Move Over, Brad Pitt - There's a New Kid in Town

My wonderful 4 year old Dylan is SUCH a Drama King. There's probably nothing I could do to overemphasize just how theatrical he can be, with, frankly, little to no effort. (I have NOOOOOOOOOooo idea where he could possibly get it - honestly!!!!!)

When one of the older kids does something he deems wrong, (basically this entails: anything they say that contradicts his intentions at the moment) his acting skills surface, beginning with a wail that crescendoes, a mouth that opens wide enough to swallow Jonah AND the whale, and the turning on of the Crocodile Tears Faucet. Miraculously, these issues are ALL cured instantly when Mom or Dad step in to save him from the Sibling Monsters, and his devilishly handsome smile reappears.

Occasionally, he tries to brush up on his techniques using Mom or Dad as targets. During a walk around town recently, he was being scolded by Dad due to his inability to follow directions and stay ON the sidewalk and OFF people's grass. (I know, I know...we ask much of the young lad.) After a couple of warnings, Dad laid his hand on Dylan's shoulder and firmly redirected him to the concrete surface where his feet should be. Our budding actor immediately grabbed the opposite shoulder and began moaning. Being the sort of parents who don't rush to fix all things, we ignored him. He eventually realized that his behavior wasn't effecting us, and the remainder of that walk was fairly benign.

Tonight, however, tops the cake.

During my half-hearted attempt at sweeping the kitchen floor, I observed Dylan toss a ball (therefore disobeying a direct order to ROLL the ball only, do not THROW it) onto a recliner, and while trying to retrieve it, he bounced backwards off the cushion and fell on his butt, PERHAPS striking his shoulder and neck LIGHTLY on a nearby bookshelf. If that actually happened, and I'm not convinced it did, but I wasn't standing in a position to be able to see clearly how he landed, it most certainly wasn't painful. Dylan the Dedicated Deliverer of Delightfully Daring and Dramatic Deeds did not disappoint. He launched a full-scale attack on my eardrums.

I.

Ignored him.

He got louder.

I planted my hands on my hips, and glared at him. I informed him he wasn't hurt. I extolled the virtues of not making mountains out of molehills. I read him the Boy Who Cried Wolf riot act.

I ended my advice-laden lecture with "When you're only a LITTLE hurt, you just Get Up and Go On."

Dylan's instant tear-infused reply: "I can't Get Up and Go On when my neck is broken!"


I'm sharing my extra tickets to the Oscars with my TRUE friends in a few years.

Those Dirty Dogs!

It's the new media rant and it goes like this:

"Health Buzz: Pediatrician Group Wants Killer Hot Dogs Remodeled"

Let's break this down a bit. Hot dogs are full of chemicals. The meat is the leftover parts of animals that you'd really rather not think about. I don't even trust the "all beef" label...beef shouldn't look like that. They're just gross. They're certainly not healthy for your body.

So here's my beef with the whole Killer Hot Dog issue (aside from the sheer stupidity of it)...if they're gonna push for warning labels on the packages, can't they at least include something like "If you don't die from choking on this putrid stuff, you still stand the chance of dying a much more slow and painful death due to all the crap we put in these things. Or you might die from the toxins infused into your body to treat the cancer you get from repeatedly abusing your body by ingesting filth. Just sayin'."

But ya'll just go ahead and re-engineer a staple of the American Diet. Keep those kids from choking to death. Heck, make a law mandating that parents teach their latch-key kids a Self-Heimlich, so they can survive another day to play that xbox 360 till Dad gets home from work at 9PM, just to be on the safe side. We need more laws telling parents how to keep kids safe, don't we?

Or, listen to mom and don't goof off when you're eating hot dogs.



Oh, Good Grief.




*disclaimer* I do buy hotdogs for our camping trips and occasional summer backyard cookouts. I'm not a purist. In any given year, I may purchase a total of 8 packages of hotdogs. I have to smother them with so many condiments that the hotdog disappears. I would just eat the relish, but people would think I'm weird. And I ALWAYS cut them up for my little ones.

Happy Monday to Me!

Our local paper has a trivia-type photo game to play. A photographer will shoot a picture of any object of his or her choosing that is located somewhere in the county. They publish a portion of the photo in the newspaper, and the object is to guess what you're viewing. The next day, they publish the entire photo. I have no idea what you win if you guess correctly. Probably nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done.

