad's can't do the shopping.
I have read that one argument put forward against marriage is that if there are 2 dads, who will help with the clothes shopping? My response is Ponies.
As a young and virile male teenager tripping around the streets of Goulburn in country NSW in the early 80's, I was the epitome of masculinity. I had hairs growing in most of the normal places and even in some not so normal places (I leave that for another blog) and me and my mates were busy riding bikes, playing footy and starting bush fires (Omg there's another blog - remind me later someone) and essentially having what is a good clean middle class white western European childhood. We didn't do drugs, didn't experiment with alcohol (except NYE and Summer Wine - blog to come) and got good grades in school. I used to get upset if I wasn't in the top 5 of the year for each class. I didn't get upset much except for English but its writing so who cares really! Anyways, what I am trying to say is that how can any parents not be happy with that?
Mum was the one usually to buy our clothes and shoes. She sucked at it quite frankly. Something about budget conscious and style devoid comes to mind. Dad on the other hand, was TOPS! I remember once I needed a fleece. I believe the standard cotton ones were available at Knowlman's for about $10. There was however, in Allen's (the up market shop) a branded hoody with ADIDAS clearly emblazoned across the front, it was tan and cream with draw strings and pockets and a HOOD!!! and it was expensive. I have $23 in my head for some reason but hey, it's 32 years ago so sue me. Dad didn't waver for a second. "Is that what you need?" "YES!!!!!" and so it was. Justin was instantly the coolest dude in the Goulburn universe thanks to my brilliant and loving and great Dad! Mum had a fat attack of course. That's what mums are for. But my mum had special skills in mummery post fat attacks.
I needed shoes too, and she knew it. "here darling, try these on". I was handed a standard shoe box and with some excitement opened it to find a pair of Ponies. For those of you that are unaware of what Ponies are, they are white ladies tennis shoes of questionable aesthetic appeal. The thick sole and white canvas top were instantly burnt into my retina but the thing that troubled me the most was the pink trim. As I sit here at 46 years old, I still shudder at the thought and what I knew lay ahead.
Robert Thompson, Greg Hucker and Steven Sieler were my main cohorts back then. We were playing soccer in the street outside Greg's house the day after the presentation ceremony for the Ponies. It was kind of easy to beat them all that day because its hard to run and laugh uncontrollably at the same time. I took it. I had to take it. I had to be the man. I did however want to kick that ball so far up the street they'd have to chase it for days to recover it. The ball arrived at my feet. I trapped it. It was stationary. I took a few steps back for effect and to provide the most mechanical advantage in the swinging foot about to come to bare on the orb. I was strong, all powerful Justin. He of the massive kicks, he who had perfect timing and alignment. I ran at the ball and swung my leg back in a perfect arc, and then with all my worldly force, swung my foot down to connect with that black and white bladder. The trouble with testosterone I find, is that it provides power but at the expense of accuracy. The toe of my new pink Ponies contacted with the road surface just prior to contacting the ball and as my foot struck the ball and I saw it careering off into the distance, there was something else in my peripheral vision. What was it? had I kicked the ball so very hard it disintegrated upon impact or was it that I'd caught the toe on the road and peeled the sole off the shoe off in one perfect sweep. It was the latter.
There was nothing I could say or do to convince mum it was an accident. Suffice to say I wasn't getting new shoes any time soon. Dad however, found me a pair of Adidas Country that were my Grandpa's. They were 2 sizes too big and they were my dead grandfather but there were Adidas Country!!!
