random thoughts – Grateful Grumbles

March 18, 2023March 18, 2023

Don’t Tell Mom

As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain.

Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.

Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.

While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.

Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood.

While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects.

Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well.

A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best).

I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”

Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile.

October 30, 2022October 30, 2022

this is Halloween

the intricate imaginings

of enchanted minds

-this is Halloween

August 11, 2021August 11, 2021

Tragedy at the Puddle’s Edge

Only days into summer holiday, we discovered freshly laid frog eggs in the very shallow, warm water of the ditch near our home. Some lay completely exposed to the afternoon’s heat, the soft jelly already hardening, surrendering its existence to the relentless heat. The sun has since made dusty patchwork quilts of the ditch’s bottom.

We carefully collected all of the eggs, scraping the mud with our fingers, we placed them delicately into a large bowl of murky water. We knew a completely successful hatching was unlikely given their delicate condition and still we watched, hopeful. Nearly forty tadpoles emerged and found life in the tank that would entertain us for weeks.

Unbeknownst to us, we simultaneously hatched mosquitos and midge flies, too. The mud we collected alongside the eggs, gave birth to squirming larva. The walls of our home were soon sprinkled with the tiny winged creatures, who would regrettably live out their short lives indoors — their forlorn figures eternally resting on our window sills.

We watched as the tadpoles slowly developed back legs, then front. To our delight we noticed one afternoon, the first tiny frog with barely a tail, sitting on the rock we had planted in their makeshift home. It had happened. We hurried to fix the lid in place as the frog quickly scaled the walls of the container. Revealing its delicate underside, through the glass, we witnessed each breath as the air from the room filled its lungs.

After a month of dry weather, the only nearby refuge that the summer had yet to get rid of, was a small puddle on the edge of the ditch. Collecting a constant, almost imperceptible amount of ground water it defies the tall, thirsty trees looming overhead with their starved, autumn-coloured leaves, curling sorrowfully. So nearby where the eggs were laid, the destination seemed to me both poetic and opportune.

We collected the frog for a second time and brought it to the puddle. We watched as it flicked its tail and tested its legs in the water. We celebrated its first jumps as it stretched its legs in this newfound capacity. It ambitiously explored the rocky edge of the puddle, collecting fallen pine needles on its back. I watched it for some time, crouched nearby.

I watched a fascinating, particularly long-legged, wonderfully dexterous spider race past me, past the pair of fading deer prints, left sometime ago. It left the dry edge of the puddle, stretched its black and yellow limbs and took hold of a thin green plant that bent under the weight of the excited spider. It skillfully climbed from branch to branch before resting on its perch, contemplating where to build its voracious web.

I watched the frog as it continued exploring, a world materializing around it, now free from the confines of the water of its previous life.

As we prepared to head back inside, one excited daughter pushed another to get a final glance of the frog we had raised. A foot came falling down and crushed the tiny frog, on the puddle’s edge.

One daughter cried. Another reminded me, “it would’ve died anyway.” The youngest remained oblivious. We went back inside as there was nothing left to do.

The spider, having observed many thirsty insects, could rest assured in its decision to build there. It began to prepare a web in hungry anticipation.

The still body of the frog sank below the insatiable mud.

July 24, 2021July 24, 2021

The Highway

Every day we would hit the bump in the highway with increasing velocity and increasing hopes that today would be the day when we momentarily took flight.

A year, felt a long time to travel the same stretch of highway, every day — an introduction to the drudgery of regular routine and we celebrated the break in monotony by attempting to launch ourselves into the air, with no regard for consequence.

I met my dear friend in a Math for Elementary Teachers course. I didn’t know she would become my friend just yet. I did know, she needed help, and while I was adept in math I didn’t realize I was in need of a lot of loud laughter and support for many years to come. Five years and a few courses later, we were thrilled to have been accepted into the same teacher program and we made immediate plans to carpool.

Excitement grew when winter came and the bump grew under the freezing conditions like only a newly settling freshly twinned highway over a wetlands could bend a highway. We wondered how much more the road could endure before crumbling completely under the intensifying conditions — but her integrity remained intact. Everyday we hit the bump speeding, and for just a moment before we returned home each afternoon, we were weightless.

