In which my lawn... and my sinuses... runneth over

I killed my lawnmower.
I didn't mean to. I didn't know any better. How was I supposed to know that my mower couldn't handle these newfangled ethanol gasolines? I don't even pay attention to whether or not the gas I put in my car has ethanol, much less my lawnmower. But apparently the mower doesn't like it and now refuses to run.

Or rather, refused to run two weeks ago and continues to refuse to run. Meanwhile, my lawn had almost achieved tallgrass prairie preserve status until yesterday when my dear old dad paid my dear cousin Mike to come by with his lawn gear and bushwhack it. I'm almost surprised he got out alive. Lord knows what was living in that jungle! My dad and I hauled the mower to the shop on Saturday. It will be another week and a half or more before I get it back. Don't know what I'm going to do in another week, but for now at least it looks civilized again.

My sinuses, alas, are anything but. After a full Z-pack, ending last Friday, I expected to be right as rain again, but they are unbudged. Despite all my decongestant cocktails and neti pot tea ceremonies, I'm still feeling like an elephant with a bowling ball up its trunk. I don't think I've been this congested since I was pregnant with Grayson!

I'm not alone, at least. I hear a lot of folks complaining of sinus and other allergy woes. The cottonwoods are cottoning. There are places where it looks like snow coming down. My air conditioner was full of it last weekend. Sadly, that wasn't the only problem with the thing, because it is still functioning at only about 2/3 capacity.

But all these seasonal woes aside, it looks like summer may have finally arrived! Grayson has only three days of school left. My little yellow squash plants are out there in the garden busily making little yellow squashes. And last Sunday was the first of the Summer Breeze concerts in the park.

One of the great things about living in Norman is the free outdoor concerts. They are well attended and festive and fun -- with a wonderful hippy dippy atmosphere that just makes you feel like a kid again. Everyone brings blankets and lawnchairs and coolers and dogs and spreads out on the grass. Kids run around everywhere. There are glow sticks and hula hoops and plates of hummus and bottles of wine. It's summer in Norman!

Sunday night Grayson and I went to the concert with a group of friends from Leadership Norman. There was a touch of sadness because last year I attended these concerts with Bob. I kept expecting to see him, but didn't. Haven't laid eyes on him since the break up. It's entirely possible that it will be months before I see him again... or never. It makes me sad, but I don't know what else I could do. He told me once that he's not friends with any of his former girlfriends. Not one. He thought it bizarre that I consider several of my former romantic partners as friends, many as very dear friends. I suppose someday I'll be able to count G among that number. Not now, though. Not yet.

Every time I begin to feel comfortable with him again, something else happens to spoil it. There's always some fresh shit waiting to be stepped in.

Lately that's been the theme of every part of my life, it seems! I keep stepping in it in one way or another. But surely I'm on my way to getting clear of all that negative energy. I had certainly come to a dark and tangled wood, but it seems like there may be a clear patch ahead. Summer is here, after all, with all its lightness and warmth and opportunities for friends and fun and relaxation. Next weekend I'll put a pool up for G-rex, and another for the dogs to play in.

Speaking of dogs... Roxy's family came to visit her on Sunday afternoon. I hadn't seen them since October or November. Actually, Becky - Roxy's mom - dropped by quite out of the blue about two weeks ago one weekday afternoon when I happened to be home for lunch. That was the first visit in months, and friends had begun to warn me that they thought Roxy was never going back to her original family. After this last visit, however, I begin to have more faith that she will. Becky brought Michael, the oldest son, to whom Roxy really belongs, and Rox was clearly very glad to see them both. Becky's working again, and tells me she hopes that before too much longer they'll be able to find another home and take Roxy back.

I'll actually miss her, in some ways. She's a sweet, if neurotic, dog. And I know Flower and Kobi will miss playing with her. But it will be easier with just my two girls around. I might be able to try it again with the chickens. And I told Grayson to think about what sort of small pet he might want to replace poor missing Mambo. I'm not willing to risk it with Roxy in the house, but after she goes home, I think there's much less chance of a small furry pet being killed by Flower or Kobi. I'll encourage Grayson to choose something a little more active than a reptile this time. A hamster or rat or bird. Something a little more interactive. Mambo was cool but, frankly, boring. He just sat there on his stick, looking bored. I felt sorry for him a lot of the time. I can't help wondering about him and worrying. I still look for him every time go out into the yard. I hope, if he's still alive, he's at least having a good time out there.

