Fireflight: God’s Music on Steroids

About a month ago, I left the kiddos at home with their daddy, and went to Winter Jam with my sister. I had not been to Winter Jam since I was a brand new believer, and was then drawn to the show by Third Day (who, btw, still rocks). At that concert years back I discovered Nicole Nordeman and Bebo Norman. That show made an impact on me, seeing so many young people so enthusiastic about Christian rock. Then again, it certainly wasn’t the same Christian rock that was floating around in my youthful years (Amy Grant comes to mind…not too high on the “cool” scale).

With Third Day headlining again, touring with their latest EP, Revelation, I had to go. Being so far removed from the new music scene in any genre, I was anticipating getting to hear some of the fresh artists out there on the Christian rock scene.

Fresh doesn’t begin to describe Fireflight. Intense, high-decibel, and not an iota of fluff. I heard three songs and knew I was going to purchase the CD at their merchandise table.

I hit the restroom before intermission (not my first rodeo, baby), and went on a search for their table. When I got there, I found about twenty middle school aged girls lined up to buy their stuff. That definitely stalled me a moment. I typically do not make purchases—ANY purchases—in the same demographic range as a thirteen year old girl. Perhaps a three song sampling wasn’t enough. Then it occurred to me: Fireflight was the only group with a female lead at Winter Jam. So I took a leap of faith and bought their first two CD’s, as well as their five song Unbroken and Unplugged CD.

I was not disappointed. I loved the driving tempos, the great lyrics, the metal guitars. I equally loved the contrast given on their unplugged tracks; cellos and other classical stringed instruments took the place of the raging guitars, and the melody slowed a few paces, letting me really experience the depth of Dawn Michele’s vocal talents.

Today Fireflight’s new CD, For Those Who Wait, has its official release. For a limited time, you can purchase it for $6.99 via iTunes (you can find the link on Fireflight’s website). In the right margin >>> is my MixPod, which has two tracks off  For Those Who Wait, and several more of my favorites.

I found an excellent article that gives the band’s history and profile—check it out HERE if your interested.

I am certain that Fireflight’s style would be too loud and intense for my parents. But for someone like myself that gets slightly nauseated by the bubblegum Christian pop music that is typically played on the commercial “Christian music” stations (could you hear me gag a little?), then the new Fireflight CD has the potential to be your latest driving CD.

Just remember to buckle up:)

The Pronunciation Learning Curve

We call her chatterbox. She never stops talking. She talks in her sleep. Since this video was captured she has added oodles of words to her repertoire, but still cannot properly pronounce the “cha” prefix of this particular word. Go figure.

I really hope they never, ever, give Reagan anything chocolate at church. Seriously.

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Friday Fiction: Immersed

I used to rest on the southern bank of this river. Back then, when it was all I had ever known, I thought it was a good place to be. I could see the emerald forest on each bank; the water shimmering in the sun, the wildlife coming to its edges to drink.

On the surface I was coarse and shrouded in filth—my edges sharp. And I liked that.

It’s strange, but I don’t recall exactly how I ended up in the water. It was more like the river swelled and covered me. Suddenly, an eon of accumulated dirt was washed away…pushed as far to the east as the current could carry it. And even though everything had changed—and I had no idea what was going to happen to me—I liked it so much more than resting on the bank.

For the first time, I felt alive. When the swollen river waters rushed over me, it stirred me; caressed me; smoothed my sharpest points. After a while, I barely resembled my old self. The water made me something new…something different. I felt safe, and like I was where I was always meant to be.

Eventually the swollen banks receded some, and the water calmed and cooled. Even though the river was always surrounding me, it did not pursue me like it had in those first days, or so it seemed to me. I came to rest in the shallow shoreline, a mere measure from the bank that once held me. I thought then that it was the best of both worlds. I could see the trees though the calmer waters; I could almost touch the wildlife the skirted the edges. And some part of me liked that—being able to glimpse at my old life.

However, the longer I remained there—in that shallow water, in the absence of the current—I settled my weight into the mud…seemingly content.

But then another change came.

It happened so slowly that I didn’t notice it for a long time. A spot here and there, mostly on the side facing away from the water’s flow. But before I knew it, my somewhat smooth surface was covered. Covered with the most uncomfortable green algae. It permeated every pore, hid in every crevice. I felt so ugly, so ashamed.

