After musician Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississippi river, one of his former tour mates, Juliana Hatfield, wrote a tribute song for him entitled “Trying Not To Think About It.” I have often thought about this song after Maddie passed, and how Hatfield sings of dealing with the tragedy by trying not to think about it. As time has crept forward and I’ve searched for ways to cope with my loss, I’ve found that “trying not to think about it” is – sadly – the best way I know how.

I don’t want to not think about Maddie. If I could, I would spend every day lost in the happy memories I have of her. But doing so always leads to me being overwhelmed by sadness. I end up gawking at the horror of what happened – that I had this amazing little girl in my arms and now she is gone.

If I’m not militant about trying not to think about it I will find myself back inside that hospital room, watching as that doctor pronounces her dead. Or cradling Maddie’s body one last time, telling her I love her and saying goodbye. Or walking out of the PICU, taking the elevator down to the lobby, stepping through the doors to the street, getting in our car, and driving home… all as if something incredibly mundane had happened instead of the reality that our lives had just been shattered.

It’s at night that I try hardest not to think about it. This may sound stupid, but as I try to drift off to sleep I occupy my mind with stupid fantasy scenarios, like what if I could suddenly throw a baseball a hundred miles per hour? How would I go about using that new skill? I imagine the steps I’d take to break into the Big Leagues, and usually create a cheesy scene where I hunt down a scout who tells me and my thirty-six year old paunch to get lost, but then I throw a baseball past him as he walks to his car, and… By then, with any luck, I have fallen asleep. It’s silly, I know, an embarrassing fictional sports story full of the tropes we’ve seen in a million bad baseball movies, but I will gladly watch this bad movie night after night if it keeps me from laying awake and re-living the nightmare.

That’s not to say I don’t spend time with my Maddie; I do. When Heather and Annie leave the house, I lose myself in photos and videos of my life with Maddie – singing her Beatles’ songs in the NICU, taking her to our favorite Japanese restaurant around the corner where the waitresses mooned over her, watching her turn one at her tremendous party, and every stop in between. By myself I cry, shake my fists at the heavens, and scream, “Why?” But when Annie returns I have somehow put the pieces of myself back together and once again resemble the smiling Daddy she knows and loves.

It isn’t perfect living like this. I don’t like compartmentalizing my life, but everything stopped being perfect that April day almost three years ago. Since then I’ve had to do what I must to keep moving forward – for Heather, Annabel, and myself – and if that means trying not to think about it, then that’s what I’ll have to do.

Trying Not To Think About It
by Juliana Hatfield

Southern California is bad for the soul
And New York City takes its toll
The Mississippi River has a mean undertow
How can I shield myself from the things that I hear
I want to close my eyes and sleep for a year
Tell me that it’s only a dream
That it’s a nightmare

Trying not to think about it
Trying not to think about it

How can your mother be so strong
When her only baby is gone
I don’t know where you are
Everything is wrong

So I’m trying not to think about it
Trying not to think about it

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Hopefully you all had a wonderful Valentine’s Day yesterday, but if you didn’t and are feeling a little down about it, have I got a story for you. I must give you fair warning though – it is not one for the faint of heart. Only those able to handle the thrills and chills of the most nightmarish February 14th should read on!

This creepy tale begins in the early Nineties when Nirvana and Brandon Walsh were all the rage, and I was an awkward, brace-faced freshman in high school. I was not loving life back then, especially since there were two bullies in my class who acted like it was their job to make my life miserable. We’ll call these chumps Biff and 3-D (since those were the names of the baddies in my beloved “Back To The Future.”) Unfortunately, I’m afraid I was more George than Marty when it came to standing up for myself back then.

Me about a year before this dark and twisted tale

There was one reason I did like going to school, however, and her name was Allison. Allison was a blond fourteen-year-old straight out of a Nickelodeon show, and I was smitten. Each day I tried to find a way to talk to her, and if we so much as made a few moments of small talk I was walking on water. Most days though I was too nervous to say anything, and went home glum and probably a whole lot of fun for my parents to be around.

