I Wrote This During Nap Time
Really
I wouldn’t lie to you – I have no other time during the day I could have written this. I’m racing against the clock here, because Lucy is 18 months and will soon outgrow the nap or at least start taking shorter naps and once nap time is done, this book will have to be done, too.
Here’s the scoop: I’ve totally lost my mind and suddenly I have five kids. I’m not really entirely sure which is the chicken and which is the egg, but you can be sure the deficiency of sanity and the increase in the number of children are definitely influencing each other.
My lovely wife, Stacy, and I began the adoption process in early 2001. During the summer of 2003 we were placed with two children, ages 5 and 6. Then, a few months later, we got another 18 month old baby. These additions rounded out our biological children ages 9 and 7.
And a dog. For some reason, a dog seemed like a sensible idea to have in the middle of all this. Because, if you are going through the kinds of issues we have been going through, it really helps to have a designated creature to crap on the floor at completely random moments.
Anyway, I’ll get into specifics about genders, names, personalities and all the rest of that a little later. Right now, I want to give you a little background on me. Why right now? Two reasons:
The baby is asleep and tiny microchips implanted in kids’ heads by an evil scientist cause them to do everything in their power to remind me that I am here to serve them and them only and I shouldn’t even think about myself, much less do something for myself. So if I’m going to tell you something about me, it will have to be done quietly while at least some of them are asleep. (Of course, that’s very tongue in cheek, as I couldn’t possibly begin to write something about them, either, when they are awake. The tiny microchip implanted by an evil scientist actually just causes them to have generally unruly behavior which prevents ALL rational thought and eventually makes you start to question how bad jail would really be if you were caught selling them on e-bay).
Because I used to be cool. Seriously. I was awesome. Now, I know every stand up comedian and humor writer who has kids talks about the contrast from when they were single and/or kidless, and how they used to go to bed at 5 a.m. not get up to feed the kids coco puffs, blah blah blah. But you know what? That’s the way you feel. One day your driving down the road in your mini-van with every single seat filled and floor mats suspiciously colored like Goldfish cracker dust and your on your way to karate which is costing you $300 a month which happens to be more than your mini-van payment except you don’t get to keep that karate studio at the end of 60 months and suddenly it hits you that you once held a girl up on your shoulders to flash the crowd at a Van Halen concert in 1985 and how in the hell did you get here?
So I’m will not go into too much detail about how cool I used to be, but I like to mention it once in a while to help keep me sane.
Daddy is NOT unemployed
My wife and our nine year old daughter were having a conversation the other day. They were discussing what she will do when she grows up (my daughter, not my wife – we’ve all come to the conclusion that my wife still doesn’t know what she wants to do when she grows up). After explaining that she’s going to get her belly button pierced, an earring in her upper ear and a tattoo of a sun on her back (I was so relieved to hear that she had all the really tough decisions planned out), Maggie rather matter-of-factly says, “I hope I can convince my husband to go to work.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sometimes you just want to take the little boogers and shake them until they start talking sense. However, reliable sources, i.e., DSS, tell me that not only is that not an effective method of making them talk sense, it may, in fact, be the perfect method to ensure they never talk sense again. Whatever.
Note: My wife advised me that I shouldn’t open this book with a child abuse joke. “Really,” she says. “Child abuse jokes shouldn’t make an appearance in this book until the fourth chapter. At the earliest. If at all.” Hah! What does she know?
Anyway, for the record, I had a job. Granted, it was a lousy job that paid less than half of what my wife was making and they were apparently so close to firing me that when I gave two weeks notice they already had a farewell cake with my name on it in the break room. But that doesn’t matter, because you know what? Work sucks. Seriously. Work sucks worse than anything else I can think of. Changing dirty diapers and cleaning the toilet? Not a problem as long as I don’t have a boss criticizing the way I spray the Scrubbing Bubbles or apply the Desatin. Five hundred and seventy two loads of laundry a day and non-stop chauffer action for the kids after school? Piece of cake as long as there is no co-worker trying to tell me about her diet or her recurring dream about cats.