The worst part was being so helpless, like this slimy curse was devouring me. Occasionally, a small sucker fish would come along and attempt to remove the hideous green film from me, but the more mature fish stayed in the depths of the river, where it was safe. They would clear a spot here…a spot there, but never enough of it to make me feel clean again. I yearned for the cure from my stagnant plague. I begged for it.

And slowly, the water began to warm again.

I heard my cure coming before I felt it. The roar of the waters echoing off the towering limestone walls filled me with fear. For a moment, I wished that I could just stay put; tethered to the shallow river bed in my murky green prison. And I hated that.

But the river’s will does not heed to the whim of one of its frightened limestones, for it cuts its own path, and bows to nothing. The raging flood waters pummeled me; the uprooted trees and debris loosened and scraped me from the river bed. With a multitude of other fragments of creation, I was swept downstream in the river’s wrath.

I was thrust against a boulder, dashed across a log. I felt a pointed corner break clean off when I was dragged along a gravel bar. A fleck of green left behind here, a fleck there—a tiny work in progress. It was such a joyful pain to endure. I hated the hurt, but embraced the cure.

It seemed like an eternity the river carried me, over miles…even years. I felt it sheer strength when it was at its most fierce. But now that the waters have calmed, and it has gently rested me in its depths—where the living water smoothes me a little more every day in its hands—I feel its sovereign grace.

And I love that.

Facebook is Killing My Blog

I am probably not alone in this, but it’s true.

Why write out a five hundred word blog post about the wisdom behind using the word “pants” around your toddler instead of “britches” when I can just throw out a witty line or two in my FB status update? I mean, instantly it’s on more than one hundred friends computer screens, yielding multiple comments and endless whimsical banter…it’s just too easy.

Some people use their Facebook page as bait to get people to their blogs, but I have succumbed to just tossing out my little quippy minnows and nothing more. Bad, writer, bad. Lazy, tired writer, too, but that’s no excuse.

So, from here on out, I will put on my comfy writing britches pants, and try to pound out a blog post more often than quarterly, as well as post some of my stories for Friday Fiction. 

Sleep is overrated anyway.

Open Letter to My Friends at FaithWriters

Dear FaithWriter Friends,

It’s been a long week for me. I struggled with the choice of writing this letter, or just taking the easy way out and letting this cloud disperse unexplained. I am aware of the behind the scenes “shock and awe” that my story has created. Since I was only able to converse with the people that chose to leave a comment, I felt it was necessary to address the remaining two hundred plus readers that have been pointed to or stumbled upon my Challenge entry.

I first want to apologize for any offense that my story might have caused any of you. I should not have submitted it for the Challenge. A dear friend and writing mentor told me that I shouldn’t ever apologize for something I wrote, but I am truly remorseful for placing this story on this particular venue.

On Wednesday I had an email exchange with Deb, and I gave her my full permission to pull the story before it went live. She decided to leave it on the list, and we would “see what others have to say”. Beyond the fact that it’s in the rules that entries will not be removed after they are submitted, I believe I understand the heart of the reason why Deb left it up; a mistake almost made would leave me void of the teaching moment at hand. Fielding the comments, emails, and this letter are my deserved penance. I actually praise her for the decision to let the chips fall where they may; part of Deb’s mission is to help make us better writers, both in skill and the realities of the writing world. This week has re-taught me one of the cardinal rules of any art form: know your audience. I should’ve known better.

In fact, I did. Before I submitted it, I asked a few people to read it to make sure it wasn’t too edgy for the challenge. My sister in law thought it might be too much. My husband told me that I shouldn’t unless I have the “Archangel Gabriel swoop down and rescue the girl and smite the creep.” I shrugged off two of the people closest to me in my walk, on the grounds that they were not writers or FW members, and chose to ask yet a third person who met those criteria. That person gave me a yes, but attached some practical, sound advice. Finally getting what I wanted, I snatched the former without applying the latter. I had already been told “no” by that small voice, and then three doses of Godly counsel. I knew better, and that is what I mourn about all this; I blew off the Holy Spirit, and pursued what I wanted to hear.


The piece of writing itself, however, I do not regret, nor do I believe it was inherently sinful [to write] or reflective of some dark, evil spirit in me. It was a writing exercise; an attempt to stretch myself beyond my norm.