But then Valentine’s Day approached and the school announced that, as a fundraiser, you could purchase a rose, box of candy, or teddy bear that a student council member would distribute to your student of choice with a confidential message on the Big Day. “Let that special someone know you love them with a valentine!” the flyer read, and I decided I would do just that. I would tell Allison how I felt via one of these valentines, and find out once and for all if she felt the same way about me!

Of course, being an awkward freshman boy, I wimped out and did no such thing. So there I sat in class on Valentine’s Day, hating myself, when a student council member entered and… to my shock… handed me the deluxe rose/candy/teddy bear valentine package! I stared at it a moment before opening the card. I nearly fell off my chair as I read the message:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mike. How come you’ve never asked me out? Love, Allison. xoxo”

Biff and 3-D’s mocking voices suddenly rang out and disrupted my happy moment.

“Someone bought Mike a valentine? Are you kidding me? What kind of dumbass would do that?”

I glared at them, insulted, and snarled, “Allison sent it. That’s who.” That shut them up pretty quick. The gorgeous Allison had sent ME a valentine!

The next two periods were interminable as I tried to figure out how I would tell Allison I got her valentine and that – OMG – I, like, totally liked her too! It occurred to me the ideal way to do it would be by riding up on a white horse with flowing locks a la Brad Pitt in “Legends of the Fall,” but that required prep time I didn’t have. Instead, I decided to simply walk up to her at lunch and ask her out.

At noon I hurried out of class and looked around until I found Allison eating with her friends at a table in the center of the cafeteria. By this time word had gotten out about my valentine, and as I nervously walked toward her, all eyes were on me. I reached Allison’s table and raised the teddy bear as she looked up at me mid bite of tater-tot.

“Thanks so much for the valentine, Allison. And YES I would LOVE to ask you out!”

Allison stared at me a second before spitting out, “Uh, what?”

“Maybe this Friday? There’s a new movie out that –”

“I didn’t send you a valentine!” Allison screeched like I had accused her of a heinous crime. “Why would I send YOU a valentine?”

I stood there with the wind knocked out of me until I noticed Biff and 3-D pointing and laughing.

“Best fifteen bucks we ever spent! Ha! You should see the look on your face, Mike!”

The two a-holes slapped five over their prank as I dropped the teddy bear and ran off. The whole thing was like a scene from “Glee” except afterward no one sang me a song or tried to comfort me.

So there you have it, folks! If you had a crap Valentine’s Day, take heart in knowing that at least you didn’t have one as crap as fourteen year old Mike! And don’t forget that every crap Valentine’s Day is eventually eclipsed by a great one… like when Heather and I got engaged, or yesterday, when I was lucky enough to spend the day with my two best girls.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

As a father I was hit hard by the news that Josh Powell – the husband of missing Utah mother Susan Powell and the police’s lone person of interest in her disappearance – had blown up his house killing himself and his two sons. Though I know he was far from the first father to ever kill his children, I nonetheless was left confused and saddened. How could a father kill his own babies?

For the longest time growing up I never would have imagined something like that was even possible. But then, when I was about thirteen or so, a news story broke about a man named Ramon Salcido who had killed his wife and in-laws, then disappeared with his three daughters. The police went on a manhunt looking for Salcido and his daughters, and I was convinced they would eventually find them all alive. My parents, however, told me it was more likely that he would kill his daughters too.

“No way,” I said. “He may be a crazy person, but those are his daughters!”

From my youthful eyes there was no way a man could kill his children even if he had already done something heinous. No father – not even an evil one – would kill his kids. But I was wrong. In the end we found out that Salcido had killed two of the girls and attempted to kill the third.

As upsetting as the Salcido story was to me as a kid, the Powell story got under my skin even more. The reason, I think, is largely because I am now a father myself. More than that, I am a father who has lost a child. I can’t express how angry it makes me to think this man took the lives of his own children when I would give anything to have my Maddie alive and by my side.

