Get Updates Each Time I Post a New Blog. It’s That Simple.

A password will be e-mailed to you.

Archive for the ‘Family’ Category

Yum, Baby Smells like… Italy?

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:11 AM
Tuesday, December 18, 2012

You know that delicious, baked-bread smell of a small baby’s head? Well, my littlest one (not SO little anymore – 3 1/2 going on 19) still smells delicious and adorable.

And lately, she also smells like… Italy.

Or, to be precise, Italian food.

It all started with my quest to help quell her incessant, never-ending itchy scratchy skin. For the first couple of years, it was mostly her lower back that bothered her – I’d find her little back & tushie striped with fingernail marks and scratches where she had scratched herself raw from sheer itchiness. (Mind you, no actual RASH or bumps existed there. Even the skin didn’t look or feel particularly dry to the touch. But to her? Drove her CRAZY.)

Los Angeles is a dry place. I’ve been told it’s up there among the worst cities for skin. (Yes, that is the kind of thing we Los Angelinos talk about at parties. Sometimes beauty really is only skin-deep.) But I’m not planning to move my family out of here just because it’s not the best for our complexions, nor can I afford any of those fancy high-tech, no-mold, room-moisturizing and water-moisturizing systems.

So we get itchy. And Esther, with her daddy’s beautiful Moroccan-Isaeli skin, gets, as we say in the Vaknin household, “super itchy scratchy.”

For her first couple years, I mostly used Aquaphor, which has a sort of Vaseline-like consistency. It helped a bit, if I slathered it on her body day and night, but it didn’t seem to penetrate particularly deeply. This past year, the itching has spread to her front calves where she has torn them raw from scratching, and also to the base of her little neck, where she got a bit of sun poisoning this summer and now it keeps flaring up again and again.

I took her to the doctor to look at the sun poisoning flare-up and ask about the itching, and she shrugged & casually diagnosed that it ‘probably is eczema’ and wrote a prescription for some extra-strength cortisone cream that didn’t help whatsoever. Our insurance doesn’t cover fancy dermatologists, and it didn’t seem important enough to shell out that kind of dough, out of pocket, for another diagnosis.

So, back to the home remedies. Baby powder seemed to help the sun poison rash for a bit, until it didn’t. Oatmeal baths didn’t help at all, nor did baby oil baths. The expensive oatmeal creams, ‘natural eczema creams’, and other creams? Tried those too. Nothing worked.

Then, a new friend who owns a skin care empire made a suggestion. No, it wasn’t to buy $300 bottles of his company’s version of La Mer or whatever. It was simple: break open vitamin E capsules and put the vitamin E goo onto the open scratches. And use olive oil for daily maintenance.

Guess what!?

Yup. Ever since, Baby’s skin has been smooth as butter, silky as… um… silk.

And best of all, she smells like my favorite food.

Pasta olio.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Mmmm. smells like Esther! (and yes, those ARE 'Star of David' pastas)

Flashback Friday! (Lice)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:12 AM
Friday, December 14, 2012

Most Fridays, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – LICE – the BLOG

Dude… SO unfair. I went through this already. As a kid, in second grade or whenever, I paid my dues. My lice dues. I sat forever as my mother combed poison through my scalp and hair, tearing the clumps that would allow quick passage and generally freaking me out to imagine those disgusting bugs laying their eggs in my head. Didn’t help that my school – a public school in DC, Lafayette – had a nurse’s office with a giant poster of a louse magnified, like, x 10,000.

If you’ve never seen a louse magnified 10,000 times, let me enlighten you: they are horrific. Seriously. Like, Roger Corman, or whoever is the current Horror Movie Master of our day (Andrew Weiner?) – I’m now giving you a free idea (though I do expect top billing and points on the back end if you use it): GIANT LICE. Seriously, they would be scarier than any Chuckie, Freddy, or Jason.