During the conference last summer, something in one of Cori Smelker’s seminars resounded with me. She said—and I am paraphrasing from memory—that sometimes we need to “dare to be dreadful”. Write from the point of view of someone completely unlike us, who believes different things, or who is even despicable. I have been at FaithWriters for almost two years now and have read hundreds and hundreds of your stories. A very large percentage of them—mine included—are from the POV of the protagonist. Since I started my novel I have become increasingly aware that it is easier to get into my protagonist’s mind versus that of the antagonist. Every piece of writing of almost any length needs conflict, and in most cases that is inflicted by a person. So, inspired by the prompt, I set out to write a first person, present tense character sketch of a sadist. And I vowed not to give it a happy ending. If I were writing a longer piece with this character in it, I believe I would try to achieve justice, but I chose to just portray one scene—a glimpse into a sick, twisted mind. And honestly, I was pleased with the result.

Anyone that has read a sampling of my writing knows that I often have an edge. I strive to write from an angle or POV that no one else would think of; typically, I try to produce something subtly didactic if possible, and strongly emotional. Whether that is a comedic look at vasectomies, or a child that has been orphaned by suicide, I strive to make my reader feel something. To me, that’s what good story telling is. However, I think that is what bit me with A Twisted Slice of Life. Not so much the violence—which I really did try to minimize and still convey the topic—but it was the emotion it created. Fright. The fear of an evil we don’t understand, and don’t really want to understand. I totally get why it disturbed so many people. Believe me, it was disturbing to write.

The Writing Challenge has been instrumental in my growth as a writer these past two years. I have submitted forty eight entries, judged in six quarters, and have been honored and blessed to receive eighteen EC’s. I love FaithWriters and the people that make it what it is. I would encourage everyone who reads this to not be afraid to “dare to be dreadful” in their writing, even if it means face planting in front of two hundred plus colleagues. If you’re as lucky as I am, a few of those colleagues will help you to your feet, and nudge you back up that high dive. You never know if you’re going to hit blue water or painted concrete unless you jump.

Just don’t forget—know your audience. :)

Grace and Peace,

Michele (Chely) Roach

Bittersweet (Memories)

Bittersweet. Some baby milestones are pure joy; walking, first words, and one of my personal favorites--sleeping through the night…but this one has put a lump in my throat.

If you have never experienced the wonder of motherhood, then this post won’t be one you can relate to, but someday you might.

As subfolder of motherhood, nursing is one of the most spiritual, emotional experiences you can endure. I think of breast milk as manna via mommy—the perfect food that replenishes itself constantly—a gift from God in his infinite wisdom. The bond that has been established between me and the babies, and each other, is a testament to nursing. However, I say endure because it’s not all warm and fuzzies. Granted, I nursed two babies at once…literally. That’s a lot of nursing. I had Mastitis (staph infection in the breast) four times. I found out last fall that I have a benign polyp, which caused random profuse bleeding while I nursed…not pretty. At that point, we started to eliminate a feeding or two a day and replaced it with formula.

By the time the girls were a year old, I was only nursing at night before bed. I planned to continue this through the winter to give them the extra antibodies that my milk provides, but Reagan, being the spitfire that she it, decided otherwise. She had way too much to see and do to be held in my arms for ten whole minutes at a time. So, Abby and I continued with our little routine, which I absolutely relished. Unfortunately with our recent flu bug, she was so miserable that she didn’t want to, so it broke the routine…it killed our mojo. Now, it has been over a week, and I am left with a heart wrenching decision—I could pick it back up, or just let it go.

Bedtime is less complicated without the separation and solitude of taking one of two babies aside to nurse…but (insert whine) I liked it! I miss it! Waa! If I am not nursing then I can take any medicine that I need to…I can even have a glass of wine. I can have a babysitter put them to bed. But (insert whine again) I loved it! I miss it! Waa!

Honestly, when the time came, I didn’t think it would be this hard--I thought that I would be more relieved to get my body back, but upon reflection, that ship has sailed. I belong to the little monkeys. I am part jungle gym, trampoline, mattress, and Kleenex. Not to mention that the effects of carrying eleven pounds of baby around does irreparable damage to the skin, and nursing ruins muscle tissue…period. (I joke that you could use a picture of my stomach as the reminder stickers for birth control pills.)

