“Mother is the name for God…

…in the lips and hearts of little children.” –William Makepeace Thackeray

To begin, Happy Mother’s day to all you moms & moms-to-be out there! I had the joy and  privilege, yesterday, to work on several mom-daughter combos who were celebrating their mothers and their motherhood with a nice relaxing massage, or facial, or both!

How special is it to be a mom? Words don’t even begin. We are given the privilege to carry you inside us for nine months, building up in our heads all the things we wonder … for instance:

  • Will you be tall? Short? Willowy? A boy, or a girl?
  • Will you have the blonde hair of your father, or my dark hair?
  • Will your eyes hearken back to our side of the family, or your father’s?
  • If your eyes are from my side, and hair from your father’s side … oh, how beautiful you’ll be!
  • Will you sing? Dance? Play sports? Read lavishly, as I do?

Then, you are born; even during the pain of our labor for you, we still wonder these things listed above, and so much more. And yet, when you are born — at that moment, just then, we realize “Oh. Oh, wow, this is a brand new human, and I am supposed to raise it to be self-sufficient, to be productive.” Talk about harrowing! The responsibility is seemingly insurmountable; I can barely keep myself productive!

All of this has been spoken of before, however. What can I offer, today, on Mother’s Day, that might be a bit different? How about I talk about some of the more amazing Moms I’ve known? I think I like that idea much better.

I can’t help but begin with my sister. You have to understand; my siblings and I? We were raised under what has been described as torturous conditions. Horrible abuse; you imagine it, we likely lived it. I was the oldest, so I was the “responsible” one, which just means I did better at not getting caught, most of the time.

My sister, Taura — eight years my junior, so I often felt very mom-like toward her. She grew up as hard as I did, and she fell into a very bad lifestyle; drugs, strip-clubs for jobs, you name it. When her children were 18- and 6-months old, she was arrested for abandonment of them. In July, in the middle of summer, in a mobile home that was completely shut up, she left them. Why? Because she was addicted to heroin. She went into prison and spent five years there.

And she came out of prison a new person. She had kicked the drugs, and set about herself with a determination to never go back down that road. She lived in Georgia and fought her way into jobs, including at times two at once — her main job and a job doing bookkeeping, or accounting, or whatever she could get. Further, she sent herself back to school. And even further? Well. My father had gained custody of her children; I fought against that, as I believed that he would do the same harm to them that he’d done to my siblings and myself; but the court decided it was better for him to have them than they be in foster care. And so he took them to California, where he lived. And my sister, while she was working two jobs and going to school, also pursued a custody battle to regain her children. A custody battle fought from Georgia to California; my father resisted, and made her fight hard for her kids, and it took her two years before she regained them.

She regained them in time to graduate from school, and finally land the job she’d been wanting forever. Landing the job gave her the ability to buy the house she wanted, and in this house, in this neighborhood, she became the quintessential neighborhood mom. We all know that mom, the one that has a yard and a way of being that all the kids in the neighborhood respond to. Her home was always overflowing with kids, and she was happy, in her element. She laughed as she cared for her children, and her neighbors’ children; she smiled, she fed, she succored.

She was taken from life, then; but in her life, she’d had the opportunity to completely screw up, then recover from that screw up and make something of herself. But her making something of herself was all focused on her children; on rejecting society’s labeling of her son as ADHD; rather than force meds on him — which she’d tried and found didn’t work as intended — she worked with him to begin helping him learn how to manage himself. She focused herself on being the mother her daughter could look up to and respect, rather than disdain. She focused herself on doing all within her power so that her children would always know her love. She was taken too soon, but the time between her going into prison and the time when she came out was all dedicated to becoming strong enough to teach her children how to be, and love, a strong woman.

I honor her for her determination, her stubbornness in fighting, her grace in saying “I will do this because I can do nothing else.” Her acceptance of what is, in order to achieve what she demanded life become.

Next, I think? My mother-in-law. Understand, I basically have no mother, and I’m too old to ask for a mother in my life. Further, when I met my future mother-in-law, I was still broken; it was difficult for me to interact with her. Compound that with her faith, her belief, her Christianity; I saw her as living within this bubble that didn’t include what I considered “real life.” She’d never had to struggle with the things I’d struggled with. She’d never had to deal with the torturous environment I grew up in. She’d not had to fight for her very sanity, for her ability to be a part of her childrens’ lives. In so many ways, I found reasons to remain separate from her.