I wanted to write about this event ever since I heard the news on Sunday, but while I have thought a lot about it and had a lot of emotions churn up inside me, I am afraid I still can’t offer any meaningful take-a-way about why it happened. Even though the world has taught me it can be a dark, dark place, I still don’t have a clue how a father could kill his own child.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

About a year ago I was heading out the door for the supermarket when Heather ran after me with a screaming Annie squirming in her arm.

“Would you mind taking the baby with you so I could get twenty minutes to myself?”

I agreed even though the prospect of bringing a screaming baby to the supermarket wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, but if I knew then what I know now I likely would have thought it through a bit more. That’s because ever since that trip Annie thinks going to the market with her old man is the cat’s meow (or Rigby’s bark). Whenever I try to slip out now she squeals and says, “Store, Daddy? Annie go store?” Who can say no to that?

So Annie has become my little supermarket buddy, something which has complicated things significantly since I’m not the best shopper to begin with. Don’t believe me? Here’s a typical call from me at the store:

Me: “Is it minced garlic we need or garlic salt? Wait. There’s also garlic cloves. Why are there so many types of garlic?”

Heather: “It’s onions, Mike. We need onions.”

Thankfully, Annie enjoyed sitting in the the grocery cart’s basket on our early trips and didn’t cause me too much trouble… that is until a couple months ago when she started to whine the minute I set her down.

“Annie walk!” she yelled. “Dada, Annie walk!”

Since she wasn’t even two years old the idea of letting her walk around the supermarket sounded both insane and irresponsible, so I ignored her pleas and left her in the cart. This lead to many frantic shopping sessions where I raced to grab everything I needed in the 90 seconds or so before she went into total meltdown. After those awful experiences I’m pretty sure I could clean up on “Supermarket Sweep.”

But then a few weeks ago Annie whined “Annie walk!” before I could even get her into the cart, and I decided to see what would happen if I let her have her way. To my shock she wasn’t a nightmare knocking over displays or trying to  run off. Instead, she was amazing! She stayed by my side at all times…

“Hi, Daddy! You said stay by the cart, right?”

…and even helped by putting items we needed into the cart when I asked her to. (And sometimes when I didn’t: “No, Annie, we don’t need that can of sardines.”)

“Banana, Daddy! Got it right here!”

“OMG! Shopping is soooo exciting!”

Since that day shopping with Annie has been way easier, and other shoppers compliment me all the time on how well behaved she is. Not only that, but when I tell them she is only two they are even more impressed! Okay, this proud Dad will stop bragging now…

The parenting lesson I learned here is that sometimes letting your kid “fly” before you think they are ready is the right thing to do. If I hadn’t given her a shot at walking I likely would’ve waited until she was at least three, and that would have lead to a LOT of very unhappy trips to the store. I’ll be sure to remember this the next time I think my baby is too little to do something and tell myself, “But maybe she’s not!”

Heck, she even pushes the cart!

“I have no idea where we’re going but I like it!”

C’mon, Daddy! There’s a sale on aisle three!”

Oh! I almost forget to mention the best part of shopping with Annie. She never lets me forget to buy cookies.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

On “Intervention” recently there was a moment that – as a Dad – really upset me. (For those who don’t know, “Intervention,” is a reality show about an addict and the intervention their family stages in hopes of getting them to go to treatment.) The moment came during the intervention when the addict – a woman who desperately longed for her father’s love – made it painfully obvious that the one thing that would make her accept treatment would be if her father said he loved her. Despite this, he hemmed and hawed as if saying those words was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

This stubborn man had me screaming at the TV, but the sad truth is that it’s pretty common for the fathers of the addicts on the show to be distant and emotionally unavailable. I wish I could say these type of men were few and far between, but they’re not. Older generations, especially, are full of them.

It’s no secret why these men are this way. Men have long been taught that they must be strong and macho; that showing emotion is weak. Act like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, the message has been, and you’ll be a real man.

I try to be different. I tell Annie I love her dozens of times each day and I don’t bother pretending to be a macho tough guy. Why would I when doing so might put distance between me and my daughter? Some men, I’m sure, would view me as less of a man for doing this, but they’d be wrong. I’m man enough not to be afraid of outdated notions of what a man should be. I’m man enough to be the the kind of man that is best for my child. And I’m not alone. I see more and more men like me all the time.

