BEING BLIND

When you’re as blind as me, you tend to not feel human without the aid of corrective lenses. Before I knew exactly how blind I was, it was a daily struggle to make eye contact with people. It was unclear to me (pun intended) at the time, that because I couldn’t really SEE anyone, I didn’t want them to see me.  It’s unsettling when people have direct access to your soul-window, and you have no access to theirs.  So, I looked away.

Then I go to the eye doctor, get contacts, and BAM! There are leaves, and clouds, and eyes.  Eyes everywhere. And for some reason, I wanted to look into all of them.

Many of us experience spiritual blindness as well. And we like it that way. Imagine if we were to behold the true weight of our shortcomings. We would get crushed by conviction.

Blindfolded

Jeremiah 16:10 ESV

“And when you tell this people all these words, and they say to you, ‘Why has the Lord pronounced all this great evil against us? What is our iniquity? What is the sin that we have committed against the Lord our God?'”

All over the Bible people are asking, (the Israelites especially) “what did WE do against you?  Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

It is that bad.  Anything other than perfection is complete and utter evil.  The opposite of good is evil, so if it’s not good, it’s evil.  For more on that click HERE.

I desperately want my prayer to be “Lord, open my eyes.  Show me what’s in my heart.”  But I’m deathly afraid of what that would mean.  Of what I would see.  Of what He would convict me of.

So, as of right now.  That’s not my prayer.  It’s a prayer that the Holy Spirit inside of me will have to ask for, as I don’t possess the strength yet.

Right now, my prayer is simply, “Lord, give me the strength to ask for my eyes to be opened.”

The 7-Year Itch

On the month-eve of my 7-year wedding anniversary, I’m experiencing a minor freak out.  ONLY A MINOR ONE THOUGH, DON’T WORRY!!

 

We’ve heard tell of the 7 Year Itch, and its nasty effects on unsuspecting marriages everywhere.  But honestly, unsuspecting?  Really?  You’re telling me that when half of marriages end in divorce today, you didn’t EXPECT it to be difficult?  Husbands, wives, expect it.  It’s going to happen.  You’ll be tempted.  You might even indulge.  You’ll get bored.  You’ll get hurt.  You’ll inflict pain.  (And if you disagree with that last one, you’re in deeper doo doo than you think.)

 

7 Year Itch

 

People, it happened to me.  I’ll spare you the horrid details, but the general outline is this: I’m a sinful person, married to a sinful person.  We both sinned.  It was epic.  We shattered what we had.  It was in a million little tiny shards all over the floor, and now digging into our bare feet.  And at the time, I was shattered along with it.  But now, years later, I see that it was a part of the plan.  God’s plan.  He allowed us to shatter what we had, knowing that if it had only been broken in a few places, we would have tried to fix it ourselves.  Someone get the Krazy glue.  Anyone who has ever been in any relationship with anyone, KNOWS that you can’t fix it.  WE CAN’T FIX IT.  People have been trying for eons.  There are countless books, movies, blogs, and entire religions based on the frustrations of trying to fix it.  I should have received a medal for how hard I tried.

 

But you can’t fix something that wasn’t designed to be fixed.  We are sinners, married to sinners, children of sinners, shuffling about, bumping elbows with other sinners.  And this makes it oh-so-clear how much we need the wonderful, beautiful Grace of God.  Hear that?  You can stop trying now.  The great hamster wheel.  You’ve haven’t even been going anywhere.

 

In my marriage, this lesson was YEARS in the making.  It’s still in the making.  But, it’s much more habitual now than it was right after the epic shattering.  Then God created something completely different for us. Isn’t it funny how we were trying to put this thing back together, as if it was the end-all.  But HIS plan was so much better than what we could dream up for our own marriage.

 

So, back to the 7 Year Itch.  It exists.  The rumors are true.  Be prepared for it.  And you know, there might even be an itch at year one, or two, or three.  Or anytime really.  But instead of allowing the magnetic pull to break something in your marriage (even if it seems harmless, it will break trust) turn the end of that magnet towards your spouse.

 

My 7 Year Itch has given me a new passion for getting to know my husband.  Something IS unsettled in me.  Something IS bored.  Something IS wondering if there’s more.

