Bloggers Annex

I want ten children and a screen door that bangs. I want white sheets on the clothesline, and lots of bare feet in the kitchen where glasses with lemons leave puddles on the countertop. I want to hear my children yell and watch their little bodies dive and fall and knot together, all knees and bums and pink until I must stop whatever it is I am stirring and untangle them; leaving them to giggles and popsicles and sticky drips on the dog. I want to watch the seasons pass my window, for ten minutes every Monday, while my hands punch the same dough my grandmother still makes and my house smells yeasty and wholesome like hers. I want long hot days and a garden, with peas that need shelled one by one and the sound of them dropping in a bucket.  I want the sun to shine past bedtime and keep us all awake and reading Charlotte’s Web on the creaking porch swing.  I want sandy high-fives stuck to the windows, and weedy flower beds and a worn-out welcome mat.  I want a giant oak tree.  I want to smell like sunscreen and have tanlines in weird places.  I want to line-up canning jars like a Victory Parade all across the kitchen.  I want to pick my own berries and find a thousand ways to use up zucchini and tomatoes.  I want to dance in the rain and make lemonade and stop and smell the roses.  It’s summer.  I want everything.

Jess writes at one wild and precious life

My friend was in mid-sentence when it dawned on me. Something was wrong. I could actually hear her voice on the other end of the phone. I wasn’t mumbling, “Excuse me” and then bellowing, “Do NOT hit your brother with the axe!” or “Stop your screaming!” or “No, it does not matter that you are just pretending the dinosaurs are fighting. It is still screaming, and I am on the phone, and that is rude!”

Okay, now where was I? Oh yes, it was quiet. Perilously so.

The trustworthy one was supposedly downstairs picking up his toys. But where was his sister? (Notice how I’m starting to sound like a Curious George book? “But where was George?” And we all know how that usually ends.) 

 
It seemed like only seconds ago Sheridan was underfoot, inspecting the freshly folded laundry and flinging it on the floor like a drill sergeant,  ”You call THIS folded? You call THIS clean? Try again, Soldier, and GET IT RIGHT NEXT TIME!”  

He stands at the counter next to my table,

–

Jo Myles

“Mylestones” : http://mainelymyles.blogspot.com

Drifting
Music whispers;
Agile fronds embracing,
Sweet taste of petals on my lips.
Final breath, I rejoice in all that was
A lifetime with Mother nature.
Golden butterflies dance,
As I follow
Drifting.

written by Jackal

My mother was a singer. And a pianist. And a music conductor. I always think of her as the most joyful and alive when she was directing a chorus. Music was her life. And her life-blood.

We were so privileged to grow up in a home where:

• Late at night we’d drift off to sleep listening to the muffled notes of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata ringing out from the grand piano upstairs.
• We’d come home from school to a live chamber music session (piano, cello, and flute) passionately rehearsing in the living room.
• After Christmas dinner she’d tune all the crystal goblets to a perfect scale and we’d play carols by running our fingers over the rim.
• We’d move the couches and have an impromptu polka party, just for fun, with her at the piano.
• We learned to sing Tender Shepherd as a round before we could even talk.
• We’d sing hymns in 4-part harmony before bed.

So it was only appropriate that when the cancer had finally consumed her entire body and the cheyne-stokes breathing indicated she was not long for this earth, we reached for the hymn books. Now it was our turn to sing her to sleep.

The nurse and the grief counselor told us their hearing is the last thing to go. So even when it doesn’t look like they’re paying attention, when they no longer have the strength to respond, and might even appear to be unconscious, they can still listen.

We each took a moment to say our goodbyes. And then we started to sing. At first it was hesitant, awkward. We fumbled for our parts as we choked back our tears. Gradually, flipping through the hymn book to find our favorites, the most comforting ones, we gained some confidence. Our voices rang out in a rich blend. Sweet Ben climbed right up onto her bed and lay there next to her, crooning softly into her ear with his golden voice.

Then, amazingly, while we were singing “I Need Thee Every Hour,” our voices were somehow amplified, almost as though we were suddenly joined by a growing chorus of angels from the other side. It was beyond beautiful. We were so caught up in the moment, the richness of the music, the power of the performance, we almost didn’t notice…then someone pointed us back to reality, and we watched in awe: On the last phrase of the last verse, right when we sang, “O bless me now, my Savior, I come to thee…” she took her last breath.

