I know where you are

Image from Morguefile

One day about a week ago, we were driving in the car when I yelled, "Oh shoot!"

Hubby pressed his imaginary passenger side brake and looked frantically from side to side expecting an oncoming disaster. "What is it?!"

"We forgot to go to the cemetery on Memorial Day," I said forlornly.

"Oh," he said, with a mixture of relief and sadness.

It's been seven years since we lost our sweet Joey to the cancer beast. Seven years of missing him and wishing he were here. Seven years that his brother has made his way through the halls of school without his twin. Seven years that his brothers have had one less big brother to look up to.

For seven years we have ceremoniously honored and marked each important day in his short life - his diagnosis day, his birthday, and his crapiversary. Masses in his name, visits to the cemetery, meals of his favorite foods, and the wearing of his favorite color.

For seven years I have been writing and posting on Facebook, each year trying to find more eloquent words to honor and grieve this amazing child.

Until this year.

This year, I realized a little too late that I didn't have masses set up on his days. I found out that those days weren't available, so I had to take different days.

This year, we were swimming at our new pool with our cousins on Memorial Day instead of visiting his grave.

This year, no one went to his crapiversary mass except me. And Grandma and Papa, but somehow we didn't even see each other there.

And this year, on June 10th, we spent the entire day on the couch because three out of the six of us were sick with a tummy bug, instead of eating Cheetos and hot dogs and pink lemonade.

And we still didn't go to the cemetery.

What is the expiration date on grief? Is it somewhere between 7 years and 70 years? What is the time limit on thinking about someone 24/7/365?

And when did we stop thinking about him constantly?

One of the crappy things about grief is the guilt that comes with it. The guilt that you're not missing your loved one enough. You're not doing enough to honor him. You're not missing him ENOUGH.

But one of the things that you learn from grieving is that life must go on. Your life is going on. And you have to let it.

You have to allow your life to continue. Without being mired by grief, without being slowed by sadness, without being delayed by guilt.

I make no secret about the fact that I don't enjoy going to the cemetery. To me, the cemetery epitomizes what cancer left us - a fat, rotting shell that had no resemblance to the charming boy it encased.

When I feel that guilt about not visiting Joey's grave creep up on me and close its cold, bony fingers around my throat and slip a hot knife into my heart, Joey reminds me of something: he's not there.

Our sweet boy does not lie in the cemetery - he walks with us every day.

He's in the smooth, flat, shiny Joey rocks that Edgie and I find. Like diamonds in the rough, they catch our eye, and we have to pick them up.

He's at the baseball field - where we find many of our Joey rocks - cheering his brothers on in a sport he loved.

He's in his brother, Slim, who has become an amazing helper and babysitter.

He's in the pennies and the dozens of other interesting things his grandma finds on her walks with his Papa.

He's in the rainbows we see, the Stripey Kittens we spot so often, and the gorgeous sunsets we watch over the fire pit in our backyard.

I know where he is. He's in all of our moments, never far from our hearts and our minds.

He's right where he's supposed to be.

Over time, we've started thinking less and living more; and I'm pretty sure that that is how grief is supposed to go.

We don't need symbols or ceremony or obligatory visits.

We just need to live our lives and know that he is in each sad, lonely, wonderful, happy moment right there with us.

Dear Grieving Parent: It's your story to tell

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At the boys' tennis lesson the other morning, I met a lovely couple: a grandma and grandpa who were staying with their grandsons and helping babysit for the summer. We talked throughout the lesson, and I really enjoyed the conversation with them.

At one point they remarked on the size difference between Slim, my twelve-year-old, and Knox, my ten-year-old. Knox is a big boy for sure and Slim smaller than average, but I couldn't help mentioning that Slim is also a twin.

And then it begun - how his brother got cancer and died (it was a brain tumor), how we discovered one morning that he was having a seizure, that he lived for a year after that (but he still went to kindergarten until he was too sick), how I was forty years old and was done with babies but had another one (who reminds me of Joey, by the way), and how the kids at Slim's school are nice to him because they know his brother died.

And on and on and on.

I've always been a good listener. Or maybe just too polite to tell people to bug off. As a result, I often get cornered into listening to total strangers tell me their life story.

Now I am that total stranger telling someone my life story. 

Joey's story.

