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I rang my little sister Ang on Sunday for a quick chat.

You will remember Ang from Blog 20 – Who Packs Your Parachute. Post car accident, I’ve tried not to bother Ang too much with my lunatic rantings. I mean, everyone has their own stuff going on, and there are only so many times you can ring someone and say, ‘You will NOT believe what has happened now,’ before they start screening your calls.

Well, Sunday I was pissed off.

My intention was to call Ang briefly.

Huh. Did I just say briefly?

One hour, 35 minutes and 33 seconds later, I hung up the phone.

Apparently, my version of a ‘quick chat’ now has the running time of a feature film.

I needed my parachute packer front and centre. I needed her to listen to, well… everything. Everything that had been stored away in my little gut, heart, chest and head, all crammed in there like an overstuffed suitcase you have to sit on to get the zip closed.

And on Sunday, the zip broke.

I needed to forget about all the ‘I, me, mine and my’ for a while and dump the whole bloody lot on her so it could become an ‘us, we and our’ problem.

Very generous of me, really.

‘Congratulations, Ang. You are now the proud co-owner of my emotional baggage.’

And, as she always does, she took it completely in her stride. And, as she always does, she made me feel that I was not alone.

She let me purge everything I had been holding onto without interrupting, judging, fixing or somehow turning it around and making it about her.

I talked.

And talked.

And talked some more.

I’m fairly certain at some point she could have put the phone down, made herself a cup of tea, watched an episode of something on Netflix, come back and I still would have been mid-sentence.

The worst part?

I don’t think I even asked how she or the family were going.

Not once.

I know she has her own stuff happening. Her own worries, frustrations, responsibilities and probably a list of things she could quite happily rant about herself.

But Sunday wasn’t my finest moment in the ‘being a considerate sister’ department.

I was ready to jump out of the plane, and I needed my parachute packed immediately.

So, Ang packed it.

No fuss. No judgement. No invoice for emotional labour.

She just listened, reassured me, made me laugh and somehow helped turn the enormous disasters spinning around in my head into something that felt a little more manageable.

Sometimes your parachute packer doesn’t fix the plane.

They don’t stop you having to jump.

They simply make sure that when you do, you’re not hurtling towards the ground alone.

Thanks, Ang.

And next time I ring for a ‘quick chat’…

Maybe clear your afternoon.

Have you ever had one of those weeks where absolutely nothing goes to plan? Not just one small inconvenience, but a full-scale attack from the universe, as though your name has been drawn from a hat labelled ‘Who needs character building?’

That has been my life lately.

It starts with something minor. You spill coffee on a clean shirt five minutes before leaving the house. Then you realise you have no other clean shirts because the washing machine has apparently entered its creative differences era.

You leave the house and discover your phone is on 3 per cent. No problem—you will charge it in the car. Except the charging cable only works when held at a precise 47-degree angle while driving over perfectly smooth roads, facing north and whispering words of encouragement. Why is the cable like this, because at some stage Kristofferson the cat, has chewed through every available cable in the house.

Then there is traffic.

You choose the lane that appears to be moving faster, only for it to immediately come to a complete stop. The lane you just left begins flowing freely, with drivers sailing past looking suspiciously pleased with themselves. You move back, and naturally, that lane stops too.

Of course, my recent run of luck has included something considerably less funny – the car accident – I still can’t talk about it without every conversation turning into an episode of a Days of our Lives soap opera.

Nothing says ‘living the dream’ quite like spending your week rotating between doctors, physiotherapists and insurance phone calls.

I’ve now explained the car accident so many times, I could perform the story as a one-person theatre production.

Even simple errands become missions. You go to the supermarket for milk and leave $86 poorer, carrying three bags of snacks, cleaning products and a candle that smells like ‘Coastal Serenity.’

No milk.

I placed an online supermarket order the other day, because I desperately need translucent loose powder for my makeup the next morning, the powder was half price. Of course, I still spent $100 more, but hey, the convenience of it.

Loose powder will arrive at 7pm and I’ll have it there for my 7am makeup. Yer, you guessed it, everything came expect the loose powder. Sigh.

Don’t get me started on how many lottery tickets I’ve bought lately. I’ve spent a small pension on telling myself, this one is the winner and each week, nothing.

So, I keep reminding myself that bad runs eventually end. Things settle down. Bodies recover. Problems get sorted. Washing machines occasionally start cooperating again.

