Daily Archives: April 8, 2015

The Good, The Bad, The Reality

Bad: I buried Yoda the kitten today. It was heartbreaking. Just three days ago it was bobbling across the floor and now…gone.

Good: The other two kittens are doing well. One is named Brimstone and the other is named Castiel. (Just love that character off Supernatural.)

The Reality: It took two and half days for me to force my ass into the shower. Greasy hair, half shaven legs, none of it motivated me. Until today when it got warm out and I started sweating. Wetwipes and whore baths aren’t gonna cut it during the warm months. Hell, I only showered six hours ago and already am sweaty enough for another one.
I spent most of the morning bullying myself into doing housework, eating. (My appetite is wayyyy down.)
More Reality: My kid is being the neurotic today. She brought home a field trip permission slip and even though it costs money, I decided to not being helicopter phobic mom and sign off on it. She shrieked with delight. Then has promptly spent the last three hours bawling, panicking, babbling and deciding she doesn’t want to go and be away from me. After having sleepovers for 20 plus hours multiple times, out of town.
I think I am contagious to her, she’s getting my neuroses. I am trying to encourage her and assuage her fears but…Yeah, I can’t even do that for myself. But she’s more resilient than I am. And fickle. Bet if one of her little friends says they’re going, she will change her mind.
YET More Reality:
Yesterday…R made a comment about, “Can I choke you for being irritating?”
And I flat out said, “Hey, I don ‘t wanna be here.”
And that insulted his enormous ego, of course. “Well, why not?”
Um…My kitten is home alone, dying, and not even its own mother will comfort and stand by him.
To which Mr Dead Inside says, “I should think you’d want to be here and get your mind off it.”
I was offended. I quietly said, “No one should ever have to die alone.”
That gave him pause.
It still disturbed me. Okay, not everyone is a bonafide animal nut like me. But I still wanted to be home with Yoda until the end, not humoring some overgrown emotionally dead man child. (Sounds hateful but it’s true, good people can still be disconnected from emotion and come off as robotic and cold.)
I have trouble with people being so disconnected from emotion.
Yet I’m not different. I just have more loyalty and empathy for animals than people. Yet were it someone more than a distant relative or acquaintance…I’d likely be right by their side, as well.
No one should ever have to die alone, even those (like me) who want to.

The depressive undertow baffles me. I can feel sadness and misery in stereo. Yet happiness is so fleeting I barely know I’ve felt it. Was that a moment of happiness, a spike in mood? I never know.
But for today…That’s the good, bad, the reality.
Same bat channel, same bat time tomorrow.
Rinse, lather, repeat.
That counts as optimism right? Outsourcing the smile thing to an emoticon?
Dead kittens make me sad as it well should be.

Two, No Three, Songs #Writing101

Today’s prompt was to think of three songs then free write about them. I came up with two. Two perfect songs. Both beautiful. Both worthy of life. Both true. Duke Ellington I love. I’ve been a fan of his for…

Help Me Out Here!

Who is following or reading on this blog and taking Writing 101?

I want to read your stuff every day but I am getting lost. I NEED LINKS!

I know I have:




EmWell           http://emwell2.wordpress.com/






mnghostt                             https://mnghostt.wordpress.com/

(I know I am missing some more obvious and other new ones but I can’t remember. If you are brand new to the blog, get your name AND LINK in here. Help my medicated brain out!) List your name or someone else’s in the comments section.


Let’s Ban Sport!

An Andrew Motion poem: Sheffield, S Yorks

An Andrew Motion poem: Sheffield

I think I attended one football game, back in high school. Who knows why.

Perhaps I’d run out of library books.

I was in Sheffield the other day. At the bottom of the hill overlooked by a wonderful poem by Andrew Motion (above), I saw a load of police. Being a nosy soul, I asked what was happening.

A local derby between Sheffield United, and Donny Rovers, the wpc said.

Meanwhile, in my original home town of Detroit, it was opening day.

You expected what, a catcher's mitt?

You expected what, a catcher’s mitt?

A Michigan friend predicted what the British – when their traditional stiff upper lip is installed – call “unpleasantness”.

Sadly, my friend was right. The debris included litter, and what I – having installed my lip stiffener – will describe as bodily fluids, and related items.