Born Free

On Sunday we took Tuttle-tuttle down to the creek behind Grayson's school and set her free. Yes, she's a she. I sent photos of her to one of our herpetology curators here at the museum and he told me she is a female eastern box turtle or "three-toed turtle," and probably around 20 years old. I was surprised she was so old. I had counted the "rings" on her shell scutes and estimated her age at around 11 or 12, so I was way off. It looks like they live about 40 years or so.

Anyway, I held onto her through the weekend so Grayson could be present when we released her, and she kept me pretty busy. I kept her in a big plastic bin in Grayson's room at night, but set her loose in the yard with me when I was doing yard work. I had to keep watching her, though, because she was bound and determined to head East. No matter where I put her, or what obstacles I put in her path, she ended up cruising up and down the east fence, driving the neighbor's dog, Sammy, nuts. Our dogs – even Roxy – weren't all that fascinated with her, but Sammy was obsessed. So when the barking started, I was obliged to stop what I was doing, go over there, pick up the turtle, and take her back across the yard. I even tried to keep her inside the garden fence, but before I knew it, she had found a way out and off she went again: headed East.

It was fun having her around, and we considered building some sort of enclosure to keep her safely in our yard. But when I realized how old she was, and how long she'd been out there in the wild, making do very nicely on her own, thank-you-very-much... well, I just couldn't keep her against her will. So we took her to the creek and set her down and bid her a fond farewell as she trundled off... headed East.

At least she had no doubts about where she wanted to go. I can't always say the same for me. Maybe Tuttle-tuttle's arrival in my life was a little nudge to pull into my shell a bit, get grounded, and look at things close-up. That turtle may not have been fast, but she was determined, dogged, and unafraid. Sammy's barking, and our dogs' sniffing and pawing, didn't phase her a bit. She barely spared them a glance. She pulled in if they got too rough, and ignored them otherwise. Kept her feet moving and her eyes on the prize.

I'm a quick-fix person. If things go wrong, or if I'm not happy, I want to do something to fix it. Right now. I want to take action and get results, immediately. Turtle-walking is just not my style. But lately I think I'm so busy taking action to "fix" my life that I don't even know what direction I'm headed, much less which direction I want to go. Maybe if I slow down and pull into my shell for awhile, I can come up with one.

A Night On the Bus

I spent four hours last night riding the 2nd Friday trolley around Norman, giving out chocolate in honor of the opening of the exhibition, which is today. For those outside the area: on the 2nd Friday of every month, the Norman galleries, museums and music venues host the 2nd Friday Circuit of Art. There are openings, performances, and a general sense of Happening around the old downtown area and campus corner. The public transit system, CART, provides a trolley that makes a loop around the area every half hour from 6 to 10 p.m. For $2, you can get on and off the trolley as many times as you like, all evening long.

And that's where I was, parked on the bench behind my driver, Al, with a basket of chocolate in my hands and a big banner announcing the exhibition "Chocolate" behind me. For four hours I rode in a circle around Norman, greeted riders with free chocolates as they boarded, and chatted with people between stops.

You learn a lot about people when you ride the bus all evening. The 2nd Friday trolley is like a little traveling village. Folks get on for a few stops, are joined by others for a stop or two and then disembark. They are replaced by new faces, or maybe some returning villagers from earlier in the evening. I was there for all of them. I'd say "hey! Welcome back!" and chat with them or their kids, ask questions about how the evening was going, talk about the exhibit. Everyone has a story to tell.

I met an older couple who inspect fire gear on the buses. The man was quite garrulous, and picked up his conversation without missing a beat each time they re-boarded the bus. He told me about the chocolate houses he makes at the holidays with his grandkids, where in Oklahoma you can go for the best fossil hunting, how to dig selenite crystals on the salt plains so you get the biggest clusters. I told them where to go for rose rocks on Draper Lake (thanks, Bob), and encouraged them to join the museum so they could come to Members Night.

