Bathrooms Aren't The Only Problem

My son is in the seventh grade, and he likes to wear pink shirts, long hair, and earrings.  If you live in the Northeast, you might ask, "So what?" No big deal.

And, for the most part, except for a few comparatively small moments, it hasn't been a big deal.  But recently there has been a surge in media coverage about transgender people and their use of the bathroom.  My son isn't transgender--that is, he doesn't feel like a girl in a boy's body.  But he doesn't identify with any of the boys around him, all of his friends are girls, and he would rather shop in the girls' department for clothes.

Last weekend, after school, two boys asked him if he was a girl.  Taught that some people are just curious, he answered politely, "No, I'm not a girl.  I'm a boy."

The boys didn't believe him, and in not believing him, began treating him the way they thought girls should be treated.  I can't use the language they did without my stomach churning and my heart pounding; but suffice it to say that it was tantamount to rape speech. At best it was sexual harassment.  The statement one boy made to another, "No, he's not a boy, he wants to be a girl. It's okay if he wants to be a little girl," was followed by what sexual thing should happen to him because he "wants to be a girl."  Prior to this they had grabbed at his backpack a few times, and I don't know what would have happened if he didn't text me with an urgent message.  I rushed to the school--I didn't even stop to put on my shoes.  The boys were being taken inside by an office assistant.  When I picked my son up, he got in the car, holding himself together until we drove away. He told me what happened, shaking and sobbing and telling me he didn't want to go back to school.  

Infuriated, shaken, I called my husband, and he called the school (because my husband, when angry, is icily succinct, whereas I get so mad that the words come out jumbled and unclear.)

The school administration, to its credit, handled everything incredibly well, not balking for a moment at taking things seriously and dealing with the situation quickly and conscientiously, involving both the parents and the police.  I have no complaints about the outcome of the actions the school took, and was relieved to hear that the parents were as horrified that their children said and did these things as the administrators were.  

But my mind dwells on the fact that we have so much media coverage about transgender issues, but no real education on what being transgender (or for that matter, gender-fluid or gender-neutral,) actually means.  We have sexual education.  My son knows what happens when you go through puberty and you get a morning erection.  He knows how to make babies.  But it's not a priority for the school system to teach children how to treat another human being who doesn't identify the way they do--some don't even know how to treat another human being, period. Our children deserve better.

"But my child goes to school to get an education." 

It's a valid concern.  But one to which I respond that if we have something called Health Class, isn't mental health just as important in every way as sex education and nutrition? I'm not talking about transgender issues or LGBT issues, because I don't want to promote the false ideology that those are mental health issues.  I'm talking about bullying and sexual harassment. The stress of being harassed wears on the human psyche.   And it's not just my son. Yesterday, as Happyboy walked home with a female friend, members of a sports team walked behind them and said things like, "What's that? You want Happyboy's (blank) in your (blank)?" You can insert your own nasty words. He and his friend moved out of the way and let them pass, and they left, laughing. 

There's a part of me that wants him to just hit someone. "One good hit," I think, my mama-bear instincts kicking in, "and they'll leave him alone."  He took Martial Arts for two years, but for him, actually hurting someone was always a problem. He's a gentle soul, an artist, and why should he have to give that up because some kids are acting so miserably? 

      Some of Happyboy's art

The school is planning a seminar next year that will address issues of harassment, bullying, cyber-bullying and their consequences--and I do appreciate that. But I long for the day when my son can go to school to get an education without fear of feeling different. When being yourself is as lauded as being part of a team. When he can go to the bathroom without people looking at him as if he's in the wrong place. When it doesn't matter if you're transgender, cisgender, gender fluid, or don't identify with any of those.  My son isn't transgender, and I don't want to appropriate those struggles; but some of the basic challenges he faces are often similar to those of transgender children. I think about that often--that if he goes through this and he's not even transgender, what must children who, on top of this kind of harassment, have to emotionally navigate having a body that isn't the one they identify with have to go through? In this day and age, where many more children are feeling confident enough to express themselves in more than just the ways society deems appropriate (read: blue & trucks=boy or dolls & pink=girl), we need to make sure that school is a safe space for them, a place where they can learn without fear of being called out for differences. And maybe even a place where someday all of our children can go to just get an education.

Blizzard Número Dos

It was easy to believe that the news stations were over-exaggerating when they said another "potential blizzard" was headed our way.  For once they weren't.