Tour de Yorkshire: Sheffield

Tour de Yorkshire: Sheffield

When an English friend was a lad, he read a comic titled, “Roy of the Rovers”. Roy’s fans didn’t fight, or pee in inappropriate places. If he missed a goal, they said: “Oh, bad shot, Roy!”

If only, eh?

I never attended a Red Wings’ game. Detroit legend claimed that the scenes on the ice were so violent that the closest the fans got to misbehaving was when a player scored a hat trick, and a fan would throw an octopus on the rink.

Not very nice for the octopus, of course. The chap with the Zamboni machine probably wasn’t keen, either.

As for the Pistons, meh. I cannot name a single player, past or present. Over 40 years later, I can still reel off names like Al Kaline, Mickey Lolich, Willy Horton, Denny McClain, and Bill Freehan.  The “old men” who won baseball’s World Series in 1968.

I remember, too, the way the fans trashed not just the interior of Tiger Stadium, but also several surrounding streets. It was after the pennant. And, the year after a race riot which tore our town apart.

But, opening day? That never used to involve anything more criminal than bunking off school, or work.

Enough’s enough. Let’s ban sport.

All of it.

Tiddleywinks? Dangerous. Miniature golf? A nightmare cloaked in tiny windmills, and cottages. The kids’ card game, “Go Fish”? Another “Doorway to Danger”.

Just think of all that free time, and money, for other things. Like re-opening libraries, or extending their opening hours.

So that bored teenagers need never again sit through a football game: here, or abroad.

Statue of monks carrying St Cuthbert's body, outside the library: Durham.

Statue of monks carrying St Cuthbert’s body, outside the library: Durham.

yet another post about grief

I wrote this one last week, I’m fine today.

Pardon me friends, while I lean over this canyon and shake my head a little to empty it.

But her death nonetheless seemed like the wrong outcome—an instant that could have gone differently, a story that could have unfolded otherwise. If I could find the right turning point in the narrative, then maybe, like Orpheus, I could bring the one I sought back from the dead. Aha: Here she is, walking behind me.
Story’s End: writing a mother’s death (Meghan O’Rourke)

All that beseeching … gods, doctors, the universe, crystals, science … it doesn’t work. Obviously it doesn’t. (Please don’t let pso called psychics prey on you.) You bargain, you offer everything you have, including your life. (They’re just cold reading you.) You can’t gamble when there are no dice.

(It’s pouring with rain now, in the lonely early hours. It’s been thundering and raining for two days, which in this corner of the world, is a very good thing indeed for the brackish water table and a very bad thing for the majority of the population, who live in jerry built shacks that leak and flood. It was raining gently this morning and I took my dog and my middle class ass for an energetic walk on the beach. Up along the toes of the tall sand dunes to beachcomb and back along the subtidal zone to be close to the sea and find out what fish and seaweed and bluebottles and jellyfish may have been tossed ashore. Halfway back, grief slammed into me like Mjölnir as usual, and I sort of staggered along unseeing and shouting and crying for a bit. Mhm I did my crying in the goddamn rain.)


Perhaps I have a grief loop – a Möbius strip grief loop. Grief hits, then rage, then despair, then sad sad sadness and then, as Matt Johnson sang* “the whole goddamn thing starts all over again.” Did you make Möbius strips at school? A strip of paper, a little twist, a little glue and then absolute delight at the whole thing. Remember? At some point it gets lost or worn and torn; at some point perhaps my loop will be linear.

La la la la life goes on. (Fuck you, Beatles.)

I guess at some point, with any sort of trauma, you’ve got to take your heart and your lungs in your hands, sigh (because sighs matter) and put them safely into your favourite pocket, then keep moving forwards. Rage becomes anger and fades into despair, sadness shifts on silent feet and doesn’t shout anymore. At some point, despair might walk quietly away and then sadness takes your hand and you both walk until you’re tired enough for dreamless sleep. What is the difference between resignation and healing? As Gandalf said to Frodo, “There are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured.” That was from the books – the next quote is from the film and is all poignant and stuff and maybe you’ll prefer it.

