Family

Dark Eyes in a Dark Room

The migraines are new. This time they hung around for a week like a wet cough that refuses to run its course. Pounding, right in the middle of her forehead. The pain so intense that while I couldn’t feel them for myself, I could see the effects of them on her face, in her mannerisms, in the way that she just wanted to lie down in our guest room with the blackout curtains drawn and the lights out. She didn’t even want to look at her iPad, her technology she calls it, because the blue-light was just too much to bear. A week without it. Like a self-imposed punishment befitting a teenage girl. I would slink into the room every hour just to make sure she was all right.

I’ve gotten used to doing that, a mother’s habit. I slink in, make sure she’s still breathing, placing my hand on her forehead to make sure she’s not feverish, checking the water bottle on the bedside table. It’s the habits that help keep me sane when she’s not herself. Her eyes are so dark. Like someone has taken a permanent marker and drawn in crescents under each socket. It scares me to see them this way. Reminds me of horrible memories from years past, horrific flashbacks of swirling red lights and excruciatingly loud sirens. There was always that one car who would try to outrun the rapidly approaching ambulance, would burn right through a left turn, forcing the ambulance driver to slow down and forcing me to scream and throw my middle fingers up in the air at the utter jackassery of the self-absorbed driver who forced an emergency vehicle with a seizing child in the back to slow down just so they could make the light. Yeah. We’re all in a hurry, aren’t we? And I’m so sure that you’re on your way to something way more important than the emergency room.

She finally slept last night. A great sign. She thought that her dad visited her in the darkened guest room a couple of days ago. Said that she sensed his presence in the room. That scared me since she wasn’t talking about my husband, who she also calls dad. But since she was talking about her biological father, who died a week before Christmas 10 years ago. I don’t want her getting visits from dead relatives when she’s so sick, or ever. But especially when I’m so worried that the headaches could be indicative of something more serious than migraines. I actually walked out of the room and told ‘her dad’ that I was perfectly capable of dealing with my kid, and that he could politely and quietly go away now. NOW. GO. I got this…k, bye.

Today she woke up and felt better. On day 7, when we were preparing to call the doctor to have her admitted to the hospital. I’d asked for prayers, had prayed over her myself. I felt a calm wash over me and over the room, and today…she’s better. I’m better. 

It seems like such a small thing, a prayer. But, when fear is taking hold, and the only thing you have left is hope and an emergency plan, I figure that lifting up a prayer really doesn’t hurt. Hope is such a funny thing to me. It used to be just a word, a sort of tossed around phrase, like when people use the #blessed about their morning bagel. Hope, and for that matter, blessed, have taken on a new meaning for me. 

This morning, her eyes were brighter than they’d been in days. She smiled at me when I gave her a flurry of forehead kisses this morning. She knows she’s loved. I know I’m blessed. 

We’ll start this weekend with a quiet calm. No brain on fire, no sharpie’d undereye, and an episode or two of Gilmore Girls. 

“Mom, would you be upset if I eloped?” 

“I wouldn’t be thrilled. I mean, I’d want to be there to support you and share that moment with you.”

“What about if I got pregnant?”

“Oh, uhm. Nope. One crisis at a time, love.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just…nothing. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

#hope #blessed #passtheexcedrin

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Family

5 Weeks, 5 Days

I’ve been thinking about you a lot these past few weeks.

It’s not fair that you didn’t get a chance to live the life you deserved. I’m hoping that somewhere and somehow, you’ve been restored. Perhaps born into a magnificent and loving family, where you’ll grow up to be an amazing writer or a world-famous opera star.

I wanted you so badly. I didn’t even realize just how much, until you were no more.

You just left. Just like that. One day I’m dreaming of cribs and baby strollers, coming up with names for you with your Dad, and then the next—you were gone.

I’m trying to be okay with it. EVERYONE tells me that you weren’t ready. The time wasn’t right. There will be more chances. This is not the end…

I hear the words, but they don’t really stick.

I’m no idiot. I know we can try again and maybe in a few months or so, and we might. But, the pain of not having you stays with me. It may not be THE END, but it’s the end of your life, and that makes me incredibly sad.

