My First Rejection Letter!!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my first rejection letter. 

Isn’t it pretty?

I mean, really, in the grand scheme of things, I’m pretty sure a letter that includes the phrases, “We appreciate the chance…” and “Please try again soon...” is pretty good as far as rejection letters go. When I was at the Southern California Writers Conference in September, I heard stories from my fellow writers about getting rejection letters that said a lot worse. A LOT WORSE. Plus, I think it was nice to get a letter back at all. Some publications don’t even bother.

To me, this letter is a really big deal. Not in the throw myself down on the ground and cry sort of way. In fact, I actually didn’t cry at all. It’s a really big deal because it’s proof that I put myself out there. That I took a chance on myself and my little piece of flash-fiction and sent it out into the world.

That I go’d and I do’d and I be’d.

I read the email, chuckled to myself a little, took a screen shot, told Jeremy, sent the screen shot to my friends Megan and Nick, and went to tee ball practice. Jeremy was seriously offended and called them stupid. Nick told me how one of his favorite books was rejected by 18 publishing houses before being accepted by the 19^th , where it went on to sell millions upon millions of copies. Megan told me that Stephanie Meyer had something like 17 rejections and now she’s “swimming in millions like Scrooge McDuck.” And then she added, “and just so you know, you write better than her.”

It was nice to hear those things but, the truth of the matter is, I’m really not that bummed about it.

The piece that this email is rejecting is called ‘Kitty.’ It was my first attempt at flash-fiction. It isn’t a manuscript that I poured my heart and soul into. I didn’t spend months, or even days for that matter, working and re-working it. I wrote it in about an hour and a half, in a hotel room in Long Beach, for a contest I won.

And the feeling of writing it in that hotel room, all alone on a Saturday night, and then winning the contest, are two things that no one will ever be able to take away from me.

Would it have been cool for me to submit it to a second place and have them like it, too? Publish it, even?

Absofreakinglutely!

Did they?

No.

Does that change the way I feel about this little piece of flash-fiction? Does it take away the high I got by writing it? Does it take away the high I got when it was validated by my peers? Does it make it less mine? Does it mean I won’t submit it somewhere else? Work it some and tweak it some and try again?

Absofreakinglutely Not!

I hate to repeat quotes that I can’t remember the author of but, I read a quote once that I haven’t ever forgotten, even though I can’t remember where. It said,

“Writers want to write, not to have written.”

And that’s what I want to do. I want to write.

Yesterday, I spent 14 hours working on a monologue. I’m on my fourth draft and almost ready to send it off somewhere in the hopes that it’ll make it to a stage in New York in 2014. Will it? I don’t know. Will it change anything about the way I felt yesterday while I was writing it if it doesn’t?

No. It won’t.

I write. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. No amount of rejections is going to change that. And the truth is, no amount of acceptance letters is going to change it either.

It just is.

I'm pretty content with my first rejection letter. 
I think I'll frame it.  

Happy Tuesday, Friends.

go. do. be.

It's Ok. {A Link Up}

It’s ok.

It’s ok that even though we bought him a brand new bed, and brand new blankets, and a brand new pillow, and put a TV in his room…Brodie still wants to sleep next to us in the floor.

It’s ok.

Because one day, he won’t need us so much anymore. Because sleeping on the floor doesn’t actually hurt anything. Because as long as he sleeps, it doesn’t really matter where, anyway.

It’s ok.

It’s ok that I wasn’t excited when the stick had two lines. That I was disappointed. And scared. And pissed off. And angry. That I spent the first three months of my pregnancy in tears.

It’s ok.

Because I’m excited now. Because I can’t wait to be her mother. Because sometimes, the best things in life are the ones that you don’t plan on.

It’s ok.

It’s ok that sex is the last thing in the world I want to do right now. That I feel uncomfortable and unsexy and unable to make myself feel any different.

It’s ok.

Because it doesn’t mean I love my husband any less. Because it won’t last forever. Because it’s nothing personal. Because it’s just pregnancy hormones. Because one day, my body will be mine again and my husband will get to reap the benefits, too. Because he loves me anyway and he’s not going anywhere.

It’s ok.

It’s ok that the laundry never gets put away. Even though it’s clean. Even though I’m home. Even though I swear every day I’m going to do it. Even though I’m out of excuses.

