Annie Valentine

Disneyland and I have a love-hate relationship. Going to Disneyland is like having a baby: labor and delivery and recovery are miserable but three years later all anyone can remember is the “magic” of childbirth. Why? Why do I always think it’s going to be magical and rewarding and memory-building?

Disneyland Paris is not the same as the stateside parks. For starters, in the winter it’s cold. In the fall it’s cold. In the spring it’s cold. We went at the end of March and had low 40 degree weather the entire time. We were blessed with waterless skies but come on, you can only stand in line for Autotopia for so long in the freezing cold before you want to gouge your eyeballs out with a cheese stick.

This was our first trip without a baby in ten years and I have to say that was the one thing we did right: we left Georgia behind. But even without diapers our backpack was more like a 72-hour survival pack. Water, hand sanitizer (that we never opened), granola bars, a flashlight and a whistle, a tooth brush and a travel size tube of toothpaste because I’m currently on a clean teeth kick–we really didn’t even need to go back to the hotel for anything.

(FYI –  I spent the last night there cleaning up puke from two of the kids. The hand sanitizer would have been a good idea.)

We stayed at the Davy Crocket Resort about five minutes away from the park. It’s incredibly affordable, we paid for a three-day trip and got an extra night and two free days in the park because Disneyland in March is miserable and they know it. But the resort is great, something I wish was replicated at the stateside parks. It’s a glorified trailer park and refreshingly affordable. All the “bungalows” are oldish trailers with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen/dining/living space. It’s got it’s own village with a working farm, archery (closed), a zip line (closed), a few scattered tee-pees for show and the best pool in Europe. It comes with a criosant/juice breakfast (available for pick-up at The Breakfast Hut between 7-11) and an Easy Pass for park parking, fast pass tickets, and the get-into-the-park-two-hours-early “Magic” misery.

For the record, the only ride open at 8 am is Dumbo. I am dead serious. Do not go early, if you want to stand in line for the princesses feel free to tack on an additional two-hours to the usual 140 minute wait. Not my best idea.

The pool at Davy Crockett was open and great and the kids made us go swimming Every. Single. Night. When I say the pool was great I mean it was great for the kids. It was mostly cold and the hot tub was tepid. But hey, my kids loved it and I sat in the “watch” area and read a book.

Feel free to gawk at Jason’s face throughout this post. You are looking at a raging case of March Madness. Three. More. Days.

Things I really really missed at this park: Toad’s Wild Ride, Rapunzel in general, Toon Town, the Beauty and The Beast stage show, Indiana Jones, The Jungle Ride (loses it’s punch line in translation), and Splash Mountain (a tragedy) to name a few. But the park is well laid out and still has plenty of fun for everyone. Space Mountain 2 almost made me wet my pants it was so fun.

Directly across the street from Disneyland is Disney Studios, a spin-off of California Adventure meets MGM minus the Bug’s Life Tree (sob). It does have the Crush Coaster which is literally like riding the EAC, best coaster ever. But the most important ride in all the parks is there: The Tower of Terror.

Harrison went in The Tower of Terror a few years ago but it wasn’t too hard to fool him into thinking he was remembering another ride from another park. We were also careful to avoid using words like “terror” in the preliminary stages.

When we finally got into the ride’s hotel lobby June quickly commented on the cobwebs and wanted to know why the walls were broken. Rex was happily reviewing all the countries from “It’s A Small World” and Harrison was having PTSD flashbacks from two years ago. He started muttering things like, “I think I have to go to the bathroom,” and “Do we really have to go on this ride?” and “Isn’t this that ride that freaked me out?”

Thank goodness the Twilight Zone video was in French. The last part of the wait is in a rather dismal looking service area of the “hotel” and thunder and lightening effects rain supreme. By the time we stepped up to the elevator doors Rex was sobbing quietly and I was making false promises to the kids that the ride would be fun and we’d get to “see the whole park” from the top of the elevator.

That’s true, you do see the whole park. Then the bottom falls out and the elevator drops.

When that elevator went up and started the drop sequence the entire park could hear my kids screaming their heads off in absolute and total terror. It sounded like we were being attacked by an axe murderer.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I just…could not stop laughing. Worst parent ever? Possibly. Favorite memory of the week? Absolutely.