A professor we deeply admired, encouraged us when feeling uncertain, to plant our feet firmly on the ground connecting ourselves with the earth. Unsurprisingly, when you envision the entire earth beneath your feet, supporting you, you begin to feel calm. (Whether this worked because of a true connection or a distraction method, the results were the same.) This technique became invaluable as we interviewed for teaching positions and beginning our career. We planted ourselves in the interview seats and became fixed in positions that required even more routine and regularity than student life allowed.

As we became fixed in our new phase of life, my dear friend moved away and the highway folks “fixed” the blacktop on our beloved stretch of pavement — taking her defiant beauty.

Every now and then I come hurtling down nostalgia highway and more often, the regular highway. While her playful, unruly ascent no longer remains, she still bends a little, fondly reminiscing of the time she sent us soaring — an enthusiastic accomplice in our escape from the usual.

Thank you, dear highway, for always taking us to where we needed to be.

November 15, 2019July 24, 2021

into the rain

Distracted, I nearly hit a man, with my grocery cart, as he slowly made his way across the opening of the aisle, on his motorized scooter.

“I’m sorry.” I smiled — a sheepish apology. I had used this trick successfully before, so I felt unsure when he didn’t smile back. The minor accident check list always works. Admit guilt, check. Smile, check. Wait for a forgiving smile in return. But he didn’t. I studied the look on his deeply wrinkled face — like a puddle that had spent an entire season without rain. He looked perturbed. His thickly furrowed brow furrowed even further and without another word we headed in different directions.

And then it happened again.

My daughter pulled the cart along at the check out as she hurled all of the easily bruised groceries into any available space on the conveyor belt.

“Clink.” The cart hit the cart in front of us.

“Sorry,” I laughed. The lady smiled, understandingly.

And then I saw him, right in front of her, paying for his groceries.

“Hello, again.” I smiled — twice rejected.

“Do you generally make a habit of hitting people with your grocery cart?”

“Not generally, no.” I follow it up with an awkward laugh.

“Hmph.” He said before departing into the cold mist of the day.

“Good riddance,” I thought to myself as we continued checking out. We paused for a moment to pull on our hoods before slowly venturing into the rain.

I saw the man in the distance. A cigarette nestled in his yellowing fingers, fighting against the elements. He saw me too.

“No one smiles anymore.” He stated. “No one has time for small talk either.” He said as we wheeled a little nearer. The mist coated our clothing, his unkempt hair and settled into the thirsty crevices on his face. Almost pleasant out of doors — we stayed and chatted for a minute or two — there in the rain. Perhaps it was more than his skin feeling thirsty.

August 7, 2019August 7, 2019

When Parents Lie and Other Magnificent Things

I never cleaned under my bed. Ever. It infuriated my mom (I get it now, I’m sorry, Mom). And by never cleaned, I mean not only did I never clean under there, I also used it as a place to sweep all of the other items from my room that I didn’t want to clean up, which was mostly dirty laundry. By all appearances my bedroom was clean, but the facade quickly crumbled each and every time there was even the tiniest of inspections.

I’m sure she grew tired of repeating herself, so in some next level genius mother move, she created a horrendous atrocity of an insect that I had no idea only existed in both of our imaginations. It had wings, many eyes, long legs and it hopped, quite possibly flew and very much enjoyed dirty spaces and especially dirty laundry (well played, Mom).

I can vividly picture it to this day. So vividly, that for the next few years I peered anxiously at dust bunnies and lost socks with angst, I most certainly never swept anything under there again and anything that happened to slide too far into the darkness had to be written off, for the rest of time. I spent the next few years leaping onto my bed from a safe distance so as not to disturb what may have been lurking underneath. There was no need for further inspections, the lie eliminated the problem. I’m fairly certain she forgot about the bug, not long after the dirty dilemma ceased to exist, though I would continue to be haunted by it for years to come.

She successfully converted me (although I’ve exchanged the antiquated “cleanliness is next to godliness” adage, for a slightly more favourable and much more achievable “keep it tidy or kinda close so droppersby won’t think you’re gross” sort of motto). It was not until I had become a parent myself that I actually questioned its existence. That’s right I was 32 years old, speaking to my own daughter, and repeating myself about the importance of maintaining a state of near cleanliness, when the bug hopped into my mind and I realized it was all a clever hoax. 32. What an effective ruse.