It's been six years since Joey died. We've been without him almost as long as we were with him, and not a day goes by that I don't think about him or say his name aloud.

Still.

Always.

Because missing someone never goes away. It never gets better or easier. It never becomes routine. You never forget to do it. You never have to remind yourself to do it.

It's just always there.

The ache in your heart is ever present. It tells you that a part of you is missing, that you will never again be complete. Sometimes you can hush it like a baby; but like a baby, it will just start crying for attention once again.

Your grief is a part of you now. It becomes a story from your life. It's certainly not the only story you have, but it is your story to tell.

Or not to tell.

There are times when people remark to me about my four sons: "You have four boys?! You must have your hands full." And I choose not to tell the story.

But it hurts my heart.

It hurts my heart because I want to scream, "I HAVE FIVE BOYS. FIVE." But only because I so desperately want that fifth boy to be tagging along behind us, helping his brother at the soda fountain at Costco, or offering to push the cart and unload the groceries for me.

I want to see that smile that radiates from his eyes and hear that laugh that's contagious and feel that hug that warms every part of my body.

But I can't.

So I talk about him. I tell his story.

I talk about who he was and what happened to him, not because I want to make you sad or feel your pity; but because it is my way of letting that grief have a voice. It is my way of never forgetting how I felt and still feel.

It is my way of honoring his short life.

I will always talk about him, because his is my story to tell.

I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable,

or sad,

or angry,

or scared,

or annoyed.

I get it, I do. It makes me all of those things, too.


But I feel grateful when you indulge me, when you listen to my story, when I can see in your eyes and your heart that you are really listening.

Even if it's the 75th time you've heard my story.

If you are a grieving parent reading this, I want you to know that I will always listen to your story. The first time or the 101st time. It's your story to tell.

Or not tell.

If it's safe in your heart and it feels right there, that's okay, too.

But if you need to let it out, there are those of us who are listening.

Now, and 839 times from now.



Because it's our story to tell. 

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You might also want to read some of my other stories about loving and missing Joey:

When Party Games Go Horribly Wrong

Not Broken, Just Bent

Remembering Joey: What I Loved About My Son

My Dear Sweet Joey

Unhappy Crapiversary

If you were here, I would tell you I'm sorry

If you were here, I'd tell you I'm sorry.

For a lot of things.

I'd tell you again how sorry I am that I slapped you in Target's parking lot.

I'd tell you I'm sorry I didn't sign you up for t-ball,

or invite your preschool friends to your fourth birthday party.

I'd tell you I'm sorry that the tooth fairy never visited you.

I'd tell you I'm so very sorry that I didn't believe you when you said you were having headaches. I'd tell you that yes, in fact, it is possible to have a headache every day.

I'd tell you I'm sorry that I never talked to you about death or Heaven. I'm sorry we never said prayers at night.

I'd tell you I'm sorry for a million other missed opportunities and first time parent flubs and for the fifty percent of the things that are inevitable in life that you had to learn about way too soon.


But you're not here, so I can't say I'm sorry for those things.

I can tell you that I'm sorry there was one monster that I couldn't protect you from.

I'm sorry that your grave on the hill is lonely because we hardly ever visit.

I'm sorry that your brothers are growing up without you.

I'm sorry that our house has turned angry and sad and mopey and sometimes joyless.

I'm sorry there is someone who lives with us now whom you never had the chance to know.

I'm sorry that your family is not running races in your honor or starting foundations or writing books about you.

I'm sorry I haven't learned to live as vibrantly as you did.

And I'm especially sorry that I still haven't grasped that sometimes it is too late to say you're sorry . . .

 . . . or 'I love you' . . .
 . . . or 'let's try again' . . .
 . . . or 'I'm listening' . . .
 . . . or 'I appreciate you' . . .
 . . . and 'I'm proud of you no matter what.'

If you were here, I'd ask you to help me remember those things. Remind me with your smile, your quickness to forgive, your willingness to accept.

If you were here, maybe I wouldn't even realize that I have anything to be sorry about. But that's the irony of losing you. Your absence makes me realize that I do have things to be sorry about.

And things I need to learn.

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When you suck at being a grieving parent

Joey is buried in a cemetery that just happens to be right down the street from where I take Slim for bimonthly speech therapy appointments. Last week, the weather was finally not bitterly cold and windy, and I thought for a minute that I should go down the street to the cemetery and visit Joey's grave.

