Bird Brain

They say things come in threes. Yesterday at Grace's OT therapy session, when I went to pay, I was embarrassed to open up an empty wallet--no credit cards, no debit cards, no check book. Then I remembered that earlier in the morning I had taken out my wallet's paper jungle to find the post-it note that had Grace's new therapy time written on it.

Then later at U-Mall, I spent a good ten minutes walking around the parking lot trying to find my car.

Finally, I ordered food for the family from Japan Express. We were tired of eating off the Christmas ham. I sat waiting for our food to be prepared while I sipped a "suicide" soda (remember those?) of mainly diet coke with a splash of sunkist and read a new book, 'The Thyroid Diet.' When the lady called out my number to tell me my order was ready, I looked up, put my book away, fished my keys out of my purse and walked confidently to the door without my food. "Um, Mam! Your food." I walked the walk of shame back to the counter to get my food, right in front of a table of guys. I had to laugh at myself. It reminded me of the Dana Carvey skit where he and his buddies order food from a drive-thru, pay for their food, then drive off without their food, laughing hysterically as if the joke's on McDonald's.

The joke is definitely not on McDonald's. I hope 2007 is a better year.

New Logo

Here are the logos David presented to me. I've already picked the one I think I'll go with, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on which one you like best.

Back in Black

I think this template's black background makes our photos pop--gonna try it on for size for a bit. Also, David's working on a new bird spot logo. Just after he spent $40 on bird spot tees for the kids (a great surprise to all!) and I spent twice as much on shipping than I did the coffee mug I ordered for David with the original bird spot logo on it. That still hasn't arrived.

The 31 Days of Christmas

Christmas Day has passed, but we're still celebrating as packages continue to arrive in the mail and we plan to drive to Boone for our "Second Christmas" Saturday morning. We've been getting ready all month--even longer, really--by doing just about everything imaginable at Christmastime. We've looked at the outside lights and decorations and even set up our own modest porch window display. We've baked cookies and pies, made hot chocolate and decorated gingerbread houses. We bought a tree, decorated it, and have commented for seventeen days straight how it's the most beautiful tree we've ever had. We've watched the Christmas specials on tv: Rudolph, the Grinch, A Charlie Brown Christmas--twice. I watched 'Bad Santa' on Christmas night and laughed all the way through, despite the expletives being bleeped out. We went to holiday parties and the Chapel Hill/Carrboro Christmas parade. The kids sat on Santa's lap and told him one thing they really wanted. The kids called Santa on the phone. We've read Christmas stories and listened to Christmas music at night and in the car ad nauseum. We shopped. We wrapped. We ripped open gifts. We sent Christmas cards (not all of them yet...don't give up!), and received cards and letters and pictures of our friends' children. We role played exactly what we'd do on Christmas morning, tip-toeing in to see what Santa left. The kids played along, too. We recited over and over what we hoped Santa would bring. We covered how and when he would come and we left cookies and milk for him and carrots for Rudolph. We went to the 5:30 PM Christmas Eve service at church and didn't "shush" the kids when they talked through the singing or got out of their seats to dance and fidget in the aisle. We waited for Granddabs to arrive and could hardly stand it when we saw and heard his car pull up. We ate chocolate and drank Irish coffee (with Irish Whiskey, of course). I baked a ham and made mashed potatoes, biscuits, green beans and pecan pie. And chili the night before. My dad read "Twas the Night Before Christmas" to Grace and Johnny (and me) as he's done on every Christmas Eves for the past thirty-six years.

We garnered all of the excitement and anticipation and joy and marvel and magic to see the kids' faces on Christmas morning when they discovered that Santa had brought them each exactly what they'd asked for: a Fairy Wish Dora for Grace and a Batman Lego car for Johnny. And even though the Lightfoot family was split up into three places (make that four) this year, and though it wasn't the constant come and go with cousins and friends and wonderful food and desserts and Christmas Eve at Sadie's, and Daniel, Kate and me all sleeping in the same room, and roaring fires under the huge live wreath, and JT drinking my grandmother's Maker's Mark, and kids' poker games using nuts and candy as chips and the 'real' annual Hearts and Poker games (my dad misses those, G) at B's house; in essence, the Christmases past spent in KY, surrounded by all the ones you love, it was real and pure and healing for me to hear Johnny spontaneously tell David and me that he loves us, and for Grace to gush that it was all she'd hoped for and for Johnny to say (only fifteen minutes ago) that this was the best Christmas ever.