I grew up before the Internet age, a time when parental lies went unchecked. A time when most lies were unverifiable, my mom had the upper hand, and really she had all the hands, because a parents word was irrefutable. These days we parents are dangerously close to losing the “parents are always right” advantage.

Our five-year-old daughter captured a black and vibrant yellow millipede in her grandparents garden. She lovingly prepared a home for it in an empty coffee can, and allowed it to crawl all over her hands and arms. When she wanted to know what to feed it, she asked me to ask my phone. She knows. She knows exactly how the internet works: no question needs to remain unanswered. She even fact checks her dinosaur encyclopedia against the internet, hoping to catch an error. In this circumstance we learned black and vibrant yellow millipedes are poisonous, and it now resides outside, again.

But that’s not all our parents lied about, they also told us if we dug deep enough, we could get to China and then handed us a shovel. We believed them, maybe we were extra gullible or maybe the idea that we could pop out on the complete opposite side of the world was so entertaining it was worth the effort, so we dug, real blister-popping, callous-forming, rewarded-by-splinters, digging.

My sister thought my kids thoroughly vacuuming the stairs with a play vacuum that spins heart shaped sparkles around while whirring, was painstakingly sad. She was born in the 90’s though, things must have been different then. My kids think they’re helping, and they are, it’s just not with vacuuming. Sometimes we parents need a minute, where the kids are occupied and not with fighting.

I tried it. I told a lie, at least I think it was a lie, or maybe it has actually happened once to someone somewhere and the story has been retold for generations to come, as a warning for all of us. I was locked behind u-shaped table, which limited my access to the rest of the class, which ~~occasionally~~ frequently strayed from the task at hand. I glanced up from the laboured reading of the yellow group and locked eyes with the new boy. Surrounded by three kids who had flipped their eyelids inside out, he was TERRIFIED. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, ”they’re going to stay like that!”

“But we’ve done it before,” they countered.

“Yes. I know.” (I had taken time to explain how horrifying this was, just yesterday.) “But that’s the thing with eyelid flipping, you don’t know when it will stick, it just does sometimes.” I raised my eyebrows, summoned an ominous voice and added, “Forever.” I had to, in for an inch, in for a mile, or something like that. For his sake, I perpetuated the messed up children’s urban legend and added a Russian roulette twist. Before you judge, don’t forget how I was raised. Bonus: they never did it again and while I wasn’t incredibly proud of how I’d curbed the eyelid flipping, it was effective. So I get it and I think I’d do it again.

I grew up in a time, when “because” or “I don’t know” sufficed as answers, but my kids are used to answers because the answers are so readily available, and they know it.

I don’t think I’ve deliberately lied to my own kids yet, aside from the usual exaggerating of the truth, like if you don’t let me brush your teeth they will rot, where the immediacy is very intentionally implied. I also often blame things on time, like it’s too late/early for candy or it’s time to go. I find it concerning that when the time for real lies, the big imaginative creative ones, does present itself, the internet has the capability of instantly and effortlessly tearing my intricate web of lies to pieces.

Has the internet deprived us parents of the chance to recirculate the lies we were once told? Or are kids still buying into the urban legends of our youth?

June 24, 2019July 7, 2019

The Very Hungry Caterpillars

I thought I would be a good mom, you know, one that embraced her children’s interests and science and nature and said “yes” once and awhile, especially since this is my oldest’s last summer before kindergarten. But. Oh. My. God.

Three weeks ago, we spied butterfly eggs, helplessly lying on the leaf of my daughters sunflower plant. The plant my daughters raised from tiny sunflower seeds, given to them in a party bag, the seeds they lovingly shoved into a weird puck of hard packed dirt, the plants that had already survived the dutiful over-watering of a five and three year-old, their “gentle” hands, several drop and spills and an aphid infestation. They likely wouldn’t survive a hundred hungry caterpillars. Seriously, why this plant?

Unbeknownst to me, they built a caterpillar Tupperware terrarium and scraped the eggs from the leaf into the container. I warned them they were unlikely to live.

They placed the container on the counter and studied its contents each day. Nothing happened. Just as they were about to be written off completely, and the dirt deposited back into the earth, they popped out of the eggs and a very tiny caterpillar climbed up the side of the container.