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back. There are some things that time can not mend. Some hurts that go too deep… that have taken hold.” (Frodo to Gandalf)


You find meaning in your life, or you don’t. You bandage your wounds or watch them bleed. You can’t do any of it without love, whether it’s a song or a heartbreak. Maybe you find yourself sitting with your head in your hands and unshed tears throttling you and jaws that haven’t unclenched in years. Maybe you find your god, maybe you start a foundation, maybe you don’t do a thing. Maybe your life crumbles around you and you lose interest. I don’t. Fucking. Know. Things that feel the least like choices might be the hardest and most important choices you** ever make.

Some people will understand and some will not and suddenly it really matters.

It’s daylight now and still raining hard; last night was horrible, on the whole. It turned into such a strange, featureless landscape, cowering under thunder clouds and roaring at the rain. I used my last sleeping pill and it may as well have been an aspirin. I slept for a few hours during the morning, I sat and stared stupidly, I did a few chores, I talked to some friends.

I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin. (Leonard Cohen)

This is not one grief, one thing. I’m writing it out to empty my veins as well as my head, there’s a damn grief traffic jam in there and I am afraid of a gridlock. I wish I believed in something. I wonder if I’m a few milligrams lighter now.


* True Love This Way Lies – the The
** I keep saying you when I really mean me.

Random Mental Health Musings

washing machine disorder

I am…for all intents and purposes, a washing machine with a perpetually imbalanced load of laundry. You can shift the weight around, remove some things, but the machine remains imbalanced and noisy and vibrates and causes everything else to vibrate. I keep thinking (stupid logic) if I could just slide a block of wood or something under myself it’d balance things out.
In mental health, it’s simply not that easy or logical.
It’s a neverending battle.
If the masses were to view mental illness as little more than a perpetually imbalanced load of laundry, perhaps the stigma would lessen. No one tosses their washer out for being imbalanced. So why are imbalanced people treated as disposable?

If you think about it…
therapy is a lot like scooping litter boxes.
You can scoop it out, make it tidy…But inevitably, the mind will become filled with crap and need scooped again. And again. And again….

Soul searching…

I have put a lot, I mean, a LOT of thought into my own conditions.
Am I just lazy? Paralyzed by fear? Histrionic?
Propaganda makes me think it’s possible that I am a loser that way.
Yet I think about all the things that mean something yet in my cycles of illness I go completely out of character and lose track of things…
If you knew me and my love of cats…Then found out that I was so far down the mental abyss I didn’t even replace the flowers on their graves after the resident heathens stole them..so now I don’t even remember where my beloved departed kitties are buried…
It makes me so upset.
My dad and stepmonster, my sister, they all have nice little markers and flowers for their departed pets. Memorials for life.
I love my cats as much as I love my kid and yet…I can’t even keep up with something that means so much to me.
That doesn’t sound like a bad personality or slacking off.
It sounds like mental illness to me.

It makes me so angry and defeated to look around myself..And see those I considered perpetual burn outs actually surpassing me with jobs and such.
I’m smart, I am creative, I have skills…So why does the stability to do a job well enough to maintain elude me? I’d rather work sixty hours a week than rely on disability money.
It does not help when I go to WalMart and see this guy in a wheelchair working a register even though it’s obvious he has…mental challenges as well.
I feel so useless. Like maybe I deserve to be weeded out by death. I’m not productive, I am just running on a hamster wheel. Effort may be admirable but it doesn’t add up to anything.
Earlier it hit me…I will by fifty five when my kid graduates high school.
It seems so….old.
But 42 is considered old and I don’t feel my age so…
Still…I keep thinking, just gotta hold on for 13 more years until she’s legally an adult then…I can wave the white flag.
Not a mental space I like occupying. We never stop needing our moms, or at least wanting to need them in spite of them being evil. I’d love to see grandkids and such. But…maybe that escape hatch, ie, surviving til she’s 18, is what gets me through. By then I could be cured.
Ha ha ha ha. I love making jokes like that. It’s so asinine it’s funny.
Still I could be in a far better place mentally…Anything is possible.


They give me a stimulant to make me able to focus.
And it actually works wonders.
Yet with my anxiety, a stimulant should be the last thing I’d respond to. If anything, the anxiety has lessened, wtf.
The human brain is a mystery.
And my opinion of doctors remains negative because if this was what I needed the last 9 years to remain sane and functional and they denied me that…
They deserve to be sued, it’s negligence.

