Mary.

Merry Christmas!

I hope your celebration this year has been all that you hoped for and more with constant reminders of the Reason for the season.  And I guess that's what this post will be about, though perhaps from a different angle than you've previously considered.

Do you have a favorite Christmas carol?  Mine are:

1. What Child is this?  
2. Mary, Did You Know?
3. I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

The first two always make me think of Mary, a woman who has forever intrigued me - a young woman who is more esteemed and more mysterious than perhaps any other female in history.  So little is said of her in the Bible, and so often I have wondered about her.  One of my favorite passages of Scripture is Proverbs 31 - I even get the name of this blog from that passage - which describes a woman of noble character.  I feel like I know that woman - I know how she respects her husband, how she labors day and night to care for her family, how she nurtures her children so they arise and call her blessed, how she cares for her household and those in need around her.  We are given a glimpse of who she is - and though it is only 1 chapter, I feel like I know her.  I want to be her.

But what about Mary?  Word for word, I think (though I didn't do an exhaustive count) Mary is talked about more in the Bible than my Proverbs 31 woman whom I claim to know.  But who was Mary?  I want to pretend to be her best friend for a minute and ask a few questions...

Mary, I have something to tell you!  Ok, ok, you go first!  WHAT!?!?!?  You're pregnant?!?  But you haven't... No.  I didn't think so.  Then how?  Really?!?  Really.  Oh.  An angel?  Uh-huh.  Ok, I guess I trust you - I have known you forever and you're not one to lie.  Have you told your family?  How did they take it?  Have you told Joseph?  Well, we'll just have to see how things play out.  I'm sure Joseph will handle the situation in an honorable way, I mean, he is a good man.  Oh my - it's so overwhelming!  The reality is we can't solve all those problems now - what's that?  Oh!  I can't even remember what I was going to tell you!  But I have more questions...

So tell me about being pregnant!  What's it like?  Have you had morning sickness?  Even when bearing the "Son of God!?!"?  Wow.  So what about sleep?  I hear pregnant women complaining about getting up in the night to use the "facilities" - do you?  Have you talked to a midwife?  Are you exhausted?  Have you felt baby kick?  Does the baby keep you up at night with wiggling and kicking?  Are you sure it's a boy?  Can you really be sure?  Do you feel alone?  Are you feeling calm or anxious or a little of both?

[A few months later]  So you're nearing full term now.  Have you had any scares - a fall, bleeding, early contractions?  Any braxton hicks?  Does baby hiccough a lot?  Catch me up on your life - where will you deliver?  WHAT?!?!  Joseph is taking you WHERE?!?  Doesn't he know that you'll be about ready to have that baby?  What does he think, that you can just birth a child anywhere?  Well, I guess the worst that could happen is to have the baby along the side of the road in some little shack or cave or barn, Ha!  What are the odds of that happening!?!  Are you upset that you're going to travel - too bad the midwife won't forbid the travel this late.  Who would help you if you go into labor so far away from home and family?  I wish I could go with, but I have to be counted elsewhere...

I mean, can you imagine what it would be like to be her best friend?

It sounds so gentle, "she brought forther her firstborn son."  Not so I'd wager.  I bet it was just like God said in Genesis - painful.  After my first was born, I needed help from professionals, some time to recap the events with my husband, to blog and share with the world my newest, most valuable treasure.  I needed rest, peace, and encouragement as I embarked upon this new, exciting, terrifying journey called motherhood.  I wonder, what about Mary...

What did she think when a band of stinky shepherds came to see her baby in a manger?  Was she proud to show him off?  Insecure about where she had him (in a stable, with nothing better than a manger for a bed, but then, the shepherds wouldn't think less of her for that, would they, that she didn't have the latest Caesar-Augustus-safety-approved cradle)?  Did she wonder why these riff-raff were there?  Did they ask to hold Him?  Did she make them "Purell" their hands?  Did they ask about how her labor went?  Did they leave in a timely fashion so she could feed Him and get some much-needed rest?  Who was there to shoo them away?  Nurses?  Her mom? Her grandmother? And how soon did she get to/have to leave that stable?  Traveling is NOT pleasant after giving birth, but maybe she got moved into a room in the inn?  Would someone have taken pity on them or have fallen in love with Jesus's adorable newborn baby-ness and let the new little family have a room?

