In 1995, as my family was headed to a Wednesday night church service, my nine-year-old daughter decided to take her stuffed Lion King toy. A guest speaker was in the pulpit and during her message, she spoke about Mufasa from the movie The Lion King. My little girl squeezed her toy and smiled with glee.

It had been a long night. At least for D. Of course, O. would go into labor during a terrible storm. A tornado watch had been issued for the Small Town area about six o'clock the previous evening. Rain was falling in sheets and one could barely see their hand in front of their face. A green tint fell over the sky and it was a good thing they lived so close to the salon; just about three blocks. If the weather was good and they weren't dog tired, they could walk home. Since O. had been pregnant, though, they had been riding home. It felt a little extravagant to be driving a mere three blocks and the exercise would have been great for her, but who was he to tell her she would benefit from the walk? Besides, standing on her feet all day, booked solid with appointments, he knew her body must hurt. At the very least, he knew her feet were tired. Good thing they rode home because she went into labor just about the second they crossed the threshold. D.'s mother lived with them and took care of M. and B. while they were at the salon. D. ran into the kitchen, where Mama was preparing chicken and dumplings for dinner, telling her it was time to go to the hospital. He grabbed her suitcase which was parked at the front door and they left. The trip downtown would take a good 20 minutes and that was only if there wasn't much traffic. Good job Central Expressway was completed in Small Town last year. It sure helped make the trip downtown seem shorter. They made it in record time and the nurse guided her to a room while he stayed at the desk completing paper work. The contractions were extraordinarily painful and only two minutes apart already. O. wondered how long it would be before this baby made its way into the world. She hoped the stormy weather would not be indicative of this baby's life.

In the Beginning

Sometime in June, the local newspaper will announce the Father of the Year: a dubious honor bestowed upon a man who has been nominated by his family. I have no idea who the judges are, or what qualifications are needed to judge the fatherhood of any other man.

The evening glow lit up the dining room table. It was warm in the house, and a soft tapping sound could be heard. A younger man in his late 20s sat at the table. He had short, red-tinged hair, and freckles speckled across his face. His deep, brown eyes were looking off in thought. There was a stack of papers with writing scrawled all over them. The handwriting was messy.

The smell alone clogged my windows and filled the cab of my truck. I had spent the morning doing honey-dos, intending to take a shower, but never making it that far. Indeed, I even went to the hardware store earlier in that condition—stinky.

My father was a man of genuine character. He had a heart of gold and would give the shirt off his back to help someone in need.

"She's gone, daddy! She's gone!" My daughter shouted hysterically, as she ran into the backyard.

So, we're approaching the winter holidays, and now a lot of controversy arises around the existence of good old Father Christmas. Younger kids have been taught to always believe in Santa Claus and he will always come to them, while skeptical adolescents are in their stage where they question everything, and they're not sure what to believe. Their peers influence them and tell them that Santa Claus isn't real but the truth is, he is. Read on, and I will tell all of you exactly why you should never lose faith in the jolly fat man with the white beard.

Prologue

This post is for all of my mothers who follow my blog. If you a frequent reader of my blog and have read my original post: Why we switched to cloth diapers; you are aware that my family made the switch to cloth diapers a year ago. I wanted to give you an update and discuss: the reality, struggle and real talk that comes from using cloth diapers.