 

THERE IS.  And it’s right in front of me.  Drinking a beer on the couch. There are millions of questions I haven’t ask him yet.  There are millions of things he doesn’t know about me yet.  We’ve never played Truth or Dare in a crowded restaurant.  We’ve never made out in a movie theater.  We’ve never been to the circus together.  There are places we haven’t been, positions we haven’t tried, and things that we still can’t read in each other’s minds. There are spiritual breakthroughs yet to be had, prayers yet to leave our lips for one another, worship songs yet to be sung.  Knowledge of God’s faithfulness yet to be demonstrated through this man.  Through me.  Further evidence to be discovered that God’s ability to love us perfectly is mind-boggling.

There’s so much more.  More intimacy to be found.  And I’m going hunting for it.  My husband is in for it, Lord help him.

The Mythical Soul Mate

Dead cupidI sat at a low-lit table trying not to stare at the friend-of-a-friend across from me, counting the minutes until the buffer (said friend) returned from the bathroom.  There was nothing to do but smile.  The restaurant had decided to increase the awkward intensity by playing music that was just barely too loud to make easy conversation.  I sipped my martini.

As more girls began to arrive at our table for 8, it became clear I was outnumbered.  There were two kinds of women at the watering hole that night: ones that wore wedding rings, and the ones that did not.

It was girls’ night.  In honor of my friend’s birthday.  I had met a few of these women before, but hadn’t gotten involved beyond Facebook status ‘likes’.  They were all single, except me- the youngest of the group, and one other who was a newlywed.  Being well on the other side of newlywed hell, (don’t believe all they say about the honeymoon phase) I was anxious to hear how things were going, and offer any wisdom I could.

Then the bomb dropped.  The only other woman at the table on my “team” announced her upcoming divorce.  (Annulment?  The relationship was still in infancy, so I don’t remember which.)  And more of story began to take shape.  They had known each other for only 2 months before walking down the aisle, and things had begun to fall apart rather quickly after the wedding march.

The girls began to do… what girls do.  The “you don’t deserve that” speech.

“You’ll find someone better.”

“He’s an idiot.  You’re too good for him.”

“Your soul mate is out there somewhere.”

I couldn’t bring myself to join in the pep talk.  At one point, someone asked me how my marriage was going.

“It’s going well,” I replied.  “Much better than in the beginning.  Our first year was the toughest.  But we’ve grown alot, and marriage has been sanding down our rough edges.  I love my husband.  I guess I found my soul mate.”

*Side note, I HATE using that term.  I simply used it because it seemed to be something that these Barbi-doll-wannabe’s could sink their stilettos into.  I was attempting to speak on their terms.

No sooner did the period on my sentence find its landing spot, then my friend whipped around.

“Jordan is your SOUL MATE?!”

The look of surprise on her face was that of a hunter that had encountered proof of a mythical creature in the woods.  As if the “soul mate” had been never before discovered in real life.

Unicorns on beach

“Uuum, yeah.  I mean, he’s my husband.”

“But you REALLY think he’s your REAL soul mate?  I mean, I just can’t believe that you’ve FOUND him.  The one for you, ya know?  It’s amazing.  We’re witnessing it.  You really found him.”

By this time, I had all seven pairs of eyes locked onto my lip gloss, hanging on my every word.

“Well guys,” I said nonchalantly, “let’s hope he’s my soul mate, because it’s ‘til death do us part.  If I treat him as anything other than my soul mate, this marriage is pretty much doomed to fail, don’t you think?”

The soon-to-be-divorcee’ leaned in, eyes wide.  “Oh. My. Gosh.  You know, that is so smart. You’re a really good wife.”

The other girls pitched in their amazement at my treatment of the term.  Again, I’ve never liked using the word.  It seems so… allegorical.  As if the ladies of the world just have to stay sane long enough to stumble upon our one-and-only knight in shining armor.  Then fireworks will spell out our compatibility, we’ll know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’s the one, the stars will align, “Friends” will come back on TV, someone will cure cellulite, and we’ll live happily ever after.  Always happy to see each other.  ALWAYS.

Bull.  Bull crap.  Bull SHENANIGANS.  There are obviously different levels of compatibility with different people, but when you combine two imperfect people under the same roof, it’s never going to be a piece of the cake the entire time.  Platonic friendships aren’t even that!  And sex really does complicate things, so what makes anyone think that a marriage would be EASIER?  You could have a happy marriage with any number of people.