At the end of the “Intervention” episode I mentioned above the father finally managed to tell his daughter that he loved her, and it did convince her to go to treatment. I’m sure in that moment – when he realized he may have saved his daughter’s life by showing genuine emotion – he didn’t feel weak at all. He probably felt stronger than he ever had before.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

At Annie’s birthday party my nephew got a bee in his bonnet (or more specifically chocolate in his mouth) and decided that it would be a great idea to punch me as many times as possible. This was one indignity too many – I was already dressed as DJ Lance Rock – so I scooped him into my arms, told him that hitting is NOT acceptable, and took him over to my sister so that she could deal with him as she saw fit. Since I am the boy’s uncle I didn’t feel I was overstepping my boundaries by disciplining him, but I was/am wary of doing any more than I did because even though he is family, he isn’t my kid.

As difficult as it is to figure out what’s appropriate when it comes to disciplining one’s extended family, it is far more difficult to figure out how to discipline kids you have no family connection to at all. Tame as my discipline of my nephew was, most parents would freak if they saw an adult scoop up their kid and firmly tell them hitting is not acceptable. In fact, if someone did that to Annie, I’d probably raise an eyebrow or three. (Yes, I have a third eyebrow.)

Want to discipline THIS kid?!

Here’s the thing though… as Annie gets older and makes more friends, there will be times when I will be expected to keep her friends in line. I remember many-a time as a kid when my friends’ parents had the unenviable task of keeping my crew of bratty buddies from killing ourselves by jumping off the roof or the like.

So how can an adult in these situations know what is and isn’t appropriate? Personally, I would be okay with another parent disciplining Annie if she got out of line, but only if they did it in a way I deem appropriate. And therein lies the complexity in all of this. Not everyone sees discipline the same way.

Would I let another parent hit my kid? Oh “h” to the “n.” Yell at my kid? Still not going to be happy. In my mind there is an appropriate way to discipline my kid, but I can’t expect other parents to know that. I can’t expect them to let Annie run around like a crazy kid either though.

It’s complex for sure. While I have a little time before I have to worry about this too much, it won’t be long before I am at a Chuck E Cheese with ten kids under my command! Just the thought gives me chills. How do you parents out there deal with this?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Just about everyone has had a job at one time or another that makes for great cocktail party conversation. For Heather, it was toiling as the personal assistant to a then-hot, Grammy nominated musician. For me, it was working behind the scenes on one of the most popular TV shows in history!

I had just graduated from Film School and was looking for a job that would help me break into the industry when I scored an interview with what was described in the ad as a “long running, top ten TV show.” What could it be?!?!” “Seinfeld?” “Friends?” “The Simpsons?” The possibilities were all incredibly exciting.

At the interview I learned it was an entry level job for – wait for it – “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” So. yeah. Less exciting. But hey, no one else was calling, and it WAS a successful show on TV. So when they offered me the the job I took it, and to be honest with you, I actually was pretty excited.

My excitement dampened a bit upon arriving at their “studios” and seeing they were the opposite of Hollywood glamor. Instead of being located on a studio lot or Sunset Boulevard, “America’s Funniest Home Videos” worked out of a generic office space. The interior of the place was even worse, bathed in depressing fluorescent lighting. Despite this, I tried my best to stay super positive. After all, this was my big break!

I was immediately introduced to the lead Production Assistant, a gym rat who told me the best part of his job was that he was able to get a workout in at lunch. He lead me to a claustrophobic room filled with thousands of VHS tapes that had been submitted by viewers and rejected. He then told me my first task: I was to run these tapes through a machine that erased their contents so they could be used again.

“Relax,” I told myself. “No one gets anywhere without a little hard work.” With that thought I put a tape into the machine and decided that I was going to work so hard and fast that the head honcho of this whole operation was going come down here and say, “My God! Who is this kid? I’ve never seen a Production Assistant work so hard! Come with me, boy! You’re going to the top!’”