I’m not sure if it makes even a small difference, but, I want you to know that I loved you. Even at the beginning stage that you were in, at 5 weeks and 5 days, you were loved. You are still loved. My heart is broken over losing you. 5 weeks and 5 days. That’s when my body decided that it was time to let you go. At 5 weeks and 5 days, every dream that I had for you was lost.

Losing you was no ‘small thing’. It was not insignificant. It was not a case of simply moving on. It was a tragic event, losing you, and your family is mourning you. Your Mom…is mourning you.

We are saddened that we never got a chance to see you, to hold you, to hug and kiss you. You didn’t get to appreciate how truly incredible your Dad is, or experience how loving he is. He’s a fun Dad, and you would have been the light in his life. I know this because I’ve seen how he is with your Sister. She thinks that your Dad hung the moon, and the two of them are peas in a pod, always joking and laughing and teasing each other. I know that had you lived, you would have made their duo a trio, and I would have been outnumbered.

I know that had you lived, you would have come to me with your aches and pains, fevers and knee-scrapes. I would have kissed all the boo-boos, and hugged away all the hurt.

The day after I initially discovered I was expecting you, I did what mothers do—I started to dream. Then I did what writers do, and wrote to you. When I composed this letter, I had envisioned presenting it to you on your 18th birthday, framed alongside our first family photo.

Looking back now, it seems strangely like foreshadowing. One of those divergent events that makes life feel as if every single one of us are pawns in a giant game of chess that is being played by a higher power.

Hi you.

It’s been 13 years since the last time I did this, so please allow me this moment for reflection.

When I got pregnant with your Sister, I was 25. My ankles didn’t swell like they do now, I wasn’t married (yet), and it all felt like a game of house. You’ll find out one day that game turned into something very different and real. But that is a chat for another day. Today, this is about you.

I had my suspicions. I rarely get motion sickness unless I’m on a cruise ship (which is a laugh in itself as your Daddy worked on one for something like a decade), and that one time that I discovered that I was going to have your Sister (It was on a road trip, back from Vegas. I got carsick and then ate an entire Arby’s value meal). So, when I got dizzy and nauseous on the train during my morning ride into work, I suspected something was up. Since your Dad and I had been trying to have you for well over two years however, I just figured that ‘you’ weren’t going to happen…and tried to push that train episode to the back of my mind, trying to believe that it was a touch of anemia or too much or too little coffee.

Then yesterday, I found myself driving to the pharmacy on the way home from work. I bought a 2-pack of EPT tests, and smuggled them home in my backpack. Quite randomly your Dad and Sister weren’t home, so I had the time and privacy to tuck away to the master bathroom and pee on this plastic stick that would reveal our fates. Almost immediately, that little plus sign showed up in the window, and I panicked. This. Was. Happening.

You are real.

Your Dad’s birthday is a few days away, and so, I took that plastic pregnancy positive stick, and put it in a Swarovski gift box (the same box that held the bracelet that I wore on my wedding day) and waited for your Dad to come home.

Ten minutes later, your Dad and Sister arrived home, having gone to the store grocery shopping. Your Dad was busy putting the groceries away and your Sister went to the kitchen table to do her homework. I was antsy. Your Dad was going on about the Internet being out or something like that. I didn’t hear him at all. I was bursting.

I grabbed the bags, and told him I needed to talk to him immediately upstairs. He asked if everything was all right, and I said it was, but that I wanted to give him a gift. As we were walking up the stairs, he said ‘Are you pregnant?’ He was joking, but I went silent for a moment then told him to be quiet.

Once we were in the bedroom, out of earshot of the kitchen, I presented him with the box. In my mind, I had prepared this speech, but only got about two words into it before I burst out crying.

He opened the box, and looked at the stick for a moment. Then he looked up at me. “Are you serious?” (Coincidentally, this was also my response when your Dad proposed to me. Apparently, we both expect the best things in life to be jokes, instead of believing right off the bat that good things can happen to good people.)

You have been a dream of your Dad’s for a very long time. He may have sailed around the world a few times over, may have had the best of everything in life, but he’s never had someone give him the gift of a life. It may be needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway; you are your Dad’s best birthday present, ever.

