My recycling bin is situated behind the door from the kitchen to the garage. Jayme built a little perch for it back there, and it is perfectly out of the way, yet readily accessible. He's brilliantly handy. :) The thing is, it is BEHIND the door when I open the door. So to use the recycling bin, I have taken to stretching my arm out so that my hand is past the edge of the open door, and then just using my wrist to fling the recyclables inside. I do this constantly. Sometimes a dozen times a day. We are big recyclers here!
At night, when it is dark in the garage, I don't even turn the light on, just stick out my arm, and "wrist-fling" the glass, paper, or plastic inside. I always hear the familiar tone of the thuds as I make it in. Occasionally I hear the sound of it hitting, bouncing out, and rolling onto the garage floor. I always hope that is on a Monday night, because that means the bins are full, and recycling pick up is on Tuesday.
Last Tuesday night, I reached my arm out into the darkness of the garage (rinsed out yogurt container in hand) and my only thought was, " I hope there are no zombies out there tonight". I extended my arm, flicked my wrist, and heard the sound of the container hitting the back wall of the garage. It sort of stopped me in my tracks. I NEVER hear that sound. It didn't take me long, I mean, I am not the smartest person but obviously the bin was not there. I realized that it had rained all day, and that neither Jayme nor I had had brought it in from the curb all day. With a shrug, I turned on all of the lights, checked for zombies, and walked out through the garage to the curb and retrieved the bins. I deposited the yogurt container in the top bin before I went back inside, happy that things were back where they belonged.
For some reason, my faith in those recycling bins stuck in my head all night. Those bins are always there. I don't look, or wonder, or even hope they will be there. In fact, they are there so much, that I am shocked when they are not there even just once. I expect them to be where I need them to be. (I know this is like way over analytical for some smelly old recycling bins, but I cannot help where my mind takes me, so hopefully you can bear with me). I haven't got faith in many people, like I have in those bins. I don't know why. I was never, like, majorly scarred by anyone. But, I have had a culmination of little things that may have etched away at my trust tendencies. I have lived far from family for many years, so though I know I could count on them anytime and anywhere, they are just not here. Plus, I have been hurt by churches, and pastors, and friends who turned out to be just "friends". I count on my little family, and my handful of close friends. Beyond that, it is a world of strangers.
There was never a conscious decision to keep people at arm's length, but I have. I have trusted in my green bins more than I have trusted in people. That doesn't seem right.
Or, maybe its just me.
This has been my recycling bin revelation.
:)
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Happy Birthday Trevor!
There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart.
– Washington Irving
My baby boy turns four tomorrow. You would think he is going to be old enough to by lottery tickets or to vote with the enthusiasm and excitement that he has for turning four! He has been asking us since May, when Taryn turned 6, how long until his birthday. (Trust me, it has been a long 4 months). He wants nothing more than to be big! And I am proud of him and the boy he is becoming...but I remember my baby.
I remember when all of him fit in the crook of my arms. I remember his hot, sweet breath and the way his tiny body moved up and down so peacefully on my chest when he would fall asleep with me on the couch. "Don't let him sleep on you", they always said, "or he will never sleep alone." I am glad I didn't listen to them because I would hate to not have that memory. If I close my eyes I can still feel the comforting weight of him on me as he slept. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. All I could do was rub his soft baby head, and stare at his perfect little nose and tiny little eyelashes. I remember how he still didn't have any teeth on his first birthday, even though he could talk. I was worried...it seemed like teeth should precede a conversation about brushing teeth. :) I'll never forget when he got so sick, with a high, scary fever and he just wanted to be held. I held him and cried for him as he looked up at me with his little shaky body and told me he was feeling better. He always feels better when I hold him. I always feel better too.
So, on his fourth birthday, I will tell Trevor that he is amazing, and getting so big! I will marvel at how smart and strong and brave he is. I will notice that every day he is getting more and more like Daddy. He always gets a little attitude when I call him my baby, but I will explain to him again that it is just a mommy thing because he will always be my baby. Last time, he seemed ok with that. And, on his fourth birthday I will tell myself to breathe. To remember that growing up is what he is designed to do. I can cherish his beautiful baby years, all the while enjoying his growing up years. I mean,he isn't moving out just yet! (Although, I suspect he would if we told him he could). Mostly, I will celebrate the joy and love that his life has brought to mine, and to so many others.