In honor of this game, I give you the following section of a photo I took.



Know what it is yet? If you guessed Swiss cheese, you're wrong.




If you guessed "Plastic diaper cover accidentally tossed in dryer", you win! Congratulations! Much like our newspaper, the gift you get is your own satisfaction.

Now, before you go thinking I'm all green and whatnot, never fear. I'm neither overly environmentally sensitive, OR stupid ambitious enough to use cloth diapers. Did that with my first two to save money. Discovered I'd rather be slightly sane than rich. Switched to She Who Must Be Hated By Eco-Conscious Wackos.

The real reason I have had these crinkly panties, as they're referred to in our house, is because not only am I of the Anti-Global Warming Frenzy lot of Americans...I am also a card-carrying member of the Moms Who Don't Change Diapers in the Middle of the Night Club. And the Save Yourself Some Laundry Loads By Putting Crinkly Panties Over Your Daughter's Diaper Just In Case She Drinks Too Much Before Bedtime Club.

What dumb thing have YOU done lately?

Extraordinary Measures

I love Based on a True Story movies. I love that science, technology, and perseverance improve children's lives.

Maybe someday, Angelman Syndrome will be the monster that gets tamed.

Yes, There's a Pill For That

Completely Appropriate

One of the characteristics of Angelman Syndrome is inappropriate laughter. What is deemed inappropriate is often subjective, and therefore the use of that term when describing my son often triggers irritation in me. Of course, being that he's MY offspring, I should remember to give people a break, because I sometimes laugh at completely inappropriate things (and times), as well. So...Angelman Syndrome, or heritage? Guess we'll never fully know!

Gabe will laugh until he can barely breathe, watching small children run in circles. He thinks Tigger plowing...er, bouncing... Eeyore is hilarious. Horton Hears a Who is one of his favorite movies. I'm his mother. I know these things. So why have I never realized The Three Stooges would probably trip his laughter trigger?



Oh my word!

He LOVES that show! On New Years Eve, one of the cable channels ran a Stooges marathon. He didn't moooooooooove from his seat. Completely mesmerized.

He doesn't talk, but the belly laughs Crack. Me. Up!

I Need Sunshine On a Cloudy Day

Does it matter that it was 7 PM last night before I realized my underwear were on wrong side out?

I hate cold weather. It's depressing. It makes me not care about things like clothing...and eating right...

Now, if I can figure out which way to put on my unmentionables, maybe I'll stroll on over to Taco Bell and let them help me lose some weight.



--------------

(FYI...I'm laughing as I type this...no deadly weapons are in sight, so don't call the Stress Unit.)

GAH! Seriously, People??!?

This GRINDS me!

"I didn't want to give up my fast food."

ARGH!

First...Taco Bell is just gross!

Second...while you might actually lose weight doing this, you probably won't be healthy!

Third...just....EW! Ick! Yuck!

You didn't become a tub-o-lard overnight, and you're not going to be a size 8 overnight. Use your brain, if the chemicals in your fast food haven't petrified it yet! Fresh fruit is tasty. Fresh vegetables are yummy. Eat some good, filling protein. Water is your best friend. Don't get hooked on this season's American Idol - spend that time walking.

GAH!

Oh, good grief!


(and for the record, I am overweight...)

Today Is Brought To You By Hasbro and By The Letters "C,E,R,E,A" and "L".

Because I don't want anyone to think our house is boring and monotonous, I bring you this morning's kitchen floor offerings.



See...we have colorful neon Playdough, sparkly leftovers from New Year's Eve party hats, and strawberry shredded wheat, tossed onto the floor courtesy of an irritated 17 month old little girl. This is oh-so-lovingly swept into the center of a square of my flooring, size 6"x6".

Yes, I have bigger plans for my New Year than constantly sweeping up crumbs. Tomorrow, I move on to Airing Dirty Laundry. Stay tuned.

I Don't Work for General Mills, I Just Feel Like I Do.

My daughter gave me a new broom and long-handled dustpan for Christmas. A very practical gift, as my back objects to using a typical dustpan, and my daughter objects to being the dustpan holder. (I always hated that job when I was a kid, too!) Practical, because at any time, I may ...no...WILL be facing this.