The term SOUL MATE just gives us permission to be discontent.  Always looking ahead for that magical connection that will make everything okay.  Never satisfied with what’s in front of us, or what the Lord might be using in our lives to teach, strengthen, develop us.

For the record, I love marriage.  Seriously, I was born to be married.  Marriage was what God used to turn me into who I was going to be, and what He’s still using for my sanctification.  And my husband is not perfect by any means, but perfect for me in so many lovely, challenging, steamy, nerve-wracking ways.

What I mean is that marriage is already an up-hill battle.  If he’s NOT my soul-mate, then I have two issues.

1.  Why the heck did I marry the guy?

2. How long do I think this thing- this FOREVER THING- is going to last if I’m entertaining ideas of being tied down to someone who wasn’t meant for me?

20 Things My Dad Taught Me

There seems to be a trend among the 20-somethings of my generation.  Diminishing the positive traits of our parents. To disrespect them, and focus on everything they did wrong.  I’m aware that we are, in many ways, products of our environment as children, but I’m craving something different.  I’m breaking the mold, and I don’t want anyone standing by with super glue.

The first thing you should know before reading this, is that my Dad is a baby boomer.  He grew up in a time where children should be seen, not heard, you always had to clean your plate, and you just “knew” the family loved each other, you didn’t even have to say it out loud.

In my family, all of us kids were homeschooled, and there were 7 of us.  Eventually.  Not all at the beginning of course, but over the span of 13 years, we had enough to form our own baseball team.

Another thing you should know about my Dad, he wasn’t perfect.  We called -and still call him- Papa.  The older I get, the more convinced I am that the design of the parental figure is not to be anything close to perfect.  As children, we wouldn’t learn half of the stuff we know if we had perfect parents acting out life for us.  We would never see someone make a mistake, learn from it, and do it differently next time.  We wouldn’t know how to handle failures, apologies, hurt feelings, or scraped knees.

So, this list is dedicated to all the imperfect shoulders out there that you and I stand on.  20 things my Papa taught me:

1. How to wash dishes.  I loathe this day.  We lived in a 100-year old house on a 20-acre “farm” at the time.  I was eight, and one night my dad said “Sophie, you want to learn how to wash dishes?”  Being blissfully unaware at the time of what a horrible task this was, I couldn’t resist the twinkle in his eye.  To this day, my husband still benefits from his closing line of that lesson, “the kitchen isn’t really clean until you rinse out the sink.”

2.  That my hair is most beautiful when left alone.  In highschool, I became convinced that my cork-screw curls were the bane of my existence, and would never get me any attention.  I was wrong.  And my dad, of course, was right. The true gift that I have been given, (thanks to his DNA) has really been a signature physical trait in my adult years.  It’s just too bad I didn’t realize it in highschool.

3.  What brand of ice cream to buy.  This sounds like a stupid one, but don’t overlook the importance of quality dairy.  And in case you’re wondering which brand that is, always Breyer’s.  Always.

4. How to write a song.  This is something that he didn’t teach me directly.  He wrote a book on the subject, (impressive to me in so many ways) and I read the book.  It’s my experience that one gets even more out of a book when they shared a home with the author for 18 years.

5. To drive a car.  That Target parking lot.  That giant Suburban tank that was the family car.  When I finally got my licence, he helped me buy a car, which was a stick, then taught me how to drive that one too.  I wish every girl’s Dad did this.

6. To laugh at myself.  This is another one whose full potential did not reveal itself until adulthood.  Taking myself too seriously much of my younger years, it was a hard transition into being the butt of the joke. But if you can laugh at yourself, you can make everyone else in the room more comfortable.

7. How much positive words mean to a husband.  It was my Dad who first got me thinking about boys’ feelings in general.  I was a hopeless flirt. It never occurred to me that these budding men were about as sure of themselves as kittens. Again, something I truly wish I had seen much earlier in life, but the past few years have convinced me of this piece of wisdom.  My poor husband has been the subject of my 180, but better late than never.  Behind every strong man, is a kind, encouraging woman.

8. How to run a business.  I have a degree in Business from Papa University.  He founded a Record Label when I was young, and as it was the “family business,” I was put to work early. Most kids never get exposed to customer service, or accounting, or building a business relationship until after college.  This experience sent me on a business-minded trajectory that began at 15 when I started my own version of the Babysitting Club.  It tanked, but in my world, one failure wasn’t anything close to a deterrent.  Which brings me to….