Until then, I will keep showing up, keep moving forward and keep hoping the next trick I catch is a good one.

Preferably one involving a winning lottery ticket.

It’s daily. It’s a balancing act. The juggle between work, family and personal life is universally exhausting. Whether you’re managing work, childcare, household chores, appointments, bills, relationships, or just trying to carve out a few minutes for yourself, the mental load is real.

In my case, I’ve now added in the physical and mental aftermath of a car accident, and suddenly the juggle feels less like a circus and more like a poorly organised Olympic event I never trained for.  

Some days, it feels like someone is tossing balls in the air non-stop. Work ball. Family ball. Washing ball. Dinner ball. Reply to that message ball. Be a functioning adult ball. Pain management ball. Insurance paperwork ball. Emotional stability ball. Pick up the dog poo ball. And there I am, standing underneath them all, arms flailing, pretending I have a system.

Spoiler alert – I do not have a system.

I’m trying to catch them all, but the reality is I can’t. So which ones do I drop?

The reality is, we can’t catch everything. Not all at once. Not perfectly. Not without eventually dropping something. And that’s the part no one really tells you.

Life isn’t about keeping every single ball in the air forever. Sometimes it’s about working out which ones are glass, which ones are rubber, and which ones can roll under the couch for a few days without the world ending.

The glass balls are the important things – your health, your family, your sanity, your recovery. The things that can crack if ignored for too long.

The rubber balls are things like the laundry pile that has started developing its own postcode, the unanswered emails, the messy kitchen, or the fact that dinner might be toast, cereal, or something beige from the freezer. They’ll bounce. Maybe not gracefully, but they’ll bounce.

Since the accident, I’ve had to learn this the hard way. My body doesn’t always keep up with my expectations. My mind gets tired quicker than I’d like. Some days I feel strong and capable and other days I’m back to feeling like that Victorian ghost in a dressing gown, floating from room to room wondering why my neck hurts and who moved my motivation.

But burnout doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we’ve been carrying too much for too long without enough rest, support, or breathing space.

So maybe the question isn’t, ‘How do I keep juggling everything?’ or ‘Why is the juggle such a struggle?’

Maybe the question is, ‘What can I gently put down today?’

And if the answer is the washing, so be it. It’s been sitting there long enough to develop opinions, so was probably judging me anyway.

Some balls need a plastic bag and immediate attention, because unfortunately the dog poo ball is not one you can ignore for long, before it escalates to urgent business.

Let’s check the history out first, before I explain why this unfortunately relates to me.

Sook – traces back to old Scottish and northern English dialects, originally used to summon unweaned calves. Over time, it evolved into an insult for someone overly dependent, overly sensitive or quick to complain.

La La – a rhythmic little embellishment, similar to the French ‘ooh la la,’ added to make the insult sound more theatrical and dramatic.

In Australia, sooky la la is a slang term used to describe a cry baby, a whinger, or someone sulking and acting like an overgrown baby. It’s usually said playfully to tease someone who is complaining or pouting over something trivial.

The problem is, since my recent car accident, I have become the very definition of a sooky la la. Not the cute, playful kind either.

Since the accident, my physical and mental health has gone into complete overdrive. I’ve turned into something that I don’t want to be, and it isn’t pretty. If I had to describe myself at the moment, I would say I’m one emotional support blanket away from becoming a full-time Victorian ghost wandering the hallway in a dressing gown.

By the way, I just bought a new dress for my upcoming work gala and Simon, the husband, has gently told me that the gala dress actually does look like a dressing gown on me. I’m definitely channelling the Victorian ghost.

I’m told I’m stoic and stubborn. Too stoic and too stubborn at times. I don’t think I am, but apparently the masses disagree.

After the accident, I tried to be practical. I told myself, ‘It’s okay. It’s an accident. My neck hurts. I’ll get better.’ In my mind, ‘getting better’ meant maybe a week or two. A bit of rest, a few physio appointments, and I’ll be back to normal.

The reality is very different. It’s not a week. It’s not just a sore neck. It’s months of pain, appointments, disrupted sleep, nightmares, anxiety, fear, frustration and trying to function like a normal human when your body and brain are both yelling ‘absolutely not.’