Saw a show…
This head of a company got hacked and his medical records became public. The company wanted to fire him upon learning he was bipolar. He tried to defend himself, assuring them he took meds, it was under control, and yet…
This is why most people keep mental conditions a secret. It’s a stigma that needs to go.
I put mine out there and maybe I shouldn’t but it seems less hurtful to get in front of my mental issues rather than secret them away and wait for someone to expose it. I have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.
And the fact the world is so ignorant of mental illness and the facts as opposed to propaganda…It’s sickening. We are intelligent as a whole. We create technology, we invent procedures to keep people alive, we land on the moon…
Yet we cannot break the stigma of mental illness and educate others.

The Focalin has slowed my mind and it’s a relief.
It’s also deviation and I am not sure what to do with this new state. Like my mind is moving so slow and logically, I am lost. This is not my norm. How do I not freak out?

I was asked why I don’t try to get paid for blogging about mental health.
Apparently my writing simply isn’t that interesting. I have a few readers, a couple will comment or interact, but for the most part…I’m just in the corner at the dance, drinking punch, wishing I could be part of the fun. It’s okay because I am uncomfortable with a bunch of eyes on me.
I suppose if I had an exciting life full of drugs, sexual debauchery, partying…I might have a very popular blog.
I can only be who I am.
And that apparently is someone too boring to be bothered reading, let alone getting paid to write.
I am surprisingly okay with this. I get enough positive input to motivate me to keep writing. I don’t need the spotlight. This blog has served its purpose far beyond my expectations. Just knowing my words resonate with a few people…Honestly it’s a great feeling.

In prep for my appt with the new shrink I was researching different meds (I like to be prepared for any suggestion they may throw at me because I have a huge problem with side effects)…There are certain psych meds that will give a false positive on a drug test.
I really did not know this. I know a cold medicine/cough med gave me a positive drug test. Didn’t realize my psych meds could do the same.
Not that it’s an issue, I disclose all my meds up front. Having nearly died from an MAOI interaction with cheese…I don’t temp the fates.
Still…How much would it suck to miss a job opportunity because an anti depressant made you test positive for illegal drugs.

Convicted serial killers have fans.
I can’t even find a decent guy to take me on a date.
Okay, I suck at putting myself out there but I did try recently and it…went horribly awry. Nice guys seem to be like unicorns in this town. Fictional.
But if masses can worship serial killers…What the fuck is so wrong with me?
Of course, I am just arrogant enough to remind myself that it takes little intelligence and a very weak personality to follow the herd or be a servant to a false deity.
I’m missing out on very little.

It just hit me…
I am my cat, Willow.
The Donor used to mock her for being gender ambiguous then she wanted to play with the broom while he swept so he whacked her about.
Turned her into a seriously scarred nasty hissy cat.
YET when she had kittens last year…She was the most wonderful mother.
She even took care of Nightshade’s surviving kitten when Shady lost interest.
Guess it’s possible to be a little psycho yet still be a good mom.

Let’s Talk About Sex

***I have the TLC song of this title stuck in my head, so forgive me.***
***Also some perverted trollfuck will be very disappointed by this if they go by that naughty three letter word in the title. Muhahahah****

The number one question I’ve been asked that pretty much sums up mental illness:
“How do your disorders affect your quality of life?”
Um…How does it NOT affect quality of life?
You think it’s woe is me because I have problems with crying outbursts or manic episodes? No biggie, right?

Well, the sales of products like Viagra indicate that sexual dysfunction IS a big deal to men. Which means sex is a pretty vital part of life, mentally ill or not.

So…I will use myself as the example because frankly I don’t interview others on this topic.
Manic, I would hump the leg of the Lincoln statue at the museum. It’s almost like an ecstasy trip, except I’ve never done ecstasy but what is described sounds like a hypersexual manic episode. Good idea at the time, all the nerve receptors alive and well, you feel alive and desirable and want to keep feeling that way.
It’s only after the fact that you review your actions and think WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO, THAT’S SO NOT ME!
Then during the depressions, I feel less than sexual. I don’t want to bathe or pretty myself up. I want to smell bad and isolate and growl at people and cry and just be unattractive and pathetic. No sex drive. But it does release the good chemicals so occasionally I can be swayed.
It’s sad because on an even keel, I have a good sex drive. I like it. What’s the big deal?

