There’s No Crying in Screen Time

“To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”
― William Shakespeare, King Henry VI

Life dishes out plenty of grief, even (perhaps especially) to kids. Loss, fear, injury, insults, heartbreak, disappointment, sickness, rejection, worry—what child has not been dealt these and has wept accordingly? Any impatience adults have with such weeping reflects our own shortcoming, not the child’s.

Even so, weeping—and its cousins, whining and grumbling and bellowing of indignation—is sometimes indulged in a little too liberally. Some laments seem more akin to complaints than to expressions of actual grief.

For example, whining to express that one’s brother is not doing his share of the chores or, conversely, that the brother is helping to pick up the sticks in the yard when one wanted to do this job by himself.

Or perhaps one’s brother refuses to smell one’s “good-smelling breath,” post teeth-brushing.

One’s food is detestable.

A boot is missing, only to be found in a place where the owner did not put it, and how did it get there: How?

Someone is scraping cardboard against a table in a way that he knows his brother finds annoying, and that’s why he’s doing it, too!

Lights-out came too soon, as will morning, as it turns out, 10 hours hence.

Someone quit the Monopoly game prematurely.

Impending haircuts will itch.

Shoveling snow makes them cold.

(Let’s pause to admit that the airing of such grievances is are not limited to children. Adults do this, too, in our own, more sophisticated—we think—way.)

But still, this is life, isn’t it? Whining and all?

Fortunately, there is an asylum from such absurdities, a rest for parental ears. It’s offered by screen time.

Screen time can be complex. For example, Sonny and Ace enjoy many educational games, and while we appreciate the educational value thereof, educational value is not why they play the games. School has educational value, as do books and the great outdoors, so they can get that in those places. And while I do not object to their playing games or watching videos purely for entertainment, they can easily find recreation elsewhere, if they have to, which they often do.

The chief reason they have screen time is so I can have peace and quiet. Ugly, maybe, but true. Screens are mesmerizing, after all, and we might as well channel that to some purpose. While they are being mesmerized, my brain is regrouping. It works.

But hark. What’s this I hear? Weeping’s cousins?

Netflix froze­­­­.

Someone’s brother is not letting him watch him play Minecraft, even though he let him watch when he played.

The tablet is out of power. Someone didn’t charge it! Who did not plug it in?

One’s allotted screen time is up long before one is finished playing the game, and that’s not fair!

Why are they complaining? Why aren’t they mesmerized? Where’s my peace and quiet? Don’t they know that’s what screen time is for?

And suddenly I am channeling Tom Hanks: “Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There’s no crying! THERE’S NO CRYING IN SCREEN TIME!”

Because if there’s crying in screen time, opportunities for screen time—yes, even the educational apps—will go away. Ugly but true. The kids can go outside and shovel more snow instead.

Thank you, Shakespeare, for reminding us that weeping has its place.

And thank you, Tom Hanks, for articulating that weeping can be misplaced.

And may we all learn the difference.

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On Grandpa’s Birthday

“I wish I could call Grandpa-Great,” Sonny said the other day. I wish so, too. Especially today, which would have been his 100th birthday.

I thought of him the other day while reading an article on minimalism. (He probably would have been bemused that this philosophy—which, for most of history, was just the way all people lived—is now considered a) the latest trend and b) something that takes work to achieve.) In any case, minimalists would approve of the handful of belongings he chose to keep toward the end of his life. Of course, when you are a nonagenarian and live in an assisted living facility you don’t need a car or specialty cleaners or an extra pair of boots or plates or half a can of spray paint that, who knows, you might use for something someday. You don’t bother with shelves of books, and any extraneous furniture is just in the way. When you’re 97 you’re satisfied with one TV; it doesn’t occur to you to acquire the army of devices that rule the rest of us.

Still, even for a 97-year-old, he traveled lightly. Almost everything that was packed up after his death harbored significance.

His chair. Grandpa often expressed concern that the kids would be bored while visiting him, as he didn’t have any toys. But no worries; who could be bored in a room that featured not only Grandpa-Great but a remote-control lift recliner, which he freely allowed young boys to operate as they chatted?

“We flew a kite yesterday. It was striped and shaped like a bird. Did you ever fly a kite when you were a boy?” (Up went the chair.)