I’ve had so-called “real jobs” and without exception they suck. I’ve been a dishwasher, house painter, crypto analyst, a receptionist, a driving instructor, an infantryman, a floor waxer, a clerk in a toy store, a phone monkey in customer service, a medical biller, an operations manager and a security guard, to name a few. Some of these jobs have their high points. Some don’t even have high points. But all have low-points that make me want to stick my head in the blender and hit puree. (What is it with all those different names for the settings on my blender? Everything else I own has a normal system – variations of high-medium-low or numerics such as 1 – 10, ten being fastest/biggest/hottest, etc. But the blender company is evidently staffed with out of work thesaurus editors who think I have nothing better to do with my time than make me figure out if “chop” is a higher setting than “mix” or how “mix” can possibly be a higher setting than “liquefy.” I mean, shouldn’t “liquefy” be the highest setting? It’s taking solids and turning them into liquids – doesn’t that suggest the highest level of blending known to man? I’ve never hit that “mix” button out of fear that it will split the atoms in my food and cause a nuclear reaction [that bit of science is so off that it will undoubtedly cause nuclear reactions in the heads of any MIT scholars reading this work {who the heck am I kidding – there are not MIT scholars reading my work. That’s the last thing I need to worry about}]).
The point is, working stinks. I don’t have to tell you that, because you probably have a job that’s sucking the life right out of you as I speak – at best your boss is tolerable, at worst a tyrant. Your co-workers are insipid at best, vicious at worst (not to be confused with those gooey “viscous” workers and trust me, I know you have those, too) who’re just waiting for the perfect opportunity to take your spot. Even professional athletes complain about that aspect or working – someone is always waiting to take your spot. And coming from guys who who make millions to play silly games, that’s pretty tough to take. If Alex Rodriguez is always looking over his shoulder, you’re probably not as protected as you think from Brian in accounting – you know the guy: bad haircut and a $25.00 suit?
Me? I’ve chosen a higher calling. Staying at home and doing nothing. Oh, sure, in order to stay at home and do nothing, I have a few chores here and there - take care of the kids, clean the house, etc. But really, it’s worth it. I mean, for merely vacuuming the floor, doing the dishes and a couple of loads of laundry and some intermittent dusting, I get to drive the kids to, oh, say the beach for the rest of the day and let them play outside until they are sunburned to the point where strangers at the supermarket stare and are clearly thinking of calling DSS.
Note: My apologies for the constant DSS references. DSS is a constant theme in my life – a kind of deranged boogie man character with the power to fuck things up without even meaning to. That’s not to say we’ve had terrible experiences with them – so far. But getting assigned a 23 year old case worker fresh out of school with no children of her own who has to make judgments about our jobs as parents, well, that can be a little nerve wracking. We’ll get into that more later. The point is, we have lived for some time with DSS as the most fearful presence in our lives, so I always equate them with the boogie man.
In the summer time, we go to the beach, we go to the movies, we go to the museum, we hang out at the house and complain about how hot it is until we decide to set the sprinkler up on the lawn and then the kids run through it and I plan to just watch so I never change into my bathing suit but eventually I succumb to the refreshing allure of the sprinkler and I run through with my shorts and shirt on but I forget that I have a wallet in my pocket and everything in there gets wet and sticks together when it dries and the pictures get completely ruined but after maybe the third time I remember to take the wallet out of my pocket before going through the sprinkler.
I have the greatest job in the world. Staying at home is the Best Thing Ever. Best. Thing. Ever. That includes General Tso’s chicken, Aerosmith and the Victoria’s Secret annual fashion show. Sure, the pay is lousy and you have to deal with people who occasionally pee themselves because they “forgot” they had to go to the bathroom, but really, is that any worse than sitting across from Sheila from accounts payable in the lunchroom when she eats and hearing those sounds that are so much like a pig at a trough that she must be doing it on purpose?
I first began my career as a stay at home dad in the spring of 1999. My daughter Maggie had just turned five and my son AJ was three when I quit my job as a medical biller to stay home while Stacy went to work as an insurance drone or something.
Note: This book, while about the whole family which obviously includes my wife, Stacy, may seem to be somewhat lacking in her viewpoint. There is a reason for this and it is NOT that I am a controlling freak who is only interested in ensuring his own viewpoint is presented – that reason is completely secondary. The main reason Stacy’s voice isn’t completely prevalent in this narrative is that I am afraid of her. Seriously. I’m worried that every time I attempt to present her viewpoint I will screw it up and after this thing is published, she’ll read it, say something like, “That’s not what I thought/said” and then she’ll rip my face off. To be honest, we’ve had a long running understanding that I will never begin a statement with, “Stacy says…” So to avoid unpleasantries such as my face being ripped off, I will mostly be providing you with how I feel about certain situations, with an occasional “we” thrown in if I feel really, really confident I have her side of the story correct. Like, laws of physics confident. Besides, I’m writing this book – she can use the computer when I’m done and write her own book if she wants to dispute my claims.