But she was soft, and she was gentle, and she was accepting. Over time, as I’ve healed, she’s always offered to me the space I needed, when and as I needed it, so that I could come to a relationship with her on my own terms.

She has never demanded, never judged, never done anything more than offer me room to find my own way to some form of accommodation with her. I am not Christian as she is, yet she casts no aspersions on me. I smoked, when we met, and she met that without condemnation. It was as if I kept looking for some way to compare her to the example of “Mother” I’d grown up with, and that way was never found. But in the looking, I began to be able to see her as she is.

She is gentle, she loves, she cares, and she wishes to be of help, where and as she can. She is generous with her love, and with her self. She is very bright, and has a searing insight, but she uses that insight to build up, rather than to break down. Because of the very nature of who and what she is, I could not do anything except learn to accept, then appreciate, then love her for all she is, believes, and lives. I’ve learned that while she never lived my hell, she has lived her own, and she has her battles to fight, just as I do. But her example of grace is a truer one than anyone has ever shared with me before — even those who mouth the “grace” that they’re so generously offering. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t speak it, she just does it. But she is an example of motherhood that I hope everyone has the opportunity to experience, some day.

Last, my daughter. Let me tell you, Moms out there, if you haven’t yet had the opportunity to experience your child as a parent — just hold on. It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. It’s exquisite.

My grandson was born in October 2015; I was able to travel to see him that Christmas season. I had the wonderful opportunity to watch my daughter as she mom’d her son; as she held him close to her, so he could sleep. As she talked the gentle baby-talk to him that whispered love with every breath. As she made changing time special, by taking a bit of time after his diaper was changed to just put her face right next to his, as he lay on the changing table, and whispering gentle words of love to him. As she booped his nose, just to see his smile.

I’ve been able to keep in contact with them through Skype, and I hear little tidbits of her and their lives; her making crock-pot meals to put in the freezer, so she’ll have more time when she’s home with him. Her reading to him. Her giving him a counter to open with pot-and-pan lids made available for his inquisitive self. Her changing his room as necessary, so that he can remain stimulated, so that his ever-expanding mind always has something enriching in easy access.

In all ways, I consider her a perfect mom. But now, her world is shaking, and the more fierce side of motherhood is beginning to be awakened. Her husband, my son-in-law, is a drug addict; he’s lost his ability to pay for the prescription drugs that were his bailiwick, so he’s turned to the dirtier, cheaper drugs; a couple of weeks ago, he overdosed on heroin.

Now, I watch her pick up the pieces. I hear, through her sister, of her continuing on, of ensuring her son’s life remains as unspoiled as possible. I see, when we are able to Skype, her determination to keep her chin up, shoulders squared, so that her son is always put first. I grieve with her as she begins to have to make difficult decisions, decisions which will of course fully impact her son’s life.

And I believe in her. Because of what I’ve seen of her strength, her determination, and her abilities, I know that her son will suffer as little as she can help. Because of her fortitude, I know that she will overcome all the hurdles presented to her, and her son, and will both guard and protect him as those hurdles are exposed.

Not because of what I’ve taught her of motherhood, perhaps, as my examples weren’t always cogent, but in spite of what I’ve taught her, I believe she will surpass me in all ways, and I know her son will remain safe.

Three mothers. All different, all at different stages of their motherhood. The loss of my sister was great; the loss of these other two mothers will be equally great. But all of them, by example, can pave the way for other mothers, as examples of what is right, and beautiful, and loving and kind and generous and protective in a mother.

Happy Mother’s Day; may this day be a day of celebration for the mothers in your life(ves).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Healing

Note: Normally, I try to keep things lighter; this subject, however, cannot be treated lightly. Be prepared before you start reading, but make it to the end; the end is the message of this blog.

The last couple of weeks have been nothing short of revelatory. I suppose, to fully do this blog justice, I should start at the beginning, but I find sometimes that it is difficult to pin down that “beginning.” Was the beginning when I was born? Was it when I was six weeks old, and my mother attempted to drown me so my cries wouldn’t wake my father? Was it the life I lived as the older sibling, struggling to care for two younger children and to, when I could, protect them from our parents? Was it my teenaged years, when I consistently broke every knuckle on the backs of both hands, bashing my hands against concrete walls to try to contain the rage, the anger that ran through me? Was it my first marriage, which granted me two amazing daughters … or my second, which finally broke me?