“Yes.”

“What was it shaped like?”

“Like something that didn’t want to fly. We made our own kites, and they didn’t work very well. But we made them anyway.” (Down went the chair.)

“Did your mom let you watch PBS Kids while she took a shower?”

“No. We didn’t have TVs.”

“What did you do instead?”

“We fixed our kites.”

He would point to his collage of photographs, many of them over half a century old, and tell of the people they featured. “That was your Papa and his horse. He loved that horse . . .” And stories poured forth from the comfort—and entertainment—of the chair.

A framed print of a bird in flight. This piece of mass-produced art seemed inconsequential until my dad and uncle took it down to box up. Discovered taped to the back of the print: a sheet of notebook paper on which Grandpa had hand-copied the poem “To a Waterfowl”  by William Cullen Bryant.

Whither, ‘midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
      Thy solitary way? . . .

. . . He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
      Will lead my steps aright.

It can’t be a stretch to presume that that he words he had copied on notebook paper (and likely in his memory also—“We used to memorize things,” he said once, and proved it by reciting a few lines of Shakespeare) gave him assurance. The print must have served as a ready reminder of this comfort.

A desk. Its contents were the usual: Pens. A letter opener, its handle engraved with the name of bank, both the engraving and blade dulled by decades of letter opening. Paper clips, because every desk houses paper clips even though most people seldom use them. (Do they?) But also, tucked farther back:

A small toy horse, one leg broken off. The horse had been a gift from his parents upon their return from Mayo Clinic around 1923, when Grandpa was seven. The memories of receiving the toy horse in a time when gifts were rare (“We used to get one thing for Christmas, and we were happy” he mentioned once) must have been inextricable from those of the devastating diagnosis that his father also brought back from Rochester. How often did Grandpa hold that horse during his father’s last months and in the first months without him? In any case, he kept it for over 90 years, remembering.

A Camels pack, still holding a few cigarettes, circa early 1950s and deliberately crushed. Although Grandpa was frugal and seldom wasted anything, he’d apparently quit mid-pack and saved the evidence for over 60 years. I wonder why he kept them. To recall a battle he’d won? To remind himself to avoid destructive habits?

A treasure trove of treats. Fun-sized candy bars, mints, jelly beans or candy corn or miniature candy canes (depending on which holiday was in the vicinity) squirreled away for his great-grandkids. Although he couldn’t remember our names at the end, he never forgot the candy. “Make sure the boys get some candy before they leave,” he said. “Did they get some candy? They can have more than one.”

And, of course, he left behind memories, too many to mention. But one that stands out is one that he deliberately planted. When we were kids, he and Grandma would ask visiting grandchildren to read aloud from the Bible after supper. The reader was free to choose the passage. (This did involve risks; just ask the hapless grandchild who, as a young teenager, let the Bible fall open randomly and started reading before realizing too late that the passage was one of those embarrassing ones about lust. Oops. If you ever wanted to hear Grandpa laugh, you could just ask him to tell of how his grandkid, blushing and stammering, read aloud about harlots in front of the familly.)

But one evening during a visit, instead of asking my sisters or me to read, he chose the passage himself and asked us to listen closely. “Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, ‘I find no pleasure in them’ . . .”

He unpacked each metaphor for us—“when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men stoop, when the grinders cease because they are few, and those looking through the windows grow dim . . .” But upon concluding (“ . . . and the spirit returns to God who gave it”) he did not expound further. He was confident that we understood his message, which was subtle but clear.

As were the other messages he left us, woven into his few remaining belongings.

So his spirit has returned to God who gave it, and although I can’t help wishing he could have held out to celebrate today, I am glad to have so much time with him, and I am glad that Sonny and Ace knew him and remember him. I am thankful for him—what he gave when he was here and what he’s left behind.

Happy birthday, Grandpa.

 

 

Have You Been Half Asleep, and Have You Heard Voices?

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices? I’ve heard them calling my name.“The Rainbow Connection”

Why yes, Kermit. I have. (Or, if not half asleep, then fully asleep.) To wit:

“Mom! Mom! I think I’m going to throw up!” (And it was so.)