Christmas Present, Christmas Past

Flashback: Christmas, 2003

Goin' Postal

I'm very frustrated right now. I've been trying all week to buy stamps to slap on my Christmas cards that are written, sealed, and addressed. Wanted to mail them out Monday, then Tuesday, then yesterday, hopefully today. I've been unable to get stamps! I know I could have ordered them online, but I didn't want to wait several days to get them, and now, here I am several days later, without stamps! The DIY stamp machines at the PO have been messed up in some way or another, every time I've tried to get them!

So, if you're on my Christmas card list, you're still getting a snail mail card from me, don't worry.

My frustration with this year's stamp-buying even bled over to our somewhat regular after dinner dance party last night. Last night's soundtrack was MJ, and when "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' came on, I changed the words slightly:

Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)

Trust me, it was funny at the time.

And speaking of going postal, our extended holiday officially starts tomorrow...All four of us, off work, outta school, and at home for eleven days straight (other than an overnight in Boone). I'm entertaining any and all invitations for playdates--with or without the kids.

Men are From Where?

Lactose Tolerant

Every night since Thanksgiving, the four of us have been 'relaxing' at the end of the day to Delilah on 93.9 FM. After the kids are bathed, pjs on, and teeth brushed, we all retreat to Grace's very cheerful lime green and pink-motifed girly room and cozy up on her queen-sized futon of a bed for stories and Christmas music. All's well for a split second until Johnny grabs Lammie and Grace screams, and then Grace goes nuts because the "cubbers aren't right, Mommy! Noooo! Pull the sleeping bag all the way up to my neck!" Then David says, "screw this," and gets on the floor...then Johnny wants to go "sleep with Daddy," but seconds later he wants back in bed beside me, but accidentally (or was it an accident?) brushes up against Grace's leg and she screams out, "No, Johnny! You're in my spot! Leave me alone!" Then Johnny starts crying because his feelings are hurt and Daddy screams for everyone to "SHUT UP!"

Relaxing indeed.

Once everyone is finally settled into their spots and the lights are out, we listen to Delilah and her nauseating sentimental radio program, which currently is focused on holiday traditions and Christmas music. As people call in to request songs, they share bits of their lives, the good and the bad. It never fails, the caller can say:

"We feel so blessed, Delilah, because we just adopted a baby girl after ten years of trying to get pregnant, and she arrived just in time for Christmas, and we just can't believe how happy we are and how wonderful life is,"

or

"Hi, Delilah. My name's Jimmy and I'm nine. I don't have any brothers or sisters. And I don't think Christmas is going to be that good this year. My dad ran off with my teenaged babysitter and my mom squandered all of our Christmas money buying 'educational' lottery tickets. And my dog Banjo? He ran away too. And my best friend told me he didn't want to be friends anymore. And the girl I have a crush on told me that I stink and that I have a face only a mama could love. I'm just feeling really sad,"

and Delilah responds in her saccharin-bathed voice, "Is that right? I have just the song for you."

Multiple Choice

At Blinky Burgers restaurant, two hamburgers and five orders of French fries cost the same as four hamburgers and two orders of French fries. If the restaurant charges $1.50 for a single order of French fries, how much does it charge for two hamburgers?

A. $2.25
B. $3.00
C. $4.50
D. $5.00
E. $6.00
F. Who the Hell cares?
G. Who's buying and when are we eating?

The Importance of a 5-Point Harness for Kids' Car Seats

This is not a funny post. It is sad and eye-opening. If you are a parent of a child that weighs under 80 pounds, please watch this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azgBhZfcqaQ

I think I know what I'll be asking Santa to bring this year.

The Story of My Life

I spent the morning at the General Store Cafe in Pittsboro, one of my favorite places in the world to hang out. I love the food, I love the ambience, I love the Irish music, the bluegrass music, and the salsa music you can hear there several nights per week. I love the friendliness of the staff and the fact that the owner supports many local community groups and causes. I love the way it's jam-packed with cool stuff on the walls and on the shelves, and how you can go there to start up a conversation, or be by yourself, holed up in the back with your cup of coffee and a book, either one you brought or one you picked off of their shelves. So it was the perfect place to spend the morning while Grace was in school down the road. I came prepared with my laptop and Kaplan GRE study book and figured I had a solid three hours to cram in what I could in my few days left before the exam.