Arrrggghhh!  The questions I would ask if I had Mary's ear for a few minutes!  But alas I don't.  And I don't get to ask her about raising the perfect Son either.  She was the mother of the Savior, and yet I get no parenting advice from her.  (Wouldn't you hate to compare your kid to hers - Jesus, literally the perfect child, compared to *insert your child's name here*?)

But then, I suppose that these unanswered questions are intentional.  You see, if the story included much more about Mary, I would be tempted to focus my attentions on her.  But important as this blessed woman is to the holiday, she is not the reason for the holiday nor the one who ought to be studied.

Instead, on this day, Christmas, we honor and remember and worship the Christ, the Son of the Living God. What a privilege it is to know Him, to know that He knows me, that He calls me by name and claims me as His own.  Mary is only valuable as an individual to study in so much as she points us to the Savior.

Perhaps someday I'll get to bend Mary's ear for a minute or two over some cup filled with a Heavenly nectar as we stroll the streets of gold, but for now and for always my focus must be on the One who I can know, the One who has shared with me His character, the One who deserves my honor, respect, submission, my all.

So although 2 out of 3 of my favorite Christmas carols make me think of Mary, I'm reminded this day, yet again, that my focus must be on Jesus.  May those carols henceforth point me from Mary directly to the Christ child.

Merry Christmas, dear reader, and Happy Birthday, Jesus.

A time to grieve

It may seem a little late to be writing this post, but it's been a full weekend for us, and I had to hold myself together.  You see, I have that luxury - I can grieve when I have time to rather than feeling the weight of the grief every second of every minute of every hour of every day.  The tragedy that happened Friday morning has been, by now, blogged about, read about, talked about, speculated about, and here I am writing yet another piece about it.  Why?  Because I need to grieve, and now is the time.

Friday night was the Festival of Lessons and Carols, a sacred Christmas music concert at the school where I work.  It was phenomenal - Fairest Lord Jesus, in particular, was moving for me.  And it seemed like every song talked in some way about Heaven, children in Heaven, and no surprise, really, as the topic was the Christ Child who later stated that we must become like little children to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Saturday night my husband and I attended The Singing Christmas Tree, a musical drama at a nearby church. It tells the story of Christ's birth, miracles, death, and resurrection, and every year it's a great reminder that Christmas is only a celebrated holiday because we also have Easter.  This is a bit of a rabbit trail, but go with me for a minute...

During The Singing Christmas Tree, there's a scene they do every year where Jesus heals a lame boy (once played by my husband - you can imagine the family jokes "he was the best lame boy ever - he was made for it!"  etc, etc).  Later in the scene, a blind man comes onto the stage.  Last year when we went to the drama, I was so impressed by the blind man's acting that I leaned over to my husband and whispered in his ear, "That blind man is such a good actor!  Is he really blind?"  (Keep in mind that I was at that point the first-time-mother of a nursing 3-month old who had never had a bottle in her life...)  Chase responded, "Yep.  They just call the local blind group before every showing and have them send over another blind guy to be healed."  About that time I realized the error of my thinking, and we broke down into uncontrollable silent laughter!  I'm telling you, the guy that plays the blind man is REALLY impressive.

This year, as we watched that same scene unfold(they work it into the story every year), we again dropped into pew-shaking giggles as the blind man was healed.  But they quickly turned to sobs for me as I watched Jesus walk from the blind man who could see to the young dead girl cradled in her father's arms.  In the drama, Jesus brings that young girl to life as he did many years ago in real life.

And in that moment my heart broke, again, for the mothers who would give anything to get the call, "Come!  Bring your kindergartener!  Jesus is here and he can raise children from the dead."  I know the impact that would have - I watched my mother bury her first born, a son.  She - we, any of my family - would have given anything to get that phone call, to have that opportunity.

Friday night I thought about all the Christmas presents that are neatly wrapped or stashed away that will never be opened or enjoyed by those children.  I thought about the mothers and fathers and siblings and grandparents and friends and family who will have to figure out what to do with those presents.  Return them?  That seems cold and uncaring.  Wrap them and put them under the tree?  But that's not really living in reality and what do you do with them after Christmas?  Hide them?  Bury them?  Throw them away?  Nothing you do with that kindergartener's present is ok.  And what about their still-empty precious little Christmas stockings?  Their little art projects and favorite outfits and backpacks and lunchboxes are a little easier.  You hang on to them.  Those things are a piece of who your child was.  But the unopened Christmas present and the stocking - those are pieces of who that child would be come - of who that child will never become.