I’m pleased to report that for the rest of the trip we had extremely well-behaved children. We probably threatened them on three dozen different occasions that if they didn’t behave and get along we’d go back to the Tower of Terror. It was like…magic. Disney magic? You know it.

Tomorrow we take our spoiled little darlings to Disneyland, Paris for a few days of wet, slushy outdoor fun. I suppose that’s what you get when you book amusement park tickets for the cheapest week of the year–precipitation.

I don’t know what it is about large, rewarding events like a trip to the Mouse House that make all my children act so horrible. We like to think that they are frequently obedient and mostly respectful little creatures who know that their parentals follow through on threats and blessings alike. So how is it that the one week out of the year we’re slated to take a vacation tailored especially for them they turn into whiny, sassy little monsters who foam at the mouth and snap their teeth at us?

It got so bad during errands last week that I actually took June (5) to her father’s office and dropped her off with him so I could have a time-out.

It was the best five minutes of my afternoon. I don’t know what went on in Daddy’s time-out chair but he returned a much more humble, penitent little daughter to the van’s backseat. She might have mentioned something about Fire People with red eyes who live in the scary broken buildings, but I was too busy enjoying the lack of screeching to worry about it.

Due to the success of this event, I have decided that it would be particularly helpful to mother’s and father’s in general if police stations would consider opening a Naughty Room filled with dusty corners for noses and lengthy apology-provoking benches. Parents could check their kids in for 2-10 minute sessions and enjoy some refreshing elevator music and complimentary Diet Coke and Oreos.

The children, of course, would not receive cookies.

I had all four kids in the car yesterday and was amazed at the amount of pouting and punching going on in the back seat. “Everybody!” I finally hollered, “This has to stop right now! I am sick and tired of your fighting! You have been so disobedient this week, don’t you understand that if you’re not obedient to me and Heavenly Father you won’t get to Heaven?”

“Yeah, right,” I heard my nine-year-old mutter from the back seat. “You always say stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah? Well here’s one for you, how about I take away Disneyland?”  Immediately the entire car was tomblike. “Yeah,” I said, “That’s what I thought. If you want to get to Heaven you need to obey God. If you want to get to Disneyland you  need to obey me, got it?” Their cooperative silence and fear at my new threat was so complete that I managed to unload an entire five-minute sermon on the pitfalls of disobeying your parents, those on Earth and above. I also explained that Heaven is just like Disneyland except it’s always sunny and all the frozen bananas are free.

“And so,” I concluded, “If you want to get to Disneyland/Heaven you had better learn those two, extremely critical, all encompassing words that will get you through the rest of your week/life. What are they?”

“Uh…” June said.

“I love Jesus!” Rex said.

“I’m sorry?” Harrison said.

I sighed. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them, they never remember. “The two magic words for the week,” I held up two fingers, “are the same magic words that you’ve been saying your entire life… ‘Yes Mother!’” I was met with a resounding echo from the backseat and 24 blissful hours with my momentarily reformed, sort-of obedient children.

Tonight for family night I took a chapter from my girlfriend’s book and implemented the Repentance Bench to reinforce our new crack-down on familial obedience. I have the feeling it’s going to see a lot of action in the next few years.

“Honey,” Jason called from work last week, “You will never guess who is going to be here, tonight, at the BX on a USO tour…Austin Collie!” This name might not mean anything to most football fans but in my husband’s not so humble opinion, Austin Collie is potentially “one of the greatest wide receivers in BYU football history.”

Jason is just about as committed to our college Alma Mater and their athletic institution as he is to me. It goes without saying that after thirteen years of marriage I have come to accept that I will simply have to make do with half his heart.

“He’s going to be here with a group of athletes, you know, some Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and someone from the Red Sox, Paton Manning, an ex-American idol contestant, just a group of celebrities.”

I might not be a huge football buff but even I know that Paton Manning is pretty much the Elvis of this generation’s football world. But in my husband’s eyes the equation was simple: Paton Manning is great but he’s not a Cougar.

“Do you think I could get Austin to sign my Steve Young autographed football?” he said.

We arrived two hours early dressed to the nines in all things BYU. My girls were in full cheer costumes (complete with pom poms), the boys in their football jerseys, and my husband with blue and white stars in his eyes.