I met a couple with a daughter about 7 or 8 who were museum members and talked with me about how much they enjoy visiting, and chimed in on other conversations as they ebbed and flowed. I met a man who was a former courier for DHL and Fed Ex who told me he had been looking to get a part-time job at the museum and wondered if anything was coming open this summer. As the provider of Free Chocolate, I had a particular appeal to kids, and two separate little girls made a point of sitting beside me and chatting me up, showing me the tissue paper flowers they had made at the Fred Jones museum and asking shyly if they can have more chocolate. (of course they can)

Most talkative of all, however, was my driver, Al. Al is a big man with a white buzz-cut and a gentle nature. He's been driving buses of one kind of another for an accumulated 31 years. He's a retired airforce radio man, went to Korea, did five tours of Vietnam, and has visited all 50 states and 52 countries. (To be fair, he told me when he was in the airforce if they landed on an airbase in a country, they counted it as "visiting.")

He asked if I was married, and when I told him I was divorced he said he was sorry, and I said thanks, that it has been tough, but we would be fine. "Well, that statement there is why I know you will be fine," he said. He said that he understood how difficult it was because his first wife cheated on him while he was in Korea, so they got divorced. He got a record of medical tests in the mail from their doctor, and couldn't make out what they meant, so he took them to the doc on base, who reluctantly interpreted them for him: "You have to promise me you're not going to tear up my desk," he said first, then: "your wife has contracted a social disease."

"So we went through a divorce," he told me. "I guess she just couldn't be without somebody."

He's been married to his second wife for 29 years, which is how long he has been in Norman. When I told him my great-grandparent's names, he knew more about my family than I did: who was married to who, who was dead, who moved away.

As we rode – the first two loops were completely devoid of other passengers – he pointed out where all the stops were and commented on the route and the traffic. The trolley is old and rattles and "drives like a freight train," he told me. When he had to make a right turn he always swung wide to keep from hitting the curb, and would encourage drivers at the intersecting street who were signaling a right turn to go ahead and turn ahead of him so he wouldn't have to cut it any closer. He'd talk to people: "Come on. No, no, just go ahead. I'm trying to give you room."

He kept a mental talley of his passengers, and worried on the last loop that one man with his three daughters hadn't gotten back on to return to where he first picked them up. "I hate to think I'd left anyone stranded," he said. And he told me about regular passengers he has on his day route: a professor who spends every other week in Dallas; a ten-year-old boy who always catches the bus from his middle school down to the Weather Center where his mother works, and the drivers all know him and watch for him. "We look after him," he said. "We may be a bunch of worried old hens, but we know he's supposed to be on that 4:00 bus, and if he's not then we start to look for him."

At a light on campus corner he commented "must be Friday night in Norman." And when I asked him what he meant he told me there was a pair of men (said slightly archly, with a "you know what I mean" tone) who, at some point on every Friday night, came out of Louie's on the corner of Asp and Boyd and went down the block into another bar. "Every single Friday, just like clockwork. You know it's Friday if you see them. You know, people have patterns they run, even if they think they don't."

Well, if anyone would know about patterns, it would be a bus driver. Around and around he goes, noticing what's the same and what's different, memorizing the faces and the habits, chatting people up. It was an interesting evening. Tiring, but interesting. Never take your bus driver for granted.

Goof-ass pictures and other news

Yesterday and today are media preview days for the special exhibition "Chocolate" that opens at our museum on Saturday. I toured the Norman Transcript yesterday, and this morning, on the front page, above the fold: there I am.



Could this picture be any goofier? What am I doing? Singing "The Sound of Music?" Now don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled for the front-page coverage of the exhibition. But that photo! Really?

Gack.

Tonight I have the pleasure of riding around Norman on the bus for three hours during the 2nd Friday Art Walk, handing out free chocolate and giving tickets to the exhibition to every tenth person that gets onboard. Ah, the life of a public relations person is so glamorous!

I'm a bit under the weather today for a few reasons. The first being that the weather itself is, frankly, pretty rotten. Rain rain rain all day. The second is that I'm doing battle with sinus allergies that are trying their best to morph into a full-blown sinus infection. I feel like someone stuffed an elephant up my nose. And finally I'm suffering from one (or maybe two) too many glasses of wine last night. I sat up too late talking with a friend, hashing over my decision to break things off with Bob.