I’m not kidding! Take a second, and Google them. Or just click here. I didn’t want to actually put the image in my blog because honestly, I don’t want my blog to be directly associated with hurling. (Unless I’m doing the hurling, in which case I may write about it but I’m still not going to post a picture of it happening, ya know?)

Ok, so back to the main point of this blog. Me. I had lice. FUCKING LICE!!!!!!!!!


Excuse me. I think the lice took over my brain and tripped a wire there. I’m back.

My middle daughter brought it home from school or wherever about two weeks ago. She had about ten of those little suckers crawling around her scalp. Her little sister had three. Both cases were gone in a day, after our nanny – who turns out to be a Lice Commando – seriously, she’s like the Rambo of Lice– hey, Roger Corman/Andy Wiener – there’s your Angelina Jolie! Lice Raider! – anyway, my nanny got a hold of some Pantene conditioner and a good lice comb, and, “voila!” Lice: Exterminated.

Not so easy with my lice. MY lice, turns out, had staying power. It was like all the coffee I drink had gone into their little lice bodies through my blood that they were sucking and turned them into Super Lice. Oh, I had the Lice Commando comb my hair, too. Twice. Didn’t work.

I had to take matters into my own hands (10 hours of running after three crazy out-of-school-for-the-summer kids, I can’t imagine why my nanny didn’t want to stay at my house yet ANOTHER hour just to help comb through a lice-infested head), so I continued her good work, every day, in the shower, myself.

The itching continued. And continued! What is up with that? The itching seemed to spread all over – the lice finally went away after the first week but the itching would flaring up any time I’d think about the whole nightmare. Psychosomatic, I know, but come on – enough already! Why don’t you leave me along and go pick on a kid who is only 400,000 x your size, you big bullies!!

Okay, I’m done ranting. Anyone have a hairbrush I can borrow?


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Shangri La for Lice

Comments Off

And then THAT Happened

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:17 AM
Tuesday, December 11, 2012

It’s always fun for my children to visit my mother in Maryland because her house is kind of a Shangri La for kids. (And since I’m her kid… the place rocks for me too, and really anyone who visits, even the GrownupGrownups.)

Mom has giant house with a dock, perched on a beautiful creek. There’s a giant pool, lots of wildlife and forest-ish stuff for kids to pretend to get lost in, a jet ski and a motor boat that are always the hit of the party despite occasional whiplashy side-effects.

My stepfather is cranky but completely loveable and he seals the deal by holing up in his ham radio shack all day to escape the madness (did I mention he doesn’t like mess? and when we visit it’s like we brought the NY zoo with us?) and when kids venture to his shack they are rewarded with gizmos and dials and hoozy-whatsits more dazzling than a 747 cockpit, along with Oreo cookies and personalized ham radio postcards to take with them.

My mother cooks and bakes and buys nonstop goodies so we all enter into a sugar coma immediately and usually only wake up from it about halfway back on the 6 hour flight home. And while the outside is fun and the kids would swim from sunup to sundown if we’d let them, the giant TV in the upstairs playroom is the perfect babysitter, keeping the kids quiet and happy while the adults get some ‘us time’ at the dinner table downstairs.


No one knows how to use the TV remote. Or maybe my step-nephew does, and possibly my brother does, but they usually aren’t around. To my stepfather’s credit, he FINALLY got rid of the “Universal Remote” (that was literally IMPOSSIBLE TO USE) after only 5 years of insisting “it works” so it is now sort of possible to navigate around the various shows, but it’s not easy.

So when I went upstairs to take my son through the play room to my bedroom where his night clothes were, the TV show programmed for the kids had ended and there was another program running.

Hmmmm, how shall I put this delicately?

A pornographic program.

Regardless of who is watching it, I think porn sucks. But when it falls under the unsuspecting gaze of my EIGHT YEAR OLD????!!!

Oh hell-to-the-NO.

My son went hyper immediately (may have had something to do with my hand that slapped down hard over his eyes), and it was him-against-me for a few seconds of primal struggle until I managed to grab the closest remote and NOT figure out how the fuck to turn the danged thing OFF.