Your Sister is trying to act tough about the prospect of you, but she’ll come around. She loves me, and has already said that she’ll protect your Mama, so…that’s a good sign. She has also appointed herself as the official ‘belly guard’, vowing to smack away the hands of anyone who tries to touch my stomach without asking. I love that she has this insight and tenacity. Your Sister is one of the strongest people you will ever meet, and you are so incredibly lucky to have her in your corner.

When I was expecting your Sister, I wrote her a letter that included my wishes for her life. Many of those wishes were altered because of the fragility of living. So, I won’t do that for you now. Not because I don’t wish for things for your life, but because I know that life has its own way of spinning wishes. Here’s what I will say; I will do everything in my power to make sure you are healthy, and happy, and educated.

I’m so incredibly blessed to have you, and I will never take that for granted. Thanks for being mine, for being ours. You’re going to love being a DeMott.

While I do anticipate your arrival, I want you to take your time. Grow. Form those arms and legs, fingers and toes. Grow your heart, brain, lungs and other vital organs. Bake well. Once you’re ready to meet us, we will be waiting with open arms and tons of love to give.

I love you already.
Your Mom

A week after I wrote you that letter, you were gone. A loss I still feel months later.

Wherever you are, and I have to believe that you are somewhere out there in the celestial makeup; know that whoever gets to have you is incredibly lucky. No matter what happens, you will always be a part of me. I will always miss you, and I absolutely love you. Perhaps I’ll meet you in the next round of Chess.

Until then—xo, from your Mom.

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Death, Family, Life, Life Altering Moments, Memoir

Making Amends

It’s been 2 months since my last blog post.

It’s been one month since my Dad died.

My brain hasn’t wanted to focus on this fact, and yet has done a lot of focusing on this fact.

If that sounds confusing or convoluted, well, that’s accurate. If it sounds perfectly understandable, that’s also accurate, and I assume that you’ve been in the spot that I am currently in.

Here’s what I do know. Talking about it, helps. Talking about it, makes certain people uncomfortable. Talking about it with certain people makes me uncomfortable.

Trying to focus my thoughts, and put them all together to accurately portray what I’m feeling about the passing of my Dad, is quite possibly the most difficult thing I’ve ever tried to put into words.

Sometimes I am near-normal, and can make it through a day, or a few days without thinking of my Dad and getting teary-eyed. Then there are the days when I’m completely nuts, and I cry at the dentist’s office…not something I recommend. I mean, I really like my dentist, and I have to go back there eventually. Now, I feel as if I’ll have to avoid making small talk and eye-contact.

The story, and the memories are what remain now.

It took me a long time to decide what to say about my Dad. Do I share memories of him, of the times when I was a child and he would sneak me off to the 7-Eleven (or the ‘goodie store’ as we called it back then) to fill up a paper bag of candy and bring home? Do I go into the last months of his life, when I was trying to find a connection with him, one that had been lost years ago? One thing always seemed to road-block me. How do I talk about the relationship that I had with my Dad without sounding angry, or callous?

Before you read the rest of this post, here is what I want you to know.

I love my Dad.

This blog is about finding my truth. Stumbling through the memories, and feelings, and emotions to find the truth inside of me. To learn about myself, and connect with my journey in a way that is holistic, healing and honest.

In being true to myself, I have to be honest with myself as well. That means all the honesty…the good and the bad. Sometimes it’s a good road, nice and easy. Sometimes it’s rough, tangled, and tedious.

This story is a mixture of both.

October 8, 2015

George woke me up this morning.

Last night’s sleeping pill was causing confusion. Used to get the memories to stop rolling on like clothes tumbling in a dryer, and taken to make the constant flow of tears dry up. This tiny pill was now causing a short-term memory loss.

“I’ll take Sasha to school.”

Typically this sort of treat is met with an audible sign of contentment, as it meant 20 more minutes in bed and a round of coffee to enjoy before my brain had to be useful.

“She didn’t want to get out of bed, had the covers pulled up to her neck and everything.” He stroked my hair. “She said that there was someone in her room.”

My head jerked toward him. Toward the words, the idea, the realization. My Dad, who’d just been dancing with me at my wedding 6 months ago, and who had taken his last breaths of life the night before.

“You think it was your Dad? Saying goodbye?” His face registered sadness, and I could tell he was trying his best to tread lightly.