And I felt the veil part. As though the very divider between heaven and earth slipped open, just a crack, to let her soul pass through. And in that instant, so full-to-the-brim it couldn’t be stopped, some light and truth and love seeped through from the other side. It filled the room, and wrapped around us, bathing us in its warmth.

I remember feeling so beautiful inside, I wanted to hang onto that moment forever and ever. I have never been so sure in all my life of the reality of an after-life; that her soul slipped away to someplace bigger and better than we could possibly imagine. That she was with God.

I never imagined that her moment of death would have such a lasting impact on me. That over all the years of teaching and training and loving and serving and, yes, laughing…what I would remember best was her leaving…and the amazing cushion of peace she left behind.

I love that — just once — when it mattered most, I got to sing her to sleep.
She told me once she wanted to be remembered as a peacemaker.
And now she is.

The image above is the portrait I did for her funeral program. It was from a photo of her directing a Christmas chorus.

Charrette writes at Divergent Pathways

Once upon a time, a knight and his lady dwelt in a cottage-sized castle in the curve of a green valley.  One day they felt they should have entertainment and TV and a DVR so that they could watch what they wanted whenever they wished.  So, they ordered Dish TV and a DVR from the Big Bad Dragon DVR Co which also, conveniently, provided a dish to attract all sorts of TV shows.  All was delivered and made to operate, a happy circumstance that, sadly, only lasted for a space of time, a time period which turned out to be too short since their need to record ahead of time and watch TV shows at their leisure had only grown greater as time passed. 

So, they called the Big Bad Dragon DVR Co. and found that in order to get a new DVR, they must jump through numerous fiery hoops and speak to many people who had apparently been hired only to feed and water the animals as they were clearly unable to comprehend human speech.  However, finally, through much speaking loudly and using of hand signals and waving of arms, a new DVR arrived via the great chariot delivery system, UPS.

Only, the second DVR was almost as bad as the first and so, it too, was sent back to Big Bad Dragon DVR Co.  A third DVR was delivered through the chariot system, UPS, which, though slow, was reliable and reasonable in that they hire people who speak “human”.  But I get ahead of myself . . . 

The valley dwellers had only been enjoying their new DVR for a matter of weeks when a bill came from the Big Bad Dragon Co. soliciting funds to pay for a DVR that had arrived at their cave in a damaged state.  Forgetting that the hirelings, or serfs, did not understand human speech, the knight began asking many questions such as:  Which DVR? The one that didn’t work and was already old or the one we had in our cottagey castle for only a few days?  What kind of damage?  Could it have happened in shipping?”  But, apparently, the serf’s frustration at being unable to comprehend resulted in said serf disconnecting the line.  

Another call was made whereupon the knight of said cottage-castle was told that a proclamation would be delivered, one full of words that would make this murky matter clear.  But no such document arrived.  Instead, another dun came informing the knight that he and his lady owed two hundred and seventy five gold coins for a “bent” DVR. 

Things took a turn for the worse.  No matter how many times either the knight or the lady initiated speech with the serfs at the Big Bad Dragon DVR Co., none could be made to understand that the dwellers of the green valley had not inflicted damage on their precious DVR.  The knight and his lady were told they must have dropped the DVR, perhaps even thrown it in a fit of rage (clearly, this was the kind of behavior to which they were accustomed at the BBDDVRCO—a circumstance the valley dwellers could fully understand and appreciate) and that payment was due or all TV viewing would cease. 

As for the knight and his lady, no more TV was a fate they could live with if it meant never having to speak to the serfs at the BBDDVRCO ever again.  However, they were the keepers of a giant who had taken a fall off of a beanstalk and as a result was demented and easily angered.  The only thing that calmed the savage beast was the funny and amusing TV shows on the magic TV/DVR.  So, finally, the knight made it known that he must speak to somebody whose job didn’t include feeding and watering the animals and lo and behold, they were allowed to speak to someone “else”.  This person suggested the knight put in a call to the UPS chariot company that had delivered the DVR to and fro.  She also informed him that the DVR in question was one that had only resided in the cottage-castle in the green valley for a matter of days and that it wasn’t even new when it arrived.  She then gave the knight a tracking number for the UPS chariot company. 