Ten minutes later I stared into space, slack jawed. “This sucks,” I thought.

My next task was to get lunch for the show’s writers (yes… the show has writers). When I went to take their orders I was surprised to see Alan Thicke’s clone.  Turns out it Alan’s his brother, Todd, the head writer. Each time he called me “Mike” I laughed inside pretending he was Dr. Seaver and I was Mike Seaver. I was less amused later, however, by the smell of Greek food that filled my car as I drove back from their restaurant of choice.

My last task of my first day was to process video submissions. This entailed opening the envelope, writing the number of the release form on the front of the envelope, and then filing it away. Soon, in an attempt not to go crazy from boredom, I started to read the release forms. You wouldn’t believe these things. The people who sent them in almost always wrote way more info about their clip than required.

One submission even had a ten page document taped to the release form which detailed what happened in each of the fifty-seven clips included on the VHS tape. It went something like this: “Clip one: Poopsy tries to eat a block of wood! Will he ever figure out the wood is not food? Note: If you could mention our dog’s name is Poopsy I’m sure people would find that humorous!”

The next day was exactly the same. As was the one after that, and the one after that. As you can imagine, I only lasted a couple weeks at that job. But the memories will last a lifetime of cocktail parties!

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

One of the things I’m most looking forward to is sharing all of the cool stuff I loved from my childhood with Annie. I fantasize about a magical day in 2018 or so when I make a giant bowl of space popcorn and sit her down for her first viewing of “Back To The Future.” Marty and Doc will, of course, hold her enraptured the entire 116 minutes, and afterward she will throw her arms around me.

“Thank you sooooo much for exposing me to this timeless classic,” she will say with tears in her eyes.  “You have enriched my life, you most incredible dad in the world, you!”

It is gonna be the best, I tell you. Except, of course, if it isn’t. What if – gasp – she doesn’t cherish it (or “Thriller” or “Choose Your Own Adventure” books) as much as I do?

“You’re gonna love it, Annie!!! I just know it!!!”

I have reason to be worried. I remember one less than magical day toward the end of the Reagan administration when my Dad made me watch one his favorite films, “Shane,” a Western first released in 1953. I gave this classic my undivided attention for all of five minutes, then brought out the claws.

“The acting in this stinks! It’s so old-timey!”

“Well,  the acting may be a little different than you’re used to, but -

“You hear the sound effect when that guy got shot?  It was so fake!”

“Come on, Mike. Give it some time -

“Some time to what? Suck more?”

I am sorry to report that my Dad ended up watching the rest of his beloved “Shane” all by himself as I had long since retired to my room to play “Mike Tyson’s Punchout” on my Nintendo.

So, while I obviously have huge amounts of karmic retribution headed my way, I still hope Annie likes “Back To The Future.”  Today I asked Heather if she thought Annie would like it, and she said, “What’s not to like?” I was happy with this answer until she added:

“Of course for Annie 1985 will be as much the past as 1955, so the whole going into the past bit won’t be as powerful. And you can’t show her Part II because almost NONE of the ‘future’ stuff came true. Oh, and the Eighties clothes? The clothes will be a problem.”

Sigh. I hadn’t thought about that stuff. Just as my Dad probably hadn’t thought about the dated sound effects and how much they would matter to me. The thing is, despite all of that, I still really want her to like it. Am I setting myself up for heartbreak? Or is there some way to help a kid appreciate something great even if it isn’t the latest and greatest?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

As you’ve probably picked up by now, Heather and I are known to engage in husband/wife debates about everything and anything (including the etiquette of picking a restaurant). Well, 2012 just started and we’ve already had our first debate. Before I get to it though, you must look at the following photo and tell me if you see anything wrong with it:

If you saw nothing wrong with the photo you are likely attractive, smart, and admired by all of your friends, family, and neighbors. If, however, you took umbrage with my footwear, you probably agree with Heather. But I digress. Let me back up a bit.