That first summer I spent with the kids was interesting. For one thing, I had to learn to clean the house. Not just clean the house, but clean the house in a manner that it might pass inspection by Stacy. At the time, we had a child shortage and only two were living with us, so keeping the house to International Stacy Cleaning Standards (ISCS) was annoying and creepy, but not at all impossible. It’s easy to clean the house and keep it clean with two kids because I have two hands – one to grab each child with muddy shoes running across the couch.
What were the ISCS, you ask? If you think I’m going to tell you that and risk bodily injury, you’re crazy. Suffice it to say that ISCS were quite a bit higher in 1999 than they are in 2004. In fact, they are now referred to as ISCSWFK (International Stacy Cleaning Standards With Five Kids). These standards are somewhat more realistic. They demand that if the floor should become so covered in dirt that worms knock on the door and ask to move in, I must sweep. And the laundry should now be washed and dried, but folding and putting away are time-available optional.
In short, yes, the house usually looks like someone set a bomb off in it.
But none of that really matters, nor does it fit in with the book. In fact, I’m going to delete all of that when I get a chance. Now, where the hell were we? Oh yes, why I don’t have a job.
I’m basically lazy.
Note: I know you are tired of these notes already and we’re only a couple thousand words into this thing. Tough luck. I don’t have time to go back and rewrite entire passages and this is really the best way for me to fix things that are inaccurate/lies/misleading. What do you think – I’m going to change my entire style of writing just to satisfy you, you selfish jerk? I’ve got 83 individual stacks of folded laundry sitting on the bed waiting to be put in drawers and you want me to rewrite an entire chapter to update you on a specific situation? Tough luck.
Anyway, this particular note was to mention that since this was first written, I got another job, but it’s not a regular job. I got hired as a full time fire-fighter, which is the one thing I have actually wanted to do for as long as I can remember. More on this later.
The problem is finding a place to start this deranged tale of madness and joy. I suppose I could start in 1989 when I was graduating from high school and joining the Army and Stacy was dropping out of college and joining the Army. Or I could start in 1990 when we had our first date. Or in 1992 when we were married. Maybe 1994 when our first daughter, Maggie, was born. Or the following year when our first son, AJ, was born. Or the following year when I finished my second tour in the Army and we moved to Maine. Or the following year when we moved to the Boston area for Stacy to go to law school (she finished her BA when I was still in the Army – she’s an ambitious young woman). Or maybe I should start in 1997 when Dennisha was born in Holyoke. Or 1998 when Edwin was born. Or 2002 when Lucy was born.
There are so many starting points and so much background information I could give you – because, quite honestly, I’m the most interesting person you’ll ever meet (modest, too) – that I could go on for chapters and chapters and never get to the first year of the adotion. I figure if you wanted to read a book that makes it a chore to finish you would have just bought Ulyses or something by Michener. Instead, you bought my book. And that makes me happy enough to try just a little harder.
So, congratulations, I’m not going to give you a bunch of background – you just saved yourself several hours of pretending to be interested in my life. Which, I assure you, you are not.
“Today was the 476th day in a row where we did exactly the same thing.”
Anyway, I decided to start at the beginning of the adoption process and lead you up to the date that I actually publish this thing. You do need a teeny, tiny amount of background information – not a lot, just a little. I’ll keep it to the bare minimum. In fact, I’ll keep it to one sentence.
Even before Stacy and I were married we had talked about adopting children and when we were first married had considered not having biological children at all, but decided in the end that we would have two bio children and adopt however many more we could fit into our lives and so we did just that – gave birth to two bio children and then waited a few years until the time was right and began the adoption process.
There – not too bad. And keeping it to one sentence prevented me from going off on a tangent about how when I left the military the following year was really difficult because of the transition to civilian life and how really, really hard it was to get Stacy through law school…never mind.