I thought I knew what I was doing, I had read Eric Carle’s, The Very Hungry Caterpillar after all — a deceptively short book.

I cut off a couple of sunflower leaves and placed them gently into the container. With a piece of grass I carefully dropped each very tiny caterpillar onto the leaves, sprinkled on a few tiny water droplets. The three of us, mesmerized, peered into the container. I warned them again, it was still very unlikely they would survive.

When they began to nibble tiny holes in the leaf, I thought to myself maybe, just maybe they would be OK.

The next day, my five-year-old daughter asked, “Do wood bugs eat baby caterpillars?”

“Why?” I asked, as my daughter led me to the container and pointed at a very large, very grey, wood bug.

“Take it out,” I said.

“Why?” she asked. I raised my eyebrows and she carefully picked up the wood bug and carried it outside.

Google confirmed wood bugs do, in fact, eat baby caterpillars — which might explain why there were less caterpillars than there were yesterday. How did parents even parent pre-Google?

“There’s two,” she informed me, “There’s another wood bug somewhere under the dirt.” So again I warned them, the caterpillars were unlikely to survive.

The following day, I took a head count: One missing wood bug resurfaced, three wilted leaves, nine tiny caterpillars, a plethora of caterpillar poo and one clump of quinoa — they like to watch them while they eat.

A few days later, none of the caterpillars were moving and I was certain they were all dead. They weren’t. The quinoa had sprouted some mold and a tiny little weed curled out from the dirt. They needed a container change — as if I didn’t have anything better to do (but I don’t, I really don’t, because these little guys make her heart happy, so my heart is happy) — I instructed my children on how this should happen, because unlike Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar, these little guys are highly particular about the food they choose to eat and defaecate on. I encouraged the caterpillars from very wilted leaves and the girls replaced them with fresh ones.

Google assured me my their beloved caterpillars look very much like cabbage worms. Which made me feel slightly less guilty about this unintentional science exploration as all of the websites listed ways to eradicate the pest, rather than care for it.

Two weeks later, there were ten. I don’t know where the tenth came from, it’s much smaller than the others. They poo a lot, by a lot I mean A LOT. They eat a lot. Also they’ve turned orange and black, are very furry, and are most definitely adorable little Woolly Bear caterpillars. Google says they will molt — which makes their heads falling off feel less alarming now — six times before forming a chrysalis. Six. Eric Carle told this story in twelve pages.

The five-year-old says she does not want to set them free at the park, not even just a couple. Instead she gathers a variety of leaves, flowers and sticks from every place we visit — a self-proclaimed caterpillar mom.

With any luck, in a couple months she will be releasing her moths into the wilderness. Around the same time I will be dropping my oldest off at kindergarten — marking the end of a monumental summer of transformation. I imagine it will feel like a combination of “I’m so sad this time is over” and “I’ve waited so long for this” for both of us mothers.

Stay tuned.

June 20, 2019July 14, 2019

Dear Lovely Strangers

To all of you Lovely Strangers,

Thank you.

I thought I knew what I was doing having three kids. I had successfully maneuvered a large box from the post office to my car with two kids in tow — and by in tow I mean one twenty feet ahead and another trailing twenty feet behind — while eight months pregnant. Surely managing an infant would be similar.

And it is, exactly like that, except the box baby needs things which often reminds the older two, they too need things. They often wait for inopportune times to loudly express their demands for things like food and water or to use the bathroom, or whichever thing I offered them only moments earlier, when I wasn’t changing a dirty diaper. Some days are exhausting, others are lovely (but still exhausting).

So thank you. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for offering — even if I don’t take you up on it — I appreciate your offer, and more than that, I appreciate you.

You saw me struggling to buckle up the infant carrier. Usually an easy feat, I stretched my arms reaching for the buckle behind my neck, while balancing a tired, crying baby on my chest, maybe it was my hair in the way, maybe it was the squirming infant, but the buckles would not meet. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me bouncing and swaying with a baby nearly asleep in the carrier, keeping an eye on my other two children, running wild circles around the other picnickers while waiting for our lunch. I filled a mini cup with ketchup and prepared to balance two precarious plates overflowing with food truck goodness back to where my older two were supposed to be sitting. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me as I herded my two children towards the ice cream line up. Their bodies anticipating sugar, vibrated with excitement causing them to physically bounce and spin and loudly shriek which flavour they’d prefer. With a baby in one arm and my other hand full of teetering lunch time garbage, I scanned the area for a garbage can. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me struggling to close my very obstinate stroller. No amount of jiggling, jostling, pushing, pulling, or silent cursing were collapsing the cantankerous pram. Beads of sweat dotted my brow as I stared at it with a great deal of contempt and considered abandoning it all together, when you walked by. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me walking ten paces ahead of my very over tired three-year-old. I used my very best patient voice and tried to coax her the last few steps to the exit of the park. Walking by with a group of friends and seemingly well-behaved children, you suggested we mothers should fist bump each other in trying times like these. Thank you.