But because of the mental issues…Even this wondermous activity is tainted. And it becomes further tainted by the treatments.
I’ve had antidepressants that made me feel asexual. Some made me feel hypersexual but orgasms weren’t ever going to happen. Then were the ones who let you keep a tiny sliver of sex drive but inhibited pleasure so much it was as fun as sweeping a floor.

Unfortunately, there is no Viagra sort of pill to pop for all the sexual dysfunction that comes with treated/untreated mental illness. It is what it is. And the doctors seem to think that sexual dysfunction as a side effect is trivial.
So, what, we’re ill, we should accept that we’re not allowed a basic human pleasure?

It is a quality of life issue. Most people, even if not overtly sexual, still like the touch of another, like how it feels to get carried away with the sensations and emotions and the connection of physically interacting with others.
And mental illness, and it’s treatment, even rob us of that.

So..How does mental illness affect my quality of life?

It makes me want to have all my sexy bits removed because if I can’t get them to work as they were intended…What’s the fucking point in having them.

Too much information?

I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface on this one.It needs to be discussed because it is a factor. People are weird about talking sex anyway, and the stigma of mental illness has lead to almost asexuality amongst the mentally ill.
It’s time to lift the cloak and bring the topic into the light, uncomfortable and embarrassing as it is for some.

So…yeah. Let’t talk about sex.
Maybe if enough people did talk about it and the effects mental illness and medications have on that aspect of our humanity, there might be some research into a drug that might not have that side effect.

I assure you it’s not trivial.
It’s a basic human drive and to have it affected as well…
Mental illness just robs you of everything and the meds that help with some aspects…Rob you of something else.
It’s not a fair trade off for me.
It shouldn’t be for anyone.

Taking RIsks

Taking risks in my writing came fairly easily.  I was always pushing the boundaries of what I could accomplish.  My first big risk was querying another big publication, Mississippi’s leading lifestyle magazine, also based in the Jackson area.  I pitched an idea for a book review, leading to me (and other writers) establishing a running book review feature that lasted for several years.  I did other articles by assignment and that I came up with myself for them as well, giving me an entrée that led me into doing pieces for a glossy magazine in the Delta area of Mississippi as well.  My most enjoyable one for them was a story on the opening of the gardens of a famous author in Jackson, Eudora Welty, to the public.  Miss Welty had passed on and  willed her house to become a museum for the public.   I wrote a story about her gardens and what a prolific gardener she was, which garnered me one of my few “letters to the editor” complimenting me on the story.

Another risk I took was cold calling the editor of a suburban weekly when I heard talk that he was losing his food writer.  I called him up with just those words–“I heard you might be looking for a new food writer soon.”  He knew my work, having seen it in the parent paper for his weekly.  So he asked me to write a trial article.  The risk here is that I’m not really that much of a cook.  But I did know good cooks and knew how to get people to talk to me.  The trial article worked, and I not only wound up doing the food articles (which included a personal column every week) but also articles on faith and on homes and gardens.

One risk that didn’t work out was my attempt to write for a new paper in town that was unabashedly liberal in its politics.  I had decided to use a reverse strategy again here and become the house conservative, a thought that I believed the editor had embraced,.  I did one article for her.  She pounded me unmercifully for it once it came out, saying it was riddled with errors and poorly constructed.  I knew better.  So I never wrote for her paper again.

The biggest risk I ever took was breaking one of my personal cardinal rules.  I had resolved once I started that I would not cover politics or crime, being that I never wanted to place my children in an uncomfortable or dangerous position because of something I had written.  But I came up with an idea after reading an article about young people involved in politics.  The article concentrated on student activists and nonprofit groups.  I decided to write about young people with real power–elected officials, appointees, and other power players in Mississippi politics.  I approached it as a human interest feature, telling their personal stories about how they got involved in politics and what they wanted to accomplish.  I wrote about men and women, Democrats and Republicans, media types, elected officials, and executive office appointees.  That series of articles (and the risk I took) won me a Mississippi Press Association award for best planned series, weekly division.

Next time we’ll concentrate on what makes a good query letter and how to get an editor’s attention.

bpnurse: Woman of DistrAction, Part Deux

You know that weird mood state I’ve been talking about recently? The one in which I’m somewhere between normal and hypomanic? Turns out there’s a word for it: it’s called “hyperthymia”. It’s not necessarily pathological, but it’s unofficially on the spectrum and bears watching.