So with the pros outweighing the cons, my resolve is to just let it be. The girls are fourteen months now, and I don’t want to be one of those moms who nurse beyond the appropriate timeframe…you know what I mean. If the child can verbally request to switch sides, or say “Yummy, dat’s good!” that threshold has been crossed (imo). But I was just not emotionally ready for this…since the cutoff wasn’t planned, I didn’t get a chance to psych myself up for it. To someone has not experienced this it might seem silly, but I am grieving this milestone. I will never get to have those beautiful moments again.

Waa.


Note: This was written quite awhile ago since the girls are almost three now (wowzers). But I still miss it so much…

Fiction Friday: The Serpent and the Underoos

There it was again. Something was definitely moving in the bathtub. Claire leaned closer to the opaque shower doors. ‘It’ was making a strange scratching sound, like tiny nails on a chalkboard. Sitting on the blue toilet, in the completely blue bathroom, she was stupefied. Her hand took the initiative that her brain was vehemently protesting, as she slowly opened the shower door to reveal what was preparing to kill her. And it almost did. As only little girls can, Claire emitted a series of staccato screams that were so loud and high pitched that the lab rats on the Space Station heard them. Her only stroke of luck was that she was already seated on the toilet.

The deafening screeches from her niece instantly put at least a dozen gray follicles to root. Connie burst into the bathroom to discover Claire with her Smurf Underoos around her ankles, hyperventilating in between her siren wails. Connie quickly lifted Claire off the blue throne by her armpits. As the words were about to tumble from her worried lips, Connie saw the horror for herself. No wonder she’s flipping out. Opening the shower door completely caused Claire to bolt down the hall in an awkward hopping fashion, while pulling her Geranimal shorts and Underoos up past her knees. Connie’s concern for her niece morphed into her normal, defeated rage that flourished during the antics of her boys. There, in her freshly cleaned sanctuary, was a box turtle the size of her own head, snapping at a very concerned garter snake.

“James—Timothy—Dennis! Get your rear-ends up here NOW!”

Three blonde, stair stepped heads appeared in the door, each wearing an incredulous, ‘Who, me?’ expression.

Connie pointed to the tub, “Well?”

The youngest, Denny—who was infamous for giving up the goods to save his own delicate heinie flesh—predictably opened his mouth first. “We were having the ‘Battle of the Reptiles’!” This procured an elbow to the ribs from each older brother.

Connie’s eyes rolled back into her head as if she were about to seize. Lord, what have I done to deserve this? I’m a beautician...you couldn’t give me one girl? Through gritted teeth she seethed at them, “Get those creatures out of my tub and back to the woods. Go apologize to Claire…and then, you three will scrub this bathtub...now move it.”

Denny grabbed the turtle, and Jimmy wrangled the agitated snake. Tim searched the house for Claire, finding her in the kitchen, trying to downplay her spaz attack. “Sorry about the turtle, Claire…”

“The turtle would’ve been okay, but you know I hate snakes.” He couldn’t keep the Cheshire grin off his face, and it became contagious. She stifled a giggle, which invited a spittle-snarf from him. In unison, they exclaimed, “Uncle Earl’s!”

Claire was a pseudo tomboy; molded in the weeks she spent there every summer. Vacation Bible School was alright, but she loved playing in the woods with her cousins. They caught frogs and turtles, searched for arrowheads and fossils, got filthy dirty and bathed in the murky pool every night. But she refused to ever go back to Uncle Earl’s. His mounted deer heads didn’t faze her, but his ‘coffin-sized-plexiglass-snake-cage-coffee-table’ gave her nightmares for years. The coffee table was ‘home’ to a Boa constrictor as thick as a two liter pop bottle, and as long as her daddy’s car. Between the couch and the TV, the monstrous serpent coiled itself in its narcissistic display case. When it flexed its massive muscular body, the plexiglass bulged like an overinflated balloon. Claire wet her Care Bear Underoos and shrieked all the way out of the house. She ate her dinner on the porch, wearing a towel.

Tim and Claire were still laughing at the memory when Aunt Connie came in, giving him ‘the look’; without a word he scurried out of the room. She sat down on the brown floral couch next to Claire. “I’m sorry ‘bout those boys. You okay, Claire-bear?”

“Sure, I’m okay…Aunt Connie? Why do boys like snakes and girls don’t?”.

“I don’t know, Hon. That’s just how God made us, I guess.”