Who says Dad's can't do the shopping.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Motivation
I did a management course once that told me everyone has there own motivations, you just have to figure out what it is and provide it. Managment is achieving an outcome through the efforts of others. I considered myself a good manager in my hay day, I used to be important to my employer you know! I paid attention to people and listened, responded with empathy and ask for help in solving their problems. I was Management 101 and it worked well. High praise and more responsibility followed until one day, I looked at where I was. The hours I worked and the heart ache I had to cope with as so many direct reports poured out their financial, family and work troubles. My MD was only a few years older than me so I was as high as I was going to get in that company. What was my motivation for staying? Well I had none. Combine that with still living within 5 km of where my wife and I had attended school, and my universe was pretty limited. I had motivation to move, to expand and grow. I had motivation to find new motivation. Does that make sense? I think so. In any case, my love so so generously agreed to moving north to Brisbane. A bigger city, a hotter climate and something new. When I say 'agreed', I do so with full admission to essentially bullying her into it. I knew I couldn't keep doing what I was doing so had no choice. I once drove straight from work to the hospital because my chest pains were so concerning to me. I didnt tell anyone and it was only when Jane saw the little shaved patches on my chest from the stick on electrodes that I had to confess. So you see, my need to find new motivations affected others too. I wasn't going to steer into an oncoming car but the fanciful thought had crossed my mind in a day dream sort of state. Things had to change.
We packed up and moved north, it was expensive and disruptive, exciting and concerning and totally alien. Jobs are not hard to find so employment has never been a concern for me but leaving our friends behind was tough. If I had not found my new motivation, the impact would have been devastating I think. But fear not! Arrive it did. With my boys growing and flourishing in this new environment, Jane's career exceeding that of my own, my drive to provide was replenished. New friends established, old ones maintained and life goes on. My motivations these days are not so different as they were when we married 23 years ago. I just have to remind myslef of them from time to time. Be a husband and father, provide sustenance and guidance, be a role model and impart values that put the boys in good stead for thier future. You only have to see Lewis cutting off the bit of bread with the olives in it to give Griff the 'olive free' version, that I am succeeeding. His sub-motivation could be to access the PS3 though.
We packed up and moved north, it was expensive and disruptive, exciting and concerning and totally alien. Jobs are not hard to find so employment has never been a concern for me but leaving our friends behind was tough. If I had not found my new motivation, the impact would have been devastating I think. But fear not! Arrive it did. With my boys growing and flourishing in this new environment, Jane's career exceeding that of my own, my drive to provide was replenished. New friends established, old ones maintained and life goes on. My motivations these days are not so different as they were when we married 23 years ago. I just have to remind myslef of them from time to time. Be a husband and father, provide sustenance and guidance, be a role model and impart values that put the boys in good stead for thier future. You only have to see Lewis cutting off the bit of bread with the olives in it to give Griff the 'olive free' version, that I am succeeeding. His sub-motivation could be to access the PS3 though.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Communication
There are so many things you don't want to hear your sons say and so many things you do. So many things you don't want to hear yourself say but invariably do.
Last night as I was saying goodnight to Lewis, totally unprompted or scripted, he told me he loved me. We were lying next to each other on his bed testing out his new sheets and talking over the days events and there it was. It stuns me every time. I never take it for granted nor take it lightly, I would trade anything for those moments. I should not be surprised though, I told my dad I loved him practically every day and still do. We hug and I hold him tight whenever I see him.
The list of things not to say seems far larger and comes to mind far more easily. Would you believe I have actually uttered these words to my eldest. " You are BANNED from Nutella". Yes, I have been so stressed at his excessive consumption of the delicious chocolaty spread that I spoke the words out loud, and at the time was deadly serious. Upon reflection, probably not the best use of the English language. You really do have to appreciated the expectation I have that an $8 jar of spread will last more than 2 days. I am tempted to employ similar tactics to combat similar consumptions of Milo Cereal or Nurtigrain, the little bagged biscuits reserved for school lunches and of course, Milo itself. Jane has herself said "Milo is no longer allowed in the house", but as I reserve the right to ignore any instructions that impact my own consumption of chocolate powdered drinks, I have on occasion purchased said product but then had to hide it from the kids. That's is a great game for anyone interested. Let's play find the Milo tin. Can I say, they never did until given clues by a mother that shall remain nameless.