I have been struggling with this for weeks, knowing in my heart that the relationship had completed its bell-curve, but being reluctant to call it quits. I like Bob. I'm very fond of him, and I will truly miss him. But the sense of connection had gone. It like... when you enter a new relationship, you have this cushion of romance to soften all the rough edges where you don't mesh together so well. But over time that cushion wears away, and you begin to feel those rough edges where your worlds or world views just don't connect. I had reached that point with Bob. I could see that while the worlds we live in may intersect, I couldn't live in that little space where they joined. I need someone to share more of my world with me.

Tuttle tuttle

Tuesday morning, while driving home after dropping Grayson at school, I spotted this handsome fellow watching me from the curb. Neck stretched out, chewing on clover, clearly considering making the crossing.

Well, of course I scooped him up and brought him home.

Now, I KNOW I shouldn't remove turtles from the wild. They live a long long time and have special health requirements (special lights, calcium needs, a place to burrow, etc.). But I promised him we would return him to the very spot I found him, we just wanted him to visit for a couple of days.

He's awfully charming. A bit skittish,understandably. But not really afraid. He's very strong... really pushes against your hands when you pick him up, and can get around quite nimbly. Grayson is completely captivated by him.

I sent his photo to our curator of reptiles, Laurie Vitt, to see if he could give me an idea of how old he is. He's quite large for a box turtle, so I'm guessing he's pretty mature. Five or ten? Likely he's as old as Grayson, it seems to me.

There's something so appealing about his wizened old face and slow gaze. I have been feeding him clover and chopped veggies and mealworms, watching him munch eagerly, yet slowly, with his sharp beaked mouth. He looks at everything carefully before he ingests it. We've been calling him Tuttle tuttle.

Of course I'm tempted to dig an enclosure for him in the back yard. I will resist. The world is full of animals, including turtles, that don't need my protection. Clearly this old fellow has made his way in life all by himself for some time now. His shell is worn and scarred. What other creature shows its life's trials and hardships so clearly on its body? A turtle's school of hard knocks is written there for everyone to see. He's tough enough to survive in an semi-urban environment, he deserves to get to go home after this visit.

We'll enjoy his company for one more day, though.

Weather

In Oklahoma, you know, when the tornado sirens go off, most people run outside and look up to see if they can see it coming. We tend to turn on the TV and check out the radar views to see if the storm is headed our way, and then we go on about our business if it is not. Tornadoes are funny that way: they can tear a neighborhood up by the roots three miles from you and leave your neighborhood unscathed.

Last night we had a herd of tornadoes come through the area. Funnels were dropping down like vacuum cleaner nozzles all over the state, and particularly around the OKC metro area. This is a picture I swiped off the Channel 9 websitte of a funnel west of Yukon. Most were south and/or east of where I am, so I didn't pay too much attention, but this morning I learned that the damage in east Norman was pretty severe. A former colleague of mine huddled in her laundry room while the storm ripped the roof off her house. An artist who has done beautiful work for the museum lost her house completely, along with both cars. My dad's boat... along with dozens of others and the marina in which they were moored ... were tossed into the middle of Lake Thunderbird in a tangled pile of boats, twisted steel and sheet metal. You can see some of the news footage of the wreckage here. I don't know when he'll be able to salvage it, or how salvageable it will be.

At our house, all was relatively peaceful. Grayson was anxious about the weather, and I set up pillows, flashlights, etc. in our "odd room" as a safe area, just in case. But while the rain and wind thrashed around the house, I calmly went about making dinner, watching TV with Grayson, futzing around. Once again, we were some of the lucky ones.

My heart goes out to all those who were NOT so lucky – who lost their homes, or sustained serious damage. But I'm always heartened by Oklahomans' attitudes toward these things. Over and over, when the victims are interviewed on TV you'll hear them say something like "well, it's okay. We're safe. That's the main thing."

And it is. We're safe.
That's the main thing.

Saturday Mornings

Lord I love Saturday mornings! On Saturday morning, when I'm sitting in my spot, in the corner of my sofa surrounded by dogs and books and coffee cups, a whole world of possibility stretches out before me. There are things I need to do: mow the lawn, clean the house, do something about that smell coming from the backs of Roxy's ears... And things I could do: write in my journal, read a book, putter in the garden... and at this time of day they are all possible, all pending. Later as the day matures some of them will loom large and demanding. Others will fade away. But this morning, as I sit here, the day is full of promise.