Was it my third marriage, where I began to learn, for the first time, just who I was, whom I wanted to be, how I wanted to shape my life?

I can’t tell you these answers. I can tell you the results of them, though. I can tell you that I’ve lived an entire lifetime rigidly holding myself in control. I learned to distrust decisions made in the throes of emotion; therefore, I clamped down on the emotion, hid it, buried it, and made decisions from a purely intellectual perspective. I learned that talking to people about my “issues” put a burden on them; either they felt compelled to help, or they saw me as weak, and disregarded my struggles. So I found ways to project all the things I admired — strength and determination, wit, joviality — and I pushed down all the things that I saw as weaknesses — care, compassion for self, grace toward self. Pushed them down, put them in a box, and slammed down the lid. Then piled on top of that box everything I could find to keep the lid down.

I can tell you that I did what so many horribly abused women have done; I became promiscuous. I became a party girl. I learned to open my mouth and discuss the banalities that everyone around me was discussing, and to hide any higher discussions for those very, very few whom I friended who were like me … struggling to stay whole in a world we couldn’t very well understand. I hid my shame, my sense of worthlessness, behind drugs and alcohol. I sought my understanding of love in the arms of many who could love me for a moment, only.

I developed, as so many traumatized people have done, coping mechanisms. At three years old, I began compulsively eating. I would sneak down to the kitchen, in the middle of the night, open the refrigerator, and find inside the bags (yes, you could buy them in bags in those days) of Chunky candy bars; thick, dense bars of chocolate that sometimes had nuts, sometimes not. I learned how to take one, or two, depending on the fullness of the bag, and leave the rest. I knew my parents would each think the other was eating their treasures. I also, at this time, began eating my food as a convict would — arm curled protectively around my plate, fork shoveling as much food into my mouth as I could get, as fast as I could get it there.

I have always enjoyed foods. Varieties of flavors, of textures; the silk of a mousse combined with the rich tartness of raspberry; white chocolate icing the top, making a delight for my mouth to enjoy. Crispy meats, the fat still sizzling from coming off the grill. Eggs, cooked in butter, served on buttered toast; the delicious flavors combining with the myriad textures to make a delight my mouth could lose itself in. Sadly, however, I never until recently allowed myself to actually take the time to enjoy these things. It was necessary that I eat, then that I be prepared for whatever came next; protecting my brother, cleaning my sister, taking care of the dishes, cleaning up so I could put the kids to bed … so on and so forth. So, for me, the compulsive eating allowed me to substitute quantity of food with quality of enjoyment.

At eight, I took some cough medicine; I’d read the label, and took what was recommended. However, my father saw me putting the medicine back and he pounced on me; dragged me into the bathroom, slung me over the toilet, and proceeded to put his huge finger down my throat until I vomited up anything and everything in my stomach. And I clicked. I was, at eight, stick-thin, but beginning to eat everything in sight as I was growing; also, because I was a compulsive eater. My parents had begun, even then, to chide me for watching what I ate, so that I wouldn’t “get fat.” And this, this episode with my father, taught me how I could eat as much as I wanted, as often as I wanted, without fear of getting fat.

Coping mechanisms are just that — they allow us to cope with something that is bigger than we can handle, at the moment we must handle or endure it. You get beaten, then your mother covers your mouth and nose with her hand so you can’t scream, and you learn to self-soothe with the Chunky bars. Or you get awakened in the middle of the night, you and your brother dragged down the stairs to find every single dish in the kitchen laid out on the floor; you have your parents screaming at you about a dirty dish they found, and telling you “clean and put away every single one before you go back to bed.” And you learn to nibble on the bread left on the counter as you do this, offer some to your brother, so that he won’t cry anymore.

You learn that when you hate yourself, when the shame is more than you can bear — if I were a better child, my parents would love me; if I were a smarter, stronger sister, my brother would not be hurt — when the shame of constant failure becomes overwhelming, you can punish yourself for not being enough. You can eat, then you can force your finger down your throat and vomit up every bad thing you believe you are. You deserve this; you deserve to not enjoy your food. You deserve your food to be your punishment.