I finally got it – close enough – the TV still buzzed but no show ran – and hurried my giggly son off to the bathroom to brush teeth.

The whole thing was forgotten in a minute, as no pornographic show holds a candle to a new toothbrush that lights up like a firefly when it comes to an eight year old.

Or so I thought.

Because as I walked my darling boy from the bathroom to his bedroom, he remarked sweetly, “Ima? When I’m thirteen, can I watch whatever TV shows I want?”

Little bugger.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Burned into my memory. And now, into yours. You're welcome.

Comments Off

Happy Birthday, My Love

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:44 AM
Thursday, December 6, 2012

I hesitate to make public my love for my husband, out of the feeling that the best things in life should be held close to the heart, and not always shouted from the mountaintop.

On the other hand, after 9+ years of marriage, I want to say it loud, say it proud, and say it emphatically:


Thank you for the life you have given me – the love, support, challenges, laughs, amazing kids, amazing food, and so much more.

We have not just grown together throughout these years of marriage, but what is so much better – we have finally begun to ‘grow up‘ together, and for this I am truly grateful.

I am in awe of your perseverance, your ability to make the impossible possible, your sensitivity and gentleness, your strength, your sense of humor, your love of life and especially of your dedication to leading a spiritual life.

Thank you for being my husband. May we celebrate many more birthdays together, to 190 + beyond…



Still cute at 46. (him! not me!)

I’m not Martha Stewart (but my daughter is!)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:07 AM
Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Many of you know me. I’m hard-working, caring, a great writer (& obviously not afraid to toot my own horn cause I’m also a Leo!)… Bottom line, I have many wonderful qualities and I’m not ashamed of them.

But I am a little ashamed… of my complete and utter lack of talent or desire when it comes to anything in the realm of home decorating.

In my house, don’t be shocked to walk by ancient photos framed in even more ancient frames – mis-matched, of course. Bookshelves in random areas like the hallway, stuffed with appliances, tools and “stuff” that doesn’t fit anywhere else.

The stains on our couches? Look, I tried to clean them! They don’t come out!

The lack of proper utensils or matching plates for more than 4 people? Who knows what happened to those 20 other matching sets over the years!

The bare lightbulbs here and there? The nails without pictures, and the pictures without nails, leaning haplessly against the walls on the floor?

What do you want from me?? We can’t all be Martha Stewart!

Though apparently, our daughters can.

My youngest daughter already shows great promise in the realm of the visual arts. I’m told by her teachers that her careful “coloring inside the lines” foretells great things for her future – decorating and other.

But meanwhile, the actualized talent of my 6 ½ year old is quite exciting. I mean, that girl can organize and decorate a room! She doesn’t just clean up and then stuff all the crayons, hairbands and tiny toys into one box and shut the lid (like I MAY have POSSIBLY done once or twice) – she actually takes the time, effort and care to sort them and arrange them in a visually pleasing way.

She loves to draw, paint, and do crafts, and yes – to decorate our home. Often I’ll find a new picture hanging from the hook in my bedroom where the curtain ties hang.

“Surprise!” The picture shouts at me, with its rainbows, hearts and beautifully red-lipped girls, “at least someone in your house thinks about making it look pretty once in a while!

Dear readers, my daughter has set the Martha Stewart bar in our house, and she has set it high.

Alright, little lady: Game On! I learned how to draw a ‘legible’ picture by the age of 40 – this old dog’s got some home decorating tricks up her admittedly partially-stained and in-need-of-patching sleeves!

Until we meet again…



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

"What you need a little menorah? Sure, I'll whip a little something up for you. One sec - TA-DA!"

Drumroll, Please!

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:04 AM
Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Okay, readers! As promised, here is my “official first blog back.” (yesterday’s was kind of a warm-up)

Let’s see… how do I say this delicately?

I think there’s no way but the straightforward way.