But I didn't.

I didn't go. Because I hate to go there.

The last time I was there was Christmas time. My parents' neighbor had decorated Joey's grave for the Holidays.

As you can see, it still wasn't undecorated for fall. 

Last week I wondered if I should go to see if the neighbor had removed the Christmas items yet.

But I didn't.

I didn't go. Because I hate to go there.

In fact, I hate a lot about the whole "grieving process." I hate that it's called a process. What's to process? My son is dead, and I will never see him again.

And now I have something new in my parenting journey to feel guilty about.

It's not enough that I regularly forget to ask my fifth grader for his discipline card on the weekends so I can sign it for its return on Monday.

It's not enough that my third grader asks me to cuddle with him every night; but instead I am falling asleep in my toddler's bed, also leaving Hubby with no one to cuddle.

It's not enough that I don't make my academically struggling first grader practice reading and math facts more often.

It's not enough that my toddler gets way too much screen time while I am trying to "get things done;" and then I wonder, what in the hell did I even get done today? 

It's not enough that I make the same mediocre dinners night after night.

It's not enough that at least a couple times a week my boys have to dig dirty school clothes out of their hampers because mom hasn't done any laundry in days.

And it's certainly not enough that I am involved in, like, zero committees at the boys' school.

There are so many ways I can make myself feel guilty about not being a good enough regular parent, much less a grieving one.

I mean, I see these beautiful blogs and Facebook pages dedicated to someone's lost child. Foundations and organizations and movements and fundraisers and 5Ks and books and all of the wonderful things that other grieving parents manage to do to honor their children's memories.

And here I sit, unable to even finish what I have started and making excuses as to why I can't. Unable to even go to my son's grave and remove some damned decorations that are three months old.

Because they are still there. Hubby's mother told us they were on her last visit to the grave.

They are there, and I am not.

I would rather tuck my grief away in the privacy of my own mind. It's safer there. Instead of feeding it, I can ignore it. Or only face it sideways rather than sailing directly at it - second star to the right and straight on till morning.

But that only feeds my guilt as well. I have actual plans, just like those other grieving parents do, but they get lost in my complete failure to execute them. The status quo is safer. Acceptance lies in status quo. Good memories lie here under which the bad have long been buried.

To change anything now would be akin to digging up the body, and that would just be too hard.

But it might also take away some of the guilt.

As I stand at Joey's grave up on that god-awful lonely hill, down the hill to the southwest is a stone in the shape of a butterfly. It belongs to a baby girl who lived only a month. 30 days on the earth. I often wonder how many of those days were spent in her mother's arms.

Of the rare times I visit my own son's grave, I often turn toward that child's grave. It is always decorated with balloons and flowers and stuffed animals and holiday decorations.

And I feel guilty that I am not giving my own son those tributes.

But then I realize that child's mother only had 30 days with her, none of which was a holiday or a birthday or any other special day.

I had six birthdays with my son. Five Christmases and Halloweens. Six Easter egg hunts.

Three first days of school.

We had vacations and trips to the park and proud moments watching him go off the diving board for the first time and play soccer with his friends.

That little baby girl's mom didn't get any of that.  She is getting it now, but only in the suckiest way imaginable for any parent.

Grief isn't a competition. No one wins, and there is no judge awarding points for "Best Use of a Lawn Ornament to Spruce up a Headstone."

No one is grieving better than you; just differently. 

As if we don't have enough to feel guilty about as parents, we should not feel guilty about the way we manifest our sadness and grief. A very wise woman - who herself is a grieving daughter and grandmother - once said to me, "Just because you are not there at his grave every day doesn't mean you don't hold him here (she placed her hand over her heart) twenty-four/seven."

I remember taking this picture like it was just yesterday. 

And just like that, she took away some of my guilt, winning this grief round - for now.



This post was syndicated on BonBon Break. 

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Closing Time: One Last Call for Memories

We finally had a closing date. It was to be the day after Christmas. I panicked and scrambled to complete all the packing I had been putting off until we had a firm date. Hubby would have had me just throw things in boxes, but my organized brain had to pick through and categorize every item. My sentimental heart had to pause, remember, and reminisce.