It's not fair.  I hate it.  I hate what those kids lived and died through.  I hate the horror and fear they had to deal with.  I hate the trauma they were exposed to.  I hate it.  I'm sobbing as I write, because I just can't handle it.  It's so not ok.  And I question - why God?  Really?  Kindergarteners?  Totally defenseless children?  Without even their dads or moms or anyone to stand up for them?  And the crappy part is that it's not that there weren't people to stand up for them.  It's that they were going to a safe place, so their protectors and defenders didn't need to be there.  But they did.

I ache for those mothers.  I've waited until now, when I can be alone and really break down to write this.  If by some miracle you are reading this and you are close to the situation, a mother or sister or father or brother or relative or friend of one of those children, I want you to know that I ache for you, and I feel guilty.

I feel guilty because I tucked my daughter into bed tonight and you didn't get to.  Why your school?  Why your town?  Why your child's classroom?  Why not mine?  Why do I get another day with my baby, but you do not?  I feel guilty.  But I also feel so relieved.

I'm relieved that it's not my child who had to be placed in one of those tiny little caskets.  Why do they have to make caskets that small?  It shouldn't be!  At least when we burried my brother he was 17 - a full size casket - not that it makes it any easier.

I'm relieved that it wasn't my town.  The lives that were touched by the "tragedy" (and doesn't that seem a totally inadequate, completely deficient word to use - it doesn't even begin to carry the weight necessary for such a situation) are seemingly endless.  At least I keep realizing more people who have been directly touched.

First I ached for the mothers - the families too, but the mothers especially...  Then I ached for the kids and what they experienced in those last frightful moments - what horrors...  Then I ached for the other children in that school and the surrounding schools - no place is safe now.  They will have to go back to school there.  I don't know how they'll do that.  Then I ached for the parents of the other kids who go to those schools - they will have to send their kids back into that school.  I don't know that I could...  Then I ached for the teachers and administration and leaders in the community who have to somehow grieve themselves while leading others in recovering from the... from the...  what does one even call it?  No word is grotesque enough.  Most recently I realized that there were emergency response personnel who witnessed unspeakable horrors - what of them?  What of the coroners, the morticians, the funeral home directors, the pastors, priests, and reverends who will have to conduct services?  And what of all the others who I haven't listed and who I'm not thinking of?

Over the past year, my husband and I have seen up close the effect that severe trauma can have on a person and the overwhelming uphill battle it can be to work through it and live a normal, healthy life.  A friend has done this, and done it well, but oh my word.  Oh. My. Word.  The battle was crazy.  It was a blessing to be a part of it and see progress and even success, but it will be a life long battle.  And having witnessed it, it now drives me to my knees in situations like this.  I feel so helpless.

I can do nothing for the people directly affected except to do the one thing that pulled me through burying my brother and helping a friend face the unthinkable:  pray.  Say what you will, believe what you must, but prayer is powerful and my God hears me.  I feel like it's the only effective defense I have to protect my daughter from whatever this world will throw at her.  In reality, it's the only protection I have against what this world throws at me.

There are articles flying all over my Facebook about mental health care and gun control and everyone has an opinion.  I certainly have mine.  But the reality is that whatever laws or reforms are made, nothing will make sense of this.  And nothing will fix the "broken system."  Who are we kidding?  We're broken people.  Does anyone question that?  Really?  Would you call yourself anything other than imperfect?  I wouldn't.  I'm imperfect, and gosh darn it, so are you, and I don't mind saying so, because I'm in exactly the same boat.  And if we're imperfect, what makes us think that we, imperfect people, would be able to somehow form a perfect system?

News flash:  It's NOT going to happen!

So what do we do?  I can only share what I do.  I think of Ephesians 6:12-13

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood,
but against the rulers, against the authorities,
against the powers of this dark world, and
against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Therefore, put on the whole armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.   