Here goes.

I’m pregnant.

Yes, again.

That’s right, you calculated correctly. Number four.

No, I wasn’t lying when I wrote about turning blorty this summer.

Yes, we actually did want another.

Seriously. It was not an accident.


(I know you didn’t say that OUT LOUD but I heard your brain. You think very loudly.)

We were keeping it a secret until we passed the 1st trimester safely. And I discovered something: because my blogging is intimately tied up with my ability to say whatever I want about whatever is current and pertinent in my daily life, as I kept this big secret inside, I found I had no ability or interest whatsoever to write or blog. I was tired, I was excited, I was nauseous, I was nervous, I was giddy about the fact that a few other of my friends had just revealed to me THEY were pregnant… and I was unable to write about any of it.

We told the kids and our close friends & family a couple weeks ago. Then, last week, I started to feel listless and ‘down’ and verging on being unhappy for no obvious reason.

Until I realized I hadn’t written the blog (or anything creative) for months.

Once I realized that, ideas started pouring in for new blogs. Versus the prior three months, when even when I tried my hardest to thing of a good blog, nothing seemed worth the trouble.

So… in a word, dear readers (or 2 words, to be precise):

I’m back!

Hope you’ll still have me.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)


Don't blame me for this drawing. Blame copyright laws. And my lack of funds for hiring a decent graphic artist support staff.

Flashback Friday! (Seasons of Love)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:45 AM
Friday, September 14, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Seasons of LOVE – the BLOG

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes… How do you measure, Measure a year? – RENT (the musical)

You know the other night, I got to thinking… just exactly how many minutes of my life have I thus far spent in my children’s room, trying to get them to go to sleep? (I’m sure I don’t even need to say that this thought struck me as I was passing the ½ hour mark doing just that.)

To answer my question, I left my little one crying (the two bigger ones having mercifully fallen asleep already), and went to my desk. Took out the calculator, a pen, a stickie note (neon pink, if you must know – I KNOW they are overpriced, but who can put a price on things that make you that happy?), and got to work.

I reasoned that with 3 kids, the oldest turning seven this summer, I have probably spent ON AVERAGE about a half hour every night putting them to sleep. Yes, I know we have babysitters some nights, but then again, there are some nights they take hours to put to bed. So it evens out.

Here’s what I came up with:

30 (minutes) x 365 (days) x 7 (years – my oldest son & how long I’ve been doing this) = 76,650 minutes.

For those non-human calculators among you, that equals Fifty three days plus some change.


53 whole days!!!

Lord have mercy. I’m the kind of person who likes to maximize the use of my waking hours. I like to DO things, and to be of use. It could be argued that I’m happiest when I’m busiest (though I’ll hotly deny this if any of you leak this information to my husband – you know he’ll turn around & use it on me when it’s his turn to do dishes/put kids to bed).

Yes, it’s true, my husband does help – very often – to put our kids to bed. On average, I would guess he does it 2-3 times a week. Let’s be generous and say it’s 3 times a week. That still means I’ve spent the equivalent of ONE FULL MONTH putting kids to sleep.

Wait–! I didn’t even factor in the time it takes EACH DAY to get a baby down for his/her nap!

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I know they look peaceful, but guaranteed it took her like 2 hrs to get that little sucker to sleep!

Comments Off

Color Blind

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:46 AM
Tuesday, August 14, 2012

It happened. My kids were introduced for the first time to the “N” word.

To my knowledge only white Jewish kids go to their day camp, and I have no idea how or why the word was uttered, then passed around like forbidden cigarettes, each kid trying the poison out on his or her tongue. But at home, my son asked me if I knew the “bad word – ‘Ni—ck’…”


I had a feeling he meant something else.

“No,” I said. “I don’t know the bad word ‘Nick.’”

“Ni-G” he corrected himself. Then waited a beat. Then added, “er”.