There were three or four families–about twenty people including kids–decked out in BYU gear to welcome Austin Collie. Amid a couple hundred Bronco and Red Sox fans it goes without saying that Austin was pretty much the least well known of the bunch; rumor has it he’s good friends with Mr. Manning and was probably invited at the request of The King.

After the show and two exhausting hours in line we finally started to move. That’s when the bad news came, “No autographs! No pictures! No speaking to the celebrities!” The look on my husband’s face was pure devastation.

“What?” he said, “We’ve waited all this time and I’m not even going to get an autograph?”

Now, I like my man to be happy. He constantly goes out of his way to spoil me, the least I could do was wrangle an autograph for him.

As we finally made our way to the top of the stairs we could see the ten celebrities sitting in a row in front of a back drop with Manning smack dab in the middle and Austin sitting just to his right. The fans were herded behind them in groups of 10-15 for a quick snapshot then immediately moved off for the next set. Super impersonal.

“Here,” I said to Jason as our turn grew near, “Get your marker and your football out and just…trust me.” In the shadow of the Paton Manning fans it was easy to see that we were probably the only ones who cared about Austin Collie. Chances were he’d appreciate our efforts.

Finally the moment arrived and we made our way along the back of the celebrity line. I leaned in past Mr. Manning and put a hand on Collie’s shoulder. “Austin! We are so excited to see you! You’ve got BYU fans here!”

His smile was huge. “Awesome! Thanks so much you guys!”

Despite the aggressive barks from the USO chaperones I moved in for the kill. “Excuse me,” I said leaning in past Paton Manning again, “Austin, would you please sign our Steve Young football? Just really fast? My husband is a huge fan!” Jason was standing behind me with watery eyes and a slack jaw. In hindsight I probably could have pulled the “emotionally delayed” card.

“Sure!” Mr. Collie said. I took the football from my shaking husband and passed it through. Then I noticed Paton Manning giving me the stink eye.

“Oh!” I said to Mr. Manning when I realized how odd our request must have looked, “Hi! Um…you’re here too!”

I guess my blood runs blue after all.

This morning Jason took a very rare and sorely needed sick day. Personally, Mondays might be my favorite day of the week. Everyone goes back to their own lives and I have the morning to do whatever strikes my fancy.

In typical Monday fashion, at 6 am I zombied out of bed and into yoga pants and one of Jason’s sweaters, sans a bra because hey, it’s Monday and I’m the master of the universe. Once the kids were off on the bus, the breakfast dishes done, June deposited in the local kindergarten and Georgia heavily invested in Land Before Time 7, I sat down to quilt.

I have quilting issues. Unfortunately for my housework and those in my family who rely on me for food and comfort, when I start a sewing project I get kind of manic about finishing it as fast as humanly possible. This is why I’ve avoided quilting for the past decade, there is nothing afternoonish about it. This particular quilting project is mostly huge (82 different swatches of fabrics for my blocks) and extremely messy and forget about brushing my teeth this week because who needs to talk to people anyway?

I quilted until ten when my doorbell ushered in the first of four scheduled singing students. Fuzzy teeth, unrestrained bosom, who cares? It’s Monday and I make the rules.

After two lessons and lunch for Jason I sat down with a massive pile of laundry to fold. Jason sat there and watched me (not because he isn’t helpful, he was a sick baby, people).

“So,” he finally said, “Do you…you know…like doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You know, laundry, housework.”

“No, I do not like laundry.” These moments of martyredome are so delightful. There’s nothing better than being caught in the act of Cinderella-ish behavior and taking one for the team.

But I couldn’t quite pull it off. All I could think about was the fact that I was only doing laundry because I wanted to do laundry. There I sat, loose boobed and yesterday’s makeup smeared under my eyes, eight quilt blocks and two students to show for the morning, and all because I wanted to.

Why? Because in this little world of mine I am the most powerful, the most influential, the most opinionated person anyone in my little family knows. When I’m not happy, they’re not happy. When I’m in a good mood, they’re in a good mood. I decide what we eat, when we sleep, who has clean underwear and who doesn’t.

Oh, the power.

“Then again,” I said to Jason, “I am kind of the boss around here so I really can’t complain. No one told me to fold these clothes, did they? If I want to quilt all day I can quilt. If I want a nap at 9:30 in the morning, I nap. I like being the boss.”