This verse comes to mind because imperfect as I am, and imperfect as you are, I don't think even imperfect, sinful humans would do such a thing as Friday morning to each other if not for other influences.  Call me crazy, I don't care.  I only know that what I can do is call the battle what it is - not against flesh and blood.  And I can do what verse 13 says - take up the whole armor of God and absolutely wear out the knee guards.  Pray.

Pray for my baby who will, when she's old enough, go to school.  Pray for her school.  Pray for her classmates and teacher.  Pray for her classmates' families.  Pray for our town.  Pray for our state.  Pray for our nation.  Pray for each of the individuals touched by this horror.  Pray that somehow, in the midst of the grief, the loss, the hurt, the anger, the everything that Truth will be known and Comfort will be found.

And if somehow you're reading this and you're a mom of one of those kindergarteners, know that you are prayed for and I hope that offers you some measure of...  Look, no amount of praying will make it not hurt - I know.  I tried when I suffered great loss.  And no amount of prayer will make things make sense or be worth it or make you feel better or restore your loss.  You could have 10 more kids, but none of them would replace the one you lost.  I get that - really I do.  My prayer is not that you won't hurt, because hurt, pain, sorrow, grief - they're all a gift.  They're what help us remember, they're what help us heal, they're what remind us of the validity and intrinsic value of the one we lost.  Rather, my prayer is that as you hurt, as you grieve, as you experience sorrow and pain in ways unique only to you, that you would also experience Love as you never have before.  That as you feel that you can't take the next breath, it will be like Someone else is breathing for you, that the One who gives life will show you a Life like you've never known, and that in that Life will be fulfillment, peace, hurt - there will always be hurt and that's good - but resolution within your soul and rest.

If this ever actually reaches you, it's likely that you're so deep in grief right now that you can't see past the next minute, and that's ok.  Keep grieving.  But I can see farther ahead than a minute, so that is my prayer for you - Life and resolution and rest.  But for now, just ache.  And know we ache with you.


**NOTE** I wrote this post directly referencing the children, but I know there were adults who are no longer with us as well.  I wasn't overlooking them, and the post and my feelings and prayers apply equally to their families and friends as well.  I realized this after I completed the writing.

A little piece of Heaven: cookie recipe

Have you ever eaten something, and after the first bite you knew that you would spend the rest of your life trying to find that heavenly flavor again?  I had that experience in December of 2008.  A coworker gave me a little Christmas tin of her mother's signature cookies.  There were maybe 8 or 10 little Christmas-tree-shaped cookies and they were...  *sigh*  ...life changing.  Chase can't remember the heavenly flavor, which simply means that I hid the little golden nuggets from him and consumed them all myself - they were that good!

I kid you not, I have spent hours on the internet at various points over the past 4 years trying to find the recipe.  But, you wonder to yourself, Steph, why didn't you just ask your coworker for the recipe?  Yes.  Yes, that's a good idea.  However, my coworker's mother made them - a family recipe - that was not to be shared outside of the family.  

Really? you wonder.  Really.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I groveled.  I whined.  I wished.  I prayed.  I dreamed. I salivated.  All to no avail - I walked away from that Christmas knowing the flavor of Heaven, but unable to recreate it.  This family is as serious about cookies as I am (except they protect their recipes - I like to share mine).

Now, I consider myself something of a cookie connoisseur.  I know a good cookie when I see/taste it.  I specialize, generally, in the heavy, moist, gooey, rich, classics like chocolate chip, monster, peanut butter, and chocolate sandwich.  But my versions of these classics all have a little something to make them special.  I like the concept of the annual Christmas cookie exchange, but I actually don't like the practice, because it's rare to find cookies as good as mine.  (Also, I'm very humble about my cookies.)  I put my heart and soul into my baking, and I don't waste time making stuff that is mediocre.  My recipes are top notch - at least in my book.  :)

So yesterday when I, again, searched for "flaky Christmas sandwich cookie," I wasn't very optimistic.  When  what to my wondering eyes should appear, but 286,000 search results, the fourth of which shone from the screen like a beacon.  From the website "Tasty Kitchen," a blessed baker by the tag of "lisaslater" posted a recipe titled, "Cream Sandwich Cookies."  Oh. My. Word.  It's them.

I know you're wondering what they look like, so here they are:

They look innocent.  They look homely.  They look plain.  They're only about an 1.5 x 1.5 inches.  But they are 1.5 square inches of pure taste bud ecstasy.  There's a cake out there called "Better than Sex Cake."  These are SO much better than that - if you can even begin to imagine!