I like to keep my back door open in the morning. It allows the dogs to come and go as they please, and I get the fresh air and the birdsong. Flower likes to lie out in the lawn and survey her domaine. Roxy prefers to lie across the threshold, so she can always be sure of getting back in. Kobi prowls the perimeter, watching for unsuspecting birds and squirrels.

The squirrels in our yard are very savvy. There are dogs in almost every yard around us, and the squirrels have learned how to play them like fine instruments. They love to tease the dogs from low branches, or scamper from bush to tree right under the dogs' noses. The poor dogs spend a lot of time sitting at the base of the pecan tree, craning their necks up and looking frustrated.

This morning I am planning activities for Charlie. Charlie is in town from California for a week, half over now. Today's my day with him. He spends most of the time quilting and shopping for quilting stuff with my mom. Go figure. But today is my day to have him all to myself. So I've been surfing the net looking for unusual things for us to do. Did you know there's an international homing pigeon museum in Oklahoma City? The International China Painters' museum? I think we'll give that one a miss, but the pigeon thing is so odd it might be interesting. We might also go out to Lake Stanley Draper to pick up some rose rocks. Charlie has never seen them in their natural habitat. And Charlie swears he will have some insight into where Mambo is hiding. So I'm going to give him some time to poke around in my back yard. Heck, maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe he's the lizard whisperer.

The unexamined life...

Yesterday I got Grayson's Physical Education "report card" from school. Apparently they take records of the kids' ability in various exercises, such as curl-ups, pull-ups, quarter mile run, etc. at the beginning of the year and the kids are asked to set goals for what they'll be able to do at the end of the year. Then in the spring, they put them through their paces again and record the results.

Grayson's numbers actually got WORSE.... in EVERY category. Oh, except for pull-ups. He couldn't do any of those at the beginning of the year and couldn't do any at the end, either, so there's a net zero on that one. WTF? Looks like here is yet another thing I need to worry about. Clearly I'm not getting my kid enough exercise. OK, or myself either.

I read in a magazine this morning that the Obamas allow no television for their girls during the week. None. Man, Grayson is jacked into the TV or the computer from the moment he gets home ... sometimes both. It's on until I make him turn it off for reading time at 8:30.

I've been thinking a lot about my life lately. It started when I attended the funeral of my great uncle Don Lynn last Tuesday and the minister talked about the principles by which Don had lived his life. I sat there and thought: "are there principles by which I live? Or am I just flying by the seat of my pants here?" I couldn't think of anything I "believe" in or that I use as some sort of touch stone for my actions and choices. I couldn't name any "principles" I keep in the forefront of my mind.

Then there were the chickens and the irony of the animal I had taken in as an act of kindness killing the animals I had taken on as a gesture toward greener, more natural living. Sorry, but the predator/prey relationship was a little closer to nature than I was aiming. I wondered if I was stupid or just naive... if I had taken on too much, if I made sensible choices in my life.

The disappearance of Mambo made me question my sanity. Wasn't he right there a minute ago? Am I nuts? Then I started looking at my own levels of responsibility, of focus. Surely I knew better than to take my eyes off of him. I would have expected Grayson to watch him outside, wouldn't I? I began to think of myself as uncommitted to my responsibilities, unable to follow through thoroughly on things. And I admit I wondered if all the bad luck was some sort of karmic payback for just not living right. Living sloppily, haphazardly, without discipline or guideposts or plan.

Now here's Grayson's PE report card showing he's actually losing strength and ability and stamina. Giving up earlier, not trying as hard. Are these things he is learning from his mother? Have I just given in? I admit I feel tired all the time. I fall into bed exhausted at 9 and drag myself unwillingly from sleep at 7. I wash loads of laundry and never get around to folding them. Lately I even start books and never finish them... just keep them lying around on tables with bookmarks or pencils in the pages, holding the page I may or may not ever get around to coming back to.

I think we need an overhaul... a life makeover. I think if I don't change the direction I'm going, I'm going to wind up where I'm headed.

When it rains

It seems dreadful luck comes in packs.

I've lost Mambo. On Sunday I took him outside to get some fresh air and sunshine. I set him down on a log inside a circle of garden fencing and did a little work on a flowerbed nearby. I moved over to the garden to plant one plant. When I came back to check on him, less than ten minutes later, he had vanished.

Oh! Grayson's face when I told him! I spent four hours looking for Mambo, turning over every stick in the woodpile, feeling under every bush and even climbing over fences to search neighbors' yards. Nothing.