It’s ok.

Because at least it’s clean. Because everyone knows where to find their clean socks and underwear. Because at least it’s all contained to the laundry room. Because in 18 years, it isn’t really going to matter.

It’s ok.

It’s ok that Logan still has training wheels. Even though everyone says he shouldn’t. Even though his friends don’t. Even though he’s six.

It’s ok.

Because he’s only six, not sixteen. Because everyone seems to care but him. Because when he’s ready, he’ll take them off. Because he rides his bike anyway, really fast, and doesn’t seem to notice the difference. Because he could care less about peer pressure and one day, we’re going to be really grateful for that.

It’s ok.

It’s ok that I’m not well put together. That I lose my cool over pee and poop and puke. That I get my feelings hurt. That I don’t have all the answers. That I put myself first sometimes. That some days, I just don’t want to.

It’s ok.

Because being well put together is only a facade. Because pee and poop and puke are disgusting. Because I’m only human, even though I’m a mother and a woman, too. Because if I had all the answers, there would be no wonder left in the world. Because I have to take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else. Because no one says I have to want to all the time. Because my kids and my husband love me anyway. Because I love me anyway.

It’s ok.

It’s all ok.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be.

Linking up over HERE today. Check it out. 

Opening Day and a Mom Lesson Learned

Yesterday was the opening day of little league here in Fresno. Logan is on a tee ball team, The Phillies, and opening day was a HUGE success.

We tried tee ball once before. He was four. His dad and grandma were his coaches.

It wasn’t such a successful season.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking success in terms of runs and bats and such. I mean, c’mon, he was four. They don’t even keep score in tee ball.  Most of the kids on his team had to be reminded where first base was every time they were up to bat. It was a team of 4-5 year olds playing against other 4-5 year olds who were just as lost, just as adorable in their too big jerseys and pants.

Success isn’t measured in numbers or stats.

I’m talking success in terms of attitude and enjoyment. He was miserable. He wasn’t into it. He spent more time whining about having to run than he did running, more time grumbling about putting his mitt on than he did catching. Dad and Grandma being the coaches meant that he was always being picked on.

And with good reason.

He didn’t want to try. He wanted to get a snack, drink his Capri Sun, pick some grass and go home. He cried when he had to go to practice. He cried when he had a game. He cried when it was his turn in the outfield. It was more of a chore than it was anything else.

For him. For me. For Dad and Grandma.

So, we took a year off.

I decided that there was no way I was going to pay another 80 bucks to spend four months fighting him to go to practice, fighting him to follow directions, fighting him to have a good attitude. I wasn’t forking over money for Nike cleats and new pants and a new bat and pictures just to listen to him whine and complain. I wasn’t going to spend 3-4 days a week arranging our families schedule around an extra curricular activity that no one was enjoying, least of all the four-year-old who was supposed to be enjoying it the most.

It was the right decision.

Looking back, I know the whole reason he signed up for tee ball was because I wanted him to. He was four. He had no idea what the heck it was all about. I said, “You’re playing tee ball” and he said, “Okay.” Looking back, I know he wasn’t old enough. Looking back, I know I rushed it because I was anxious to start him in a sport, to start feeling like I had him ‘involved’ in something.

Another mom lesson learned. I was never so happy to see a season end.

When fliers for tee ball came out this year, Logan brought one home and asked if he could play. He was really excited about the idea. Jeremy and I sat him down and had a real conversation about it. We explained to him that he could play if he wanted to.

If. He. Wanted. To.

A six year old might not understand exactly how much money 100 plus dollars is but he is old enough to hear money is something Dad and I work hard for. He is old enough to understand that we weren’t willing to spend it to hear whining and complaining for four months.

There was no talk about him being an all-star. There was no talk about him being the best player on the team. There was, however, a lot of talk about attitude, about dedication, about appreciation, about follow through.

About fun.

Playing a sport when you’re six is supposed to be fun.

When we were all three on the same page and Logan assured us that he understood, I filled out the form. I wrote the check. I bought the cleats and the pants. I crossed my fingers and hoped and prayed that this year would be better.

Yesterday morning, my little Phillie was so excited.