I had gotten the call around 11 pm the night before. Dad had passed, no real details yet, but the killer was known. Cancer.

He’d found out about the dark spots on his lungs in June, two months after he’d driven from Oklahoma to North Georgia, where he saw me get married. We had initially set the date for June, but moved it up to late-April to take better advantage of the antebellum garden blooms and fickle Southern springtime weather. We’d wanted to avoid the rain, and the stifling humidity.

I’d said it many times since, that I was glad we’d moved the date. Otherwise, my Dad wouldn’t have been able to be there. He was so proud on that day, so handsome. He bought a suit. He met some of my dearest friends. He met my in-laws who I knew he’d love, and with whom I knew he’d share a bond with. He got to know me a little bit better. He’d voiced a concern to me about dancing in front of our wedding guests during the Father/Daughter Dance, and had laughed when I told him, “Don’t worry Dad. No one will be looking at you.”

I hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, but I did. I fixed a cup of coffee, and as I waited for it to cool down a bit, I wandered upstairs. I know it may sound crazy, but I wanted to be in the last place where my Dad’s presence was felt. In Sasha’s bedroom.

My little girl’s bedroom was askew, as usual. Bed unmade. Socks everywhere. Pillows on the floor. Plush animals stuffed in every single corner.

I made her bed, carefully fluffing the pillows and placing the assortment of plush toys among them. I sat down on the mattress and closed my eyes. I thought of my Dad, and what his face looked like the last time I’d seen him. I thought about what he’d looked like when I was Sasha’s age. He had bright blue eyes, and dark brown hair that was almost black. He had one of those really boisterous ‘Southern’ laughs, the kind where the entire mouth opens to release sounds that can best be described as ‘unencumbered’. When he yawned, his hand would shake. He called me ‘baby girl’.

Suddenly I felt an overwhelming sense to talk directly to Dad. And so I did.

“Daddy…I want you to know that I’m not afraid. That I’m glad you chose to be here with Sasha.” I looked around at her stuffed animals, at her zebra print bedspread, at her pictures of Marilyn Monroe.

“I also want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t come to see you one last time. I’m sorry that life got in the way of seeing you again.”

“You should know that I really do love you. And I’ve missed having you in my life over the years. No one has ever been ‘Dad’ to me, only you have.”

“I wish that I’d been more open with you about my feelings. I wish I’d told you that I was angry with you for not being in my life more. I regret that we didn’t talk about the distance between us.”

“But Dad, I need you to know that there wasn’t a single day where I wished for a different Dad. I always wanted you.”

“I know you probably won’t believe that, but it’s true. I never wanted someone richer, or smarter or more handsome. To me you were enough. I only wanted you to be there.”

At this point, with tears streaming down my face, I could only get out one more statement, but in my mind, the most important thing I wanted to say to him. “Dad. I forgive you.”

The second those words were released into the air, I felt lighter. As if I’d just been freed from a vice-grip like hug.

The best years with my Dad were from the ages of Birth-Twelve. For those first 12 years, I was ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’. He was my confidante, my friend, the person who I’d show my bad report cards to in lieu of showing them to my Mom who was always scarier regarding bad grades than my father was. Back in the mid-80’s the bad grades were attributed to my ‘daydreaming’ during class. This was before the term ‘creative’ was a misnomer, when simple classroom daydreaming wasn’t allowed, and the teacher’s solution for my ‘head in the clouds’ attitude was to move my desk away from the large window that faced the playground. It didn’t work of course, as being removed from the natural light just made me sleepy.

When my parents divorced for the first time, I was 8 or 9 years old. I was devastated and didn’t understand. I remember weeping so hard for my Dad, that it was almost a howl. I missed him being at home. I would cry so much and for such a long duration of time, that my Dad would eventually come by and pick me up, taking me back to his house with him where I would settle down and look forward to the next morning’s breakfast, when Dad and I would sit at a table in a cafe on Main Street and order doughy biscuits drowning in thick sausage gravy.

This happened so often that my Mom and Dad decided to ‘give it another shot’, and remarried for roughly a year. By the time I was 10, and the second marriage between my parents was nearing another divorce, I was ready for them to be separated. They were two entirely different human beings, who were more volatile together than they were apart. I would happily go and spend evenings with my Dad, or visit him at his flower shop. The naive child that I was, never realizing just how damaging relationships could be. A lesson I didn’t know then, but would discover with much frequency as I got older and began pursuing my own romances.