Coffeeguy's standing on about 4 feet of packed snow here. (See the window? The windowsill is about 9 1/2 feet off the ground.)

So what do we do when the wind is blowing too hard to actually play outside?  We bring it inside, of course:

Or we do this:

Or we watch endless hours of tv:

In extreme cases, we go online and plan Disney vacations that we (probably) won't go on, in the hopes that someday, someday, there will be a lack of snow and a splash of sunlight.

Stay warm, mamas.  Stay sane.

The "Me Do It" Stage

The "Me Do It" years of a toddler's life can be your salvation or the bane of your existence.  Nine times out of ten, it'll be both.

Rose has hit the "Rose do it" and there are days where it's adorable:

Rose put her rainbow hat and green Froggie boots on all by herself.

And then there are times where it's not so cute.  For instance, today Rose wanted to change her diaper.  "Rose need do it a' by ha-sef!!"  Unfortunately, there was poop in her diaper.  And on her hands.  And on the potty.  Sigh.

I've decided to come up with a plan for Rose so that she can do as much "ha-self" as she possibly can--without getting crap all over my bathroom.

I put out some big shoes:

And lots of hats:

...in the hopes that the more she can do herself the less she will be...toddlerific when I have to help her.  I even bought some pull-ups, in the hopes that letting her pull up her diaper like underwear will give her the feeling that she is doing everything herself.

On the (very) bright side of the "me do it", she loves to help put silverware in the dishwasher, or clean up her toys.

Now if I could just convince her that a cup is much more exciting than breastmilk, I'd be in business!

What's In A Mom?

There are just those days...

There are days where I rail at being home.  The days where I am worried that this is what my kids will see, the laundry lady, the cleaner, and the cook.  Where I fear they won't see me, but rather this temporary version of myself I have become.  The one who can't always get in to take a shower until night-time, because Rose refuses to take a nap that day.  Who doesn't have the energy to bother with makeup and contacts. They won't realize that there's a writer in there, an educated woman, someone who loves deeply and takes chances by trusting people that don't always deserve it, by believing in people who are destined to fail, by giving my heart not in hopes that it won't be crushed but in the certainty that it will be fulfilled.

They won't see the optimist, only the suck-at-home mom.  They won't remember the woman who got up every day and worked hard at her job as a childcare administrator, but only the one who they come home to, who worked equally hard but doesn't have the pen and fingerpaint stains and folded up latex gloves with tissues from the playground in it (because I don't use gloves to wipe Rose's nose, and most times we don't even get to the playground) to prove it.

Then there are days like today, when I think about my childhood.  Before my parents divorced, my mother didn't work--my father never wanted her to.  (No it wasn't Macchiavellian...it was that old fashioned mentality that a man is a man because he provides.) So my mom stayed home.  Some of my greatest memories are going to Woolworth's with Ma.  Visiting Grandma and Grampa with her.  Sitting under the table at her feet while she played cards on Sundays.  The pretty dresses she loved to put me in (though they were damned itchy, back then, with those puffy, scratchy petticoats.)  My mother was the cook, the cleaner, the laundry-woman.  She was the nurse and the teacher.  I never thought of her as any of those things, but only as my mom.  When my parents divorced, she worked long hard hours, and I missed her, but I was still closer to no one.  

I think about those days, and I think I have it pretty great--I have the chance to make my kids look at me the way I always looked at my mom.  And I can live with that.

Bada** Forces For Good

I don't think it's any secret that we are a family of nerds (well, except Rose.  One year old Rose finds our embrace of nerd culture amusing.)

Boston Comic Con is nearly here, and we just spent an inordinate amount of time on finding things we need to make costumes.  Punkgirl, 13, is going as Cassandra Cain's Batgirl, Happyboy, 11, is going as Moon Knight, I'm going as Poison Ivy, Coffeeguy is going as the 9th Dr Who, and Rose is going as a Dalek.  

I'm sharing this because I want to point out the magic of nerdism when you have kids.  Two weeks of bickering has morphed into conversations about the costumes and the difference between concept Cosplay and authenticism.  Coffeeguy and HB are both sticklers for authenticity.  If it's a leather pea coat, a leather motorcycle jacket simply will not do.  PG and I like to be accurate, but also like to put our own spin on a character.  For instance:

The beginning of my Poison Ivy concept.

Once again, Rose is not impressed. 

She wore these for a millisecond before her nerd contempt got the better of her.

Little dalek for my little darling.