I want to hear the boys tell us truths. Whatever it is, the truth. It strikes me though that as I look back at my teenage lies to my dad, at the time I thought I was being clever but upon reflection, know he knew the facts. Dad had a 1973 V8 Leyland P76. It was a monster of a car and I loved the sound of that motor. Being the teenager i was and having the brilliant criminal mind that I do, I once (at around 14 years old) stole away to a locksmith with his keys and had my own car key cut. On occasions when my parents were away, I could then use the car without having to worry about if he took his keys. The plan was brilliant. I did take the car one night and after collecting a few friends, drove around Goulburn city on the lookout for an open liquor outlet. As the RSL Club was the only thing open, we decided to drive to Bredalbane Hotel some 25km down the highway. What were we thinking? Believe it or not, I was an A student, I used to be smart. Judgement however was lacking that night. I recall the laughter and fun ans we oh so cool teenagers drove down the freeway but then the horror as I looked down to see the car odometer was on 00003! It has clocked over! OMG!!! the hole in my plan was suddenly exposed. Boys notice odometer milestones being met. If we see it nearing a 1000 or even better a 10000 we get all excited and want to watch it happen. watching a clock over from 99999 to 00000 is ENORMOUS. I returned the car to its garage, shaking in my boots at what was to follow. As dad had a work car and mum had her car, the P76 didn't see the light of day much so it was literally weeks later when on a trip to the dump (the P76 had the tow bar) that dad turns to me and says, "Did you notice the car had clocked over?" That is something I did not want to hear my dad say. My blank stare and pale complexion must have confirmed his suspicions but he never said anything else except "You're mother must have been in the car when it happened". We both knew mum never drove that car but I relaxed in the knowledge my plan had worked after all and I the teenager still ruled the world. At the age of 46 looking back to that kid in the passenger seat, the lying little piece of shit. If ever I hear someone complain about the cost of having a car key cut these days with the transponder and codes and stuff, I hear myself thanking god.
Lewis heard me say yesterday "sorry". I had blamed him for the loss of a set of drill bits that I knew he had used somewhere and lost. I knew it!! I found them in the shed yesterday in the pop rivet tool box. I like to say sorry to the kids, its something I don't recall much when I was a kid. And they like to hear it too.
I do want to hear one thing though. A few years back, I found a hammer and a broken terracotta tile beside the pool. "Did you bang it just to see what would happen Lewis?" "No Dad, it must have just broken by itself". I still want to hear him say it but maybe I'll have to wait til he is 46 and writing his second blog.
Last night as I was saying goodnight to Lewis, totally unprompted or scripted, he told me he loved me. We were lying next to each other on his bed testing out his new sheets and talking over the days events and there it was. It stuns me every time. I never take it for granted nor take it lightly, I would trade anything for those moments. I should not be surprised though, I told my dad I loved him practically every day and still do. We hug and I hold him tight whenever I see him.
The list of things not to say seems far larger and comes to mind far more easily. Would you believe I have actually uttered these words to my eldest. " You are BANNED from Nutella". Yes, I have been so stressed at his excessive consumption of the delicious chocolaty spread that I spoke the words out loud, and at the time was deadly serious. Upon reflection, probably not the best use of the English language. You really do have to appreciated the expectation I have that an $8 jar of spread will last more than 2 days. I am tempted to employ similar tactics to combat similar consumptions of Milo Cereal or Nurtigrain, the little bagged biscuits reserved for school lunches and of course, Milo itself. Jane has herself said "Milo is no longer allowed in the house", but as I reserve the right to ignore any instructions that impact my own consumption of chocolate powdered drinks, I have on occasion purchased said product but then had to hide it from the kids. That's is a great game for anyone interested. Let's play find the Milo tin. Can I say, they never did until given clues by a mother that shall remain nameless.