9.  How to stop talking, and DO.  How many people do you know that say they’re going to do something, and never do it? By watching my Dad, I learned how important it is to walk the walk, not just talk.

10. Where babies come from.  Imagine my surprise, as a homeschooler, to grow up and find out that not all kids found out about the birds and the bees from their parents.  “You mean, you never sat around your parents bed with your other age-appropriate siblings and talked about SEX?”  Shocked.  But I really appreciate the fearless way with which this was discussed and explained.  And explained.  And explained….

11. What commitment looks like. My parents have been married for 31 years.  That’s no laughing matter.  Half of my friend’s families were divided early.  This saddens me greatly, but also opens my eyes as to what an amazing thing it is to have a father who stuck around.  In a time where commitments mean nothing, he has been an amazing example. Commitment is important to him, and the family legacy will be eternally the better for it.

12. The reason school work is important.  As kids, we all have that “but Dad!” moment where we try to convince the man many years our senior that school work won’t do us any good later in life.  My Dad just smiled and said, “well, the reason you do school work is not because you’ll necessarily need it later.  You do it because it’s working out your brain now. Building discipline that you will most certainly need later.”  How can you argue with that?

13. When and why to discipline your children.  Discipline was no joke in our house. Time outs were for sissies.  We got either a spanking, (with a tomato-stake switch) or a harder spanking. And as much as I hated them, I’m grateful for them now.  Mostly, I’m grateful for the way my Dad handled the period of time after the spanking.  He would talk with us, explaining what we did, why we were punished, and would sometimes pray for our little dented hearts aloud, as we squeezed every tear drop out of our eyes, hoping it would lessen his resolve to spank us in the future.

14.  That when a pretty girl doesn’t smile, she comes off as unapproachable.  Watching other women, I’m more convinced of this statement’s truth.  When you’re around a woman whose beauty is noticed before either of you exchange a word, her smile is either permission to say hi, or lack thereof as good as a sign on her forehead that says “I’m beautiful, and you’re not good enough to talk to me.”  Hence, I smile alot.  Just in case.

15. The fruits of the Spirit.  My Dad used to initiate these “family worship” sessions.  He would sit us all down, pull out the guitar, and we’d sing praise songs and read the Bible.  He wrote this song that has stuck with me since then, all about the fruits of the spirit.  To this day, if any one of the mass number of siblings sings the first line, we’d all jump in to complete it.

16.  When you’re on stage performing, and you forget your lyrics, smile and pretend nothing happened.  My Dad was an excellent performer, but even excellent performers forget their lines now and again.  I witnessed this on a handful of occasions, and he always handled it with such ease.  I would look around at his oblivious audience members and think, “they have no idea he just screwed up the second verse of that song.”  There are some mistakes that need to be uncovered, and some that just need to be left alone.

17.  How to swing a bat.  Being homeschooled, the siblings and I spent a ridiculous amount of time outside.  We would go through sports phases. Once, during the soccer month, I played goalie and had the wind seriously knocked out of me.  We moved on to baseball after that.

18.  That guys like to see women in casual clothes too.  The deeper I dig into these little nuggets of insight, the more wisdom I see in them.  Overalls, dirty hands, paint on your face, a baseball cap.  These aren’t just “casual clothes,” they’re proof that the woman in his life is real, and not always perfectly and artificially put together.  His woman is strong, but has cracks the same as anyone, and isn’t afraid to show them. Which ironically, gives her more power over him.

19. How to make a gumbo.  We’re Cajun.  And like any good Cajun, you have to know how to make gumbo.  And of course I wouldn’t presume to say that mine is better than his, but MY FRIENDS tell me my roux’s the best in town.

20. To work hard, and play hard.  I’m defined very much by my work ethic – and play ethic- today.  Put everything you’ve got into what you’re doing.  Whether it’s your career, or the game you’re playing, or just the joke you’re telling.  I was fortunate, to have a Dad willing and able to demonstrate all. Fortunate that his joy is in part found by giving wisdom to others.  He’s a teacher by nature.  So it’s no wonder that I have learned, and continue learning things from him.  On this Father’s Day, let it be known that my imperfect Dad, was the perfect fit for me.

[Papa walking me down the aisle in 2006.]

Papa pic

Are humans basically good?