I find a semi-private table with a power outlet as my battery is running low. Got my coffee and my breakfast burrito and I was ready to hit the GRE book, something I haven't given proper attention to these last few months. This pleasant young woman walks up with a laptop too and says, "I see you're here doing what I'm doing," and when I see that her sweatshirt reads, 'CAROLINA School of Social Work,' I say, acknowledging her shirt, "Well, actually I am applying to the School of Social Work, and I'm taking the GRE on Friday."

She's a second year UNC Law student who also has an MSW from UNC. But the sweatshirt is her husband's: he did the program part-time. Really? Does she know my friend A.M. who's a first year? We talk about Law School. We talk about the School of Social Work and what I'm currently doing and what her husband's currently doing, and what she'd eventually like to do, and what my eventual dream job is. Wait, I ask. Her husband did an internship at UNC hospitals? Would he know S.T? Why yes! And would she by chance know J? Yes indeed! J is my neighbor! And ABM is my second cousin! And JH finished the program a few years ago, and we've known each other since the third grade. After talking for about thirty minutes, I ask her name. Her name is EB, but she's only been married two years, and her maiden name is EH. She tells me to please have AM e-mail her. She knows things about the Law School that most first years don't learn. She knows a ton about the MSW application process and how your GRE score matters little compared to the letters of recommendation you get and that 3 is an arbitrary number and she really recommends me asking S.T. (a recent graduate) to write a letter on my behalf.

At least a half a dozen times we both say, "Oh, just one more thing, and then I've really got to study." But one more thing turns into five more things, and we're still having this great conversation an hour later. She lives near me and she's offered to babysit if we ever need someone. She used to go to my church. She asks me if I've considered applying for the 'cooperative' which is an agreement to work for an NC Department of Social Services for so many years after earning an MSW in exchange for tuition payments. When she hears more about my experience and interests, she says that she hopes I somewhat consider the cooperative but very much hopes I consider going for my PhD in Social Work and not stopping at the MSW level. And she strongly recommends that I talk to K in the program before my application is reviewed. She tells me over and over that I'll get in, even if I bomb the GRE; she's seen it happen time and time again.

My solid three hours have dwindled to just over an hour. We agree that, no really, we'll stop talking so we can both get some work done. But first we exchange e-mail addresses. I take a practice Verbal test and a practice Quantitative test. I do pretty well on verbal and pretty bad on the math.

I've heard it, I've read it, I understand it: how well you do on the GRE has little to do with how much actual knowledge you have. It's all about knowing the techniques to answer the questions correctly. Today I was going to spend three good hours reviewing those techniques that I've been sort of learning in the last few months. Because I believe that a good GRE score will increase my chances of getting accepted into the program. But instead, I spend my time making a very valuable connection with a bright young woman who pours me multiple glasses from her fountain of knowledge of how to increase my chances of getting accepted into the program. The irony is not lost on me.

Not Mad, Just Disappointed

David and I often get frustrated with our children even when they're not overtly acting ugly. Like when Johnny pours shredded cheese onto his plate, but 88% of it lands on the floor. Or when we say, "Grace, please try real hard not to spill your milk," but she does. And it's chocolate milk. And she's wearing a white shirt. When situations like those happen, I've been known to say, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

Like this past Friday evening, when in a haste to make room for our Christmas tree in my car, I had to put a box of unwrapped Christmas gifts in my room, unhidden. When we got back from getting the tree, Johnny ran back to my room and told me to leave the room. I asked him why? He said that he wanted to be in there by himself for a little while. I said, "Ok, but don't look in that box, ok?" He promised he wouldn't. After a minute, I sent Grace in to see if he'd looked in the box. He didn't fess up at first, but when I pressed him, he admitted that he'd peeked in. He said it was just grown-up stuff, though, no toys. (Ha! He didn't look hard enough. There were books for him and Grace. He got to peek, and I'm still happy b/c they'll be surprised). When Johnny saw the look on my face after he admitted to doing something I'd asked him not to do, I said, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

Yesterday I go to pick up the kids from school, and their teacher tells me with a grin and a chuckle that Johnny gave the entire playground a full-moon yesterday for who knows why. "Wait," I said, "You pulled down your pants and showed your bottom to everyone on the playground? Why did you do that?" "Because, um, some people were running one way and some were running the other way." Huh? After telling him that was absolutely not appropriate to do anywhere in public until he was at least in college, I added, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

The fact that the Tarheels have already lost some basketball games? Not mad, just disappointed.