I’ve become a cry baby. I can’t stop crying. I am whingeing about everything – the other cars on the road, my lack of sleep, the nightmares, my aches and pains. These are not trivial matters to someone involved in a car accident, but to those who have not experienced it, the attitude can sometimes feel like – well, just get on with it.

Get on with what?

Get on with pretending I’m fine? Get on with ignoring the fact that driving now feels like I’m on a racing track? Get on with waking up tired, sore and emotionally drained? Get on with being grateful I survived, while also grieving the version of myself that existed before the crash?

I’ve learnt you can be grateful and struggling at the same time. I know things could have been worse, but I still feel broken by what did happen.

So yes, maybe I am a sooky la la at the moment, but maybe that’s what recovery looks like sometimes. Not neat. Not brave. Not inspirational and certainly not stoic.

Sometimes recovery is crying in the car park, being scared on the road, complaining about your neck for the fifteenth time that day, and still getting up the next morning to try again.

So, for now, I’ll wear the title. Sooky la la and all.

Unhinged is one of those words that doesn’t just sit politely in a sentence. It bursts in wearing one shoe, carrying a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, and demanding to know who moved its emotional support candle.

At its core, unhinged describes someone who seems mentally or emotionally off-balance, irrational, or wildly unpredictable. So much so, that you begin to wonder whether the train ever had tracks to begin with.

The image behind the word is actually pretty brilliant – something literally coming off its hinges, like a door no longer attached properly. Once the hinges are gone, the whole thing swings wildly, falls over, or becomes completely useless. It is not hard to see how that image made the leap from hardware to human behaviour.

Over time, the term evolved from a physical meaning into a psychological and emotional one. Instead of describing a broken door, it came to describe a person acting as though their usual sense of stability, control, or restraint had popped clean off.

That is why synonyms for unhinged often include words like deranged, unbalanced, irrational, unstable, chaotic,and manic. None of them exactly whisper ‘calm and collected.’ Definitely not the sort of words you’d want embroidered on a cushion.

But language, as always, loves a plot twist.

In modern slang, unhinged has developed a second life. It is no longer used only to describe someone in a serious or disturbing state. Now it can also mean outrageously funny, wildly bold, or delightfully chaotic in a way that feels almost impressive. Unhinged humour is the kind of humour that catches you off guard and makes you laugh while also wondering whether everyone involved needs a nap, a hug, or internet restrictions.

This is especially true online, where being a little polished is boring and being mildly odd barely registers. To stand out, people do not just open the door anymore, they rip it off the frame and wave it around for views.

A completely unfiltered voice note, a bizarre but weirdly accurate rant, or a meme that feels like it was made during a sugar high at 2 a.m. can all be described as unhinged in the most affectionate way possible.

That said, the word still has a sharper edge. When used seriously about a person’s mental state, unhinged can sound insulting, dismissive, and stigmatising. It can reduce genuine distress to a dramatic label, which is why context matters. There is a difference between calling a TikTok comment section unhinged and using the term to mock someone who is clearly struggling.

So, unhinged is one of those wonderfully flexible words that can mean alarming, hilarious, chaotic, exaggerated, or all four at once. It is a word with drama. A word with energy. A word that does not simply enter the room, but kicks the door open, knocks over a lamp, and starts monologuing.

Which, when you think about it, is a bit unhinged in itself.

Life is normal — until it isn’t.

On an ordinary day, I was heading off to work, minding my own business, doing all the right things on the road, when suddenly — bam. Out of nowhere, a Ram pickup truck T-boned my car.

Just like that, life changed in an instant.

I felt the impact. I felt the shunt as my vehicle bounced to the right and slammed into the kerb, or maybe the embankment — I’m still not completely sure. By that point, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

The car bounced back, lifted up, and suddenly I was airborne.

I tried to steer. I tried to brake. But where was I going? Nowhere. The car had a mind of its own.

Then I crash-landed into a concrete garden bed. All I could see in front of me was a metal fence. It was surreal. In one violent moment, I took out a massive section of it.

Somehow, I ended up sitting there with the front of my car up on the fence, still clutching the steering wheel. The music was blaring, and there was this god-awful squealing noise coming from my car.

In the middle of all the madness, I had the common sense to turn the radio off.

Then I tried to turn the car off — but it wouldn’t work. I think the front wheels were still up in the air, spinning and squealing.

For a moment, I felt like I was in control.