Every morning and every afternoon I come home and look for him. Sometimes at lunch I come home and just walk the perimeter of the yard, hoping I might catch him out in the open, sunning on a log or something. I just can't imagine he can have gone far. But chances are he's already dead... taken by a hawk or a neighbor's dog. Poisoned by eating a pesticide treated bug.

I just can't believe I was so stupid and careless. I told Grayson it was okay to be mad at me for letting Mambo escape. In his typical fashion, he told me he wasn't mad at me. Just like he forgave Roxy for killing the chickens. He has forgiven me. And I'm reminded again of what a remarkable, gentle kid he is. I swear he has the open, forgiving nature of a saint. I'm amazed sometimes at how good he is.

Oh he's not perfect. He watches way too much television, whines about his homework, and is recalcitrant about cleaning his room. Like any kid. But his bad guys always turn into good guys, and he's prepared to see the "nice" in everyone he meets. He is eager to please people, flexible in his ways, and forgiving. Always forgiving. I love him so very very much.

So why did I bite him?

Yes, I bit my son. In my defense, I was asleep when I did it. It happened like this:
Grayson often still crawls into bed with me in the wee hours of the night. Most of the time he doesn't even disturb me enough for me to be aware he's doing it, I just wake up and there he is. Well, Monday night he had climbed into bed with me, and I was having a dream that someone was trying to abduct me: he was trying to stuff a rag in my mouth and shove me into a car.

So I bit him. I bit down through the rag in my mouth onto his hand or finger or whatever. Only it was Grayson's elbow I was biting! I guess he had his elbow out and it was pressing against my face and so I bit it!

Grayson sat up in bed and said "What happened?"
I came to in a kind of fog and realized I'd been dreaming, and then that I had probably actually been biting something and that something was likely Grayson! "Did I bite you?" I asked.
Grayson: dazed, groggy: "I think so..."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, did I bite hard?"
"kind of."

Turns out I bit him hard enough to break the skin. He has two tooth marks on his elbow! But in typical fashion, he forgave me. He wasn't upset or scared or angry... in fact, we both laughed about it and went back to sleep. That's my boy.

A horrible post

I should probably make a nice long blog about this, but I just can't,

Forgive me, the period-key on my laptop has been broken off by Roxy stepping on it and so I will have to substitute another mark for a period* How about an asterisk?

So last Wednesday Roxy, who had been lying in front of the door where the chicks were living, got in* She killed Gloria* I found her and spent some half an hour looking for the other two* Finally found Repecka under my bed and Vera behind a trash can in the bathroom, unscathed*

Thursday afternoon we buried Gloria in the back yard with many tears* Within half an hour, Roxy had burst in to the room again and killed the other two* It was so sad I can't even give a full account except that Grayson found them and when he realized what had happened, I'll never forget the way he cried, saying "I want them back! I want them back!"

Horrible* Just horrible* I buried them near Gloria, but not before Roxy had gone back, grabbed one of their towel-wrapped little bodies off the table, and chewed its head off* Thank god, Grayson didn't see or know* He was lying on the sofa just a few feet away, sobbing into a pillow*

Then today, I took Mambo out into the yard for some sun* I put him inside a ring of wire fencing on the grass and set him on a log* I worked near him for a few minutes, then I went over to the garden and planted a single plant* When I went back to check on him, he was gone* Vanished* I couldn't have been away 10 minutes* I spent four hours looking for him, turning over every plant and feeling under every bush and bunch of grass* I completely tossed over a big woodpile by the shed* He's nowhere to be found* Either he's really hunkered down somewhere or he's dead* Taken by a hawk, perhaps* I just can't believe it*

Grayson has been with his dad and Gray's mom all afternoon* He know Mambo is missing, and doesn't seem hysterical* I think he's been able to convince himself that Mambo is "free," out having adventures somewhere, and of course I'll help to perpetuate that* But Mambo is either dead or in peril, and there's nothing I can do*

I don't know how I could be so wrong about things, how I can keep making choices that will cause me and my boy terrible pain* Sometimes it seems like I can't do anything right, that I'm always making poor choices, getting us into things we can't handle, screwing things up*

Grayson is such a sweet and good natured kid* God, I just want to make his life a happy one, filled with good experiences, but it seems like everything I touch dies*