That Grey's Anatomy was a repeat last week? Not mad, just disappointed.

That George Bush is still in office? Not mad, just disappointed. Real disappointed.

Meanest Mom in the World

There was this segment on 'People Falling Down' last night where this kid goes up to this pinata and pulls the strings (that's how they're made these days) so all the stuff will come out. All the stuff starts coming out, and instead of any candy or any toys, it's completely filled with raw vegetables. Broccoli, cauliflower, and baby carrots rain down to the kids' horror while the grown-ups double over with laughter. That is so something my mom would have done.

Nothing Compares 2 U

Someone who was at our house recently asked, "What, do you have a professional photographer follow you around all the time?" due to all of the nice black and white photos we have up in our living room. A lot of that credit goes to my dad, some to me, a little to David, but most goes to Genevieve Fridley who took Cooley family photos one year ago that we used for our 2005 Christmas Card. It's by far our best yet, and we don't know how to follow up with this year's card. Genevieve, come back!

December 10, 2006

Earth Angels

A few nights ago I attended the Orange County Literacy Council's Annual Appreciation Banquet up at the Big Barn in Hillsborough. We've been going to these for years--in the beginning just David and me, then David and me and a baby, then David and me and a toddler and a baby, then just me and a pre-schooler and now just me. We finally gave up on bringing our kids the year Grace kept yelling out--tourette-style--"BOB!" at random intervals during the program. People do bring kids and babies, and the entire evening has this wonderful family dinner-type feel. Chicken, rolls, and drinks are provided and the rest is a true potluck or "cover(ed) dish" (as southerners like to call it). I love these types of meals, because people always bring a dish that they can do well, so the food always tastes really good. (And I noticed that people always eat what they brought). It's along the same lines as why I also love those church fundraiser cook-books with favorite recipes submitted by individuals--no one is going to put in a recipe that doesn't turn out well with their name associated with it.

Admittedly, I'm not the best cook, but I'm not the worst either. I brought sixteen mini pecan pies to the dinner the other night, and I'm proud to say that all of them were gone by the time I left. I picked up a different dessert, homemade fudge, because this man convinced me to try it. He said he knew it was good because his wife made it (see?). There are a few dishes that I do really well, without fail. Pecan pie is one of them. So is my potato salad and tunafish salad. And homemade waffles. Can't say that "Sarah's Famous Dry as a Bone Chicken" makes the list.

Tuesday's dinner was a feast. There were close to 100 people there and good food in abundance. After dinner, the next item on the program was for adult students to go up to the mic and read a short piece they wrote about their learning, their experience with their tutors, whatever they wanted to say. Several people got up and read slowly and even haltingly, but they were reading. And they were reading what they had written. One woman read that even though she has a long way to go in her education, she voted for the first time ever this year. This woman was in her 50's. One man is an aspiring minister and he read one of the first sermons that he had written. Two years ago he virtually couldn't read or write at all.

Then "Wendy" came up to the podium, a very pretty Asian woman, probably in her twenties. Her accent was heavy, but she read slowly and deiberately. She told us how she came to the US two years ago and wanted to go to college here as she is too old to go to college in her country. She said that when she found out that there was a place where she could go and people would help her with her English reading and writing for free, she didn't believe it at first. Why would people offer that kind of help for free? In her country, people warned you about getting something of value for free, it just didn't happen. She then told us that her country is China. Wendy described her tutor, "Jack," a middle-aged educated man with a kind face and clear blue eyes. I strained my next around the room to see if I could get a glimpse of Jack. She said that at her first meeting with Jack, she was so skeptical that he was really there of his own accord to help her with her goals. She thought to herself, "What does he want from me in return?" and then read to us that it was as if Jack was reading her mind that first day. He said, "Listen, I've been given a lot of help throughout my life, and now I want to give something back. There's a lot about your country that I'd like to learn, so just as I help you learn, you'll also be helping me learn." And their student-tutor relationship was forged.