Coping mechanisms serve their purpose; they allow us to endure what should not be made to be endured. But when their time is past, they become a weight on the soul that drags you down. My bulimia allowed me to live my life as thought there were nothing wrong with it. We won’t even talk about the cutting; perhaps, another time, though I think maybe not.

When one pursues healing, one must find ways to make sense of what is insensible. I never deserved what was done to me; no more did my brother, or my sister. We never deserved to be beaten, to be sexually abused. To be locked in our bedrooms for days on end, with everything but a mattress removed. We never deserved to be turned out of our home, half-dressed, to march up and down our neighborhood asking neighbors if they would be our Mommy, because our Mommy didn’t want us anymore. We never deserved watching our father nearly kill our mother because she antagonized him, and he had no ability to control his own anger.

Yet, in order to manage our parents, I assumed responsibility for all these things. Let me be a good enough daughter, and we won’t be beaten. Let me be smart enough, and my brother won’t be hurt. Let me be strong enough, and I can keep my sister from suffering the same fate my brother and I suffered. The truth, however, is that none of these tasks were mine, and I could not manage them. My parents would always be who and what they were, unless they decided to change; I couldn’t change them. My brother would always be hurt, regardless of what I did, until my parents stopped hurting him.

It is difficult, but not impossible, to separate oneself from this tyranny of should, to accept what is. What does that mean? I struggled for so long to be what I thought I should be, in order to protect myself and my brother, and those struggles always ended in failure. How could I see myself as anything other than not-enough?

Recently, I took my Advanced Reiki Training (ART) class. Just before taking it, I’d reached out to one of the instructors from my school, for accupuncture. You see, I’ve reached a point in my life when everything tells me I should be happy, content. I should be able to just relax, grow in my profession, move forward … yet I found that bulimia still had a strangle-hold on me, literally. Failures, setbacks, stress — all would trigger a bout of compulsive eating; the only method I had of fighting back was to refuse to stick my finger down my throat. Not fun, that … cuz ya know what? That’s how ya get fat. And I, now, am fat, which led to yet one more reason for me to hate myself.

In my ART class we learned a technique that can help one release emotional pain and trauma. I won’t go through the whole procedure, but I will say that as I was learning this, I was crying. I could see an application here, for myself; however, I didn’t know the people in the class with me, so I couldn’t allow it to be done for me, then. I contacted my Reiki Master, who graciously consented to work with me on this.

I went to her home office, and she performed the procedure. I was frightened; I mean, we all know when you take something away, something else has to take its place, right? If I took away this coping mechanism, what would fill its place? How hard would it be for me to give up this, my earliest coping mechanism? My earliest means of self-soothing? As it turned out, it was gentle. It was … I can’t say easy, but it was definitely gentle. Slowly, I felt it diminish, this weight of self-loathing and -hatred I’d always carried. I felt it just drift away from me. She followed this technique with a Reiki session; during part of it, I felt as though light flooded me, clearing out the darkness that I’d used to hide everything I hated about myself. Where that light flowed in, I learned love. Love for self. Grace for self. Forgiveness for self. And healing, for self.

I walked away from that, literally, a new woman. I can look at myself now, see my fat stomach, and my over-developed arse, and I can touch them and say “It’s ok. I accept you. It’s ok.” My relationship to food has changed; I think it may be more correct to say that my relationship to me has changed and, thus, my relationship to food has changed. I can slow down, now, enjoy myself as I eat my food. I can stop, when I recognize my stomach is getting full, and be content. I can finally, after nearly 37 years, not feel the urge to shove my fingers down my throat and purge myself of all the perceived “badness” I’ve felt I carried, all my life.

I can just be. If you have never experienced the joy of feeling grace for yourself, find someone who can work with you, help you, help you find your light to fill in your dark places. For the first time in my nearly 48 years, I am at peace with myself. I have no expectations of myself, except that I live. That I treat everyone I meet with kindness and compassion; if they don’t wish that, then I choose to have no truck with them. For the first time in my life, my life is my own, to choose what I do with.

For the first time in my life, I am finally able to spread my wings, look into the sunrise, and choose the direction I will move in. The heights I will fly to. The shadows I’ll make on the ground as I pass over; I can choose how light or heavy they’ll be. I can choose … well. I can choose anything.