One of my Christmas presents from Heather was a pair of fancy slippers. I’ve never really been a slippers kind of guy, but once I “slipped” on this pair I was hooked… it felt like my feet were getting a hug! I immediately started wearing these godsends around the house day and night, a fact which pleased Heather to no end and made her feel like an extremely gifted gift giver.

Heather soon mentioned that my slippers had rubber soles, and, as opposed to most slippers, could be worn outside to get mail. That afternoon I wore my slippers outside to do just that, and when I got back inside I thought, “That was the most enjoyable trip to get the mail of my entire life! Every step felt like a trip to the spa!!!” For the next few days I not only wore my slippers out to get the mail, but to take the dog to the bathroom, speak to the neighbors, and whatever other excuse I could find to go outside.

But then the trouble began. I was home alone last Friday night when Heather called and asked me to join her, Annie, and her parents at a restaurant. As I started out the door I noticed my beloved slippers laying pitifully on the floor. “Where are you going without me?” they seemed to ask, all sad and lonesome.

When I got to the restaurant Heather looked mortified.

“What are you wearing on your feet?!?!?”

“Those shoes you got me for Christmas.”

“SLIPPERS I got you for Christmas.”

“Right. The slippers slash shoes you got me for Christmas.”

“There’s no ‘slash shoes,’ Mike.  They’re slippers. Only slippers.”

Heather sighed that heavy sighs only wives know and said, “I don’t even know if they’ll let you into this restaurant like that.”

Well, they DID let me into the restaurant, but when we got home Heather officially “banned” me from wearing my slippers in public, saying that doing so was akin to Seinfeld’s George Costanza wearing sweatpants in public, and, to quote Jerry, a sign that one had “given up on life.”

I refused to acknowledge her ban, however, saying that A) I think they look pretty good and are almost indistinguishable from regular shoes unless you really stare at them, and B) I don’t care what people think. I am no longer a cool twentysomething but a married Dad, and as such I am allowed to do things that are nerdy/embarrassing. All dads do something that makes their kids go “Oh, Dad.” My thing could be slippers in public!

After debating this a good fifteen minutes we decided to let you good people be the judge.  So what do you think? Is banning me from wearing my glorious slippers in public totally unfair or what?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

The first thing I ask Annie when she wakes up in the morning is “Food?” She always responds with an enthusiastic “YES,” so I take her into the kitchen, put her in her high chair, and make a suggestion such as “Eggs?” She then shouts another enthusiastic “YES!”

Once I place Annie’s food on her tray I ask, “Elmo Abby?” and she again responds “YES!” I then pour milk into her sippy cup (which has Elmo and Abby Cadabby on the side) and hand it to her. As you can see, we have our breakfast routine down pretty well – so well, in fact, that Annie decided that it was time to return the favor.

It happened yesterday when Annie ran up to me out of the blue and asked, “Food?” Curious where she was going with this, I responded with an Annie-esque “YES!”

“Okay, Daddy,” Annie said as she grabbed my hand. “Come on!”

She dragged me over to the playhouse she got on Christmas morning and ordered me to sit at the bar. She then went inside and asked, “Eggs?” I did my best to keep a straight face as I responded with another “YES,”  then watched her pretend to cook on the plastic stove.

After a few seconds she set a plate of imaginary eggs in front of me and asked, “Coffee?” I just about spit out my imaginary eggs. Heather is the one who drinks coffee in the morning – I am a Diet Coke kind of guy – but I was nonetheless startled (and impressed) that she knew to offer me an adult drink and not “Elmo Abby.”

When I finished eating Annie invited me inside her house. The square footage reminded me of Heather’s old apartment in New York:

While I was in there Annie did what a lot of women do when they have their dad over – ask me to fix something. She pointed at the cabinet under the sink and said, “Open?”

The cabinet, of course, is just decoration, but since we were having so much fun imagining I told her, “It’s locked.” She thought hard on this before asking, “Whassin’ dere?”

I finally had to laugh. Her question was the kind of surreal, imaginative, and totally “kid” thinking that we all eventually have drummed out of us. That, unfortunately, will happen soon enough, but until it does I will play along and enjoy her amazing little imagination.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.