Shortly before my 13th birthday, my Mom and I moved to California, while my Dad stayed behind in Arkansas. My Mom had met someone and was getting remarried.

I loved California, but I missed my Dad.

For a few years we kept up the travel game. I’d fly out to see him in Arkansas, flying as an unaccompanied minor and wandering the airports alone (security was much more lax in the early-90’s). I’d stay for a large chunk of time, typically a month or two, settling into the spare bedroom at my Dad’s house which used to belong to my Great-Grandma before she passed away. The house was old but quirky, with floor heaters that would smell like gas when they first ignited, and with a giant yard that would become carpeted with pecans courtesy of the large trees that would grow and release new nuts every season.

Over the years, it became more difficult to get out to Dad’s house. He got remarried, and his new wife had 4 sons, all younger than me. The boys were rambunctious to say the least. I would come home after a summer spent in the South and my Mom would remark that I looked like a drowned rat. Stringy hair, tired eyes, bruises on my arms from the boys roughhousing. I had little time alone with my Dad because the house was always full, and then one day I heard that my stepmother had told my Dad that she wasn’t sure I should come visit for such long periods of time because ‘I bothered her sons.’

That statement, and the subsequent lack of communication left me in a lurch. I was 16 years old the last time that I spent any extended time in Arkansas. I waited for the invitation from my Dad regarding when I was to return, but it never came. Meanwhile, photos and stories of my Dad taking the boys out to the lake to go jet-skiing would trickle in. I’d like to say that after a while I stopped looking and listening, but I didn’t. I didn’t stop caring, or wishing that somehow my Dad would regard me in the same manner in which he regarded his stepchildren.

Years past, and life continued on. I spoke with my Dad when I could, but the interactions with him grew increasingly frustrating and painful. He constantly forgot what I did for a living, and when I would tell him, he would either tell me that I should have never given up modeling, or that I should have married Bill Gates.

Three things to note about the above. I haven’t modeled since I was about 19 years old, and also…Bill Gates. I’m sure he’s a nice person, but I think he’s great with Melinda. No hard feelings there, Bill, I’m sure. Finally, and most importantly…this was a pain point for me until just recently. I have been a writer of some sort since I was in High School, when I discovered that I had a knack for words, and a penchant for disappearing into a world filled with promises of escape, of excitement, of darkness and light. I’ve never truly desired to be anything else, and so knowing that my Dad took little or no interest in that part of me…hurt.

As time went on, and my life changed, I spoke to my Dad less and less. I was dealing with some deeply personal things, such as the death of my husband, and my child becoming ill, that nearly sent me over the edge. All through those difficult times, I wanted my Dad to be the sort of parent that I could lean on. Every time, I was disappointed. I suppose it’s true that this caused me to become more self-reliant. What it also caused, was for me to be so self-reliant that I distrusted nearly every single person in my life, especially men. This may sound cliche, but when I discovered the pattern, it made perfect sense. The first man in a woman’s life is her Dad. Every single relationship thereafter, is a layer built upon that foundation. What this meant for me, was that every man would eventually lose interest and leave. Self-fulfilling prophecy up until now, as every single one has. Does this make a marriage difficult? You bet your ass it does.

My Dad spent a lot of time considering people who didn’t consider him quite as much. In the end, at his funeral, his three biological children showed. We were also the ones who were there by his side, making decisions regarding his healthcare and making the funeral arrangements. The kids who he spent years considering and preferring, didn’t show.

If it sounds as if I’m bitter about my Dad, well, yes. In a way, I suppose I am. However, when I uttered those words of forgiveness in the middle of Sasha’s room, I meant them. I think I understand now, the type of person that my Dad was. In all honesty, I don’t feel as if he was ever trying to disassociate himself with me. Instead, I feel that he was trying to please the people in his life, who were in his life on a daily basis. That was my Dad…he considered other people’s feelings in order to be the ultimate ‘good guy’, the one who would always give, the one who people would hold in high regard and respect. Unfortunately, my Dad was also the type of person who made bad choices, and losing out on a life filled with his children, was one of those bad choices.