"Happy Birthday, little Trev. You are perfect. Thank you for making my heart smile."
Love, Mommy
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Being Me
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love people who are unique. When I people-watch I feel like I know what art enthusiasts feel like at the Louvre. Most of my acquaintances who call themselves people watchers are really just looking for someone to make fun of. For me, though, it is educational. I feel like my eyes are opened to possibilities and my heart smiles. Maybe it is an effect of growing up in a small town where the population was pretty homogenous. I don't know, but I have nothing but respect for individuals marching to their own beat.
How can I not respect a guy riding an old Penny-Farthing, well, anywhere? Who doesn't love the one sports fan wearing a Yankee jersey at Fenway Park or the couples in the matching outfits? I have to smile at the tenacity of the frenzied mom and dad at the airport, wheeling carry-ons and holding their three kids on leashes. (They have better names, but "leash" is what I always go with). I admire the 20 year old in a brown bowler hat, and feel like I need to shake the hand of any gentleman who dons a bow tie for any occasion, or none at all.
I, myself am not particularly interesting. I am 98.8 % certain that if I were walking with the masses, no people-watcher anywhere would take note. My clothing and outward appearances are definitely not how I define myself. I pretty much wear clothes simply because otherwise I would be naked. But though my outside is quite bland, I feel like I am firmly aware of my quiet idiosyncrasies, and rather than try to squelch them and be more "normal", I have embraced them. The list is long, and each one could be explored in its own self-revealing essay, but the short list of my oddities is...
I am far too deeply in love with fictional characters, and Bon Jovi. I talk to myself, constantly. I answer on occasion. I am terrified of scary movies. I believe that whoever first invented the idea of zombies was, quite simply, the devil in disguise. If I even think a zombie might make an appearance in a TV show or movie, I'm out. I listen to Christmas carols pretty much year round, and "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" is my daughter's favorite lullaby. (Yes, I said lullaby).
I LOVE music. I go for long walks simply because it is a time to be alone with my iPod. I feel alive at the theater, but rather than being inspired by great talent, I am sent spiraling into a depression about my own lack of awesomeness. (It took me three full days to recover after I watched Wicked, the musical). I cannot imagine being so gifted, and making a living with my gift! Yesterday, I taught class with a British accent for quite nearly the entire day. In my defense, I tried to stop but they prefer my fake voice.
I guess that might be part of what I love about catching a glimpse of someone outwardly unique. I feel like they are showing on the outside what I am feeling on the inside. They share their flair while mine is less obvious, but we are both whistling Dan Fogelberg songs in a world that cares who Lady Gaga is. So, in a way, we are kindred, unusual, amazing spirits! How depressing the world would be if it lacked the color of people just being themselves!
I was going to post a picture of myself but it seemed more appropriate to post a picture of one of the strange things about me. On my perfect day I would be sitting on this couch singing along...quietly...so as not to miss one single note of his perfect tenor voice. LOL!
I love people who are unique. When I people-watch I feel like I know what art enthusiasts feel like at the Louvre. Most of my acquaintances who call themselves people watchers are really just looking for someone to make fun of. For me, though, it is educational. I feel like my eyes are opened to possibilities and my heart smiles. Maybe it is an effect of growing up in a small town where the population was pretty homogenous. I don't know, but I have nothing but respect for individuals marching to their own beat.
How can I not respect a guy riding an old Penny-Farthing, well, anywhere? Who doesn't love the one sports fan wearing a Yankee jersey at Fenway Park or the couples in the matching outfits? I have to smile at the tenacity of the frenzied mom and dad at the airport, wheeling carry-ons and holding their three kids on leashes. (They have better names, but "leash" is what I always go with). I admire the 20 year old in a brown bowler hat, and feel like I need to shake the hand of any gentleman who dons a bow tie for any occasion, or none at all.
I, myself am not particularly interesting. I am 98.8 % certain that if I were walking with the masses, no people-watcher anywhere would take note. My clothing and outward appearances are definitely not how I define myself. I pretty much wear clothes simply because otherwise I would be naked. But though my outside is quite bland, I feel like I am firmly aware of my quiet idiosyncrasies, and rather than try to squelch them and be more "normal", I have embraced them. The list is long, and each one could be explored in its own self-revealing essay, but the short list of my oddities is...