Since most everything was packed up, we did something different and ate dinner out on Christmas Eve. We chose an Italian restaurant, and I was surprised by how many patrons were there. It was just the six of us at our table, and I wanted to make it special even if we weren't technically in our own house for our last Christmas Eve. I smiled and tried to engage the boys in games of Tic Tac Toe while we waited for our food, and I ignored their continued whines that it was taking too long.

"Let's talk about our favorite memories of our house," I suggested.

"When Baby E came home from the hospital," began Knox. That surprised me, but made me puff my chest in pride. Joey was always so happy when the new babies came home, too.

Edgie (formerly Baby E) added, "Snow sledding in the front yard!" That was a memory that involved Knox as well. He would pull Edgie down the small slope in our front yard and end up in our neighbor's driveway.

Slim offered this funny nugget: "When I used to run in circles around the house!" Our stairway was in the center of the house, and every morning Slim would run down the stairs and make several laps down the hallway, through the kitchen, through the dining room, and through the living room. Honestly, that was kind of my first indication that something about him was a little different. But, since I can't remember the last time he did that, it's really a marker for how far he's come developmentally.

Lil' C's memory surprised me and made me giggle: "I liked when Joey and Knox went down the waterslide in the backyard!" When Joey and Slim were three and Knox was a little over a year old, we made the slide into a water slide with the hose. Knox had decided to strip off his diaper and go down nakey. Joey, always wanting to be part of the fun, stripped off his clothes, too. Slim was operating the hose, and Hubby and I were sitting in lawn chairs crying from laughing so hard. It was just one of those moments you can't plan. And Lil' C? He was a seven-month-old fetus in my tummy. He has heard us tell that story so many times, I'm sure he feels like he was "there."


Dinner was nice, and once home I retrieved all the Santa presents out of their in-plain-sight hiding places (the moving boxes). Christmas day was a blur of wrapping paper and plastic ware on which we ate our traditional Christmas morning cinnamon rolls. Toys and last-minute "must be packed items" littered the house. Hubby's sister has people over every Christmas night, and I told Hubby to take the boys while I continued packing.

"Just come over," he implored. "Take a break. This will still be here in two hours (that's what I was afraid of). C'mon. It would mean so much to all your boys."

Usually, he doesn't care what I do; but I knew it meant something for me to be there. So I took a break and went. I'm lucky to have wonderful in-laws whom I truly enjoy. And a lot of them! We recruited lots of help for our move.

That night, into the wee hours of the morning, I was packing. My problem was the basement, and all of the things stored down there that no one really knew about but me. All of the boys' things I wanted to save. Pictures, cards, memories. Joey stuff. All last year I thought I would get it organized, but that never happened. I didn't want the movers to touch it. I sat in the basement amid the mountainous stacks of boxes and cried. Partly from exhaustion, partly from regret over my own disorganization, and partly because I was thinking of MY favorite memory of the house.

We used to have dance parties in the basement when all the boys were little. We would crank up some kiddie music - usually Raffi - and just dance and giggle until we all dropped exhausted on the floor. I could almost hear the music playing "Knees Up Mother Brown," which was Joey's favorite. I swore I could hear his giggles.

I always knew, even though Joey died in that house, there he did not remain. I spent the last year, though, scared that somehow we would be leaving him behind. The next day, as I walked through the empty house ready to follow the moving truck to our new one, I spoke aloud, "Joey, we're going now. You come with us, okay? You come with us. Don't stay here. We're going."

In a flurry, I was telling people where to put things, what boxes to unpack, which ones to leave for later. I fell, exhausted, night after night into my bed in my new smaller, cozier bedroom. As I organized this and cleaned that and made those things fit into this space, I managed to check e-mail on my phone.

What was happening was incredible.

This post from 2012 was making the rounds again. People were commenting in droves both online and in person, even more so than when it originally was posted. Hubby was even receiving calls at work telling him they had seen it. People from all over the country were reaching out to me.

I am convinced this was Joey's way of telling me that he knows where to find us. Considering that he would be tickled beyond all belief that something written about him is getting all this attention and considering that it came out of the blue two years later right at a time that I needed a sign was amazing. This good memory. This way of bringing Joey with us wherever we go. I choose to believe that he had a hand in it. I need to believe that.