One of the last ‘real’ conversations I had with my Dad, was also one of the first ‘real’ conversations I’d had.

The night before my 38th birthday, my Dad called me. I’d only found out a few days prior that his medical tests had come back confirming the Cancer had spread to nearly every single organ, as well as to the bones and lymph nodes. Dad had called to wish me a Happy Birthday, and we ended up talking for nearly 2 hours, which is the longest phone conversation I think I’d ever had with him. For the first time in a very long time, my Dad told me that he was proud of me. Proud of the mother I am to Sasha, proud of the way that I’m raising her. He then said something that I never expected. “Shanna, you’ve turned into this magnificent person. In spite of having had me as a father.”

I cried. Those words hit me so deeply in the middle of my chest. I think mostly because I never thought that my Dad gave me much consideration, especially enough to be proud of me for being a good Mom. Never mind the fact that my Dad hadn’t said many heartfelt words to me since I was a child, minus the random comment on Facebook. I definitely cannot recall him ever calling me magnificent. What a powerful word…magnificent. That’s not really a word you hear very often, is it? Especially in regard to another person, and here it was being uttered to me, by the one man who I always wanted to regard me as just that…Magnificent.

That left me with a choice. I could either chose to focus on the pain over time we’d lost, or I could  chose to acknowledge the pain, forgive the time lost, and move forward. I chose to move forward. Forgiveness just feels better. Healing, albeit a slow process at times, just seems like the healthier choice.

This past Saturday marked a month since my Dad took his last breath, and passed away into whatever comes after this life. He was ready to go, to join his own Mom and Dad, and to see my oldest brother who passed away years before I was born. In the last few months, he attempted to make peace with several people in his life, including myself. I suppose that’s what you do when life is slipping away, especially when you know that your time is coming. You chose to make amends. That’s what my Dad did. He told me that he loved me, told me he was proud, told me that he thought I was magnificent. Hell, he even spoke to my Mom about the days when they were married, laughed about memories they shared, and yes, attempted to have it out with her over emotional scars I suspect hadn’t completely healed.

Whatever mistakes, or missteps, or stumbles of his own that he’d made, my Dad wanted to make amends when it came down to it. And whether it’s because he didn’t want to carry the burden of words not said with him, or because he didn’t want me to carry them…in the end, I know that my Dad, loved me.

The last time that I heard my Dad’s voice, was as I was driving to pick up my daughter from school. He called and we chatted for a half-hour about his health, and the roommates he had in the hospice. He sounded more alert than he had in weeks. I drove around the block a few times, just to keep him on the phone for a bit longer. When I finally had to go, I told him three times that I loved him. I just felt the need to say it multiple times. The last thing he said to me was, “I love you too baby girl.”

Regrets. Do I have them? In spades.

I wish I’d been braver, earlier. If I’d only had the boldness to say to my Dad what I was feeling, sooner…I might have had more time to get closer to him. To discover why my Dad made the choices he did. Maybe I would have been fortunate enough to see a completely different side of him.

Here’s what I feel contented about. That I was able to dance with my Dad at my wedding. That my brother and sister and I were able to have one last family photo together. That he made amends with so many people, before the road had run out…including me. That I was able to tell my Dad three more times, that I loved him. That I was able to hear him say he loved me in return.

At the end of his life, many people told me just how much they loved him, and regarded him as a kind man. I was happy that several of my closest friends were able to spend a little bit of time with him during my wedding day, getting the chance to know this man that up until that day, had simply been a picture on my wall.

Dad, you are and will always be, profoundly missed. The years of your absence in my daily life left me a bit harder emotionally than I may have been had you been a constant, but it also made me who I am today. I’m strong, Dad. Your baby girl is strong. Your baby girl loves. Your baby girl…is okay, or at the very least, is on the road to being okay. I’m glad that you were mine, and that I was yours. I’m choosing to predominately focus on the good memories of you, the ones that make me feel peaceful. The summers at your house, the way your blue eyes and dark hair used to remind me of Elvis, the picture that you kept on your computer until forever, of a 6-year old me. Imperfect as we were/are, I know that I was loved, and I hope you knew I loved you, too.

Until we meet in the hereafter,

Your Baby Girl

Dad Dance
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Dad and Me
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