We laughed as Wendy talked about Jack helping her when she got her first speeding ticket. She giggled awkwardly when she had trouble pronouncing "insidious," and other words, but we all rooted for her silently as she read through the words she 'd prepared. She shared how kind and smart Jack was and how much he helped her each week. She described that he offered to increase their sessions to three times a week in the months leading up to her TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language) exam.

Then Wendy's voice cracked in the middle of her next sentence and her face scrunched up. There was a long pause. She started again, "Here I was in this strange..." He voice stopped and Wendy began to cry. Moments later, she apologized and tried a third time. "I was in this strange country..." and then she started weeping. Here she was in front of 100 people struggling to get the words out, but she couldn't finish. Jack humbly walked up beside her at the podium and put his arm gently around her shoulder. It was one of the most beautiful and pure and unscripted moments I've ever witnessed. Wendy wiped away her tears, and she was able to finish. "I was in this strange country with a strange culture, and there was this man who sat with me every week, and helped me with my reading and writing. Jack is what we would call an 'honored elder' in my country. Jack will always be my Angel."

Javaaaaah

A few years ago in a moment of guilt after forgetting our anniversary, David decided to invite me to be a member of his book club. I was honored; when and where did we meet, who else was in it, and what were we reading? He said that he was the only member, we met at home, and this month's book was The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen (yes the one that Oprah picked for her book club, the one where the author didn't really like being picked by Oprah, and the one who then made some sort-of apologies, but not really. Read about the Oprah/Franzen deal here).

David was many chapters ahead of me, but I'm a fast reader and I caught up with him. We'd lie in bed at night each reading our copy of "the book." I'd periodically say, "What part are you on?" and he'd tell me and we'd talk about what was going on with the various families in the book.

We both quite enjoyed the book and we keep referring to this partwhere this older man is on a cruise talking to his friend. He says, "Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I'm so excited about the cup of coffee I'm going to have the next morning." David and I will be hanging out at night and one of us says, "Are you already thinking about the cup of coffee you're going to have tomorrow morning?" "Yes. I can't wait."

Strong and black. That's how I like my coffee. It's kind of pathetic when the best part of your day is the twenty minutes in the morning when you're drinking your delicious java--or even more pathetic when it's the time you spend anticipating the next day's fix.

All Kinds of Ridiculousness

The word that keeps popping up in my mind as I reflect about the party David and I attended Saturday is ridiculous. So, here's my Top-5 List of Ridiculousness from the other night:

#5 The light display in the neighbors' yards heading to the party. A ridiculous amount of
lights, to be sure, but still a visual delight.

#4 How ridiculously happy party-goers were when Sally R. walked into the room. She
herself said that it was the nicest welcome she's ever gotten.

#3 The fact that David and I drove over an hour, each way, for this party. From the
host:"It's ridiculous that you drove that far to come here."

#2 The fact that David knew neither Mr. or Mrs. Host, and that I only knew Mr. Host, from
college, but hadn't seen or spoken to him in over ten years. My dad: "Sarah, that's
ridiculous. You don't even know those people." "Yes I do. I went to college with him,
like twelve years ago." "Yeah, but you don't know...maybe he's become an ax-murderer in
the last twelve years. "Maybe. But for all he knows, so have I."

#1 On the drive back to Chapel Hill after the party. David: "That guy in the band? With the
dreadlocks? He looked ridiculous." "You do know that was a wig, don't you"

Best Friends, Forever

It was an innocuous gift, really, just a yellow, plush, stuffed lamb given to me by a co-worker at one of the many baby showers thrown for me the summer of 2001. I always kept lists of who gave what, and thank goodness, because otherwise I would have never have record of "Who gave me this, Mommy?" P.S. gave it to me, and a part of me wishes she knew what a cornerstone her gift was in my daughter's five year existence. From the onset, Lammie has been Grace's "lovey", her security blanket, her best friend.

We've never left the house overnight without Lammie. Still don't. And each night at bedtime, Grace bites and chews on Lammie's ears and nose, and rubs Lammie's softness against her feet, comforted moment by moment, until she drifts deeper and deeper into dreamland.