Healing is amazing. It’s a lifelong journey, sometimes a struggle to attain; but it is also just the beginning. Now that I’m here, I’m even more excited to see what each day will bring to me.

Outstanding Woman

I was privileged, this past Friday, to attend the Sunny95’s tribute to 20 outstanding women in the Columbus, Ohio area. I went to this great tribute to support a good friend — Michelle Wells. I won’t get a lot into her story, she can do that just fine for herself. Check out https://tinyurl.com/h65x2af or http://www.lovemelikeaprincess.org if you’d like to learn her story, for yourself.

No, I’d much rather tell you a bit about what brought us together. You see, I’m a massage therapist — bet you didn’t know that, didja?? — and I have an idea. A plan, really, to build on this idea to make something a reality. It’s something that’s going to take me a bit of time to build up, because I have to build my professional skills and knowledge a bit before I can embark on this plan. This plan is centered around working with battered women; using massage as a gateway, if you will, into their learning to own their own bodies, their very selves.

As I said, it’s going to take a while to really flesh itself out. Anyway. During school, I had the great joy of meeting Emily, who is the HR person for Kenneth’s Salon. I was so excited, I just knew I was going to go to work for Kenneth’s! I gushed about my idea to Emily, and she was as excited for this goal as I was … and then I flubbed the interview. Long story short, I work for Massage Envy, as I’m building my personal business.

However, Michelle also knew Emily. As she was talking with Emily one day, Emily said “You know, I know someone else who wants to work with battered women,” and she told Michelle she should look me up. This, actually, was the first way I learned to respect the natural force that is named Michelle … because I’m terribly difficult to find online. If you don’t have any idea who I am, or whom I’m married to or friends with, you just can’t find me on Facebook. Because I’m working on becoming more professionally viable, that’s changing a bit and people can start looking up my website, my FB site for my business, so on and so forth. But at the time Michelle began seeking me out, there was next to no way to find me. She ended up finding an obscure link to my activity with Extra-Life.org, and contacted someone there and asked them to send me a message.

When they got in touch with me, the first thing I thought was “Wow, good for her, she found me!” Not only that — she didn’t take “No” for an answer. She kept digging. Seeking. Looking. Talk about tenacity!

Then I met Michelle. We began talking, and discovered that we have a shared history, in the lives we’ve lived. We know each other because we can recognize where each of us has come from. And one of the first things I learned about Michelle was that she was going back to the gym. That had, during very harsh and difficult times, been her respite, her escape, and she was going back so that she could reclaim that part of you. “So,” I thought to myself, “she also knows the importance of self-care. Very good, that means a lot.”

Over time, Michelle and I have grown a friendship that is based on a mutual recognition of each other, and a mutual respect. When I can, I offer her massage; when she can, she offers me networking. When we can, we hang out and just talk with each other, reaffirm each other’s goals and directions, help each other iron out some ideas.

I have learned that Michelle is as stubborn as I am; however, she also knows, as I do, when it’s time to set the stubbornness by the side and let the other person “win.” She ain’t the most technologically savvy person around, but she knows how to collect people who are, who can do what she can’t. She’s not afraid of not knowing what to do, how to do it; she’s learned how to delegate and rely on others to do their jobs. That’s an amazing ability, not sure if most people realize just how difficult that is to do.

Michelle has also shown me, however, that she’s enormously compassionate. She is a warm-hearted, but reserved, woman who will pour herself out to help others. I’d like to see her spend more time on self-care, but I do know that she’s doing what she can, and she’s still going to the gym regularly. Oh, did I mention I also learned that Michelle is a bodybuilder? No wonder the gym does so much for her! For that, I also applaud her. It takes much dedication and willpower to be a professional bodybuilder; she’s done it before and, who cares if she’s 50ish — she’ll do it again!

When she has a place for me to come, I will go there and work, as a volunteer, with battered women who are going through workshops with Michelle to gain entry into their new lives. I will do this because I believe in the dream that Michelle has; I share this dream, actually. The dream is that one day, we will be able to give battered women the strength to break the cycle of abuse that they live with. It’s a dream that has to start small, locally, but has the potential to spread like wildfire. It is our hope that it will spread, and we will work with each other, supporting each other, building each other up, as well as those around us and with us, to make this dream one day become a solid reality.