As a general rule, I sweep the kitchen floor after the babies are in bed for the night and the dishes are done. So, this, folks...this combination of Corn Chex, Apple Jacks, Cheerios, bread crumbs, and who-knows-what-else...is one morning's worth of dirt. On my kitchen floor. That I crunch. Every time I take a step.

But it gets worse.






I have Cheerios in my Christmas tree! And under my piano. And in my couch cushions, furnace registers, laundry baskets, shoes...

Rabbits! They should have named them RABBITS!

And to top it all off...I went to Walmart this morning - with no list - to buy a new vacuum cleaner, because my old one died. The minute I walked in the house, I remembered what I had forgotten to buy at Walmart.

GAAAAAAAH!

A Torturistic Ritual I Insist Must Happen Annually

If you think that it's easy to get 6 kids properly aligned with the stars at just the precise moment you need them to be, wearing semi-matching clothes, sporting semi-respectable hairstyles, and semi-smiling simultaneously...

Find another blog to read! One that's written by a Non-crazed Mother!

At ten bucks per person for a sitting fee, even the local Walmart studio would cost me a minimum $60, just to walk in the door. Tack on the price of the photos, all the extras they guilt me into purchasing, plus the ones that actually ARE adorable and I've just plunked down the equivalent of what's left in gold at Fort Knox. (Scratch that...the politicians spent it on their mistresses.) Regardless, large families and photography studios for a one-income-earner family in a bad economy just don't mix. Then, you add in the hilarity of trying to get a child with Angelman Syndrome to co-operate with his annoyed-at-having-to-dress-up siblings and keep his hands out of the baby's hair while being gripped around the neck by the three year old...

Just. Ain't. Happening.

So, to make up for all these issues, once a year, I tell the kids what color to pull out of the dresser drawer (or pick up from the floor, depending on the child in question). They groan. It's simultaneous! Why can't the smiles be like that?!? I make sure the camera batteries are charged - this project usually takes a while, and I'm not about to let a little thing like dead batteries cause me to have to start over! Tom dons his armor, and collects a significant amount of noisy toys and other paraphernalia that may prove useful in distracting and/or attracting attention, deflecting flying shoes, and removing embedded articles from walls, Christmas trees, and heads.

Following below, in no particular order, are the results of this group effort. Individual photos are in order, oldest to youngest.

I need a good stiff drink, thank you!






The best shot of the day...we'll take it.



Bucky, trying to convince everyone of a job well done. Emphasis on DONE. Tiffany, praticing mid-air River Dance moves.



Bucky, posing goofy, since we're NOT done, while Tiffany tries to clean Dylan's ears.



Dylan, whining because Preston is enforcing Mom's "Keep Dylan's socks out of this picture" request.



Bucky, catching Tiffany as she decides she can't stand the pressure and will be in her trailer! Preston is apparently considering growing a mustache for those thoughtful, yet fun-loving moments when one pauses to stroke the upper lip.



All children are in various stages of recovery, following Tiffany's foot connecting with Dylan's cranium. He only required 97 stitches and a sidestop at Sonic Happy Hour for 1/2 price slushies.




Preston, nearly 18



Bucky, 16.5



Gabe, 15



Savannah, 12.5



Dylan, nearly 4



Tiffany, 17 months



Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

I Know I'm Petty, But...

Could SOMEone please explain to me WHY Facebook status updates like "So-and-So is off to watch TV!!!!!" (buy groceries, cook dinner, flush the toilet - you get the point) get a bazillion exclamation points and 27,000 people "liking" it?!?

What is so stinkin' awesome about Sally Somebody going about her everyday activities? Do I know the only 3 people in the world who can come up with something interesting, hilarious, disturbing or challenging? Granted, I don't have 8,439 friends. My requirement for approving friend requests is that I actually know you, spend time with you, used to spend time with you and now don't due to life's circumstances, or attend some type of church/school/community activity with you. Maybe if I approved every person that ever lived, thought about living, or has still-living relatives, I could find someone with a life more interesting than the local real estate transfer log!