I am far too deeply in love with fictional characters, and Bon Jovi. I talk to myself, constantly. I answer on occasion. I am terrified of scary movies. I believe that whoever first invented the idea of zombies was, quite simply, the devil in disguise. If I even think a zombie might make an appearance in a TV show or movie, I'm out. I listen to Christmas carols pretty much year round, and "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" is my daughter's favorite lullaby. (Yes, I said lullaby).
I LOVE music. I go for long walks simply because it is a time to be alone with my iPod. I feel alive at the theater, but rather than being inspired by great talent, I am sent spiraling into a depression about my own lack of awesomeness. (It took me three full days to recover after I watched Wicked, the musical). I cannot imagine being so gifted, and making a living with my gift! Yesterday, I taught class with a British accent for quite nearly the entire day. In my defense, I tried to stop but they prefer my fake voice.
I guess that might be part of what I love about catching a glimpse of someone outwardly unique. I feel like they are showing on the outside what I am feeling on the inside. They share their flair while mine is less obvious, but we are both whistling Dan Fogelberg songs in a world that cares who Lady Gaga is. So, in a way, we are kindred, unusual, amazing spirits! How depressing the world would be if it lacked the color of people just being themselves!
I was going to post a picture of myself but it seemed more appropriate to post a picture of one of the strange things about me. On my perfect day I would be sitting on this couch singing along...quietly...so as not to miss one single note of his perfect tenor voice. LOL!
Friday, September 21, 2012
Fifth grade
I hated 5th grade. It was 5th grade at my private, Christian school that convinced me that I was ready to go to public school. My teacher, Mary Perry, was allegedly human, but seemed more like a monster to me. It wasn't just her physical unattractiveness, though she was physically unattractive (complete with a hairy mole on her lip and an awful white-girl-afro), but her personality too. She didn't talk nicely, and she had a way of making us feel dumb no matter what. She never smiled, or laughed. She just oozed meanness. She also had a mean younger brother, as monsters typically do, who was much older than we were and who sometimes came as a chaperone on field trips. I don't know what his first name was, but it started with a T because his initials were T.P. I still recall the day we first met this T.P. fellow because,in my eleven year old mentality, I made the remark, "Oh T.P. like toilet paper". My initials were J.A. and his response to me, this 20-something-year-old molder and shaper of lives said to me, "Oh, J.A. like jackass." Yep, that was my first time meeting Ms. Perry's brother. He made my insides feel like broccoli mixed with molasses, and I have never forgotten it. At that point in my life "jacksass" was definitely the meanest, ugliest word I had ever heard. And not only did T.P. say it around me, but he was directing it at me. He pretty much was the wax seal on the envelope that declared Ms. Perry was officially a monster. That was it for me that year, and no amount of dulcimer playing that Monster Perry might do could change my mind that she was the enemy.
So, here we are, 26 years later, and I find myself back in Fifth Grade. God has an interesting sense of humor. When my boss asked me to take on this job, I almost burst into tears. Not like I thought Miss Perry would be in my room with me, but hearing "Fifth Grade" brought back that broccoli mixed with molasses feeling in an instant. There was no way I could be a fifth grade teacher. That would make me the Miss Perry to a whole new generation of kids, and that is more than I could bear. I begged God to open another door. I asked him to find me something else to do. Another grade, another school, another career path altogether...just not fifth grade!
He didn't. I opened the door to this school year as the Fifth Grade teacher, and I was terrified. And then, the kids walked through the door to meet me. And they were not frightening. They were definitely not the impetus that would cause some inner monster to emerge in me. They were...precious. Unspeakably precious. Nervous, shy, adorable, smart, and nice. I knew one thing, after my first five minutes with them. I would not ever be their monster. All I wanted to do was love them. For the one who's mom just died a couple of months ago, I wanted to give her extra long motherly hugs, and for the boy who's dad doesn't come around much, I want to listen to his dreams of owning a classic GT Mustang one day. I want to dazzle them with my impressive faux British accent, and give them high fives when they come running in on Monday morning with bright eyes, sparkling, telling me their mom was so proud that she cried when she saw they got a B on their math test. I want to pay for their field trip when the only other option is that they can't go. I want to be the anti-Miss Perry. In every way. In every opportunity. I want to make them feel funny, and smart, and proud of themselves. I want to watch them be the best version of themselves that they can be. I have realized that fifth graders are wonderful.