“I really like coming here to visit, but I don’t think I would like living with boys all the time. I sure hope I have girl babies."

Connie chuckled and kissed the cowlick on Claire’s head. Okay God, you give me a girl for two weeks each year... “Me too, Claire-bear. Me too. I’m secretly praying for granddaughters, just like you.”

Dirty Jobs: Parenthood Style

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"I really hope she doesn't slobber much; that totally grosses me out..."

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I casually eavesdropped on two young pregnant women at a softball game last fall. I should've told her the truth, but it was too much fun just listening to them.

One of the biggest surprises of parenthood is how high your "nasty tolerance" goes up after the arrival of your screaming banshee(s). Don't get me wrong, I can still flinch a little, even gag, when I reveal the contents of their Winnie the Pooh decorated Huggies; but overall, most things no longer phase me a bit. Some days I feel like the featured guest on an episode of "Dirty Jobs".

So, how do tell this sweet, naive girl that slobber will be the most benign, innocuous substance that will ooze out of her little Malory? As plentiful as drool will be, it will be the least of the problems that she encounters...she will even willingly consume it when her baby starts giving kisses; bird kisses I call them. Open mouthed and drenched with saliva, sweet little Malory will lay one on her, melting mommy's heart and removing her makeup. Nope...slobber isn't an issue...

Maybe a 1 on the gross-out scale of 1-10.

Snot is another story...a sick baby doesn't know how to sniffle or blow her nose; so we parents vainly attempt to wipe it away frequently (making it red and raw) before it runs into their sweet little mouth. They smear it across their face and into their hair, and inevitably, on my shirt. Although it's icky, as a mom I am more consumed with the heartbreak of listening to my baby struggle to breathe through her nose, than squeamish about the copious amounts of phlegm.

I give it a 3.

Now as we venture out of the category of secretions and wander into partially and fully digested substances, we are getting to the true "Dirty Jobs" effect. When the babies were almost a year old, the whole family got the stomach flu...badly. The twins got it first, and it lasted five days. Imagine five formula bottles a day (per baby), plus the attempts of juice and grape Pedialyte, with only 10% staying down. Yes, that means 90% came back up: on themselves, each other, ME, the floor, their beds, and the furniture...for FIVE LONG DAYS (and nights). That is approximately 360 ounces of vomit in 120 hours. This was accompanied by explosive diarrhea (of course) that caused a terrible diaper rash on both babies. On day three I was afflicted by this evil virus. Imagine my right hand holding a screaming baby on the changing table as I knelt beside it violently vomiting into the diaper pail.

Gross factor...8.5.

If you are a parent then you understand that your primary concern becomes that child; you will do anything to help them and ease their suffering. I am amazed at the duties I perform these days. If you would have told me five or ten years ago that I would be holding up anyone's legs while spreading their buttocks to encourage them to "go", I would've said...well, it's not appropriate to say. An emphatic "no" is an understatement. To anyone listening through the baby monitor, we must sound like coaches in a Labor and Delivery room; I guess that would be accurate…sort of.

“No baby! Bend your legs! I know it hurts honey…you can do it! Push sweetie…PUSH!”

Reagan didn’t “go” at all today, although it was obvious that the need and desire was there. This evening I had an epiphany…maybe a nice warm bath would relax her enough to do the trick. It actually did occur to me that it might work…immediately; but not enough to give her sister a separate bath. I am sure that you are fully foreseeing what I didn’t…a water birth.

As soon as she started to groan and turn flush, I began screaming for my husband who was not in the immediate vicinity of the house. I could hear his footfalls clamoring down the hall at the exact moment the dam broke free. In true water birthing fashion, Reagan was semi-reclined against my left arm, as my right arm held up her right leg.

My Knight in Shining Armor burst in the bathroom door, “WHAT!?!”

At that very moment Reagan’s all day project was drifting towards Abby, who had not yet noticed it.

“GET ABBY OUT!! GET HER!” As if the stuff has never touched her precious porcelain skin. My primary concern was that she would, like anything else she discovers, pick it up and put it in her mouth. I shudder at the thought.

Prince Charming rescued Princess Abby before she was tainted by the evil poopy monster, leaving Reagan and I alone to proceed with her labor and delivery. My poor baby was still crimson and “contracting”, but after several minutes she completed her destruction of the bath tub. Happy days are here again. With a quick rinse, diaper and jammies, order was restored to the household…almost. I threw away the bath toys and then proceeded to strain, drain, bleach and scrub the tub until I had a migraine from the fumes. I think that I will take a shower tonight, since I will never look at my Jacuzzi tub the same again.