The boys got to play at our minor league stadium, out on the field, just like the big boys. He looked proud in his uniform. He was thrilled to see his coach and his teammates. He was walking out on the field chanting, “Let’s go Phillies, let’s go.” and yelling, “Let’s DO THIS THING!” 

Jeremy isn’t coaching this year so he and I got to sit in the stands and cheer him on. We were so thrilled about his excitement. Our hearts were warm and our minds were eased before the first pitch was even thrown.

He’s still on a team with kids too young to remember where first base is all the time. They still don’t keep score. Everyone bats, everyone runs home, everyone is adorable in their too big jerseys and pants. Fielding is still kind of a foreign concept. One little boy kept skipping third base and running from second straight to home. It was a riot.

But my kid…

My kid got up to bat, no tee needed, beautiful stance, and hit the second pitch thrown at him right down center field. He ran straight to first, no direction needed, and turned around and gave Jeremy and I a thumbs up and a huge smile. He played second base on defense and cheered everyone on, even the kids from the other team. There was music playing through the loud speakers and at one point Jeremy and I thought he had to pee. Turns out, he was just dancing to Madonna and Justin Timberlake’s “Five minutes to save the world” in between pitches.

During the second inning, the older divisions ended their games for a presentation of some sort and an 11 year old girl started to sing the National Anthem. We were right in the middle of a game and everyone was trying to decide whether to stop or keep playing.

Logan, playing second base at the time, handled the situation like this…

It was the best baseball game I’ve ever seen.

Mom lessons come in all forms and I’m sure this won’t be the last one I learn when it comes to organized sports. I’m happy with the way it turned out, though, and I’m looking so forward to this season. I think sports are important and I love being my kid’s biggest fan.

Jeremy and I noted last night that it feels like Logan has grown up so much in the last few weeks and while we’re both happy and sad about that, I can’t imagine a better way to spend the next four months than arranging our families’ schedule around a kid who’s having fun doing something he has grown to love. 

Let’s go Phillies, Let’s go!

Happy Sunday, Friends.

go. do. be.

Un-Slumping yourself is not easily done

I told Jeremy yesterday I could feel depression setting in.

His response?

“Let’s try to avoid that at all cost.”

Thanks, babe.

The truth is, I can’t blame him for wanting to avoid it. We’ve been down that road before, him and I. More than once. More than twice, if I’m being honest. I’m prone to what I call “The Slump”

It’s not pretty. Not for me. Not for him. Not for him and I. It would be unfair to say that I’m responsible for the emotional well being of my whole family but, the truth is, when I’m in a slump, it’s super contagious.

And like the good Dr. (Seuss) says…

“You’ll come down from the Lurch

with an unpleasant bump.

And the chances are, then,

That you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump,

You’re not in for much fun.

Un-Slumping yourself

 is not easily done.”

Maybe it’s because my whole house has been sick for weeks. Maybe it’s because I haven’t written anything. Maybe it’s because I’m pregnant and my hormones are making me nutso. Maybe it’s because I have a lingering cough and I pee my pants more than my potty training three year old. Maybe it’s because everyone else has been able to sleep off their sickness and I haven’t. Between the cough and the pregnancy and the being the Mom, I haven’t really slept in weeks. Maybe it’s because I secretly want to kick them all in the throat while they’re sleeping because I’m so overcome with jealousy and exhaustion and I feel guilty about that. Maybe it’s because I have cabin fever and I’m ready to play outside in the sunshine. Maybe it’s all of the above.

It doesn’t matter. A slump is a slump no matter the reason.

Today, I decided I’d do a few things to try and un-slump myself. I figured if none of them worked, I’d be no worse off than when I woke up this morning.

Step 1. Take a shower.

I know, this one sounds like a no brainer but, trust me, some days it’s the hardest thing to bring myself to do. Especially when I’m in Slump Mode.

Step 2. Cry.

Yep. Cry. Right there in the bathroom. In my towel. In front of Jeremy. Cry and cry and cry until I was done crying. Why? Because it’s impossible to no longer feel like I need to cry until I just…cry.

Step 3. Music and eye liner.

The eye liner just helps me feel more human. Being off work and sick and pregnant and locked in the house has made eye liner all but unnecessary but, sometimes, you just gotta do some make-up therapy.

The play list while I applied said eye liner sounded like this. If you don’t know these songs, look ‘em up. They’re tried and true, good for the soul.