My kids looked at me with wide eyes – they had absolutely no clue what the word meant, but they somehow did know that it was a ‘forbidden’  and ‘bad’ word. They quickly admitted that at camp that day, Yehuda had said the word (once) after he learned it, but Racheli had not said it.

What did it mean?  they wanted to know.

Holy unpreparedness, Batman!

I did my best. I told them my heart broke to think of anyone using that word, and that my heart broke to think that they would ever use that word or allow someone else to say that word in front of them. This signaled to the kids that the subject was as serious as it gets, because in our house we only use the concept of something “breaking our heart” if it is the absolute worst of the worst.

Then I explained how not too long ago, white-skinned people went to Africa and “stole babies and took people with black skin and kidnapped them” – in truth, I’m not sure if babies were taken, but I wanted to drive home my point and I knew my kids would immediately connect to the helplessness of a baby – “and brought them to America and made them slaves, treating them terribly – worse than animals – and that those same white people called the black-skinned slaves that ‘N’ word.”

I painted my two older kids a brief but vivid picture of why the N word should never be used and I believe I properly transmitted my horror.

I finished my short tirade with the reminder that they must never say the N word, they must tell anyone who uses it in front of them that it is never appropriate to use it, and that they must always remember that their beloved uncle and cousins have black skin and so this is not just random people we are talking about standing up for, it’s also their family, their flesh and blood.

Then my son held out his arm and said to me:

“I have black skin, right, Ima? You have white skin and I have black skin?”

And then my heart really did almost break – or rather, melt. Because they are so innocent.

I’ve noticed before, in stores, my daughters will often automatically choose the ‘black’ baby doll before they migrate to a lighter-skinned one. Esther once identified herself with a black girl cartoon character on TV (Super Why). And there was that one summer when Racheli got very tan and fell asleep on our couch, during a visit by my sister and her “light skinned black” infant son (my sister’s husband is a very dark-skinned African-Cuban man),  and Yehuda stared at the face-down body of his sleeping sister and asked me “How did the baby grow so big??!”

He thought Racheli was his little cousin. And I could see why, immediately, because Racheli tans like her father.

Their father – my husband – is ‘dark skinned’ in the sense that he gets super tan in the summer. And my kids are well aware that they inherited his beautifully tanning skin, versus their mother’s burn-friendly shade, because I mention it after most beach days.

“You have darker skin than me,” I answered slowly. “And your dad’s parents are from Africa – well, Morocco is in northern Africa…” Good God where was I going with this?

“… but you’re not considered ‘Black.’”

“I’m not?”

“No, people would not say you were black.”

Two sets of giant, curious eyes trained their questioning looks on me.

“So what color am I?”

“You would be considered white.”

What I want to write is this: What a fucked up world we live in.

But as I write that, just now, I immediately think: maybe yes, maybe no… but really what it is, is nuanced. Which is okay. Just not so easy to explain to a 6 & 8 year old…



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)


Flashback Friday! (Who’s Your Mama?)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:38 AM
Friday, August 10, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Whos Your Mama – the BLOG

The other day, while my 4 year old daughter was in her ballet class, my 2 year old daughter was leaping across the lobby, capturing all the ballet moms’ attention with her moves. Except mine. I was still watching my 4 year old through the glass window, so my 2 year old called out, “Ima! Ima! Ima!”

I felt compelled to explain at that moment to the confused mothers staring at me, that “Ima” was Hebrew for “Mom”.

What I didn’t explain was how an all-American gal like myself, living in America, with three American kids, wound up being called “Ima” by all of them.

I called my mother “Mommy,” and later, when I was too cool for “Mommy,” “Mom.” I only ever called myself “Mommy” or “Mama” to my firstborn, but he’s never called me anything but Ima. My husband is Israeli and he has always called me “Ima” when talking to our children about me. But that can’t be the only reason.