The top and bottom cookie part is actually more of a pastry/pie crust-type of square.  The green in the middle is such a rich frosting that a tiny bit goes a long way.  But, you're wondering, Steph, what are they made of, and how can I, too, enjoy this little piece of Heaven?  Well, my friend, you are in luck!  As they are NOT a family recipe, and as I am not of the habit to hide my recipes, here it is:

Swedish Tea Cookies

For the cookies:
1 cup butter (softened)
1/3 cup heavy cream
2 cups sifted flour
Granulated sugar for sprinkling

Mix together the butter, cream and flour.  (It will be like a pie crust dough.)  Place flattened baseball-sized portion between 2 layers of wax paper and roll to 1/8 inch thickness.  Repeat with rest of dough and refrigerate.

Once chillded, remove wax paper from one side and sprinkle with granulated sugar.  Replace waxed paper and press down to help sugar stick.  (You want the sugar to all stick, but you don't want to skimp on the sugar either!)  Repeat sugar sprinkling on other side of dough.  Turn onto cutting board and cut into 1.5 inch squares - I used my pizza cutter.  (If I can find a cookie cutter that wouldn't waste any of the dough, I might try cutting them with a cookie cutter next time instead of just squares - it would be more festive, but I don't want to waste a crumb of this dough!)

Place 2 inches apart on baking sheet.  Prick each square 3 x with a fork.  Bake for 7-10 minutes at 350 degrees.  Baked cookies should be puffy but not brown.  Carefully move to wire rack to cool.

For the frosting:
1/4 cup of butter
3/4 cup of powdered sugar
1 egg yolk
1 tsp vanilla (or 1/4 tsp almond extract - I used vanilla)

Mix butter, powdered sugar, and egg yolk.  Add vanilla.  Put the frosting on the cookies to make sandwich cookies and enjoy!

These are delicate, light, sinfully buttery... *sigh*  Heavenly.  Seriously.  I don't rave about food very often at all.  You NEED to try these.  They're worth the effort (and the calories).  Merry Christmas, and happy baking!

The ideal woman

Last week I went to a girlfriend's house for some quality girl time.  Over wine, spiffy cheese, good chocolate and homemade cookies, we solved the world's problems - or at least aired our thoughts on husbands, children, and life.  What else would mommies do when we finally make time to get together?

We spent the evening in a fantastic manner - not bashing husbands or whining about children or lamenting life, but rather sharing our experiences and uplifting one another with positive conversation.  At least that's the way I felt as I drove home: uplifted.

The conversation got me thinking about Plato's Theory of the Forms.  It's been a very long time since I've actually studied any Plato or Aristotle or Socrates or any of those really old guys, but what I remember about the Forms (which might be completely wrong) is the following:  

Let's take a chair for example.  We all know what a chair is. It's a reliable place where one sits.  But what is "chair?"  Does it have 4 legs or 3?  Could it have 5 legs or 10?  Does the seat have to be flat or can it be curved?  Is it cushioned?  What kind of fabric is "chair?"  Or maybe it's not fabric, maybe it's wood, or plastic, or metal, or some other material.  So what is "chair?"  Chair, as a Form, is a definite thing that exists only in theory.  There is, in fact, no one perfect chair by which we measure all chairs.  Instead we have the idea or theory of chair that we then apply, in a variety of ways, in real life.

Why, you may wonder, would a girl's night over wine and chocolate get me thinking about chairs?  It is true that I sat in a chair during the evening, but it was the Form that really had me thinking.  There were 5 of us that sat for nearly 4 hours and discussed many of the facets of life and womanhood.  As I drove the 20 miles home, alone on a 2-lane highway in what most would call "the middle of nowhere," I thought about that word, "woman."  What does that mean?

Each of us has in our minds the Form of  "woman," the idea of what the perfect woman looks like.  And each of us holds up our life against the Form of woman that lives in each of our heads.  I did this as I drove home, and you know what I found?  I found that I fall miserably, inescapably, insurmountably short.