Macklemore – Ten Thousand Hours

Atmosphere – Sunshine

Atmosphere – Get Fly

Nappy Roots – Good Day

Nicki Minaj – Fly

Florence + TheMachine – Shake It Out

Step 4. Drive and Sing

On the freeway. All alone. No particular destination. (Although I did end up at Babies R Us, ‘Ooh-ing’ and ‘Aah-ing’ over little tiny outfits with pink ruffles on the butt.) I sang Christina Aguilera and Blake Shelton’s duet “Just a fool” over and over again, really, really loud. (and out of key, I’m positive.)

Step 5. Starbucks

Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m pregnant. I know espresso is bad for me. You know what? So is The Slump and sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do!

Step 6. Write this blog.

My BF Megan over at AbsoluteMommy says you should write something every day, even if it’s crap. I’m always jealous of her ability to put words on paper even when it seems like the rest of her world is falling apart. She takes the time for herself and her writing damn near every day. This isn’t a great and wonderful piece of writing but there is something about putting fingers to keyboard and words on paper that makes The Slump not seem so bad.

It may just be the caffeine talking, but I feel a lot less Slumped already.

Happy Friday, Friends.

go. do. be.

In my defense...(yes, we got a puppy)

His name is Buster.

Buster Posey Nunn

Or, as Brodie calls him, “Mr. Posey.”

He weighs 2.4 pounds right now and will most likely max out at 7 or 8. He's a Chorkie. That's half Chihuahua and half Yorkie.

Yes. I know I’m pregnant.

Yes. I know that puppies, especially small ones, are a lot of work.

No. I’m not crazy or ‘out of my damn mind’.

The other day, while I was doing dishes and straightening up the house, do you want to know where Buster was?

He was in the office, asleep in an old Pack N’ Play, not bothering anyone. He didn’t have to have a bottle first or be rocked to sleep. I didn’t have to coax him into taking a nap by promising candy when he woke up. There were no tears or tantrums or begging or pleading. There was no guilt when I let him whine for nearly 10 minutes before he fell asleep.

Want to know why?

Because he’s a dog.

In June, I’m having another baby. A real baby. One who will cry and need a bottle and need rocking. One who will need constant attention and love and food and diapers and singing and playing and clothes and shoes and socks and…

Yet, no one asked me if I was out of my mind when I announced my pregnancy.

You know what I can’t do with a baby? Stick it in a Pack N’ Play for an hour and a half while I clean. Or nap. Or eat dinner. Or go to Kohl’s by myself.

You know what else I can’t do with a baby? Put it in the back yard all afternoon with a bowl of food and a bowl of water and know that it will be perfectly fine when I get home from work or errands. Buster will be excited to see me after a long day of playing in the grass and peeing on trees. He will be delighted to have attention from the boys and fall asleep in my lap while I sit in the recliner and watch Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal.

And no one will call CPS.  

Yet, no one asked if I had time for a baby.

Yes. I know puppies have to be potty trained. You know who else has to be potty trained?

Kids.

We’ve been potty training Brodie for about two weeks now. We have good days and we have bad days. We have days where he wears the same clothes all day long and days where we run out of clean underwear. The other day, he asked if he could go potty on the side of the house. I said yes, of course, because one of the major perks of raising boys is that they can pee just about anywhere. After about a minute and a half, I realize that Brodie is taking a little too long going pee. Do you want to know why? Because he was actually going poop.

That’s right. My two and a half year old took a poop on the side of the house, while standing up, and was super proud of himself.

It. Was. Awesome.

I had to spend about 5 minutes explaining to him that while he can pee in the grass, pooping is actually unacceptable.

Potty training is potty training, people.  

I tell Brodie about 8 times a day to stop playing with his penis. You know who I don’t have to say that to?

Buster.

In a few months, I can insure that Buster doesn’t knock up the slutty neighbor girl down the street. Trying to teach my sons that same lesson is going to be a lot more work and require more than 75 bucks and a quick trip to the vet.

Yet, if baby number three is, in fact, a boy, I haven’t heard one concern about my ability to accomplish teaching said lesson.

It’s a dog, guys.

I got this.

My kids wanted a dog. Jeremy and I wanted a dog. When you are getting ready to be a family of five, I figure there are two things you need: A table big enough to fit everyone and a dog.