“Man,” he said, “You are so lucky. I hate having a boss.”

“Yeah, poor you. Now go collect the whites so I can start another load.”

And he did. See what I mean?

I was just thinking about all the things I’m really fizzling at right now, like keeping my house clean enough and staying on top of my laundry. It’s 12:10 in the afternoon and I’m still in my bathrobe. What does that tell you about my morning?

But as I was passing my extremely sticky and overcrowded kitchen sink and floor (today’s excuse: I spent six hours in the ER with Harry and a slightly/almost/but not really broken wrist yesterday afternoon and into the evening so there wasn’t time to do the dinner dishes…or sweep) I spied Georgia’s apron.

A month or two ago I accidentally happened upon a really good idea that has been working like mad for me. Then I thought about two or three other things that I’m doing right now that don’t completely suck. Then I thought, I should write these ideas down for my posterity so they know that sometimes I managed to pull this mothering gig off.

Idea #1. Cheap home made birthday gifts. Due to a lack of attention/overcrowding of brain last December, I forgot that June had a birthday party to attend on a Saturday. Because it was right before Christmas and I was totally out of gift money I decided (an hour before) to throw together a little apron using one of the girls’ aprons as a pattern. I came up with the cutest thing using some fabric that was mostly horrible but turned out wonderful, then sent her off with a bag of cookie mix and the apron. The best part was that June totally helped me make it.

Three weeks later the exact same thing happened (procrastination is not my best pattern). Again we pulled out the fabric bin and made an apron. I could kick myself for not taking pictures, they are all different versions of this one that I made Georgia and they were all absolutely darling.

Super cute.

The day third birthday party (in six weeks) June asked me, “When are we making Hannah’s apron?” Since it was saving me some serious cash and forcing me to have quality mommy time with my girl I decided that it would be our new “thing” for birthdays. But when I went to grab a cookie mix we were out. But I had mason jars, so we made cookies in a jar instead. Best birthday gift ever. We even matched the apron fabric to the cookie jar lid.

I secretly can’t wait for the next five-year-old-friend birthday.

Idea #2. Reading with Rex. I got an email from a teacher a few weeks back who has been teaching kindergarten for something like 30 years. She said that of all the things she has done that have brought about success with children who are struggling with reading, a timer and ten minutes on the couch a day where the child reads orally is the absolute best. Something about it stuck in my brain.

Knowing that Rex thrives on routine routine routine, I decided that we needed to be more strict about exactly what, how and when we read everyday. I took her idea to heart and we have a special book bag that we read from. He and I set the timer and he reads to me for ten minutes then I read to him. It’s not that we weren’t reading before but it wasn’t the same thing. We would fit it in at different times and places where now it has become our special little routine and I think it’s really helping him (which makes me crazy happy).

Idea #3. Using the internet to study my scriptures. My good friend Yvonne was telling me a few weeks back that she finds her personal scripture study is far more successful when she has some kind of study guide and really sticks to it. I decided that I would try using the new Come Follow Me online youth curriculum during my personal scripture study since the lessons are full of links to scriptures and talks. I only do about 15 minutes a day but I find it’s been so easy and delightful to use the online system. I don’t usually get very far in the lessons because it regularly leads me to finish a chapter or look further, but it definitely makes my time in the scriptures a little richer and more fulfilling.

Three things that are right in my life today. I’m going to go take a shower and enjoy a fourth.

Have you ever spent three days away from home and left your husband with the kids, then came back to a house that is perfectly clean and children who are happy and stable, and you wondered why your existence even matters?

I learned this week that the biggest problem with a three-day momcation is that it simply isn’t long enough. Believe me, seven days away and you’re looking at a completely different welcome home.

I recently returned from a week in the states with my family. Three days away from Jason and the kids and I was unfortunate enough to see (from photos) that on day three of my absence the house was clean, the kids were bathed, and Jason had gone so far as to help Harrison cut out and decorate star and boot shaped sugar cookies for the Blue and Gold Scout Banquet.

I would have taken a yellow cake from a box. Probably would have skipped the frosting.

It’s one thing to see a single mom who can bring home the bacon and fry it; I find myself impressed and supportive of these women. But my husband? He is so not supposed to be that capable.