“Mom! I heard a noise that sounded like a villain. It sounded like ‘Mwa ha hahahaha!’ Can you check the closet?”

“Mom. Mom? Did they really catch all those guys who bombed Paris?”

“Mom! It’ snowing! Look out the window! Is that enough for a snow day?”

“Mom, have you seen my library book? Tomorrow is library day.”

“Mom? This little piece of skin feels loose. It didn’t feel loose before.”

But usually the voice calling my name at all hours of the night is my own.

“Laura. You could read one more chapter of that book, and then you would fall asleep.” (Delusion lives on.)

“Know what, Laura? They may have caught the guys who bombed Paris, but what about the next such guys?”

“Are we becoming one of those over-scheduled families that I vowed we’d never become?”

“Why did you Google that symptom? Why why whywhywhy?”

“Would Sonny and Ace tell J and me if someone were hurting them?”

“I should have done that differently.”

“Your list of resolutions for 2016 is stagnating. Get a move on.”

“Eep. The Tooth Fairy. She’s supposed to come tonight. Please let there be a dollar up here somewhere so I don’t have to go downstairs. Is that a dollar on my dresser? No, that’s a receipt. Sigh.”

“Know what? You aren’t very patient.”

“Know what? You need to be more organized.”

“Know what? Now that there are only seven more minutes until the alarm goes off, you’ll probably finally fall asleep.” (And it was so.)

What voices keep you up at night?

Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm,
Whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm,
Be there at our sleeping, and give us, we pray,
Your peace in our hearts, Lord,
At the end of the day. – “Lord of All Hopefulness”

 

Shelving the Elf

“I know what I really want for Christmas.
I want my childhood back.” –Robert Fulghum

. . . . .

“Mom,” Sonny asked the other day, for the third year running. “Why don’t we have an Elf on the Shelf?”

“Oh, we just don’t,” I answered. I’m not opposed to Elf on the Shelf; in fact, it looks like a fun tradition. Whether or not it would serve its purpose as being a Santa spy, we’d all enjoy its creative poses. But the truth is that I don’t need one more thing to remember each evening, especially in December. The Elf would probably forget to relocate and would languish for days in one place and J and I would have to make excuses for his slothfulness. Who needs that? We already have to do that for the Tooth Fairy.

Part of me worries that the want of Elf on the Shelf will develop one of those small, secret resentments that kids harbor into adulthood—the kind that convince them that their childhood was incomplete. But the other part of me seeks comfort in the fact that those of us who grew up before Elf on the Shelf was a Thing turned out just fine (or, if we didn’t, it wasn’t because we didn’t have Elf on the Shelf). I wonder how Elf on the Shelf would have even ranked among my general memories of childhood Christmastimes.

The kitchen smelling of tangerines and wood smoke and cinnamon and butter cookies.

Church Christmas programs: Snaking our way up the narrow, chilly stairwells and into the sanctuary that smelled like old wood and furniture polish, the wave of relief after I’d recited my “line” and now it was Jodi’s or Amy’s turn or Michelle’s turn, the individual boxes of Bridge Mix distributed afterward.

Dividing said Bridge Mix into equal piles, one pile for each day until Christmas, and then eventually breaking down and pilfering the larger pieces (those with caramel and fruit and malted milk filling) from the piles so that by Christmas Eve there remained only one scanty collection of wrinkled little chocolates harboring raisins or peanuts.

Going to my grandparents’ house during our no-TV years to watch Charlie Brown Christmas and Frosty the Snowman.

Collaborating with my sisters to make Christmas presents for each other.

Visits from my long-distance grandparents. Grandma brought everyone their own Cool-Whip container full of homemade caramel corn. She and Grandpa would sit quietly, watching the action and smiling at all their offspring.

Singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” complete with motions (don’t ask), at my uncle and aunt’s house on Christmas Eve. Then singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Silent Night” with my uncle holding out the phone receiver so my grandparents, if they weren’t visiting that year, could hear us three states away.

My mom waking us up on Christmas morning by playing “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the piano, and my dad singing along.

Walnut Whirl coffee cake for Christmas breakfast. That stuff is good.