Then someone yanked open the driver’s door, and suddenly I wasn’t. My body started shaking. Shock hit me all at once.

They asked me, “Do you want to stay in the car? Do you want to get out?”

I didn’t even know which way was up or down. My head was spinning.

Then common sense kicked in again. I rang my son, Jackson. He was only minutes away, and I asked him to come and help me.

I needed family.

I knew it was an accident. I knew I wasn’t at fault. But my car couldn’t be driven off the fence. Metal palings were stuck up underneath the front of it.

Bystanders who had seen my car go through the fence came over to help. Everyone assured me the car was fine. They told me it was driveable, that there wasn’t much damage.

So, trusting their wisdom, I drove it five hundred metres home.

Later, when the tow truck driver came, he looked at my X-Trail and told me to kiss her goodbye.

“She’s not coming home,” he said.

Ever.

And I cried like I had lost a limb.

I loved that car.

At first, I thought I wasn’t injured. I thought I was lucky and that maybe I had walked away from it all.

Then the adrenaline started to settle.

The neck pain came. The shoulder pain came. The numbness in my hands and arms came in full force.

I felt lost. Bereft. Sad. Sorry. Scared.

But that was only the beginning.

Days later, the nightmares started. Days later, I was in and out of the doctor’s surgery, in and out of radiology, filing police reports, following up insurance, making calls, filling out forms, and trying to understand a process I had never asked to be part of.

All of a sudden, I had a full-time job dealing with… I don’t even really know what, to be honest.

And then there was the driving.

Now I flinch behind the wheel. I yelp. I call out. I find myself driving in the far-left lane on the motorway doing 80 km/h in a 100 zone.

It doesn’t even make sense to stay in that lane. Cars are merging from on-ramps. Vehicles are cutting across my path. If anything, it should feel worse.

But I stay there anyway.

Changing lanes feels too complicated. Too much. Too dangerous.

I am hyper-vigilant. Every car feels too close. Every movement feels like a threat.

It’s not a nice place to be.

For once in my life, I cannot wait for time to move faster, because people say time heals all wounds.

I hope they’re right.

There was a cyclist directly behind me that day. In a sliding-doors moment, I had the option to let him go first.

On this occasion, I decided I would go first.

It hit me a few weeks later – there is no doubt in my mind that my decision to go first saved his life.

And in that same moment, my X-Trail saved mine.

When I left the scene of the accident, I found myself looking through the bushes.

What was I looking for?

A pushbike.

A dead cyclist.

That is the honest truth.

But I found neither.

My only witness had not stopped. He had simply ridden off into the sunset.

And I was left standing there, surrounded by broken metal, broken car, and the beginning of an aftermath I never saw coming.

And I’m now tackling the acronyms.

SNAFU is one of those marvellous words that sounds exactly like what it means. It lands with a thud, like a box dropped in the wrong place, or a muttered curse from someone knee deep in disaster.

It came out of 1940’s American military slang and stands for ‘Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.’ Originally the F stood for a stronger profane version, which was far less polite and far more accurate. It’s all about chaotic, disordered situations, where everything has gone wrong. There’s been a major mistake, an error, confusion, mess, an unexpected complication. Nothing is where it should be and the people in charge are pretending this is all perfectly manageable.

Plain and simple chronic dysfunction. You’re stuck in a situation where nothing is going to plan. A technical glitch, a disastrous mishap, a logistical nightmare. You’ve run into an error or a problem that is large.

That really is the genius of it. ‘Situation normal.’ Nothing to see here. Just the usual catastrophe. Just the regular confusion, delay, wrong turn, missing part, broken plan and ill-timed disaster. ‘All fouled up’, as expected.

It’s a good grumbling army word. Snafu is when the supply ship arrives, but the stuff packed on the bottom are the things everyone urgently needed on top. It’s when the radio receiver sets make it all the way to the jungle camp, only for someone to realise no one sent batteries.

It’s paperwork filed in the wrong place, instructions sent to the wrong person and a plan so poorly executed it becomes almost impressive. Not clever enough to be sabotage, just hopeless enough to be human.

A snafu is not a tiny hiccup. It’s bigger than forgetting your sunglasses, but smaller than total societal collapse. It sits somewhere in the middle – irritating, inconvenient, sometimes absurd. It stops you from accomplishing the thing you meant to do. We wanted to get the campsite up before sundown, but due to several snafus along the way, including a run-in with an angry bear, we didn’t set up camp until midnight. It’s not bad luck. That is a snafu.