I want to hear the boys tell us truths. Whatever it is, the truth. It strikes me though that as I look back at my teenage lies to my dad, at the time I thought I was being clever but upon reflection, know he knew the facts. Dad had a 1973 V8 Leyland P76. It was a monster of a car and I loved the sound of that motor. Being the teenager i was and having the brilliant criminal mind that I do, I once (at around 14 years old) stole away to a locksmith with his keys and had my own car key cut. On occasions when my parents were away, I could then use the car without having to worry about if he took his keys. The plan was brilliant. I did take the car one night and after collecting a few friends, drove around Goulburn city on the lookout for an open liquor outlet. As the RSL Club was the only thing open, we decided to drive to Bredalbane Hotel some 25km down the highway. What were we thinking? Believe it or not, I was an A student, I used to be smart. Judgement however was lacking that night. I recall the laughter and fun ans we oh so cool teenagers drove down the freeway but then the horror as I looked down to see the car odometer was on 00003! It has clocked over! OMG!!! the hole in my plan was suddenly exposed. Boys notice odometer milestones being met. If we see it nearing a 1000 or even better a 10000 we get all excited and want to watch it happen. watching a clock over from 99999 to 00000 is ENORMOUS. I returned the car to its garage, shaking in my boots at what was to follow. As dad had a work car and mum had her car, the P76 didn't see the light of day much so it was literally weeks later when on a trip to the dump (the P76 had the tow bar) that dad turns to me and says, "Did you notice the car had clocked over?" That is something I did not want to hear my dad say. My blank stare and pale complexion must have confirmed his suspicions but he never said anything else except "You're mother must have been in the car when it happened". We both knew mum never drove that car but I relaxed in the knowledge my plan had worked after all and I the teenager still ruled the world. At the age of 46 looking back to that kid in the passenger seat, the lying little piece of shit. If ever I hear someone complain about the cost of having a car key cut these days with the transponder and codes and stuff, I hear myself thanking god.
Lewis heard me say yesterday "sorry". I had blamed him for the loss of a set of drill bits that I knew he had used somewhere and lost. I knew it!! I found them in the shed yesterday in the pop rivet tool box. I like to say sorry to the kids, its something I don't recall much when I was a kid. And they like to hear it too.
I do want to hear one thing though. A few years back, I found a hammer and a broken terracotta tile beside the pool. "Did you bang it just to see what would happen Lewis?" "No Dad, it must have just broken by itself". I still want to hear him say it but maybe I'll have to wait til he is 46 and writing his second blog.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Realisations
I look at my boys and am in wonderment at how well they are turning out. I must be an OK Dad but I think Jane is an awesome mum. At my time of life there is a lot of new stresses presenting themselves with aged parents nearing the end, my own body starting to show signs of wear and tear and the boys on the cusp of early adulthood hood. I hear you say "but they are only 14 and 10" and I know I'm beating the starter's gun a tad, but I cannot help but think about what sort of men I am shaping them to be. Whether its physical fitness habits, diet or temperament, I am just impatient to know I didn't fuck them up in any way. Seeing my own parents ailing just highlights to me I have only another 30 or 40 years to be an effective dad to them. Isn't that a great thought! I have another 30 or 40 years to breath them in and rejoice in their achievements and watch them being the supermen they are to me. Lewis, the eldest one recently confided to Jane (illustrates how awesome she is) that a 'friend' at his previous school had offered him dope. It never struck me that at 14 he was old enough to be exposed. My very limited experiences with soft drugs didn't start til I was 16 or probably 17. I realise what an excellent mind he has when out from his mouth popped every bad aspect of dope straight from the school text book. I don't think I need fear for him in this respect, he has decided its not for him so far. I cannot imagine what torture it is for a parent to see their child make an alternative decision. Do they block it out maybe? I don't know. I knew a boy once. Keelan. I knew him since he was 2. He and his parents lived in the flat above me when I first moved out of home. I loved him as a son, not even like a son, he filled a part of me I think. Long story short, he made the alternative decision and died at the age of 21. I still miss him. And I still have a deeply troubled heart for his parents, they were good friends yes, but good parents? no. Yes, I'm harsh. What right is it of mine to hold them responsible for Keelan's decisions, he was an adult. Well, because it started when he wasn't an adult. To be 'cool' and 'modern', they agreed to provide limited beer to a 15 year old birthday party for him. As Lewis now approaches that same milestone, I am even more horrified than I was at the time. I realise now, maybe I should have said something to help Keelan more. Actually not maybe, I should have. I should have saved his life. There is not a word guilty enough to describe how I feel about him still to this day. I don't ever plan to give it up either. I do plan use that as my reminder to keep my own boys safe always.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)