Spending Christmas Day at my local grandparents’ house, the kids’ table rocking with laughter and mashed potatoes and Jello and turkey, and afterward the whole clan packed into what was, now that I think about it, a not very large living room for the afternoon.

The aroma of blue spruce and candles.

My grandparents’ tree adorned with a combination of big old-fashioned Christmas lights (the kind that burned you if you touched them), newer small ones (safe to touch), and a variety of ornaments of all ages—including an elf fashioned from a roll of Life-Savers that was eventually chewed open by an enterprising grandchild. Once, while decorating, my grandma asked my grandpa to put the angel on top of the tree. “Oh Marian,” he said. “I can’t lift you up that high.”

(Okay. Like Robert Fulghum, I kind of want my childhood back now.)

If Elf on the Shelf—or cookie-making, or carol singing, or tree decorating, or visiting Santa—is fun, why not do it, and enjoy? If not, don’t. Or if you forget or don’t have time, no worries. There will be something else—probably something you are not even orchestrating—that you will find yourself enjoying instead. There will be other things that your children will think on fondly someday when they want their childhood back at Christmas.

As Sonny was drawing the picture for this blog post, he suggested again that we get Elf on the Shelf. “We should get one. Why don’t we have one?”

“Well,” I said. “I don’t think we really need one right now. We can have Christmas without it.”

And we watched this together, because that’s what Christmas is all about.

Merry Christmas, all!

 

One Lace Tablecloth

My grandma loved to crochet. Once, during a visit to Iowa with my dad in the late 90s, I admired the lace tablecloth on her table. “Oh, do you like it?” she said. “I’ll make you one.”

I cherished the offer. Still, that was the visit in which she kept forgetting that I’d already eaten breakfast. She repeatedly asked if I wanted certain household items that she and Grandpa weren’t using anymore, and although I gave the same answer every time, it didn’t seem familiar to her. She often seemed a little perplexed over references to conversations from within the past hour. Eventually my eyes locked with my dad’s in silent acknowledgment that we could no longer hope that Alzheimer’s would withhold its sinister fingers from her. So I knew that she would not remember her offer to make me a tablecloth, let alone be able to undertake such a project, despite a decades-long history of skillful needlework.

On the plane back to Michigan, I mulled over the visit and Alzheimer’s and her offer and her many previous crochet projects. A few days later, she phoned: What were the dimensions of my table? What color thread did I prefer—white or ecru? And the following week, the same phone call. And then another. Each time I answered the questions, surprised that she had not forgotten the tablecloth, each time knowing that creating an intricate crocheted tablecloth would be too confusing for her at this point.

A few weeks after the last phone call, I received a package. It was the lace tablecloth. Behold:

tablecloth

My grandma died 10 years ago tonight. I miss her.

She loved crocheting, birds, the color blue, and beautiful things. She took joy in feeding others—in feeding them lavishly. (Lavishly, I assure you.) This year’s Thanksgiving dinner featured two of her famous pies (peach cream and apple), compliments of my sisters, and everybody got all excited.

She wrote regular letters to my sisters and me when we were kids, telling of farming and church dinners and birds and coffee with her sisters and the upcoming Tulip Festival and construction on the highway and that Gramp said to say hi. Of family reunions and upcoming visits, and what would we like for dinner when we came? She often included newspaper clippings: “Thought you would like this,” she’d pen on the clipping in her distinctive handwriting. Or, “This reminds me of you.” Her letters invariably included three sticks of Juicy Fruit, one for each granddaughter. (In the winter the gum had grown brittle from traveling for days in the cold; in the summer it would be melted and we’d have to put it in the freezer for a while if we didn’t want to have to scrape it off the wrapper.)

Grandpa and Grandma had two sons. I often wish I could compare “mother of two sons” stories with her. Ask what she would do. Inquire whether her experiences had been similar. Laugh and shake our heads together.

She once mentioned that when my dad and uncle were young, the TV would mysteriously break on the first day of summer vacation and not work again until the first day of school. It’s hard to imagine what was on TV in the 1950s Iowa that would inspire her to divest the television of its tube for the entire summer. Didn’t they only have three channels back then? Surely not all of the few options would have even appealed to kids. Surely my dad’s and uncle’s indulgence in TV would have been minimal anyway. But long before “screen time” was even a term, she hacked it off at the knees. Even a meager amount would not be allowed to muddle up an Iowa summertime. So I probably wouldn’t need to ask her opinion on today’s “screen time” practices.