One day, through the efforts of people like Michelle, battered women will find their voices, and will roar with a determination to stop the abuse. I am honored to have been able to share your night with you, Michelle; I am honored you sought me out so that we could find ways in which we can work together. I am in awe of your “Watch Me” attitude, and also inspired by it. I will enjoy sitting back and watching the world learn your mettle, woman.

Thank you for reaching out, and thank you for your friendship. People like you give people like me the fortitude to keep on goin’.

There once was a girl named Angel

Welcome to Angel-world! It’s a world of laughter (mostly at m’self), joy, love, & lots of confusion (again, mostly on my end). Been trying to figure out what a massage therapist would blog, if a massage therapist could blog a blog …

And I decided, why not. We’re a bit wacky, some call us Crunchy, some tell us we’re Pollyannas … but we’re really just regular folk, sorta … kinda like you! Well, normal folk who can’t stand to see you in pain; our fingers and hands actually start moving toward you to help out without our volition. Ever tried to control wiggly fingers when they’re beggin’ to dig into those traps and make it better? It ain’t easy, lemme tell ya.

I suppose I’ll start this blog with a brief “About the blogger” then go from there. I am Angel, and I’m a 47-year-old female who finally found out what she wanted to be when she grew up, oh, two years ago. Prior to that I worked in IT for nearly 20 years – everything from LAN Support to Database & GUI Design to Documentation to Training … I’ve done a lot, and I enjoyed every bit of it. Got out of IT about 10 years ago and spent some time bouncing around – truck driver and Realtor are two of the career options I experimented with, but they just didn’t really catch.

I have two amazing daughters, and a grandson who’s just completely the cat’s meow. Literally. When we Skype and he sees all my kitties (Hubs and I have four) he starts meowing at them. So cute! I also have two stepdaughters, and an amazing Guppyfish (granddaughter) and grandson from them, as well. Hubs and I are blessed with amazing kids & grandkids.

We’ve also just recently purchased our first home together – talk about a big deal! We lived in a teeny-tiny little apartment for six years (he’d lived there three years prior) and … well? It wouldn’t hold my kitchen stuff anymore! I mean, I cook. Like, I cook. From scratch. No packaged crapola, no thank you! So, between the preparation dishes, and the cooking dishes, and the base materials (I cook several different varieties of foods, including Indian, Japanese, Italian, German/Hungarian, and more!) like dried beans, seaweed, and so on … well, the tops of the cabinets in the itsy little galley kitchen could no longer hold any more materials.

Fortunately for us, this purchase seemed to be destined to be made by us. The stars aligned, the planets came into order, and everything came together like magic for us. So now, I have a kitchen that lets me store all my cooking stuff … and I have an office, and a studio, and Hubs has his own office, and media room … now, if we could just finish getting out of the apartment! When we closed on the house on Dec 10, we still had until Feb 17 to pay on the lease of the apartment. Being oh-so-wise, I instructed Hubs that we were only going to bring to the house the items we must have to live. You see, Hubs is a packrat. I wanted to build a situation where he’d be accustomed to not having all his other “stuff” all over the place, which hopefully would make it easier for him to donate it …

It worked too well. Now, we’re all happily ensconced in our home, and going back to that dank little apartment is like torture. “Honey, we really need to get over there, we have to be out by Friday!” he says to me. “Groan.” My only response. In my mind I’m thinking “Can’t we just, like, rent a bulldozer and have them go like bulldoze all the stuff? Well, I guess that’d cause a lot of property damage, but still. Something like that?” And don’t even get me started on the car. The car that I drove here in 2010. The car that then fell apart, as I fell apart. By the time I recovered myself, the car was going to take a LOT to fix, so we shoved it into the garage and forgot about it. Now, we have to get it cleaned out … but all four tires are flat, so when they come over Friday morning to tow it off, I’m just hoping we can convince the tow driver to help us pull it outta the garage …

Ugh! So. That is a day in the life, short-version, of a massage therapist. Yep, Regular Jo, as the case may be. I guess I should go have my coffee, so I can get ready for my work day … ready to get these mighty Fingers of Healz on some people and put them to sleep while I work out their kinks!

You, dear reader? Have a great day. Schedule yourself a massage. Get to know one of our quirky selves. Then get set to laugh with us, ‘cuz trust me, we give lots of laugh-worthy moments!