I have no doubt that God placing me in 5th grade this year has been a gift to me. After a few tough years with some really tough kids, I find myself working with teachable, happy spirits who (so far) have very supportive and logical parents. And, maybe there is another gift for me embedded in this year. The chance for me to see, through my students, how innocent, and undeserving of cruelty I was in 5th grade. To take away that self-condemning voice that I always hear when I remember TP calling me a jackass, and to give me a new batch of fifth grade memories. After this year, when I think of Fifth grade I will no longer have to head back to broccoli-molassesville. I will, instead, be able to smile as I think of my encounter with the coolest class on campus, Fifth Grade!
So, here we are, 26 years later, and I find myself back in Fifth Grade. God has an interesting sense of humor. When my boss asked me to take on this job, I almost burst into tears. Not like I thought Miss Perry would be in my room with me, but hearing "Fifth Grade" brought back that broccoli mixed with molasses feeling in an instant. There was no way I could be a fifth grade teacher. That would make me the Miss Perry to a whole new generation of kids, and that is more than I could bear. I begged God to open another door. I asked him to find me something else to do. Another grade, another school, another career path altogether...just not fifth grade!
He didn't. I opened the door to this school year as the Fifth Grade teacher, and I was terrified. And then, the kids walked through the door to meet me. And they were not frightening. They were definitely not the impetus that would cause some inner monster to emerge in me. They were...precious. Unspeakably precious. Nervous, shy, adorable, smart, and nice. I knew one thing, after my first five minutes with them. I would not ever be their monster. All I wanted to do was love them. For the one who's mom just died a couple of months ago, I wanted to give her extra long motherly hugs, and for the boy who's dad doesn't come around much, I want to listen to his dreams of owning a classic GT Mustang one day. I want to dazzle them with my impressive faux British accent, and give them high fives when they come running in on Monday morning with bright eyes, sparkling, telling me their mom was so proud that she cried when she saw they got a B on their math test. I want to pay for their field trip when the only other option is that they can't go. I want to be the anti-Miss Perry. In every way. In every opportunity. I want to make them feel funny, and smart, and proud of themselves. I want to watch them be the best version of themselves that they can be. I have realized that fifth graders are wonderful.
I have no doubt that God placing me in 5th grade this year has been a gift to me. After a few tough years with some really tough kids, I find myself working with teachable, happy spirits who (so far) have very supportive and logical parents. And, maybe there is another gift for me embedded in this year. The chance for me to see, through my students, how innocent, and undeserving of cruelty I was in 5th grade. To take away that self-condemning voice that I always hear when I remember TP calling me a jackass, and to give me a new batch of fifth grade memories. After this year, when I think of Fifth grade I will no longer have to head back to broccoli-molassesville. I will, instead, be able to smile as I think of my encounter with the coolest class on campus, Fifth Grade!
Monday, June 25, 2012
I miss me
It occurred to me today that there are days, like this one, where I miss me.
I sometimes feel like I am just going through the motions of my own life. Smiling at the right times, because I know something was funny, rather than FEELING that laughter take over my soul. Kissing the boo boo that needs kissed on my kid's knee...because it needs kissed. But not feeling that warmth that comes right up from my heart and flows through my lips to offer all that I can to heal. Hearing a heartbreaking story and saying, "that's sad", but not feeling broken. Or my biggest pet peeve of all, saying "that's funny"! Everyone should know that if it was funny, I would be laughing. SAYING it's funny is like giving a person confirmation that it is only funny to them.
I don't know what it is. Is it the repetition of doing the same things over and over and over...laundry, cook, clean, make beds, kiss boo boos, run, work? Maybe. Is it the loneliness of being virtually without any family, save a well-timed phone call or two here and there from my mom and sister? Maybe. Is it missing friends so much that if I really thought about it I could cry for a solid day? Perhaps. Is it too much rain? Couldn't be! I love rain!! I really have nothing I can put my finger on.
What I do know, though, is that sometimes I see me from outside of me, and I feel sad for "her". I feel like she has so much to offer to the world, and maybe, on this day, she forgot. I wish I could snap her out of it...but there would be no use in trying. On days like this...she just pretends to hear, but she isn't listening at all.