I’ve noticed that all my kids learned to say “Aba” (the word for “Dad”) way before “Ima.” It’s an easy word, it rolls off the baby tongue, like a happy baby’s babbles of “dadada” or “bababa”. I’ve also noticed that “Ima” (pronounced “Eeema”) rolls especially well off a crying baby’s tongue. This cannot be an accident.

For a while, with my son, I tried to correct him. To teach him. “Ima!” He would cry. “Yes,” I would answer… “Mommy’s here, what do you need from Mommy? Hmmm? Tell Mama. What is it?”

“Ima,” he would correct me, “Come here!”

I like to be in control. I live a completely different life than anyone else in the family I grew up in – I eat kosher, I “keep” Shabbat, and I take my Kabbalah studies very seriously. To them, I’m like a ‘born again Jew’ even though I really cringe at being called ‘religious’ because I see everything I do as spiritual – Kabbalah being a practice that, however Jewish it may look – actually applies to anyone and everyone, and is all about consciousness. I’ve never felt comfortable jumping on a bandwagon just because I share a skin color or religion with a group of other people. (Case in point: I was introduced to The Kabbalah Centre by a Catholic lesbian friend and my first thought when she invited me was, ‘if SHE feels at home here, then I’m willing to check it out, too.)

But names are a funny thing. I wrote about changing my name in a prior blog, but in that case, the change was something I asked for, chose to do, and implemented. (“Shana?” a co-worker would ask innocently. “Yes?” I would reply, followed quickly by, “by the way, it’s BatSheva.”) In the case of “Ima,” however, the name was wholly given to me by my kids – with some help, admittedly, from my Israeli husband.

It never occurred to me that my kids wouldn’t call me “Mommy.” And for years, I wasn’t completely comfortable with being called the foreign-sounding “Ima.” I didn’t even try to correct my next child, and now, with my third, I find myself calling myself “Ima” (as in, “Give Ima the stick right now!”) which is something I never used to do.

It seemed so strange, for so long, being called the Hebrew name for Mommy.

These days? Fits like a glove.


“Ima” Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Comments Off

When it Rains…

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:25 AM
Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The other day, my 6-going-on-16 year old would not stop grabbing beloved items from her little sister and older brother, and running away with them and hiding them.

When I scolded her for it, she shot withering insults at me, like “I feel like I want to side-kick you!” (even when mad, she still is an impressive karate student) and “fine, if you make me go to my room then IIII’m never going to give you any of my drawings or paintings!!” (and while that insult is pretty cute and not particularly worrisome, I like that she is confident enough in her artistic skills that she has decided promising not to give me a picture is just as punishing as a side kick to the thigh.)

So while all THAT was going on all day, her older brother developed a headache, then a stomach ache, and soon was on his way to the fever that was the bane of his every-other-week for years when he was small, but that comes on almost never any more.

Except it came on while all this was going on, of course.

And while I tended to Yehuda and helped him to feel comfortable, to lie down, and to eat a little, Racheli went into full-jealous rage mode, which then brings us back to paragraph one of this blog (go ahead, I’ll wait.)

And while all THAT was going on, little Esther was alternately screaming as Racheli grabbed her beloved playdough or whatever, begging to be held, and/or nagging me to “say sorry to Racheli” – my little Taurus, the peacemaker.

And while all THAT was going on, Yehuda in his dizzy feverish daze got to the toilet in time to pee (horray! Better than the couch he was lying on!) but missed the bowl for most of it and sprayed half the bathroom. (Horra—ugh.)

And after all THAT had happened, and I finally had gotten them to sleep, and was finally getting to my Target groceries that I hadn’t put away yet and the dishes and food that hadn’t been cleared from the table yet…

I knocked over a bottle of water that LOOKED closed… but wasn’t.

After mopping it up, I decided to write this blog instead get back immediately to the dishes.

Something positive had to come from all this rain…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

And if you were thinking Racheli was dropping empty threats, think again! Proof-positive of her side-kickiness ability:

The Grown Up Girl is proudly powered by WordPress

Entries (RSS) and Comments (RSS).