The Knight was glad he was able to get someone at the BBDDVRCO to admit that perhaps he had not damaged the DVR but he still felt extremely winded and tired after his ordeal.  Indeed, this knight had spent long years tilting with many dragons at once, a circumstance that nearly did him in, and ever since such dealings left him feeling a bit faint.  (And with a need to devoid his stomach of all contents.)  (Especially when gold coins were involved.) 

So, it was his lady who contacted the people at UPS whereupon the King of UPS (surely someone as intelligent and well-versed in common sense as he had to have been King of the castle) was asked many sensible questions and answered many sensible ones in return, the combination of which led the lady to believe perhaps the seemingly well-informed “she” at the BBDDVRCO was in fact one of the animals who had escaped the barn just in time to lead the knight far astray.  For, indeed, there was nothing the lady could tell the King of UPS since she did not have the DVR, did not know the damage, did not have the package it was shipped in so that she could answer questions about it’s current state, nor did she have the correct tracking number (though she did have a bogus one).  In short, someone must now make the animal feeders at BBDDVRCO understand they would have to solicit UPS for their gold coins themselves.  Based on past communications, the outcome was doubtful.   

Since his lady’s sad tale of woe put the knight in a froth of fury, his lady had no choice but to call the BBDDVRCO once again and speak at great agonizing length and  frustrated urgency and obnoxious loudness whereupon she found the word “crap”, (a heretofore unknown word in the castle nestled in the green valley), was ultimately needful in order to speak to someone who actually rode around on the horses rather than fed them.  This enlightened being, once told the whole tragic story, immediately removed the charges, ensuring that the Mad Giant had his plug-in drug for as long as was needful.

And peace and quiet was once again restored to the dwellers of the cottage-castle in the curve of the green valley and the knight is once again able to keep down his food. 

(I always love a good fairy tale.) 

Update: Little more than a full moon later, the new DVR began to go the way of all the others and the Knight and His Lady torched it and tossed it over the embankment behind the castle. They are now the proud owners of an entirely new system with a new company called “The Fairest in the Land” and are happily becoming addicted to all the new channels at their disposal; the Knight with the tilting and other knight-like sporting events and the Lady, her British TV. And all was well in the little valley for many a long moon . . .

Heidi Ashworth writes at Dunhaven Place

By Jenn in Holland

I awoke feeling anxious. Free-floating worries which previously resided independent of one another had joined to form small knots of anxiety. I couldn’t qualify it as a rock in my stomach, rather it felt more like a dozen pebbles sitting fast in the pit of my belly. Something akin to polished marbles in a leather pouch with a drawstring closure, the worries click-clacked against each other. Agitating. Stirring. Click-click-clacking. Creating a general feeling of unrest.

• Would Andrew survive the day under my friend’s care awaiting Don’s 6:00 p.m. retrieval after work?
• Would my friend survive Andrew, his singing-frog-itis and his high energy for the day?
• Would she be my friend after that experience?
• Could Don survive the weekend of single parenting for three?

This particular marble–worth double points–carried double anxiety. The nagging second question following the first,

• Would he survive it so beautifully and so easily as to wonder what it is exactly I get on about in my daily whining?

click-clack-clickety

The list seemed endless.

• Could I do this by myself? My bags packed, my tickets purchased, my travel instructions in hand. But always when we travel together, I chiefly rely on Don to navigate tube stations, decipher routes, and fuss with ticket agents. Am I capable of handling the inherent challenges of travel?

click-click-click

And a yet unnamed anxiety settled deep in the pit of my stomach.

clickety-clack-clack

I suppose it would be easy to chalk the entire thing up to hormonal surge, and that wouldn’t be entirely without street credibility. However, the gut level truth of it was I was frightened. Just like my seven-year-old self waiting in the wings for my first solo on the big stage. What if I trip? What if I fall? What if I’m no good at this? What if? What if? What if?

With apprehension I approached my husband and confided my fears. I confessed to the child in me feeling afraid. He consoled. He counseled. And as he most often does, he left it to me to decide whether I would be walking out the front door to claim my weekend alone. I knew his support would be mine regardless of the decision I made.

I also knew with a certainty that I had to do it. Had to.