Worse - the people who "like" the boring activities! What?!? Can't you cook? Don't you shop? Never heard of coupon clipping? Darn it, people! Get lives! Read a book! Go skiing! Spend an afternoon on the Elderly Bench in Main Action Alley at Walmart! (Yes, there IS such a name. Gag.) Volunteer to wash windows at the local jail! Do SOMEthing, so you don't think your best friend from first grade is so dang great because she remembers how to blow her nose! (Unless she's had a stroke, in which case, great for her that she's recovered that important skill...it's ever so much better than using her sleeve, but do you REALLY believe that she had a stroke and forgot how to blow her nose but she is at Astounding Tutoring Farmer level in Farmville? You're so gullible!)

And what's with the church-sign mentality for status updates? ACK! If I want a Cotton-Candied Positive, Morally Uplifting, Spiritually Emotional, Biblically-Inaccurate, Intelligence-Devoid bit of Drivel, I'll drive by 94% of the churches in my county and pick my favorite. (Or listen to any number of popular televangelists, but we won't go there tonight - I don't want to lose my supper.)

And don't you DARE tell me what you're cooking for dinner! I Do. Not. Care. that you're considered the greatest chef since Teflon came along...feed your family. Leave us out of the meal planning! We all know you eat......

Geez, people! Watch a movie, and write down a funny line you hear. Quote it as your status. Not only will it make you appear funnier than you are - it will make people wonder what drug you just ingested.

Quiet, Please

Our television is on way more than I'd like for it to be. Actually, I'd dearly love to toss it to the curb.

In trying to get Dylan to remember where the volume button is located, I taught him to start at the far right button and count over three. (That's the DOWN button, as the only time we need the UP button is when a train is going by the house.)

I just overheard him saying "One, two, three" and miraculously, Bob the Tomato is no longer bellerin' into my living room about Larry the Cucumber's poor choices.



Encouragement that not everything I've done lately is a screw up.




- Image from google

Peach Cobbler

No clue where my sister found this recipe, but it's really good, and quick. I like fast and easy.

Layer into a 9x13 greased pan, in order:

Peaches - 1 large and 1 small can, with juice

Butter pecan cake mix (just the mix, not the extra ingredients)

1 stick of melted butter

Coconut - however much you like

Pecans or walnuts - however much you like

Bake at 350 for about 40 minutes. (My oven is wishy-washy, so check it at 30.) ;-)


Toss a little flour at your nose so you look industrious.

Do Age and Gravity Mess With These, Too?

I believe the Bible. I believe it is 100% accurate. I believe it is God's word to us. I believe that humans misinterpret it. Often.

Some times, the way things come full circle just cracks me up.

As a setup, please note that I spent my primary school years in a church-run school that sometimes took Scriptures just a wee bit out of context, and when that didn't work, they'd just make stuff up. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but thank goodness I have a brain and can figure this stuff out now!

There were lots of rules, especially about how one was supposed to dress. (Well, let me clarify. Mostly, the rules were about how FEMALES were supposed to dress.) I'm OK with rules, to an extent. I understand that law and order are paramount. I can tolerate minor irritation for the greater good. My parents didn't particularly agree with all the regulations, but they felt the good outweighed the bad.

So -

Monday through Friday, I donned my dress with sleeves below the elbows and length three inches past mid-knee. I was too young for makeup, but that wouldn't have been allowed, anyway. I left my forbidden open-toed shoes in my closet, and tamed my uncut, brunette tresses with Aquanet. Allowed color, automobiles, and running water, we confused some people who thought we were Amish.

Occasionally, we'd ask for the Biblical source of these dress standards.

On why women shouldn't cut their hair - "A woman's hair is her glory" 1 Corinthians 11:15 (King James Version) But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.

On why women shouldn't wear pants - "Women shouldn't wear men's clothing" Deuteronomy 22:5 (King James Version) The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

On why jewelry wasn't allowed - "Women don't need jewelry to be beautiful" 1 Timothy 2:9-10 (King James Version) In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.

My arguments against this rationale fell on deaf ears.

"If a woman's hair is her glory, then why do you twist yours up in a knot on the top of your head so no one can see how long it is?"

"Back in Bible times, I thought men wore long robes."

"Why is a strand of fake pearls around my neck bad, but you can wear the same kind on a barrette on your knotted head?"

All of those verses, when read in context, are logical. When used to validate the edicts...eh...not so much.

Remember I mentioned that if a Bible verse justifying an ordinance couldn't be found, things were just made up? Here's where it turns comical.