I think I better sit at the feet of God tonight. I don't know anyone else who can find me when I'm so completely lost. Plus, my track record shows that I am no good with directions, even those that lead to the me at the end of the tunnel. :)
I hope I can find myself tomorrow!
:) Goodnight.
I sometimes feel like I am just going through the motions of my own life. Smiling at the right times, because I know something was funny, rather than FEELING that laughter take over my soul. Kissing the boo boo that needs kissed on my kid's knee...because it needs kissed. But not feeling that warmth that comes right up from my heart and flows through my lips to offer all that I can to heal. Hearing a heartbreaking story and saying, "that's sad", but not feeling broken. Or my biggest pet peeve of all, saying "that's funny"! Everyone should know that if it was funny, I would be laughing. SAYING it's funny is like giving a person confirmation that it is only funny to them.
I don't know what it is. Is it the repetition of doing the same things over and over and over...laundry, cook, clean, make beds, kiss boo boos, run, work? Maybe. Is it the loneliness of being virtually without any family, save a well-timed phone call or two here and there from my mom and sister? Maybe. Is it missing friends so much that if I really thought about it I could cry for a solid day? Perhaps. Is it too much rain? Couldn't be! I love rain!! I really have nothing I can put my finger on.
What I do know, though, is that sometimes I see me from outside of me, and I feel sad for "her". I feel like she has so much to offer to the world, and maybe, on this day, she forgot. I wish I could snap her out of it...but there would be no use in trying. On days like this...she just pretends to hear, but she isn't listening at all.
I think I better sit at the feet of God tonight. I don't know anyone else who can find me when I'm so completely lost. Plus, my track record shows that I am no good with directions, even those that lead to the me at the end of the tunnel. :)
I hope I can find myself tomorrow!
:) Goodnight.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
For no reason whatsoever!
I think my favorite reason for doing things is simply "for no reason whatsoever".
I want to call my husband sometimes, in the middle of the day...for no reason whatsoever. That's what we used to do! It's a big part of how our friendship started, and then dating, and falling in love. We just talked. He never called my purple dorm room phone and had me answer it and ask what he wanted! How ridiculous! He wanted to hear my voice and let me know he was thinking of me. He was calling for no reason whatsoever.
I want to treat my friend to a latte...for no reason whatsoever. Because she is amazing, and she likes lattes. Because I am getting one, and I have an extra $4.54 in my wallet. Because I can get them iced and it is blazing hot during a Florida summer. Just, you know, no reason.
Sure, a card on my birthday is nice, but how much nicer is a card...for no reason whatsoever.
I love when I am thoughtful, just because my heart is full of love and gratitude for someone. Or with compassion for their situation. Or with thoughts of wanting to be with them. I love when other people are too. So unexpected, and undeserved. That kind of kindness is so special---the kind that comes for no reason whatsoever.
It is so nice to be nice for the appropriate reason...to send flowers when someone is ill, or to stop by and drop off a meal when a friend has a new baby. Gosh, without those acts of kindness life would be a bummer. But I still have to agree with myself that it is even nicer when those things happen...for no reason whatsoever. What better reason could there be?
I want to call my husband sometimes, in the middle of the day...for no reason whatsoever. That's what we used to do! It's a big part of how our friendship started, and then dating, and falling in love. We just talked. He never called my purple dorm room phone and had me answer it and ask what he wanted! How ridiculous! He wanted to hear my voice and let me know he was thinking of me. He was calling for no reason whatsoever.
I want to treat my friend to a latte...for no reason whatsoever. Because she is amazing, and she likes lattes. Because I am getting one, and I have an extra $4.54 in my wallet. Because I can get them iced and it is blazing hot during a Florida summer. Just, you know, no reason.
Sure, a card on my birthday is nice, but how much nicer is a card...for no reason whatsoever.
I love when I am thoughtful, just because my heart is full of love and gratitude for someone. Or with compassion for their situation. Or with thoughts of wanting to be with them. I love when other people are too. So unexpected, and undeserved. That kind of kindness is so special---the kind that comes for no reason whatsoever.