Besides, look at this face. We couldn’t say no!

Happy Monday, Friends.

go. do. be.

Happy Sunday

I love Sundays.

Sundays have a different feel about them, don’t they? At my house Sundays start with a cup of coffee, a couple of hungry kids and a dog who needs attention. 

It’s not really that much different from any other day of the week except on Sundays, we have nothing else to do but take an extra long time to make breakfast and spend with the puppy. I love the kind of morning where no one is in a hurry about anything. I love sipping coffee with my husband and making and eating too many pancakes. I love staying in our pajamas until 2 in the afternoon and then only changing into sweats and sweatshirts so we can go outside and watch the kids ride their bikes. Sweats and pajamas are basically the same thing but the neighbors don’t look at us weird.

I love spending time with my kids and spending time with my husband and watching my husband spend time with my kids.

For years, I have worked on Sundays. Recently, though, my boss has decided to be extra generous and give me most Sundays off. It’s not that she doesn’t need me on Sundays, it’s that she’s realized that 5 hours into an 8 hour shift I start to ‘waddle,’ as she so affectionately calls it, and she’s decided I’d be better off at home.

I didn’t argue with her decision.

We try not to make plans on Sundays. Plans make me feel pressure and Sunday is not supposed to feel like pressure. We do more play it by ear on Sundays and it seems to work out better that way. A couple of Sundays ago we spent the day in the mountains shooting guns. It was a little cold and a little wet. It didn’t matter much, though. We ended up having a great time. And the look on this kid’s face after he shot my gun for the first time? 

Priceless.

Last Sunday we ended up at the family restaurant down the street for dinner. I always enjoy taking my kids to eat at restaurants. We don’t do it very often. I enjoy the opportunity to teach them how to behave in a restaurant. Because I wait on people for a living, and have done so for so many years, I’m always happy when we have a successful trip out to dinner, respectable mess, table manners, tic-tac-toe and all. It’s important to me that my kids learn how to behave in restaurants. I don’t want to be responsible for raising ‘those kids.’ The ones my co-workers and I will play rock-paper-scissors to get out of waiting on. Jeremy and I have received compliments in restaurants on the way our kids behave. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that feeling.

This Sunday, we’re having dinner at home. We recently bought a dining room table that seats six. We have been eating on the same dining room table Jeremy and I bought in 2001 when we rented our first apartment. It only had four chairs and it was very small. We’ve wanted a new one for a while but it wasn’t until I found out I was pregnant with baby number 3 that it became a priority. It suddenly became very important to have enough chairs for our entire family. I saw an episode of The Middle once where Frankie decides her family is going to start having dinner at the table every night. When they sit down for the first time, the kids are convinced that the TV is broken because they never sit down to eat at the table. When I say never, I mean never. Frankie’s youngest son, Brick (One of the most brilliant characters on television) doesn’t even have a chair. He’s in elementary school. I remember laughing at this episode hysterically. It was also the first thing that came to mind when I found out I was pregnant: That I was going to be Frankie Heck in real life and that I had to make sure my ‘Brick’ had a chair before he/she was born. I have a thing about eating at the table. Whether it comes from the oven or a bucket, my fancy Deep Covered Baker from Pampered Chef or a wrapper from Taco Bell, I like eating at the table. I think it’s important. I think it’s enjoyable. I think it’s when we get our best family conversations in. I think it’s the reason we get compliments on how our children behave in restaurants. We don’t get to do it as often as I’d like so we try to take advantage when we can. When we’re all home on the weekends we double up and have breakfast together, too. Tonight, when we sit down for dinner, I’m going to put all of the food in the middle of the table. It’s probably not necessary but I’ve never had a table big enough to do that before now and I’m excited about teaching lessons in, “Can you please pass the…” 

And when that kind of dinner happens on a Sunday? Well, it’s sort of like a bonus prize, isn’t it?

Until it’s time for dinner, though, we’re spending our Sunday like this. 

I love Sundays.

Happy Sunday, friends.

go. do. be. 

Happy Friday {Changing the world}

I was raised by my parents to believe that you had a moral obligation to try and help save the world.