Coming next time: The Adoption Process Begins
I wouldn’t lie to you – I have no other time during the day I could have written this. I’m racing against the clock here, because Lucy is 18 months and will soon outgrow the nap or at least start taking shorter naps and once nap time is done, this book will have to be done, too.
Here’s the scoop: I’ve totally lost my mind and suddenly I have five kids. I’m not really entirely sure which is the chicken and which is the egg, but you can be sure the deficiency of sanity and the increase in the number of children are definitely influencing each other.
My lovely wife, Stacy, and I began the adoption process in early 2001. During the summer of 2003 we were placed with two children, ages 5 and 6. Then, a few months later, we got another 18 month old baby. These additions rounded out our biological children ages 9 and 7.
And a dog. For some reason, a dog seemed like a sensible idea to have in the middle of all this. Because, if you are going through the kinds of issues we have been going through, it really helps to have a designated creature to crap on the floor at completely random moments.
Anyway, I’ll get into specifics about genders, names, personalities and all the rest of that a little later. Right now, I want to give you a little background on me. Why right now? Two reasons:
The baby is asleep and tiny microchips implanted in kids’ heads by an evil scientist cause them to do everything in their power to remind me that I am here to serve them and them only and I shouldn’t even think about myself, much less do something for myself. So if I’m going to tell you something about me, it will have to be done quietly while at least some of them are asleep. (Of course, that’s very tongue in cheek, as I couldn’t possibly begin to write something about them, either, when they are awake. The tiny microchip implanted by an evil scientist actually just causes them to have generally unruly behavior which prevents ALL rational thought and eventually makes you start to question how bad jail would really be if you were caught selling them on e-bay).
Because I used to be cool. Seriously. I was awesome. Now, I know every stand up comedian and humor writer who has kids talks about the contrast from when they were single and/or kidless, and how they used to go to bed at 5 a.m. not get up to feed the kids coco puffs, blah blah blah. But you know what? That’s the way you feel. One day your driving down the road in your mini-van with every single seat filled and floor mats suspiciously colored like Goldfish cracker dust and your on your way to karate which is costing you $300 a month which happens to be more than your mini-van payment except you don’t get to keep that karate studio at the end of 60 months and suddenly it hits you that you once held a girl up on your shoulders to flash the crowd at a Van Halen concert in 1985 and how in the hell did you get here?
So I’m will not go into too much detail about how cool I used to be, but I like to mention it once in a while to help keep me sane.
Daddy is NOT unemployed
My wife and our nine year old daughter were having a conversation the other day. They were discussing what she will do when she grows up (my daughter, not my wife – we’ve all come to the conclusion that my wife still doesn’t know what she wants to do when she grows up). After explaining that she’s going to get her belly button pierced, an earring in her upper ear and a tattoo of a sun on her back (I was so relieved to hear that she had all the really tough decisions planned out), Maggie rather matter-of-factly says, “I hope I can convince my husband to go to work.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sometimes you just want to take the little boogers and shake them until they start talking sense. However, reliable sources, i.e., DSS, tell me that not only is that not an effective method of making them talk sense, it may, in fact, be the perfect method to ensure they never talk sense again. Whatever.
Note: My wife advised me that I shouldn’t open this book with a child abuse joke. “Really,” she says. “Child abuse jokes shouldn’t make an appearance in this book until the fourth chapter. At the earliest. If at all.” Hah! What does she know?
Anyway, for the record, I had a job. Granted, it was a lousy job that paid less than half of what my wife was making and they were apparently so close to firing me that when I gave two weeks notice they already had a farewell cake with my name on it in the break room. But that doesn’t matter, because you know what? Work sucks. Seriously. Work sucks worse than anything else I can think of. Changing dirty diapers and cleaning the toilet? Not a problem as long as I don’t have a boss criticizing the way I spray the Scrubbing Bubbles or apply the Desatin. Five hundred and seventy two loads of laundry a day and non-stop chauffer action for the kids after school? Piece of cake as long as there is no co-worker trying to tell me about her diet or her recurring dream about cats.