One of the tidbits that was shared along the way was the reasoning (?!?) behind the necessity of sleeves covering elbows. Apparently, elbows make men think about breasts.

There are verses in the Bible about breasts. Lots about sexuality, both proper and improper. Men's thoughts are mentioned a few times. But no where do I recall reading about elbows. It could be mentioned in Song of Solomon, I suppose, since he mentions just about every other body part. As beautifully gifted as he was with poetry, I'm not sure he would include elbows and breasts in the same sentence.

Over the years, I've conducted research. I've plunked my elbows on the table and asked people "What do these look like?" The eye-rolling and chortling that follow the explanation grows funnier the more I age.

But about that full circle thing I opened this post with...

Actually, I thought the breast-elbow connection was complete hogwash. Until my three year old son confirmed it.

Headed to the shower recently, I was holding the clothing I intended to wear for the day, including a particular undergarment worn on the upper portion of the female anatomy. Nothing slips by Dylan, and even though it was partially covered by my jeans and t-shirt, his vision honed right in.

"Hey Mom, are you gonna wear that on your elbows?"

The Annual Stalking of Bambi

Today is Testosterone Day in Ohio. More conventional people may also designate it as Orange Day, but I'm not real conventional. When you can sense it just by opening a living room window, it's T-Day.

I'm referring, of course, to Opening Day for deer hunting season.

It's guaranteed that if I drive anywhere in the next week, I will see several deer hanging from trees, dripping on garage floors, and lolling over pickup tailgates. (Especially the bucks. You NEVER put your tailgate up when you get a buck!)

Life demanded that I make an errand run today. My route took me past a house that is apparently a hot spot for hunters. Two mega-duty trucks pulled out in front of me, thick black exhaust rolling from the jumbo pipes rising above the cabs. Two more trucks waited for me to pass, so they could join the cavalcade. The drivers and passengers were sporting the universally recognized neon orange. One by one, they all turned the same corner. I envisioned fourteen overgrown boys piling out of the monster machines, smacking each other on the back, popping the lids off their Michelobs and reliving the take-down of the 12-pointer swinging from the tree in the front yard.

These men may or may not have surprised their wives with a bouquet of roses in the past fifteen years or spent a dime on a family movie night. Vacations to Disney or the Grand Canyon may be a foreign concept. But! By golly, they've had this week of vacation approved at work since the first of January. Every year. Without fail.

When I was in high school, all of my male classmates who hunted were allowed to take a free day on Opening Day. The notion of allowing the females the liberty to enjoy a day for shopping wouldn't have been entertained. Sure, the men were hunting and providing for the family. But we all know that's not why men pull on their boots and Carhartts and perch precariously in homemade tree stands in subzero weather waiting for the elusive stag to have an unfortunate meeting with the wrong end of a shotgun. The fact that the family gets a little deer jerky and enjoys a steaming pot of venison stew is a side benefit.

Several months ago, Tom brought home an eight point buck head that one of his friends at work had parted with. The friend was cleaning out the Man Cave. I'm not, by far, the best decorator in the world, but our house is not a log cabin or in the country. I wasn't thrilled with this monstrosity hanging on my wall. I appreciate benevolence, but...

Tiffany was even unsure what to think about it.




We recently came to an agreement, with the help of an acquaintance. This guy had reason to step on our front porch while the Thing languished in the bad weather, and upon noticing, he declared an immediate need for it. He desired to own it to the extent that he offered us his own deer, should he get one this year. When we didn't respond to his offer quickly enough, he increased it to include a really nice Pack-n-Play for Tiffany.

The Pack-n-Play is lovely girly colors and suits Tiffany perfectly. We're waiting for the call that will fill our freezer. And somewhere, there's an eight point buck hanging on a cabin wall, with a bunch of strong, tough Davy Crocketts beating their chests and telling fish...I mean...deer stories.

Granny, Help! My Bread is Terrible!

Typically, junk mail causes me to sigh, roll my eyes, head straight for the closest trash receptacle, maybe even get a blood pressure check...it rarely makes me smile.
There's one catalog, however, that always makes me chuckle.