It is so nice to be nice for the appropriate reason...to send flowers when someone is ill, or to stop by and drop off a meal when a friend has a new baby. Gosh, without those acts of kindness life would be a bummer. But I still have to agree with myself that it is even nicer when those things happen...for no reason whatsoever. What better reason could there be?
Sunday, May 13, 2012
My Favorite Child- A Mother's Day Reflection
I have two children of my own now, and they are too young to verbalize the fight over who is the favorite, but I see them battling with the feelings. Taryn will say things like, "Why can't Trevor color as good as I can?" or "I am not as cute as Trevor", and Trevor will say things like, "Am I funny, Mommy?" What they are trying to say is, "Who is the favorite???" Since the writing is on the wall about them springing the question on me one day, I have decided to be prepared. I will use a simple point system to score and determine once and for all who is my favorite child.
Taryn is the first born, so that gets her a point.
She is very tender-hearted and worries about people and how they feel more than Trevor does, one more point.
Taryn loves to spend time with Daddy working on the car, or practicing Ninja moves which gives me some time to clean and do schoolwork without her, one point.
She does chores now, point for Taryn.
Taryn is funny. She tells funny jokes, and oinks like a pig. She can always make me laugh when I am having a bad day. One point.
Taryn has the cutest little wrinkle in her nose when she laughs, and I have to give her a point for that because it makes me smile.
She hates the dentist, which earns her a point because I feel that hatred of the dentist has a direct correlation to intelligence.
She hugs me in a way that squeezes away all of my worries and cares, and that has to be worth about five points.
Taryn asks hard questions though, and for that I might have to deduct a point. Questions about God, and dying, and why she can't marry her brother. Those really put me on the spot, and it is usually at bedtime, minus 1.
Oh, but she's a girl so she gets a few girl points for how I get to paint her nails, but bows in her hair, and shop with her for things that make her feel pretty. I will add three for girl power.
Trevor is the baby, so that gives him an easy point.
He has been talking since he was 9 months old, and that made it much easier to take care of him when he was little since he could tell me what he needed, point. It was also super cute!
Trevor loves me. He wants me to "cuddle him" all the time because his bare feet get cold on the hard floors, and he snuggles right into me, one point.
His life is a musical. Literally. It is like he went and took a class on how to live like you are in a musical, and he got an A. Whatever we are talking about causes Trevor to break out into a song of that theme. At dinner, we had to implement a "no singing until you finish eating" rule. Pure awesomeness. One point.
Trevor is my comforter. If I hurt myself he runs to kiss my boo boo, and if I have to yell at Taryn for something, he acts like a perfect angel and tells me how much he loves me as soon as I am done. He says, "I don't like Taryn right now, because she is bad". I teach him that we both still love Taryn because everyone makes mistakes, but I appreciate that he wants to be on my side. Point and point.
Trevor has the softest skin. I like to rub my cheek against his and just smile, point.
Trevor is fearless and carefree. He will try anything, talk to anyone, and not hesitate to tell me how funny he is. He changes regular song lyrics to make the funnier, and does "cool tricks", like "planking" from the couch to the coffee table without anyone ever telling him what planking is. He's cool, and I feel like he's okay in this world. That is a definite five points.
He's a boy which will earn him a few points because his clothes are easier to find, he only has a couple pair of shoes where she has a dozen, and after the bath his hair dries in about five minutes- not the hour that it takes Taryn. Point, point, and point.
On the downside, he is taking far to long to potty train at night, and he still wants me to help him go potty during the day though he is completely able to do everything himself. Minus one, Trevor. You can do better.
I have to factor in the sibling love. They are each others best friend. They chase each other around the house laughing, hug each other until they fall down, and put their hands together and do a cheer that simply shouts, "Brothers and sisters". Neither wants to go to bed without hugging the other goodnight, and when they are not together, they ask for each other. It is a sweet, love-hate- mostly love relationship, and it makes me love them both at least five points more.
So, grand total time. I will finally know who the favorite is...drum roll please.. Taryn earned 14 points and Trevor earned...14 points? A tie. (What a rip off. I was sure I had a favorite!) :) I guess maybe there is no competition, after all. I love Taryn completely with all my heart, and I love Trevor, completely, with all my heart. I don't know how its possible, but I love them both equally, with all that is in me. I hope they believe me when I tell them that in a few years. We certainly never believed it when our parents fed us that line of malarkey.
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