This is the sort of thing they don’t teach you in Bipolar 101. Hyperthymia is more of a personality type than part of an affective (mood) disorder, but it has some of the characteristics of hypomania and the term can be used to describe that in-between phase we BPs know well.

I’m back in it, in case you hadn’t guessed. It’s hard to write blog posts when I’m having trouble sticking with any one thing longer than a bird can stay on one light pole. I’ve started not one but two books and can’t remember a thing I read out of either. I’m trying to learn the Scripture readings for this Sunday’s Mass and can’t connect with them. I’m also somewhat agitated—gotta love the happy-feet thing—but can’t seem to channel it into anything that actually needs doing.

I am definitely NOT hypomanic. I’m not all elated and bursting with self-confidence, nor am I having any problems with sleep. What I am is about 15 degrees off “normal”, and I’m just waiting till it passes so I can resume my appointed rounds. My blog post production has been anemic, and I want to be able to concentrate again. I’m trying, I really am…..but in the last 10 minutes alone I’ve been distracted from this post by a) a text message; b) a post on another site; c) the alarm that lets me know it’s time to do my online mood tracker; and d) cookies.

Now what was I saying again…..?

Favorite Songs #3

music sheet

I’m just a ghost in this house,
I’m just a shadow upon these walls,
As quietly as a mouse,
I haunt these halls

I’m just a whisper of smoke,
I’m all that’s left of two hearts on fire,
That once burned out of control,
You took my body and soul,
I’m just a ghost in this house

Is it Alison Krauss or is it the lyrics?

Why do I still remember the first time I heard her sing and could not believe that sound was coming so effortlessly from a human body?  If you had said “bluegrass” to me any time earlier, I would have run screaming from you. But I not only heard her sing her pop songs, I heard her hymns, some familiar, some not. And then I fell in love with her band “Union Station”. And it was one big love fest.

Then the two concerts. And sitting in the very, very front row listening to her sing on and on and then stopping to tell us she was a bit off. Because of the altitude change from the city she had come from. And me giggling inside that she could ever be “off”.

There is this song about the ghost. How often have I felt like a ghost…just like a hollow shell. How often have I felt like that shell is all that is left where emotion and passion once burned. Because weariness and exhaustion and depression drove that fire away. And left just the smoke. But then the rebirth at the time I loved this song. Writing and writing with a lot of mania thrown in there. Not really being myself but being someone BETTER! This song brings back the bittersweet, the heaven and the hell of those days.

I’m lettin’ go of all my lonely yesterdays…I’m forgivin’ myself for the mistakes I made….

Does it get any better than Keith Urban? Uh, that would be a no. I loved him way back when he was Keith Urban and the Ranch. (That dates me, for sure.) Another few concerts. One where I flew clear across the country with my best friend to see him. We were absolutely crazy but it didn’t feel a bit strange. It seemed wonderful. One of the most wonderful weeks of my life. And Keith gives you a good concert. The kind where you’re tired, he’s tired, and you hate to go, but god is it ever time.

….forgivin’ myself for the mistakes I’ve made…..do you ever really forgive yourself when you have a mental illness? For all the things you’ve done, haven’t done, and let slip through your fingers? BUT if you could…IF you could…just get there and forgive yourself and let it go. Imagine. You wouldn’t forget but you could move on. You could face life head on and keep moving. You could be you. You could love yourself.

Let’s see.

They wanted three. These crazy prompt people. Always trying to pull more sweat from you. Okay, my tear-jerker: “I Love to Tell the Story”. It’s a hymn. And when I was very, very tiny and my mother was being no mother and my father was, uh, (what is a father again?) my grandmother would sing this to me. We would shell peas and beans and she would sing this. She would hang sheets up and I would hand her clothespins and she would be humming along. Now this is a woman who had faced a lot of hunger and abuse in her day. So hymns meant a lot to her. Anywhere but here sounded like a good idea.

And when I was sick…she sang this to me.

Now on Sundays when I see this on the program, I get teary. And it is hard to keep a dry eye while singing. And my kids wouldn’t get it.

But sometimes now when doing laundry I hum. And I am singing it to her.