I would like to ask her if people ever told her that she should add a girl or two to the family, and if the implication that two boys weren’t good enough irritated her. But knowing her, she probably didn’t care about other people’s opinions on this topic.

I would like to tell her of the time Ace took a toad into the house and of his passionate protests as I chased them both back outside (“I only lost him once so far, and it’s okay because he didn’t poop!”), and then wait for her to tell me a story like it.

I would like to tell her of Sonny’s extensive rock collection—none of the rocks may be discarded (none of them), because one is shaped like Australia, and another probably contains gold, and one of them sparkles and it’s so cool, and that one is a souvenir from our vacation. All of them (all of them) are special. I’d like to tell her about this and then listen as she tells a similar tale.

I would like to ask her at what point in any particular ruckus she’d kick her sons outside. (Even if it was snowing hard. Not that I’ve ever done that.)

I would like to ask her whether she ever stood outside her sons’ bedroom at night, listening to their whispers and soaking up their brotherhood.

She would write letters to Sonny and Ace, and tucked along with the letter would be two pieces of Juicy Fruit and several newspaper clippings (do they still make those?) telling of toads and snakes and rocks. “This reminds me of you,” she’d note.

The evening after she died, J and I attended a performance of Handel’s Messiah, its significance magnified and resonating among my swirling memories and emotions. Maybe someday the Messiah will cease to remind me of her, but that day has not yet come.

I wish she could have known Sonny and Ace and that they could have known her. But this morning I showed them the lace tablecloth and explained how it came to be. On the way to school we talked about Grandma some more. (“Tell the story about the huge lunches she packed that week she babysat you and your sisters!”) And tonight I played selections from Handel’s Messiah and told them the words were true.

I look at the tablecloth, and I hear her words from the newspaper clippings: “This reminds me of you.” I hear the Messiah: “This reminds me of you.”

Lots of things remind me of her, and for that I am thankful. Especially tonight.

 

The Elephant of Brotherhood

Sonny was seething. “Ace is saying yes like a parrot! And h­­­e keeps saying it! Just to annoy me!”

“Yes. Yesss.­ YES!”

“Ace! Stop!”

“Yeesss,” squawked Ace, encouraged. “Yeess!”

Cognizant of the need for a tactical change, Sonny dipped into his own arsenal.

“Yawn,” he said. “Yawn!”

Ace, who hates the word yawn because it makes him yawn, erupted in fury. Explosive, yawning fury. But he did stop saying yes like a parrot.

Brotherhood: feelings of friendship, support, and understanding between people. (Merriam-Webster)

One wonders how many sets of brothers Noah Webster researched before penning his definition. Or what they were doing at the time. Evidently they weren’t kicking the back of someone’s seat in the carpool, driving hard bargains in a Halloween candy swap, or splitting hairs over whose Lego that is and whose job it therefore is to pick it up. It seems that any number of definitions would fit the bill.

Sonny: You know I don’t like it when you call me “dude”!

Ace: Well. You know I don’t like it when you say you don’t like it when I call you “dude.”

Brotherhood: the rapid exchange of accusations.

Sonny: Can I look at your new book?

Ace: Yes. But just for a minute. And don’t read the words; just look at the pictures. You’re not reading the words, are you? Don’t read them! Just look at the pictures!

Brotherhood: needless tantalization.

Sonny: Ace, when we are grown-ups, you can come to my house every week. We’ll watch the ball game and have chips and cheese.

Ace: I will be there.

Brotherhood: shared dreams.

Ace: Sonny, in real life you will always be my sidekick, but in the movie I’m making you won’t show up until Episode 3.

Brotherhood: simultaneous injections of confidence and humility.

Ace, for 36 of the 40 minutes of the soccer game, very loudly. (Very.): “Go, Orange Dragons! Go, Orange Dragons! Go, Orange Dragons! Why isn’t anyone else cheering? Go, Orange Dragons!”

Brotherhood: unbridled fandom.

Sonny: Ace, probably the reason he keeps pushing you is that he is frustrated that he doesn’t speak English yet . . . but he still shouldn’t push.