In the military, a snafu could be dangerous, even deadly. These days the words have wandered off into everyday life, where it now applies to all sorts of bungles and blunders. Driving all the way to the basketball stadium before realising you left your tickets on the kitchen bench, that’s a major snafu.

Managing to lock your keys in the car while the car is still running, that’s an elite-level snafu.

It is such a useful word because life is full of these ridiculous little breakdowns – moments when the wheels come off, but only just enough to be deeply annoying and later, can be very funny.

Wow! Feeling a bit special that alimardory nominated me for the Sunshine Blogger Award. We follow each other and I love that she, well, simply, talks about stuff. Her blogs resonate and they’re real. Thanks, alimardory and please go check out her site at https://belaboringthepoint.wordpress.com/

I posted my first blog 2^nd May 2025, so it’s fitting that here I am, on 2^nd May 2026, posting about the Sunshine Blogger Award. I love it.

The Sunshine Blogger Award recognises bloggers for inspiring content that promotes positivity. It’s a fun way for bloggers to connect and acknowledge each other’s hard work.

So, the guidelines for this award are as follows –

1. Display the award’s official logo somewhere on your blog.
2. Thank the person who nominated you.
3. Provide a link to your nominator’s blog
4. Answer your nominator’s questions.
5. Nominate up to eleven bloggers.
6. Ask your nominees eleven questions.
7. Notify your nominees by commenting on their blogs.

These are the questions I have been asked –

What’s a smell that instantly takes you back to childhood?

Hot chips with lots of salt and tomato sauce – nothing like it, when someone walks past with a bucket of chips and you catch a whiff.

If you were a minor character in a TV show, what would your one recurring line be?

I bought snacks and emotional support.

What is the best lie you have ever told?

I’m fine. Seriously, I’m a firm believer that when a woman says she’s fine, she is so not fine, it didn’t take my husband long to get this – probably gave it away, with the tone of my voice.

What song do you know all the words for?

Aahh, so many, I love music. One that comes to mind is ‘Don’t’ Stop Believin’, by Journey, a classic and whilst I sing a bit out of tune (not caterwauling bad though), I can belt this one out.

What is the weirdest food you’ve ever eaten?

When I was pregnant – pickles with peanut butter – it sounds illegal, but it did the trick for my cravings. p.s. no-one knows this, not even Simon.

What’s your favourite board game?

Snakes and Ladders. It’s all fun and games until you’re one square away from winning and a snake ruins your entire personality.

Which instrument has the funniest sound?

The kazoo. It sounds like a tiny duck.

What is the weirdest thing in your home?

Probably me! And my son Jackson’s baby teeth, stored in a beautiful velvet jewellery pouch in my jewellery drawer. It even sounds weird as I type this. Am I gifting them to him at some stage in his life??????????

What movie makes you laugh even after watching it multiple times?

The Hangover. It never gets old.

What is the best colour in the rainbow?

Green. It relates to the heart chakra. It’s about unconditional love.

I nominate the following bloggers who I regularly follow –

Kent Wayne – https://dirtyscifibuddha.com/ – My first ever like I received – I won’t forget it!

Neil Scheinin – https://yeahanotherblogger.com/

Kana Smith – https://kanasmith.com/

And here are my questions –

1. How difficult was it for you to come up with your blog name?
2. What has been the most challenging step for you in your blogging journey?
3. What do you like to do on weekends to relax?
4. What’s your favourite holiday you’ve ever been on?
5. Who or what are you most grateful for in life?
6. Favourite movie of all time?
7. Name a bucket list item?
8. What’s your all-time favourite song?
9. Which element do you identify yourself with?
10. What is the best lie you have ever told?
11. What is the weirdest thing in your home?

Enjoy!

Here I go again, still banging on about idioms. This time, I’m tackling that delightfully dramatic phrase ‘beggars belief.’

I’ve got to be upfront – for years, I used to think the phrase was ‘begs belief.’ I was confidently and incorrectly saying it wrong. I mean, it sounded right. It rolled off the tongue. It even felt logical, like someone was politely tapping you on the shoulder, saying, ‘Excuse me, could you perhaps believe this?’ Nice and civilised.