I’m generally a good person.  I tip 20%, brake for squirrels, rarely use curse words, have never been arrested, etc. Isn’t it funny how often people say that? “I’m a good person, ya know?”  Usually followed, (exactly how I did) by a list of reasons that prove it.

But you know what else people say quite a bit?  “Nobody’s perfect.”  I realize that “perfect” and “good” are not the same word, but it’s interesting to be in a culture where two almost-opposing terms are used more than please and thank you.

Sad box-person

“Is the heart of the human race, basically good?”

I know plenty of people, but since I can’t speak for them, I’ll examine myself on this one.  A friend recently bought me dinner.  We had agreed to go dutch, but she swiped the bill at the last second, and refused to take my money.  Several hours (yes HOURS) later, we got up to leave, and I forgot to thank her.  I, the “good person” had been blessed by my friend, and just completely forgot to feel grateful.  I don’t know what to call that, but the word that comes to mind certainly isn’t “good.”

good

 [goo d]

adjective, bet·ter, best.

1. morally excellent; virtuous; righteous.

I was not consumed with moral excellence, I was consumed with selfishness.  But since no one was intensely hurt by my actions, or lack thereof, it’s harder to call it “selfishness,” isn’t it?

“Well that’s not THAT bad.  It was a small mistake, more forgetful than malicious.”  But who are we, but a collection of small actions?  And if the heart of the human race is basically good, then making extremely small, good decisions should be a piece of chocolate cake, right?

So driving home, I’m hit with this sense of conviction.  “Phew,” I remind myself, “good thing I’ve never murdered anyone.”  But the second wave of conviction wasn’t far behind!  The underlying reasons I do all these “basically good” acts is self-serving too!  Maybe not 100%, but I don’t think anyone could deny the presence of some selfish influence.  The reason I tip 20%: because I want -and expect- good service, because I want the server to like me, and I want the people I’m with to be impressed with my generosity.

The reason I don’t often curse: because I want to be respected as an intelligent person who can use a wide array of terms to describe situations.  The reason I brake for squirrels?  So I don’t get blood on my car.  How inconvenient would that be?  The reason I’ve never been arrested: (notice I didn’t say committed a crime) is because I have a reputation to uphold.

But nobody’s perfect, right?  Many people in our world today would arguably maintain that if one person’s crimes against another weren’t physical, then it’s not as bad or evil as it could have been.  Stealing a purse isn’t as bad as hitting someone, verbally de-valuing someone isn’t as bad as punching them, raping isn’t as bad as murdering.

Let me ask this, how many people do you know who have been through something physically traumatic at the hand of someone else?  (Beating, raping, abuse, shooting.)  Maybe a few come to mind.  And these few were no doubt greatly affected by these experiences.

Now, how many people do you know who have been through something emotionally or relationally traumatic?  (Divorce, verbal threats, end of a friendship, breakup.)  Ummmm, let’s see, EVERYONE.  You.  Me.  My friend who bought me dinner.

Isn’t it strange that we consider these “little” things we do to one another to be no big deal and just part of life as “basically good” people?  But in reality, these selfish, hurtful things affect everyone we’ve ever met, more often, many could argue, than physical crimes against one another.

Basically, the things that we use as examples of our “goodness” are most often the culprit in dividing friends/lovers/families and causing our own happiness to deteriorate.  The very actions that we offer as proof that make us “not as bad as the people who do such-and-such” are usually the ones giving the “nobody’s perfect” statement its truth.

Less than perfect is, well, IMPERFECT, now isn’t it?  Synonyms include: flawed, deficient, below-par, and defected.  Hmmm.

Are those real?

Plastic surgery.  I have never understood the concept of artificially altering one’s appearance.  Maybe organically altering yourself, sure.  Many times have I been swayed by cultural pressure, and, bouncing back-and-forth between the gym and the ice-cream section at the grocery store, realized that my appearance had been altered, (sometimes for the better, sometimes not.)  But surgically removing something natural, or inserting something foreign just boggles my mind.  Honestly.

I’m not saying those who have partaken are inherently wrong, or sinful. Please, don’t feel judged.  It’s just that I hurt for women who have felt so unloved because of their appearance; to the point of giving silicone or plastic a “forever home” under their flesh!

Mona-Lisa-before-and-after

Dolly Parton.  I mean, was it an accident, or did she look in the mirror and say to herself, “these would be so much more lovely if they were bigger than my head.”