You’ve picked up soothers, chased after me with fallen shoes, held open doors, helped my children off of swings and shared stories in exhausted solidarity. Thank you.

When my five-year-old daughter sneakily fuelled by sugar and freshly scolded, locked me out of the house and didn’t return to the door no matter how gently or furiously I knocked, I hesitated to ask for help. Partly because I thought she would open the door, and partly because I had never experienced helplessness at this level. It is hard to be completely helpless to circumstances, to admit things are completely outside of my control, especially sugar-induced spiritedness. With my phone inside, a baby in my arms and a very sweaty, very sticky, pant-less daughter by my side, all of us shoeless, I found you on the sidewalk. You didn’t judge me as I explained our situation and I asked to use your phone. You kindly listened, and empathetically distracted me with small talk as you walked with me back to my house. You waited as I explained the situation again to my husband on your phone. You waited until my five-year-old finally opened the door, a cheeky smile on her face, my phone in her hand and her dad on the screen. Thank you.

It really does take a village, and I’m so lucky to have a fairly capable body, a great husband and a strong circle of family and friends to help along the way and then there’s you, lovely strangers, filling in the gaps. I never realized before how much that African proverb also pertains to the parents. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to raise a parent. Thank you for helping to raise me. Your kindnesses do not go unnoticed.

One day, when my hands are less full, I promise to pay it forward.

Thank you.

This post was republished by Scary Mommy right here.

April 24, 2019April 24, 2019

The Hallowed Em Dash

When I don’t understand things I simply avoid them, much like when I thought it a good idea to enroll in calculus 12, I never understood sigma. I tried — several times — before I decided to take it as a loss, coming to terms with the fact that I might never master it. Not worth the frustration, I forfeited the questions on assignments and during exams. It served me well, for awhile. Just like Kenny Rogers’ Gambler, I knew when to fold them. After a couple of low scores, I knew when to walk away — earning myself a double spare block for the rest of that term.

I recently started reading a new blog. I described the writer, Cate, to my sister as a captivating storyteller and retired journalist, who uses fancy words, like prosaic and acolyte. And I know she’s very talented, grammatically, because she uses that hyphen-line-thing, you know — that really big hyphen thing.

And then I learned its name, “The em dash,” she said, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal — to me. She continued to educate me on the sophisticated and ever so versatile em dash, while I sat there, intrigued, and questioning my entire education.

Then, there they were, everywhere, mocking me and my inability to incorporate them into my writing. I counted five of them in my twenty minutes of bed time reading, five! Is this what separates the amateur writers from the esteemed ones?

I’m not unread, I had noticed them before, but no one had taught me about em dashes. Mr. Grant, my senior English teacher, must have known about them, he was the honours teacher after all. He let us plan an entire Elizabethan feast, complete with costumes and entertainment, but somehow he had forgotten about em dashes. It had been a contract negotiation year, complete with strike action — perhaps he had to trim that lesson. Perhaps, he didn’t know I would one day write a blog, aspiring to be a grammatically competent writer.

I minored in English, but the em dash was a skill I should have learned years prior. By the time I entered university, it was probably assumed I was already proficient in grammar usage — kind of like my high school gym class, where students pathetically attempted to hit a softball without any earlier instruction — completely not their fault, but still somewhat humiliating. Finally, I was made to feel grateful for the years of softball I endured as a young child.

I ended up taking calculus again, as an older and much wiser university student, determined to conquer the sigma sign, that had bested me years earlier. I succeeded. Sometimes, all we need is a little perspective and persistence, so I’m giving myself a grammar lesson.

Thank you, for bearing with me while I learn how to use them.

Next up: the colon.