Gross-out factor…10+.

I've got to go now. I think Mike Rowe is at the door...

Fiction Friday: I Am Chicken, Hear Me Roar

One more. That’s what I said, “Just one more.” The good Lord had a healthy chuckle at those plans, I am positive. And thus it began.

Let me tell you about a little term that the average thirty-something-year-old man cannot wrap his brain around: hyperovulation. Basically, this means that a woman releases more than one egg a cycle. Still not getting it? More eggs=more babies. Three years ago, this reproductive phenomenon gave us Isabella and Olivia; my Bella and Lily. Sigh. They make me two hundred pounds of gelatinous putty in their pudgy little hands.

However—for some men—there is a freakish, testosterone driven compulsion to have a male child. I guess we get wrapped up in fantasies about little league, fishing trips, and carrying on our name.

During the girls’ second birthday party, I whispered into my wife’s ear, “Just one more…” (Insert Divine laughter here.)

With three little words, I infected her with the most contagious of all marital illnesses. Baby fever.

And baby fever is a beautiful thing. Cha-ching.

Now, my part was easy. Hers, on the other hand, included a dry erase calendar on the fridge coded with a frillion different colored markers. There were strange symbols, phrases and abbreviations that meant nothing to me. Five red dots…basal temp…CM…seven green X’s…luteal phase. I asked her once what CM stood for. She told me. You don’t want to know. Seriously. Many times I stared at her baby making chart while sneaking a swig of juice from the carton, just shaking my head. “I’m so lucky to be a man…all the weird and painful stuff falls on women.” (Insert more Divine laughter.)

Before I knew it, my work was done. One morning, my wife peed on at least ten plastic sticks before calling her obstetrician.

Five weeks later, we went for her first ultrasound. As my wife and Dr. Bentley Maserati chatted, I struggled to keep Bella and Lily out of cabinets and drawers. Scary, scary stuff in those drawers. Again, don’t ask.

While Dr. Maserati was squeezing a gallon of goo onto her belly, he assured us, “As I said before, having more than one twin pregnancy is statistically very rare…”

Word to the wise…don’t trust statistical data from a man that delivers babies for a living. It’s the obstetrical equivalent to “cooking the books”; the numbers always get fudged in his favor.

This was a harder pregnancy than the first…

When my wife was about three months along, she had horrible morning sickness, which is never isolated to mornings, by the way. While we were en route to church, she had me pull over. When she got back into the car, she pointed at me while screaming, “YOU mister, are going to make an appointment with the urologist tomorrow!”

“Why?”

“Because I just wet my pants while throwing up on the side of the highway. That’s why! No more!”

I stalled. I clucked. I am chicken, hear me roar. No way.

“Just one more,” gave us two. Girls. Again. Cecelia and Josephine. I dodged the scalpel conversation till after the girls finally came—all healthy and loud. I’m putty in their tiny hands…very tired putty. I have never slept less in my life. Somewhere in a CIA memo was a torture itinerary with my schedule on it.

One morning I watched in awe as my wife tandem nursed Cecelia and Josephine, while Sesame Street blared in the background and the toddlers stage dived off the couch.

She adjusted the football style hold she miraculously maintained. “Hey, did you ever make that appointment?”

“For what?”

“You know, snip-snip.”

Cringe. Cluck. Shudder.

“Er…uhh…no, honey. But what if we change our minds and want to try for a boy?”

At that moment, I heard a sizzle and a pop. It was her brain…

“Are you insane? We have four children, under the age of four, and you want a male heir to the throne? As far as I’m concerned,” she grabbed one of Josephine’s legs and lifted her off the pillow, “this child came out with ‘the end’ stamped on her bottom! Make the appointment, or I’ll do it myself!”

I was afraid she meant she would perform the surgery herself.

The next week I found her staring at the fridge muttering something like, “long luteal phase…”

Come morning I noticed a pregnancy test in the bathroom trashcan.

I wet my pants as I threw up in the Elmo potty chair.

By afternoon I had an appointment.

Bawgawk.

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This is a regurgitated FaithWriter's Writing Challenge story, because I am a lazy blogger. :)

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