I’ve had so-called “real jobs” and without exception they suck. I’ve been a dishwasher, house painter, crypto analyst, a receptionist, a driving instructor, an infantryman, a floor waxer, a clerk in a toy store, a phone monkey in customer service, a medical biller, an operations manager and a security guard, to name a few. Some of these jobs have their high points. Some don’t even have high points. But all have low-points that make me want to stick my head in the blender and hit puree. (What is it with all those different names for the settings on my blender? Everything else I own has a normal system – variations of high-medium-low or numerics such as 1 – 10, ten being fastest/biggest/hottest, etc. But the blender company is evidently staffed with out of work thesaurus editors who think I have nothing better to do with my time than make me figure out if “chop” is a higher setting than “mix” or how “mix” can possibly be a higher setting than “liquefy.” I mean, shouldn’t “liquefy” be the highest setting? It’s taking solids and turning them into liquids – doesn’t that suggest the highest level of blending known to man? I’ve never hit that “mix” button out of fear that it will split the atoms in my food and cause a nuclear reaction [that bit of science is so off that it will undoubtedly cause nuclear reactions in the heads of any MIT scholars reading this work {who the heck am I kidding – there are not MIT scholars reading my work. That’s the last thing I need to worry about}]).
The point is, working stinks. I don’t have to tell you that, because you probably have a job that’s sucking the life right out of you as I speak – at best your boss is tolerable, at worst a tyrant. Your co-workers are insipid at best, vicious at worst (not to be confused with those gooey “viscous” workers and trust me, I know you have those, too) who’re just waiting for the perfect opportunity to take your spot. Even professional athletes complain about that aspect or working – someone is always waiting to take your spot. And coming from guys who who make millions to play silly games, that’s pretty tough to take. If Alex Rodriguez is always looking over his shoulder, you’re probably not as protected as you think from Brian in accounting – you know the guy: bad haircut and a $25.00 suit?
Me? I’ve chosen a higher calling. Staying at home and doing nothing. Oh, sure, in order to stay at home and do nothing, I have a few chores here and there - take care of the kids, clean the house, etc. But really, it’s worth it. I mean, for merely vacuuming the floor, doing the dishes and a couple of loads of laundry and some intermittent dusting, I get to drive the kids to, oh, say the beach for the rest of the day and let them play outside until they are sunburned to the point where strangers at the supermarket stare and are clearly thinking of calling DSS.
Note: My apologies for the constant DSS references. DSS is a constant theme in my life – a kind of deranged boogie man character with the power to fuck things up without even meaning to. That’s not to say we’ve had terrible experiences with them – so far. But getting assigned a 23 year old case worker fresh out of school with no children of her own who has to make judgments about our jobs as parents, well, that can be a little nerve wracking. We’ll get into that more later. The point is, we have lived for some time with DSS as the most fearful presence in our lives, so I always equate them with the boogie man.
In the summer time, we go to the beach, we go to the movies, we go to the museum, we hang out at the house and complain about how hot it is until we decide to set the sprinkler up on the lawn and then the kids run through it and I plan to just watch so I never change into my bathing suit but eventually I succumb to the refreshing allure of the sprinkler and I run through with my shorts and shirt on but I forget that I have a wallet in my pocket and everything in there gets wet and sticks together when it dries and the pictures get completely ruined but after maybe the third time I remember to take the wallet out of my pocket before going through the sprinkler.
I have the greatest job in the world. Staying at home is the Best Thing Ever. Best. Thing. Ever. That includes General Tso’s chicken, Aerosmith and the Victoria’s Secret annual fashion show. Sure, the pay is lousy and you have to deal with people who occasionally pee themselves because they “forgot” they had to go to the bathroom, but really, is that any worse than sitting across from Sheila from accounts payable in the lunchroom when she eats and hearing those sounds that are so much like a pig at a trough that she must be doing it on purpose?
I first began my career as a stay at home dad in the spring of 1999. My daughter Maggie had just turned five and my son AJ was three when I quit my job as a medical biller to stay home while Stacy went to work as an insurance drone or something.
Note: This book, while about the whole family which obviously includes my wife, Stacy, may seem to be somewhat lacking in her viewpoint. There is a reason for this and it is NOT that I am a controlling freak who is only interested in ensuring his own viewpoint is presented – that reason is completely secondary. The main reason Stacy’s voice isn’t completely prevalent in this narrative is that I am afraid of her. Seriously. I’m worried that every time I attempt to present her viewpoint I will screw it up and after this thing is published, she’ll read it, say something like, “That’s not what I thought/said” and then she’ll rip my face off. To be honest, we’ve had a long running understanding that I will never begin a statement with, “Stacy says…” So to avoid unpleasantries such as my face being ripped off, I will mostly be providing you with how I feel about certain situations, with an occasional “we” thrown in if I feel really, really confident I have her side of the story correct. Like, laws of physics confident. Besides, I’m writing this book – she can use the computer when I’m done and write her own book if she wants to dispute my claims.