And all the facial reconstruction!  I mean, forgive me, but I always thought the beauty of being unique is that no one else on earth looks exactly like you.  But when every other person is getting their nose trimmed, cheek bones implanted, face lifted, and forehead botoxed, why is it any surprise that everyone has begun to look like clones?  Similar to clothing styles, many people are now following “face shape trends.”  Does this not freak anyone else out?

All that’s missing:  a duck-faced, iPhone, mirror-selfie, with our heads all cocked to the same side.  Guess what, it takes WORK to be original.  (But not as much work as the Octo-mom… please.)  And most of the work was already done for you.

Not all of you may share the same belief, but I believe that you were CREATED, in God’s image.  That means you weren’t an accident.  No part of you was.  He planned you, just the way He wanted you, each flaw for a purpose.  My body is far from perfect, but each imperfection exercises my patience, character, love for others, and -news flash- these are all good traits.  Traits that other people like, and are drawn to.

Now, I haven’t said anything about medical intervention, so please don’t put words in my mouth [or fingers?].   Burn care, scar tissue, birth defects…. in my book these are more noble causes.  But even in some extreme cases, the patient is confused after the operation, (particularly adults) and left feeling separated from themselves when they see an entirely different person in the mirror.  Talk about an identity crisis.  But, that’s not really the topic under discussion here.

Can it be, that in effort to make ourselves more appealing, we’re losing what made us, us to begin with?

My most embarrassing moment

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.*

Girl hiding face B and W

The moment I laid eyes on Taylor, I just knew we would be friends.  She wasn’t overly pretty or frilly in the way she dressed, and in my experience, pretty girls ran together in unofficial packs that us plainer girls were not invited to.  Much like certain species on the African plains, I imagine.  Lions with lions, antelope with antelope, naturally drawn to each other by similarities in behaviour, appearance, and diet.

Anyway, there I was, watching just such a group form between two of the girls on my left.  The only other girl present besides the choir leader and my sister, was Taylor.  She stood next to me on my right, so we naturally fell into conversation.  She was around my age, (13) but a little less developed than I was, which, naturally made me feel as though I had some prior claim on adulthood, meaning I was a little more important.  She definitely seemed a little un-decided in certain aspects of her life.  She was sporting a short, boy-cut hairdo, and wearing gender-neutral clothes.  Even her name was sort of nondescript.  (I’ve never been a huge fan of names that made their owner’s gender unclear.  It’s the reason I have trust issues.)

During the first break of the day it was meal time.  We had all brought a bag lunch, so we scattered around the facility to partake.  The boys on one side, and the girls on the other, Taylor and I next to each other.  The only thing to really talk about at that age was who liked whom.  “Josie likes Adam, but I like Ryan.”  Just as our break time was coming to a close, the choir leader joked around in my direction, “well somebody likes Taylor.”  Trying to play cool, I pretended like I knew who she was referring to, but I was slightly confused as to why she had directed this comment to me.  I grew up homeschooled, so I spent most of my time in a general state of social confusion.

Back in the music room, we assumed the same places we had before.  Pretty girl squad on my left, me, then Taylor, my sister and the leader.  At one point, Taylor manifested a small toy out of her pocket and began tinkering with it.  We launched a secret game of trying to snatch it from one another without the leader discovering our activity.  Just as another short break was called, Taylor commandeered the figurine, so it was my turn to get it back.  We went back to the kitchen area for a drink, and Taylor sat on a wooden chair with her legs folded Indian style.  Freeing up her hands to uncap a water bottle, she put the toy on the chair, protected by the Indian-style fort made of legs.  I saw my chance.  I reached into the human Venus fly-trap, fully expecting her to snap her knees closed around my hand.  I was alert and prepared for anything…

Except what I found.  Instead of a small plastic action figure, my fingers had clasped around something…. else.  Something else entirely.

As we filed back to our places, I avoided eye contact with Taylor.  It was around this time that my sister began comparing the number of boys to the number of girls.  Looking at Taylor, she lamented “if only you were a boy, then we’d have even numbers.”

Taylor looked up, with the most innocent indignance I’ve ever seen.  “I AM a boy.”  Eyebrows high, desperately hoping to be believed.  It was repeated. “I am a boy!”

My sister, finding herself in the same “try to be cool” situation I had stumbled through earlier, sheepishly dismissed the issue, “oh I know.”

She hadn’t known.  And neither had I.  Until I got a handful of the proof.