--Anne Lamott

My best friend, Megan, and I have conversations all the time about the way we are raising our children. Sometimes, the realizations we come to about how we are doing it are entertaining. Like the day Megan confessed to me that she was sure she was leading her girls into a life of emotional eating because every time one of them was cranky, she offered them a cookie. Or like the time I confessed that sometimes, when I need a nap, the rule on snacks is ‘if you can open it, you can eat it’ because when this pregnant mamma is tired, she could care less how many packs of fruit snacks and Capri Suns her children consume while they watch Sponge Bob silently and she dozes in and out on the couch.

We laugh about the fact that they are slightly spoiled, we joke about what they are learning from us, we giggle about their imaginary ‘therapy funds’ and how they are growing faster than the college funds. We’re certain we are causing some kind of permanent damage every time we lose our cool, forget to wash the right t-shirt for spirit day or jump in horror to grab a sippy cup out of a toddler’s hands, because as soon as said toddler comes walking out of the bedroom with it, we realize we have NO IDEA what day it was filled.

Our conversations about our children are mostly funny. They are how we survive this motherhood gig. In reality, we don’t think we do such a bad job. We don’t really believe they are damaged. We are often delighted to acknowledge their sweet spirits, kind hearts and senses of humor.

Becoming mothers has changed us, though. The things we think about are different. The way we perceive the world is different. Our hearts and our minds have been forever changed by these little people God decided to loan to us. Motherhood is definitely an evolving process. Every day, there is something else to battle, something else to think about, something else to worry about when you lay your head on your pillow at night.

While our conversations are often light, they have recently started to become a little more intense. On my 32^nd birthday, Megan and I both cried and mourned together as we talked about the little souls in Connecticut whose loans were up. We spent that December 14^th, and the days and weeks after it, wondering why things like this happen, trying to make sense of things that, frankly, make no sense.

We didn’t talk much about gun control or mental health. We weren’t so concerned with new laws or old laws or the way in which the government handles such things. What we talked about, mostly, was how we wanted our children to have a moral obligation to try and help save the world, not destroy it. How we want to raise the kind of people who are tolerant, loving, compassionate, brave, educated…

At the end of the day, Megan and I have different views on things, from politics to religion, marriage to finances, style to sex. The reason we’ve been friends as long as we have, however, is because, even where we differ, we are able to have discussions about big issues without anyone getting offended. I say what’s on my mind. She says what’s on hers. We bitch and complain about the world in which we live and, recently, we brainstorm ways to make it better even though we have different views on how it got so screwed up in the first place.

We have conversations. We share ideas. We open up discussions that we may not be ready to tackle with other people quite yet. We’re friends. She’s my person. I’m hers. It’s easy to have these big conversations within the comforts of our living rooms, our pedicure chairs or on a Starbucks patio. The challenge we’ve been facing recently, however, is trying to figure out a way to get others involved in the conversation. How to delicately bring into light the discussion of raising your children with a moral code and where, exactly, that moral code comes from without anyone freaking out or getting Jesus or, as the case may be, Anti-Jesus, crazy. I wish I could tell you that we’ve come up with a solution. I can’t. What I can tell you though is we may have figured out that there is no delicate way to do it at all. It’s not a delicate issue and someone is always offended, somewhere, about something.

Are we naïve in believing we can save the world by opening up a conversation?

Maybe.

If that’s the worst thing they say about us, we’ll be alright.

My husband read a book about ten years ago. It was given to him by a friend and it was written by a football coach. I never read it myself but I can tell you that ten years into his coaching career, my husband still uses it as a reference guide. One of the most prominent lessons he learned from the book was that he wouldn’t know what kind of coach he was until his players were all adults, men, husbands, fathers. See, the author believed that more importantly than teaching his players about screen passes, offensive strategy and conditioning techniques, he was partly responsible for teaching them about life, being a good man and how to act in the world around them. My husband loves to win games, win championships, don’t get me wrong. He’s an amazing football coach. He is just as pleased, however, when one of his boys graduates with a 4.0 and gets into a BSC school or starts a non-profit and helps an oldlady cross the street.

He’s been getting in on the conversation, too. And we know, for certain, that we won’t really know what kind of parents we are until our children are grown with children of their own.

Are he and I naïve in thinking we can save the world by raising our own brand of superheroes?

Maybe.

If that’s the worst thing they say about us, we’ll be alright, too. 

Happy Friday, friends.

go. do. be.