So here we sit amid boxes and discarded bubble wrap with still so much to do and organize, yet we are home and cozy and familiar already. I go and check on the old house, still unsold. It seems cavernous to me and unfamiliar, like I am seeing it with different eyes. It feels lonely and desolate; and I don't like going there. It reminds me of how I feel about going to Joey's grave. I don't like going there either. He's not there, nor is he at the old house. I know that. I know that he - and our memories - are always with us. All right here in the new house where they are supposed to be.

For someone like me, who hates change, this is important to remember. 

Not Broken, Just Bent

I was cleaning out a drawer the other day and I found an old cell phone of mine. Old as in, from four years ago. I had been keeping it because there were pictures on it, and I didn't know how to get them off. I finally found a camera store that could do it for me, and I sat in front of the machine wondering what I would find. 

What I found was picture after picture of a younger set of Glow boys. And Joey when he was sick. There were only about ten pictures of Joey, but I cherished every one. 

Joey as a cat for Halloween with Stripey Kitten as a devil.

 . . . with one of his doctors being silly at chemo.

. . . painting pottery (and eating cookies apparently).

 . . . kicking ass at air hockey.

 . . .and still with a smile shortly before his death.

Today is the fourth crapiversary of the day we said good-bye to him. It's fitting that I am up all night writing this, as I was up all night with him that night to help guide him on his journey from this life to the next. I gave a piece of me to take with him, and some days - a lot of days - I feel broken inside.

I'm walking on the edge a lot. One bad day can push me over. One person telling me to "enjoy it while it lasts because it goes so fast" is enough to make me want to claw that person's face off. Some days I feel like I can't do it anymore, no one understands, and I want to hide away. Broken.

But as I looked at the rest of the pictures, I realized that I'm not really broken. I'm just bent.

After Joey left the picture, life went on with three little boys instead of four. There were still smiles on our faces, though I know how the mom in those pictures was feeling. How she forced herself for fourteen months to imagine life without one of her precious sons because when the time got there, that was the only thing that was going to help her survive.

To keep her from being broken.

It helped me on that day I took only one twin to first grade.

It helped me take pictures of three sons when I kept thinking there should be four.

And it helped me welcome a new son.

So many every day things could break me. 

Like dentist appointments . . .

 . . . and first lost teeth . . .

 . . . and brotherly love.

They bend me to the breaking point. And I never know when it will happen. 

I saw someone collapse over the weekend and heard the word "seizure", and even though it wasn't about me, I lost it crying in the bathroom.

Bent.

I hear a song at church that was played at Joey's funeral and I have to fight back tears.

Bent.

The boys are fighting and I think about how Joey would have made everyone laugh.

Bent.

I'm cleaning out the house for the move and I know I should get rid of something that was Joey's, but no one ever uses anymore.

Bent.

As hard as it is to walk around bent all the time, I know it's better than being broken. I think of the words of one of my favorite singers, and how they fit how I'm coping:

Just give me a reason

Just a little bit's enough

Just a second we're not broken just bent

And we can learn to love again

It's in the stars

It's been written in the scars of our hearts

We're not broken just bent

And we can learn to love again.

~Just Give Me a Reason

words by: Jeff Bhasker, Alecia Moore, and Nate Ruess

My reasons?

This . . .

 . . . and this

 . . . and this

 and especially these.

The times we're all sitting at the dinner table and someone says something so adorably cute, or the times when our eight year old says he will help the two year old. Or when all the boys are laughing together over something dumb. Or we're at a movie together or watching someone's baseball game.

So many reasons to go on and not completely break. It's hard. Every day it's so hard, and some days more than others I have to really look for the reasons. 

But they're there.

And the little bits are enough.

He's Got Soul

It is sometime during the 4:00 hour. I am lying, wide awake, in my bed sucking on a lozenge because I can't stop coughing. I've got a toddler's head rammed between my shoulder blades. I'm hot from all the blankets and lovies my ten-year-old has brought into my huge king-sized bed with him.

The house is quiet and feels a little emptier with Hubby on a business trip despite all of the company I have in bed with me.

Edgie has been pushing Slim in his sleep, "Move over Slim!! This my bed." And I roll my eyes because, no, it's MY bed; but I smile in spite of it.

I must have drifted back to sleep when suddenly I hear, "No Joey!" And Edgie stirs in his sleep.

I freeze in the dark, trying to decide if I misheard him. 'Joey' sounds nothing like 'Slim.' And Edgie doesn't know Joey, just of Joey.