It’s probably super wrong to admit out loud that when I walked into my house after a full week away and found the floor littered with three days’ worth of kid droppings (string, tape, cheerios, dried out markers, bandaids, hair bands, socks, broken crayons, etc.), a slightly excessive amount of flotsam and jetsam on the dining room table, and three full baskets of laundry that needed to be delivered around the house, I was overcome with happiness. Even better? Hearing Jason say those words every woman longs to hear: “I just couldn’t get anything done. The kids were constantly interrupting me, they wouldn’t let me work from home or clean the house, it was so frustrating…”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so necessary and important in a microworld. They need me, they really need me. Rex wanted to his homework with me last night, and the girls both sat on my lap the entire time. I made dinner and they liked it. They missed it. They missed me! I have a place in the world and it was good to slip back into it.

Seeing my family was amazing, I really have wonderful relationships waiting for the day when we can move back and join the family fray. I feel so blessed that after 16 years away from home I can still sit down with my siblings and extended family members and talk like we’re neighbors. I would have liked more time with my dad, it was my only regret and something I keep kicking myself about, but I did get some much needed mother/daughter time. It was a blessing to see and connect with so much of my family.

And yet…Germany is my home right now. Driving into the village gave me such peace of mind. I was flooded with certainty that we are here right now for a reason, I’m not going to waste time wishing it away. I guess it really is all about ages and stages and right now it’s probably a good thing that I’m marooned in my little German village. My kids need me to be free from distractions, and as marvelous as my family is, they certainly offer a plethora of delightful distractions.

We like our kids to play sports. Don’t get me wrong, I do not aspire to the soccer mom status. I like to wear inappropriate heels to athletic functions and read my book when my kid is off the field. Soccer and baseball are usually painful seasons for me because I know there is no way to avoid taking up residence on the sidelines. This probably makes me a mostly awful parent.

I grew up in a family where we were raised to chase balls and shoot hoops and aspire to athletic greatness. Considering my crooked arm and overall inablility to excell at anything involving courts, fields or balls in general, it was best for everyone when I finally turned in my sneakers in high school and focussed my energies elsewhere.

But somewhere deep inside is a vast well of athletic knowledge that routinely threatens to spring forth and coach the world.

The real problem with Harrison’s sporting events isn’t that I’m bored, it’s that I can’t control myself. Somewhere inside me a screaming, bossy coach is sitting dormant on the end of a bench just aching to join the fray. With my mild-mannered husband and easilly embarrassed kid I find it’s imperative that I practice keeping my trap shut.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the charade.

“Son,” I heard Jason say a few weeks ago as we made our way to his first basketball game, “Just remember that when you get the ball, look for someone who is open and pass it, ok?”

It took everything in my power to refrain from correcting Jason. See, my kid is already hesitant in basketball. He already passes the ball and avoids coming in contact with it or anyone else on the court unless it’s necessary. He’s actually a great shot, and outside of a game scenario he really likes basketball, he’s just got no confidence on the court.

My husband isn’t necessarily a ball player. He loves a good pick-up game but he did not grow up in a small, athletically-minded town with a family that is feverishly obsessed with early childhood basketball careers. He doesn’t know from personal experience that the worst thing you can do for a child who is naturally hesitant on the court is to encourage them to keep being hesitant.

Jason pulled into the gas station and jumped out to pump gas. I quickly turned around and zeroed in on my child. “Harrison,” I said, “Look at me. Do not listen to anything your father is telling you. He knows nothing about basketball. I am your mother and I know everything about basketball.” He looked a little frightened and slightly awe struck. It didn’t stop me. ”I’ve been playing basketball since I was six years old, trust me here. When you get the ball look for a shot and shoot the ball. Dribble and shoot, turn and shoot, I don’t care. Do not pass the ball. Ignore the rest of your team and just shoot the ball!”

He stared at me open mouthed. “But Dad said–”

“I don’t care what your father said, do what I say!” I saw Jason approaching. ”Just don’t tell Dad we talked about this.”

The car door opened and Jason got in. I turned and gave Harrison one of those overly covert and slightly frightening looks that made him slink down in his chair in fright.

And from that moment on, the game was afoot. For the rest of the season this charade continued. My husband would tell our kid one thing, he’d leave the room and I’d quickly tell him another.

“Pass the ball!”