That first summer I spent with the kids was interesting. For one thing, I had to learn to clean the house. Not just clean the house, but clean the house in a manner that it might pass inspection by Stacy. At the time, we had a child shortage and only two were living with us, so keeping the house to International Stacy Cleaning Standards (ISCS) was annoying and creepy, but not at all impossible. It’s easy to clean the house and keep it clean with two kids because I have two hands – one to grab each child with muddy shoes running across the couch.
What were the ISCS, you ask? If you think I’m going to tell you that and risk bodily injury, you’re crazy. Suffice it to say that ISCS were quite a bit higher in 1999 than they are in 2004. In fact, they are now referred to as ISCSWFK (International Stacy Cleaning Standards With Five Kids). These standards are somewhat more realistic. They demand that if the floor should become so covered in dirt that worms knock on the door and ask to move in, I must sweep. And the laundry should now be washed and dried, but folding and putting away are time-available optional.
In short, yes, the house usually looks like someone set a bomb off in it.
But none of that really matters, nor does it fit in with the book. In fact, I’m going to delete all of that when I get a chance. Now, where the hell were we? Oh yes, why I don’t have a job.
I’m basically lazy.
Note: I know you are tired of these notes already and we’re only a couple thousand words into this thing. Tough luck. I don’t have time to go back and rewrite entire passages and this is really the best way for me to fix things that are inaccurate/lies/misleading. What do you think – I’m going to change my entire style of writing just to satisfy you, you selfish jerk? I’ve got 83 individual stacks of folded laundry sitting on the bed waiting to be put in drawers and you want me to rewrite an entire chapter to update you on a specific situation? Tough luck.
Anyway, this particular note was to mention that since this was first written, I got another job, but it’s not a regular job. I got hired as a full time fire-fighter, which is the one thing I have actually wanted to do for as long as I can remember. More on this later.
The problem is finding a place to start this deranged tale of madness and joy. I suppose I could start in 1989 when I was graduating from high school and joining the Army and Stacy was dropping out of college and joining the Army. Or I could start in 1990 when we had our first date. Or in 1992 when we were married. Maybe 1994 when our first daughter, Maggie, was born. Or the following year when our first son, AJ, was born. Or the following year when I finished my second tour in the Army and we moved to Maine. Or the following year when we moved to the Boston area for Stacy to go to law school (she finished her BA when I was still in the Army – she’s an ambitious young woman). Or maybe I should start in 1997 when Dennisha was born in Holyoke. Or 1998 when Edwin was born. Or 2002 when Lucy was born.
There are so many starting points and so much background information I could give you – because, quite honestly, I’m the most interesting person you’ll ever meet (modest, too) – that I could go on for chapters and chapters and never get to the first year of the adotion. I figure if you wanted to read a book that makes it a chore to finish you would have just bought Ulyses or something by Michener. Instead, you bought my book. And that makes me happy enough to try just a little harder.
So, congratulations, I’m not going to give you a bunch of background – you just saved yourself several hours of pretending to be interested in my life. Which, I assure you, you are not.
“Today was the 476th day in a row where we did exactly the same thing.”
Anyway, I decided to start at the beginning of the adoption process and lead you up to the date that I actually publish this thing. You do need a teeny, tiny amount of background information – not a lot, just a little. I’ll keep it to the bare minimum. In fact, I’ll keep it to one sentence.
Even before Stacy and I were married we had talked about adopting children and when we were first married had considered not having biological children at all, but decided in the end that we would have two bio children and adopt however many more we could fit into our lives and so we did just that – gave birth to two bio children and then waited a few years until the time was right and began the adoption process.
There – not too bad. And keeping it to one sentence prevented me from going off on a tangent about how when I left the military the following year was really difficult because of the transition to civilian life and how really, really hard it was to get Stacy through law school…never mind.
Coming next time: The Adoption Process Begins
posted by Strange Biller at 10:27 AM
1 comments