With the zero hour of departure eminent, I gathered my courage, hoisted my bag and my camera over my right shoulder and marched out the door with my pre-schooler in tow. My shoes made a resounding slap-slap on the sidewalk. My heart beat loudly, but resolutely.

click-clack-click

As we walked to the tram stop, my inner dialogue was not so much ‘I think I can, I think I can’ as the little blue engine might chug, but more an ‘I must, I must, I must’.

clickety-click-click

While Andrew and I rode the tram across town, I examined each of the worry clusters individually, running my own one-sided conversation–a self-talk lecture, if you will–inside my head.

• Of course Andrew would be fine.
• As would my friend who had agreed to take him for Thursday afternoon and the whole of Friday.
• Obviously, we would still be friends upon the conclusion of the exchange.
• Naturally, Don would manage. And even if it did go swimmingly without a bicker, a bark, or a blow-up, I know he appreciates the job I do daily. Further, he does not begrudge me the whining. He never has.

We arrived at my friend’s home where I deposited Andrew, his Lightning McQueen backpack, and instructions for his care. Specifically, tips on how to feed a boy whose food vocabulary is woefully inadequate. Andrew had immediately galloped off to play with best friend, Harry, and barely acquiesced the perfunctory kiss goodbye.

click-clickety-clack

After that, I stepped onto the bus which would take me to the Central Station, and with the worry marbles whirring, inadvertently told the driver “Naar Schipol” (to the Airport) which exposed my innermost thoughts that I just may double back if he didn’t quickly get me to my airplane. It was a lucky light moment and as the driver handed me my stamped ticket, he jovially pointed out my mistake and we laughed together. At that moment, I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized that in cracking a smile, I was cracking through this anxious mess my gut was in.

Once at Central Station I boarded the train and contemplated the other contents in this sack of marbles.

click-click-click-click. I must. I must. I must.

This was the rhythm I was reduced to as the train whoosh-shushed along the tracks toward Amsterdam. Somewhere along that line, I dug deep to examine the most nagging worry of all. I named that last great worry, suddenly fully conscious that the last time I had attempted a weekend without the children was the very moment I lost someone very dear. At the moment of realization, this very glimpse into my psyche, I sucked in my breath and heaved an open audible sigh.

• ‘Grandpa isn’t going to die again’. I told myself ‘You are going to be okay’.

The remainder of the train trip, I allowed the tears to flow, the worries to wash away. The big one carrying the small ones in tandem until most had flushed clear. When I arrived at the airport I felt put together from the inside out. I was breathing in a normal cadence, and smiling with genuine enthusiasm.

The last worry about my personal potential to travel alone was already resolving itself as I stepped through the security gates, navigated hallways and boarded the plane.

• Indeed I could do this, and what’s more, I wanted to do this.

When I disembarked in Vienna and my feet hit Austrian ground, the only click-clicking left was the quick stepping tap-tap-tap of Italian made shoes on posh Viennese women. This offered a fresh counter rhythm to the comfortable slap-thuk slap-thuk of my own flip-flops as I strode through the corridors of the airport heading for the subway, to the train, to my destination.

I was well on my way and I was going to be just fine.

by Brillig

When I go out, I generally plaster a smile on my face.  People think that four kids in four and a half years must be easy, because I make it look that way.  I’ve even had people tell me that they wish they had an autistic child too, because it’s fun (we get to do occupational therapy!  Wheeee!), quiet (non-verbal, for the record, does NOT mean “quiet”…), easy, whatever.

Those of you who read this blog know that things aren’t easy for me.  That in the shelter of my own home (and on my personal blog) I’m actually a big fat whiner.  Motherhood is hard.  Mothering a special needs child is beyond hard.

Oh, there are blessings.  Of course there are.  And I remind myself of them all the time.  I promise.  But it’s when other people constantly remind me of my blessings — that’s when I want to scream.  As though I’m not allowed to admit that I’m struggling, because I’m so blessed.  Being blessed means that everything’s okay.  But what about when it’s not okay?  That’s when I need some validation.  That’s when I need someone to wrap their arms around me and say, “this is hard.  This is so hard.”

Because, since I don’t feel like I’m allowed to say it, it means the world when someone else does.

This past week, I read an article that explained the toll that autism takes on a family (similar, the article said, and every bit as pronounced as the toll that alzheimers takes).  I’m not sure why this meant so much to me.  I guess because, again, it feels so good for someone official to say, “this is hard.”