In February, 2003, my mom ended up back in the hospital at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem. Kate and my dad had a room at the Hawthorne Inn, where we usually stayed when we went to visit her at the hospital. The Hawthorne Inn has free shuttles to the hospital from the hotel, so lots of patients' families end up staying there. It's also a Conference Center, so non-patient families end up there too. In the middle of February, 2003, the Hawthorne was packed. There was some type of youth convention going on and the hotel was swarming with young people everywhere.

Grace was 18 months old and still in that stage where I packed everything but the kitchen sink in her diaper bag for overnight visits (or even visits to the mall, for that matter). Or I guess you could say, I was in that stage of brining along everything that she might need. Grace and I were only staying one night, and David wasn't along for this trip. So after spending the day visiting in my mom's hospital room, Grace even napping on the foot of her bed, we made it back to the Hawthorne to retire for the evening. Our room was up on like the third floor, I think, and I remember the struggle of schlepping Grace and the over-stuffed diaper bag back up to our room, Lammie hanging out of one of the side pockets. When I got settled, Grace fed, bathed, changed, and her port-a-crib all set up, I couldn't find Lammie anwhere. Did we leave Lammie in my mom's room? In the car? Where was Lammie? I looked everywhere in the room, in the car, called my mom's room--no sign of Lammie anywhere. My heart sank and the pit formed. Grace didn't know it yet, but I potentially had just lost the best friend she'd ever know.

My dear sister Kate, always lending a helping hand when I'm in need, set out on a mission to locate Lammie, complete with reward posters drawn up and everything. She went down to the hotel lobby and talked to the receptionists. She asked every young person she saw if they'd seen a little yellow stuffed lamb anywhere. Eventually, the rumor made it back that yes, Lammie had been spotted and was put on a bench right outside of one of the elevators. I was hopeful, but still panic-stricken. When was that and where was Lammie now? Kate's reward posters said to knock on Room 305 if found, and that was her and my dad's room. I had to leave the next morning and they were staying for at least one more night.

I don't even remember how Grace ended up falling asleep that night. I have a vague memory, perhaps distorted, that I strolled her down the halls, back and forth, back and forth, in her umbrella stroller until she nodded off. At any rate, she did fall asleep and slept through the night but that's more than I could say for myself. I was totally distraught and couldn't stop crying. I called my mom's room and she talked to me from her hospital bed, trying her best to comfort me. She said, "Sarah, you've got to calm down. It's just a 'thing' and it's not the end of the world. It will be ok. No one is hurt, and it's going to be fine." It was the last time my mother would mother me. "But I lost her best friend," I sobbed, "and there's no way to replace it." I hadn't gone out, like the parenting books recommended, and bought a replica of Lammie just in case this very thing happened. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Grace would have known the difference.

Everyone was trying their best to help, but every time I thought about Lammie being gone, I just lost it in a sea of tears. Driving back to Chapel Hill the next morning, I called David, just sobbing uncontrollably. I blurted out, "David, you won't believe what happened. I lost Lammie. I lost Lammie. Lammie is gone!" He said, "Wait, slow down. You lost who?" For a minute, and from the sound of my voice, he thought I was calling to tell him I had lost our daughter. "NO! I lost LAMMIE. In the hotel. It must have fallen out of the diaper bag." He tried too to console me, but I was a complete wreck. I think we all know that the tears weren't just falling at the thought of losing Lammie.

The story has a happy ending, in one sense, that is. That evening after I'd gotten back to Chapel Hill and settled back in, the phone rang. It was my dad. He was ecstatic--Lammie had been returned! My heart flipped again, I couldn't believe it! A couple from western NC was staying at the Hawthorne Inn, making trips to Baptist Hospital to visit his sick sister. They had seen Lammie on the bench in front of the elevators and picked it up and took it to their room. They also saw the posters that Kate had plastered on every hall, saying that if found, please deliver to Room 305. Reward Available. They'd knocked on my dad's door hours after I'd left. It was a humble man, probably a blue-collar worker based on my dad's description, and my dad reached into his wallet and handed the man a twenty dollar bill and said, "God bless you." (I thought my dad didn't believe in God). But then, the story wasn't over...a few hours later when my dad and Kate were leaving their room again, they saw a little piece of notepaper that had been folded and slipped under the door.

The note said, "Here's your money back. It is reward enough knowing that a little girl got her stuffed animal back."