But I stand corrected. The correct phrase is actually ‘beggars belief.’ It’s far less polite. In fact, it’s downright aggressive.

The origin of this idiom can be traced back to the 17th century, when beggar wasn’t just someone asking for spare change – it was used as a verb, meaning ‘to reduce to poverty’ or ‘to exhaust the resources of.’ Over time, this evolved to convey the idea of something being so extreme that it ‘pauperises’ or ‘exhausts’ belief.

It beggars belief that he would do such a thing. The phrase means that something is so astonishing or outrageous that it is difficult to believe. It means that something is unbelievable, is not deserving to be believed, is questionable. The phrase doesn’t gently request your acceptance, it absolutely drains your ability to believe anything ever again.

It’s the linguistic equivalent of your brain throwing its hands up and saying, ‘Right, I’m done. I’ve got nothing left. You’ve used up all the belief.’

Which, when you think about it, is far more satisfying. It’s like someone is saying ‘How dare you.’

Consider the example ‘It beggars belief that he would do such a thing.’ This isn’t a mild statement. This is full-blown disbelief. This is you staring into the middle distance, questioning reality, possibly reconsidering your life choices.

Compare that with ‘begs belief,’ which accidentally suggests the situation is quite reasonable and just needs a bit of support. Completely the wrong vibe.

Of course, ‘begs belief’ has snuck its way into everyday conversation, and plenty of people use it without a second thought. Language evolves, mistakes become habits, and habits become accepted usage. But if you’re aiming for accuracy – or just want to sound like you know exactly what you’re talking about at a dinner party – ‘beggars belief’ is the one to go for.

So yes, I stand corrected. Publicly. Boldly. Possibly for the last time – though history suggests otherwise.

And don’t get me started on ‘pauperise’ or ‘pauperize’, which one is it? They’re both verbs, why is it so difficult? Pick one and stop making it so complicated.

And honestly, it beggars belief that I got it wrong for so long.

There was no-one better with their words than my dad. The way he expressed, well everything – the good, the bad, the ugly – had me enthralled. He could turn an ordinary moment into a story, a warning into a performance, and a throwaway comment into something unforgettable.

He had that rare gift of making words feel alive. They didn’t just leave his mouth and disappear into the air – they landed, they lingered, they made themselves at home inside you.

Then there were the quirky, outrageous things he would say – the kind of lines that shocked you, made you laugh, and at times really upset me, but over time made perfect sense all at once.

For example, the time he told my boyfriend, well technically ex-boyfriend at the time, that came back knocking on my door, after sleeping with another girl. Dad didn’t miss a beat. He marched up to within an inch of his face and said, ‘IF YOU HURT MY DAUGHTER AGAIN, I’LL GET A SHOTGUN, STICK IT UP YOUR BACKSIDE, AND BLOW YOU FROM HERE TO KINGDOM COME.’ It was dramatic, ridiculous, fiercely protective and so undeniably him.

Over the years, somewhere, somehow, I became a lover of idioms. I think that love began with him. I loved the meaning of different words, which were just individual words, put together to make some sort of sense. Words for me could be playful and clever, they could paint a picture while saying something deeper underneath.

I remember Dad saying, ‘Well he’s up shit creek without a paddle.’ What’s going on? Was the creek actually full of shit? If it was, whose shit? What happened to the paddle? Where’s the boat, that was meant to have the paddle?’ Was there even a boat, or someone stranded in the middle of this dark, filthy creek? I found this kind of language hilarious, confusing and endlessly interesting.

Time and age eventually gave me understanding. Oh yeah, you’re in a difficult situation, with no easy way of getting out of it. It meant you were properly stuck – stranded in the middle of a mess, with no control over where you were headed and no easy way of getting yourself out. It sounded funny, but it carried a sense of helplessness, of consequences already in motion, of being forced to sit in the discomfort of something that had gone wrong.

Maybe that’s why it stayed with me. It wasn’t a neat or polite expression, but it was honest, and Dad was nothing but honest. Somehow, in Dad’s way of saying it, even something bleak sounded vivid, funny and strangely wise.

That was the beauty of Dad’s expressions, they made language feel bigger than itself. It invited me to imagine, to question, to laugh before I even understood.

Made perfect sense….to me. It was the magic of Dad’s words and I loved words. I think I loved them because he did first.