Princess Fluffy is 7 years old.  That sounds like a little girl, when I stop to think about it.  But I’ve required her, more often than I’d like to admit, to be much older than that.

When I need a helper, she’s generally the one I call on.  “Fluffy, get Isaac out of his bed.”  “Fluffy, keep an eye on Isaac while I make dinner.”  “Fluffy, did you leave the front door unlocked?  Don’t you know that Isaac will run away — run into the street! if the door isn’t locked?”

On Saturday afternoon, while our household was watching General Conference, Fluffy and Bubba were building a fort out of blankets in the family room (I think that’s got to be a multi-generational Conference tradition!  I know I did it as a kid!).  As soon as Fluffy would make her fort exactly how she wanted it, Isaac would come along and destroy it.  Over and over again.  No one stopped Isaac, but we chastised Fluffy for getting mad at him.  “He doesn’t understand, honey.  Remember that he just doesn’t understand.”

Now, if there’s one thing Fluffy takes seriously, it’s her creations.  Her art, her fabric scraps, her building blocks, and, yes,  her blanket forts.  These things might seem trivial and childish to us, but they are super important to her.  And the stress of her work not being appreciated or respected was what finally sent her off the deep end.

Isaac ruined her fort one more time and she smacked him with a year’s worth of pent-up energy.  Instantly, she was sent to time-out in the garage.  Hitting is never okay in our house.

While she was out there, the words that had meant so much to me earlier in the week came back in my ears:  autism is hard on the family.  Not just on the mom, I suddenly realized.  On the whole family.

Fluffy’s world has been turned up-side-down by autism.  Autism will change her whole existence.  She will grow so much because of it.  She will be a better, stronger, more compassionate person.  She will be eternally blessed.

At the same time, it will be hard.  It IS hard.

And I have never, ever given her the validation that I myself so desperately long for.

How had none of this ever occurred to me?

After her 7 minutes in the garage, I brought her in and pulled my big, but still tiny, girl onto my lap and held her like she was a baby.

“This is hard,” I told her.  “This is so hard.  I don’t know why Heavenly Father sent us an autistic child.  I know that I love Isaac, and I know that Heavenly Father loves us.  There’s something here that we’re supposed to learn.”

She nodded silently.

“Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair though.  It’s so hard.”

Little tears streamed out of her impossibly blue eyes and her little jaw trembled as she nodded again.  I felt the relief flow out of her.  Her pain and sorrow were finally noted.  Appreciated.  Understood.

I hugged her tight, and she hugged me back, gripping her arms around me with a strength drawn from the powerful emotions trapped in her little body.

Sometimes our own trials cause us to turn inwards, to feel like the victim, to be only aware of how WE feel.  I don’t want to be that person anymore.  I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused my kids, my neighbors, and anyone else who may have needed me because I’ve been too focused on ME to notice that they were hurting too.

I want to do better.  I HAVE to do better.  Only then will any of the hurt become worthwhile, right?  Otherwise, life is just pain and selfishness.  That’s not what a loving Heavenly Father had in mind when he sent me here.  There’s so much more to His plan than that.

By Eowyn at Refracted Light.

I’m melancholic. I feel a bit of drama running around inside of me and I, of course, am reveling in the feeling.

There is a storm coming.

We sing and read scriptures with my children in our bedtime ritual when the wind picks up. It blows and blows, quickly rising in intensity. We look out the front window and watch trees turn north and face the wind, letting their branches fly back in reckless abandon, whirling and whipping in the bluster. We see random garbage bags flying through the air, high above the houses and we begin to laugh at the lunacy of it all.

As the wind winds up, Kendra and Seth get wound up with it. They are lifted off the couch and begin to laugh and move wildly. Suddenly the wind turns vicious, and then all my children hit a state of happy panic. They are mildly afraid of what is going on, but enjoying themselves immensely. Pablo starts out alright, laughing with the rest, but it becomes too much for him and he curls up in a ball on the couch with his “blankie” covering his ears. (Our house is haunted you know, especially in a storm like this. If the windows are not all the way closed–and Faramir is the only one who can do that–then our house ghouls it up. I’ve never lived in a haunted house before and I think it’s fun. Pablo, who is four, does not).