My Granny was a junk-mail queen. Among her garage sale plastic flowers, Conway Twitty 8-tracks and homemade yarn kittens, we could always find items she purchased from Fingerhut. Trinkets, dust collectors, most of it junk. All Granny. She bought a lot of flowered hand towels, probably from Fingerhut. She cut them in half, crocheted across the top, attached a button so the towel could be looped over a drawer handle, and gave them away as gifts.




Granny was little more than a feather. Barely five feet tall, she probably weighed a hundred pounds on a good day. She struggled with heart disease and several other health concerns, so she didn't have a lot of good days in her last years. She may have been small, but she was anything but weak. She raised nine children. She worked in a diner on Broad Street in St. Louis, Missouri. When she felt well, she was always on the go.

When I was about ten years old, my mother took my younger sister and I, my aunt and her boys, and Granny to a local park. The kids were all playing on the swings and slide. Mom and Aunt Joyce decided to enjoy a trip down the slide as well. Not to be outdone, Granny nimbly climbed the steps and began the trek down the shiny metal. Apparently, Granny had, over the years, forgotten how to gracefully bring yourself to a halt at the bottom of the slide. KERPLUNK!! Into the dust Granny landed, directly on her tailbone, legs out straight in front of her. I can still see the look of complete shock on her face. As soon as her daughters were sure she wasn't badly injured, they did what all good children do when their seventy year old mother falls off a slide...they burst into raucous laughter.

Around this same time, I recall sitting in Doc's Place, an ice cream shop, in Homer, Michigan where I grew up. Granny was relaying to my mother a story that my aunt had shared with her. I do not have a clue what the story was about, but I can remember that it involved how gravity affects a woman's upper body parts. My grandmother, being the proper lady she sometimes was, didn't want to mention this issue in front of my sister and I, but she wanted to make the point to my mother. Sitting at the table across from me, grinning and eating her ice cream, she kept drawing her hand down her chest. "You know, how they...you know...fall...down". I'm not quite sure why she thought that I wouldn't know to what she was referring!

Granny made The. Best. Dinner. Rolls. Ever. THE BEST. Try as we might, no one in the family has ever been able to duplicate the taste of Granny's bread. Countless times, we asked her to write down her recipe. "Oh, you just throw a little of this and a little of that in and stir it all up."

So you can probably sense my frustration when my bread machine malfunctions on Thanksgiving Day and I get this! (Great for having Communion with the family, though!)



Granny has been gone for 21 years. She would love my children. They would love her fuzzy TV with rabbit ears, her crocheted slippers, her bread.




Granny, I miss you.

Those City Slickers Miss Out On All The Good Stuff!

The following incident was published in our local newspaper, and with the exception of * is verbatim.

*names and addresses changed to protect the innocent?*

"At 1:27 p.m. Saturday, Lady A, 83, 123 Letter Avenue, stopped at 234 Edgetown Road, in front of Unit 121, to let a passenger into her vehicle. Lady A's vehicle lurched forward, striking the garage door. A vehicle in the garage owned by Lady B, 234 Edgetown Road, was pushed forward. Lady A then attempted to back out of the garage rapidly. In doing so, her vehicle sped across the street and a yard, striking the house at Unit 172. She then pulled forward back across the yard, crossing the street in a 292-foot half-circle and coming to a stop in front of unit 109. Both vehicles sustained non-functional damage. Lady A was cited for failure to control."

I always knew Barney Fife was precise, but...292-foot half-circle???!?

Who Messed Up My Peanut Butter?

Seriously, am I the only one in the house that can successful remove peanut butter from the jar, without it looking like this? What are they using, a pitchfork?!?







Around here, it's typically referred to as "B-Bot" - one of the first words Dylan learned to say when he came to live with us. Spoonful upon spoonful, he never gets tired of it. (Thank goodness! It sure makes MY life easier!)




When I was little, I told my Dad if Heaven doesn't have PBJ's, I don't wanna go. While I've since grown up in my spiritual thinking a wee bit, I'm still hoping I get to lick grape jam off the spoon when I'm looking at my reflection in the gold streets. ;-)

OCC 2009

It's that time of year again.

My (probably) favorite children's mission project to support is Operation Christmas Child. Find the drop-off location nearest you on their website.

I hope that I can someday go on a delivery trip and see this amazing program firsthand.

Grab your empty shoe boxes, fill 'em up with good stuff, and bless a child this holiday season.

And Merry Christmas to ya'll, early.