My dishes are never caught up (and even if they are there is always that one cup that was hiding in the living room behind the lamp... How do I miss it every time?), my clean-but-unfolded laundry pile swells like a marshmallow cooking in the microwave, the supplies I buy for projects I intend to do collect in my basement, I never seem to have enough time to write those thank yous that are months overdue to be sent (when has enough time passed that I can just "write them off" my to do list? [no pun intended]), and why don't I have enough time to really invest in all the relationships I want to invest in?  *sigh*

I decided on my drive that I needed 4 of me - one to care for the house and do projects, one to raise my kids and meal plan/cook nutritious meals, one to work and manage the finances, and one to simply have relationship with the people I love and to read.  Wouldn't that be great?!?

But alas, that is my dream, and the Form of woman in my head does all those things, but she is one woman.  I'll never achieve it.  Why do I hold myself to the standard of the Form of woman that I have in my head?  I know it's unattainable!  And yet...

And yet, I have that Form of woman in my head, and she is good.  Daily I have to come to grips with the reality that I cannot, will not, will never be her.  But she pushes me, taunts me, drives me to be a better version of me.  The danger of the picture of female perfection is that she could either drive me to madness or to despair.  Despair that I will never be her, so why try; and madness in trying in every facet of life to be her and yet failing at every point.  And somewhere between madness and despair lies the balance, the middle ground, the sweet spot of motivation to be a better me and still contentment in who I am in the Lord.  

Does that ever really happen?  As we savored the final drops from our wine glasses and prepared to let the evening together end, we discussed the horrible lie of "balance."  We tell ourselves "I can find the balance in all of these things I'm doing."  But I'm convinced that balance, like the Form of woman, doesn't exist in real life.  

Instead of finding a positive balance for all the facets of my life, I feel instead like I'm merely keeping disaster at bay.  I have to let the dirty dishes sit in the sink so that I can have time to have real, quality relationship with my husband and daughter or do my personal quiet time, but if I let the dishes pile too much or the laundry overflow out of my bulging bedroom door, then I don't feel comfortable enough to have people into my home to enjoy relationship with friends and family.  It's not a balance - it's maintaining just enough to keep total deterioration at bay.  

Am I making sense?  Maybe you have it all together.  But if you say you do, I simply think you're lying.  Those women (sometimes I'm her) who bring fresh baked goodies to every party and still have clean counters/sinks - they have to have dirty mixing bowls hiding in their ovens, right?  And the women (sometimes I'm her, too) whose homes are spotless (ok, maybe I'm never her...) can't possibly keep them that way for more than the 30 minutes I'm in their home, can they?  And if they have a family and/or a job and/or anything of a social life, they "sometimes" (for months on end) miss their quiet time too, don't they? 

The reality, I think, is that I have around me amazing women who inspire me, who encourage me, who motivate me.  And I think that the Form of woman I have in my head comes from gathering the very best bits and pieces from each of the women around me - the great qualities, the impressive habits, the positive traits - and assembling them together into the woman in my head who doesn't exist in real life.  

If you are a woman with whom I interact on a regular basis, know that you are having an effect on me, and I suspect I am on you too (I hope for good and not ill).  When you see me walk into a church function with freshly baked cookies, know that either my sink (or if I have to hide the dishes, my oven) is full of dirty mixing bowls and measuring cups.  Or if you see a project I did recently, know that my living room was a disaster for a week while I scrambled to finish the project in the late evenings and through nap times often instead of doing my quiet time.  (Yes, I feel guilty about it.  Please don't chastise me or tell me I can do better - I know I can.  And I will.)  

I'm not perfect.  I'm no where near the Form of woman I have in my head.  But maybe you've learned something from me like I've learned something from you.  The Form of woman you have in your head, I'm sure, has similarities to mine, but I'm just as sure, has differences.  That's the great thing about the Forms.  Just like there is no one chair by which we measure all chairs, there is no one woman by which we measure all women.  We each have the privilege of being simply and only who we are and pursuing the unique Form of woman that we admire. I get to pursue being the unique form of woman who will be the best form of me.

And you know what else is great?  Because my "perfect woman" exists only in my head in my unique Form of woman, you will never know how close or far I am from being her.  That gives me freedom - freedom to hold myself up to her, evaluate what to work on, and then live confidently as who I am, aware of but not hindered by my shortcomings, and motivated to remedy them.  

So here's to wine, and chocolate, and women, and forms.  What a privilege it is to be a woman.