At this point, I leave active participation in watching the wind and the lightening. I turn from Wild-Weather-Woman to Mom. It’s time to comfort Pablo. Tyrone (who is one) has to come over every once in a while and get an affirming love from Mom, and then he runs around in happy panic as well.

A cool has finally descended on my little corner of the world–a chill I haven’t felt since before the summer began. Well, at least, one that wasn’t air-conditioning induced. I suggest hot chocolate. No, it’s not really cold enough for it yet, but the cold is coming. I’m just trying to comfort the mild panic. It works for the older two. They get blankies and pillows to cuddle up with on the couch, but it doesn’t last. They immediately hop back up an begin throwing blankies around and taking them from each other and stealing seats and checking the progress of the hot chocolate. The storm is part of them now, working its way into their systems and encouraging silly dances and chicken-like running form place to place.

I sit on the couch, holding a four-year-old, wondering if I can get him calmed down enough to fall asleep. We did that watching fireworks a year ago. We put earplugs in him and let him fall asleep. Could I do the same thing now?

So I take him in his bedroom, where the windows are closed and the blinds are down and the curtains are closed. There’s no lightening that can follow us in here. But he can still hear the wind. So I start telling him an elongated version of The Three Little Pigs. I hope to calm him down. It works, to a degree.

We are interrupted frequently. “Mommy, it’s raining. Hard. Do you hear it?”

“Mommy, are you going to have hot chocolate with us?”

“No sweetie. We are going to stay right here.”

Seth, who is six, wanders in and out to listen. He’s a sucker for stories told by me.

Tyrone finds me again for his reaffirming hugs. He comes in and out several times, grinning delightedly at the mayhem in the other room and letting me know that he’s on his way back to the craziness just as soon as he gets his momentary comfort.

Finally the wind subsides and the hard rain subsides. Pablo can uncover his ears. Our hot chocolate is consumed, we say our family prayer and the kids finally go to bed.

They can’t quite calm down so quickly. Seth and Kendra each come out saying they don’t feel well. I’m sure it’s the excitement of the evening and too much hot chocolate right before bed. I tell them to cool off and rest in their beds. It’s the best thing for them right now.

And then I read. I pause in my book, unable to concentrate. Even though the storm has abated outside, the storm is by no means over in my heart. I contemplate the Mountain Meadows Massacre, and writing, and storms, and lightening. I ponder the trouble we are in. I think of the scripture that says, “…by their fruits, ye shall know them.” I wonder if I have enough time to get my next lesson for church ready.

And then I get up, thinking that the evening is still young and that I should put up the quilt I’ve been avoiding and start tying it. I change my clothes first and come back upstairs to find Faramir asleep on the floor, sprawled where I want to be putting the quilt up—a ready-made excuse to put it off until tomorrow. Of course, their baby could be here by then, and then I’ll be embarrassed. Thankfully, it’s a big quilt and one that can be used for a long time. So I put Faramir to bed.

I find myself seduced by the lightening and the thunder. I hear smatterings of rain and come up to close the windows, only by the time I get them closed, the rain has stopped. But not the thunder and lightening, so I decide to go sit on the front porch.

I watch lightening. I watch the incongruity of it still being early in the evening and my house being quiet. I notice that other houses are quiet as well, although some lights linger.

I hear the thunder. I hear it loud, as if it’s trying to wake up my sleepy neighborhood. I hear it soft, as if it’s sorry for putting itself out there.

I see stars poking through the clouds an I realize that the storm is working its way away from us. I feel an occasional drop as if the rain just wanted to remind me that it was there. I feel the chill of Autumn slide across my arms. It feels good to my hot, itchy flesh. I find myself chilled and realize that I’m going to have to go inside soon, and cuddle up next to my sleeping husband to get warm again.

Before I do that, I ponder the future. What does it bring? Does this storm bring the melancholia or is the melancholia in me and I am reading the storm that way? Do I really support Faramir in whatever decision he makes, or does my support have strings attached. It hits me as I sit here that I feel more fear for no change than I do for change. As I face my innermost thoughts I realize that my support has strings. There are questions I need answered.

I will ask them. But that will wait for tomorrow.

So I come in, but the writers mood has settled in and I must write something. Should I leave it? Should I blog? Or should I get my pen and paper out and write?

And the thunder happily tells me that I can write, or whatever. It’s just having a good time.

And I do.