I feel a whisper of cold air and hear a thump.

I sit up. Is it 4:44 a.m., the time he died? No, but it's 4:22 a.m., the date he was diagnosed, April 22nd. I shiver.

No. I tell myself. No, Joey is not here. He's never been here.

I know this. We told him it was okay to go. I know he took the hand of the spirit guide who came to get him from his earthly pain. He was such a sweet, trusting child. He is with the angels having a lovely time, getting to know his grandparents and all the other little children lost too soon.

But still . . .

I lay in the dark feeling the feeling of sadness that has been overtaking me a lot in the last few weeks. We are going to be moving, and I have been slowly packing up things that we don't need. Each time I pack a box, instead of excitement, I feel sad and a little sick to my stomach. I know it's time to leave here, to build our "forever" home.

But this home was the only home Joey knew.

He did inhabit two other places - our little brick ranch for six months, and our rental on Long Island for two years.

But he lived here.

He pushed trucks through the landscaping rocks in the front yard. He helped Daddy build the sandbox in the backyard. He slid down the slide on the swing set naked in the water from the hose because it was faster that way. He tried on my make-up and shoes and strutted down the upstairs hallway. He sat on the basement steps with his brothers posing for pictures. He ran to the garage door to greet Daddy wearing his first pair of "big boy" underwear. He sat on the fireplace and mugged for the camera with Slim on kindergarten round-up day and lined up all of his stuffed animals on the couch and played pet doctor when he got his veterinarian kit from Aunt Ann and Uncle Bob. Carving pumpkins at the kitchen table and coloring Easter eggs in the dining room. Sitting on the bed and leading his brothers in a rousing preschool chorus of "If You're Happy and You Know It."

He also died here.

Paramedics and firefighters rushing in to see about a boy having seizures. Sitting on the couch with the big round yellow "puke bowl" because he couldn't stop vomiting. Sitting at the front window staring at the outdoors that he once loved, but now could only watch creep slowly by. Sitting in the same chair asking the same questions. A bed from hospice in the front room next to the ugly pink couch that I wouldn't leave because I didn't want to leave him. Saying good-bye and going upstairs, only to come back down to an empty hospice bed and the same ugly pink couch.

I know he's not here. I know his spirit, as much as I want it to be here, does not live here anymore. As much as I want to see signs, like crooked pictures and times on a clock, his spirit is with God.

But his soul is here. His soul, his beautiful mind and emotions - they are in everything I see. I know I can bring his "stuff" to our new home. I can look at pictures and artwork and hold his much-loved Stripey Kitten and wrap us all up in a quilt I intend to make of his clothes, but I won't be able to "see" him in our new home.

He'll have never walked the staircase to the boys' bedrooms. He'll have never done his homework in the study. He'll have never laughed as he sat at the kitchen bar or played basketball in the driveway or chased his brothers around the horseshoe shaped street on his bicycle.

Will I still see him?

Will I see him in the eyes of his brothers as they excitedly pick out their new rooms? Will I hear him in their laughs as they strap on their Rollerblades and skate across the concrete floor of the basement? Will his footsteps echo with theirs as they bound down the stairs in the morning for breakfast? Will his hands work side-by-side with Hubby's as he plants his garden in the new grass of the backyard?

I can't be sure.

What I do know is that his soul stays with me. Wherever I go, he goes with me. I hear his laugh in my ears and feel his hug around my neck. I can see the brightness of his eyes and feel the excitement of his movements.

His soul is burned into mine.

Wherever I go, he will be there.

I will take him, and he will be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's the Most Depressing Time of the Year

It's no big secret that holidays depress me since my sweet Joey's death. I want to love them and get all involved with decorating and shopping and celebrating, but it's so hard. I just feel like such an important piece of the celebration is missing.

An important piece of my heart and soul that I lost with Joey.

But, as my mother has reminded me, I have other children and a husband for whom I need to make things special.

I know, I do, and I try to find joy in the memories we've made as well as relishing in the new experiences with my sons.

Read more about how I am attempting to Bring Back the Joy in the Holidays in an original piece on the Huffington Post.

I'll likely be pretty quiet the next couple weeks as I gather with family and spend time with the boys who will be home on their school break. Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and the most wonderful wishes for a fabulous New Year.

xo, dear friends.