Brotherhood: wisdom and comfort.

Ace: My friends thought Sonny had been lying when he told us it was raining, but I told them he wasn’t.

Brotherhood: fierce loyalty.

Sonny: I miss Grandpa.

Ace: So do I.

Brotherhood: shared grief.

Ace: My favorite part of staying at the cottage was building stuff on the beach.

Sonny: Mine too! And swimming!

Brotherhood: shared memories.

Sonny: Three cheers for that pumpkin!

Sonny and Ace, in unison and laughter: Hip!

Brotherhood: shared humor.

Ace: Do you like pepperoni or sausage better?

Sonny: Actually, Ace, pepperoni is a type of sausage.

Brotherhood: pedantry.

Sonny: Ace, do you want half of my treat? I think you would like it.

Brotherhood: generosity (albeit sporadic).

Sonny: The Green Bay Packers are the best team ever!
Ace: They are . . . after the Lions.

Brotherhood: smack talk.

Sonny: Let’s leave this where Mom will find it.

Ace: Yes! It will give her the heebie-jeebies!

Brotherhood: the homing in on a common target.

How does one distill brotherhood into one succinct definition? Is there even a workable definition or, like the Indian tale of the six blind men describing an elephant, does it depend on an isolated perception? Like humanity itself, it’s hard to sum up.

Brotherhood: a looming, extraordinary giant fashioned seamlessly from incongruent parts.

Brotherhood—loyalty, parrots, dreams, and all—it’s worth having. Keep it up, my sons.

What Surprises Them?

This past summer I was swimming with Sonny, Ace, and my niece and nephews at my sister’s neighborhood pool. After about an hour, Sonny issued a challenge: that I jump off the diving board, an idea well received by his cohorts. I had not jumped off a diving board in years (okay, decades) but why not?

Overestimating my level of trepidation, the five of them chanted “Do it! Do it! Do it!” in unison and shouted other encouragements as I approached the diving board. After walking the plank and stepping off, I surfaced to many congratulations.

“Good job, Aunt Laura!”

“Yay, Mom!”

“Wow!”

Huh. They seemed impressed. And astonished.

So against my better judgment, I asked the obvious: “Did you think I would be too scared to do that?”

Smiles and sidelong glances.

“Did you? You can tell me.”

“Well,” one of the kids said gently. “It wasn’t as bad as you thought, was it?”

I was much amused by their assumption. And touched by their encouragement and support when they thought I was trying something new and scary. Oh, and mildly chagrined that I’d evidently been presenting myself as wholly unadventurous.

Since then, Sonny and Ace have been surprised over many things I’ve done. Among them:

  • Singing along to “Take a Chance on Me,” a song they didn’t know.
  • Fixing the toilet.
  • Reciting the Preamble to the Constitution.
  • Answering “Buenos tardes, Mom!” with “And good afternoon to you!”
  • Successfully and without hesitation operating a VCR (a.k.a. “old fashioned DVD player”). Bonus points for knowing at a glance that the tape had to be rewound. (And yes, I had to explain what “rewind” meant.)
  • Hitting a baseball.
  • Firing up a gas grill.
  • Identifying Bugs Meany as the antagonist in the Encyclopedia Brown.

And so on. Each time I was somewhat surprised at their surprise, although how could they know that any of these were in my wheelhouse if I’d never shown them?

Recently, after I was short-tempered all day for reasons that were not good enough, Sonny asked me for a small kindness. When I complied, surprise flashed briefly in his eyes. Given the day we’d had, his surprise was justified, but still . . . realizing that your kid is surprised by your kindness feels much worse than knowing he is surprised that you were not too chicken to jump off a diving board. Kindness, willingness to give a little time or to listen, patience—these should not be dumped in the vicinity of Abba lyrics, Encyclopedia Brown characters, toilet repair, and diving board mettle to be trotted out seldom enough to surprise others. Even on a bad day.

Know what’s disconcerting? To ask yourself whether your kids (or others) would be more surprised if you showed kindness or harshness, kindness or impatience, kindness or sarcasm, kindness or selfishness. Even on a bad day.

“Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile.” – Mother Teresa