“Shoot the ball!”

“Look for someone who’s open!”

“Don’t trust anyone!!”
By the last game of the season our poor kid was so confused and bewildered with his two opposing parents that he would spend most of his time on the court hiding behind his opponents so he could avoid any contact with the ball whatsoever.

I think I need to send him home to America to play with his cousins for the summer. They’ll teach him how to shoot a ball.

Sometimes teaching Rex (7) is really challenging.

Hurray for iPhones and ear buds and cheap apps, I am almost back into jeans that button. Almost.

Let me tell you something about me and losing weight: It’s all in my head. Brownies are really just a mind game for me, it has very little to do with my taste buds or the needs of my stomach. My head likes brownies. My happiness hates them. How can my head and my happiness be so disconnected? I have never ate a brownie (or four) and then said, “Boy I feel so much happier with my life now!” I’m always miserable about it. Always.

For the last year I have felt like there’s no choice here, I cannot fight the powers that insist I eat peanut butter cookies and schnitzel. There are days when my hand force feeds my mouth chocolate chip cookies and I have no say in the matter whatsoever. I hate them, I don’t want to eat them, and yet they just keep making their way down my gullet like an invading army that takes no prisoners. I have been a prisoner to brownies and baguettes and leftover french toast and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups for the past year and I haven’t had the strength to do much about it.

Having been someone who knows how to be skinny and easily (it was so easy) maintained skinny in the past this has been a really freaky thing. Freaky and disturbing and oh look, I’m wearing stretch pants again today.

But those days are gone. So over.

I think I’m going to give credit here to my hypnotherapy app. I can’t decide whether or not it’s working because I usually fall asleep five minutes into it, but then this morning I was thinking about it and I had to wonder, maybe I don’t remember because it’s hypnotizing me. What if I’m having these great weight loss/healthy brain results because I’m actually hypnotized right now? What if I’m only writing this because my hypnotherapy app told me to tell everyone about my great new hypnotherapy app?

Frankly I don’t care why I feel so good. But let me tell you, Mama is going to be skinny by April 1st and that is no joke. And that’s a healthy goal for me, two pounds a week is super attainable.

But the best part of this is that I will (hopefully) be back into some of my jeans by February 14th when I fly home to see my family. Jason is sending me for Valentine’s Day and it’s the most motivating thing ever. Isn’t it funny how my sisters and I are frantically trying to get skinny real fast since we’re going to be seeing each other? I have no idea why it matters but oh my gosh it totally matters.

Family is so good for weight loss. And hypnotherapy. I love me some hypnotherapy.

I am finished. Done. This is over. It’s time for me to take back my jeans and all the rusty zippers that haven’t seen action in the last six, seven, eight oh whatever, 12 months.

We have lived here for a year and a half and I have very gradually gained 15 pounds. I say gradually but what I really mean is gained lost gained lost gained lost oh look, I can’t wear any of my clothes AT ALL gradually.

When I did the play in November I got motivated and lost eight pounds super easily. I’ve been around this hot dog stand, I know how to be thin. By December 1st I was down within about 5 pounds of my pre-Germany weight (11 pounds from pre-Georgia however many years ago). I felt great.

But when December hit my life went crazy. Looking back I realized that I didn’t spend one single day at home during the first three weeks of December, and when you’re gone at night and at lunch and at parties and at play practice you tend to eat whatever you can find and afford. In my case that was a lot of frickadelle and bratwurst with pommes. I was sure I was burning off the calories with all that extra driving and tenseness in my shoulders, but when I stepped on the scale on December 28 I was up 14 pounds from December 1st.

WHAT?!#&!!

All month I’ve been taking one step forward, one step back. Then last week one of my friends texted me and asked if I would do a six-day protein shake/almonds/healthy dinner thing with her and I realized that it’s time I stopped eating out of the bread basket and took control of this stupid lack of self-control that is keeping me from my closet and mirrors and an overall sense of satisfaction. Done. Permanently. It’s over.

My sister suggested I look into a free hypnotherapy weight loss app and I’ve got to say, there just might be something to it. I don’t really care at this point, I’ll take all the positive reinforcement help I can get. Believe me when I tell you, by April Fools Day my closet is going to open its doors and welcome me back into every pair of teeny jeans and all the zippered dresses with open hangers.