Today we lie in wait for all the lovely boxes containing morphsuits, gloves, etc. and instead of bickering there is speculation on what might get here today .  Now, you could argue that any interest can do that, and to you I say good for you.  But in my house, nothing gets the gang cooperating like the prospect of doing something outside the realm of "normal."  Maybe that's just my own nerd tendencies rubbing off on them, but I don't think so.  They love comic books, especially stories of outcasts becoming something more.  Cassandra Cain is a mute Batgirl, with a dark past, and yet is the most bada** good gal you could ask for.  Moon Knight has multiple personalities, but is still a force for good.  

We were supposed to go for two days, and the kids were psyched.  In looking at the prices, I realized that if we bought tickets for two days we couldn't get any photos with the celebrity guests.  I talked to the kids about it.  I wanted to be there for two days, too, but I knew that Coffeeguy would really love a photo.  The kids made a decision together--they could dress up on the day of the costume contest, and maybe use the costumes for Halloween, too.  We're going to geek out on August 10th, and we're even getting a picture with Doctor Who/Torchwood/Arrow guy Jon Barrowman, a fave of both Coffeeguy and myself.  It occurred to me, in putting his desire for a picture ahead of their own desire to go for two days, my kids are also bada** forces for good.

Museum of Fine A**

I took my kids to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, taking advantage of the Highland Foundation's Free Fun Fridays. I had taken my older two when they were 7 and 5, and being the bizarro kids they are, they loved it.  We went again a couple years later, and again--they were thrilled.

So when I found out it was free I jumped at the chance to go.  Even though the baby is just 19 months, I was sure I could handle it alone.

I had forgotten how many things were in reach in the Museum, and also, how many paintings of nudes there were.  Of course this led to some giggling.  I'm ok with that, as long as it's good-natured.  But eventually this quickly turned to an embarrassed teenager telling her tween brother to "grow up."

Punkgirl has anxiety, especially in strange places, and sometimes takes it out on everyone she comes in contact with.  I tried to quash this, and of course Rose took the opportunity to become a full-fledged "me my mine do it myself!" toddler.   

We made it through at least three temper tantrums of epic proportion and two proximity alarms (whereupon I cursed myself for bringing a toddler to a place where they can't touch anything!) when we arrived at a gallery full of European Art.  Punkgirl had headphones in at this point, stressed to the max by the little terror dressed in purple and her ear-shattering squeals.  In the corner was a woman who saved our entire trip to the Museum.  She had large clipboards full of sketch paper, and every sort of pencil created.

Rose colored with a pencil.  

Happyboy sketched a European silver service set

I almost hugged the woman.  She gave me two minutes straight where Rose wasn't setting alarms off or screeching hysterically, and bonus, Happyboy got to enjoy sketching too!

After that, even Punkgirl enjoyed herself.

And we got to see a giant baby head:

And this guy:

And last, but definitely not least, we got to see this:

Psst! Look behind the dancer!

You can't tell me that placement is accidental.

All in all, I probably wouldn't take a toddler again, but the sketch pad was a huge hit, and I got the kids to take a family picture with this nice couple:

Farmer's Market Madness

There's something about fresh air and crazy, crazy sweet strawberries that makes me insane.  By insane I mean that my normal cheapne--uh, thriftiness disappears and I suddenly need to purchase every fresh veggie and fruit that crosses my path.  

Now, there are two reasons I visit the Farmer's Market.  The first is that I like the idea of supporting farmers.  After all, they did all the work, and I get to eat all the yummy food.  The second is that I have discovered in myself a love of fresh fruits and veggies.  Am I paying extra?  Sort of.  But I'm coming home with things I can't get anywhere else--because if you think there is no difference between farm fresh and grocery store veggies, you haven't gotten quality pieces from your local Farmer's Market.  Here is what I came home with today:

Notice that one of those is a plant.  Yes, even though I have a brown thumb, I bought a cherry tomato plant.  It was the fresh air.  And the strawberries.  But it was also the instant gratification of this:

...and knowing that if I don't kill it in the first three weeks, I'll have even More. Yummy. Tomatoes!

It's also a great place to take the kids:

...not to mention the colors!

And when you get home, the kids love to wash the veggies...BONUS!!

And last but not least:

It's great family bonding time!  There were no tantrums, no rolling eyes, no bored looks...it's the fresh air.  And the strawberries.  (Ok, maybe it was also the gluten free cinnamon rolls, the freshly made ice cream, and the muffins...)

Happy 4th of July!

We're a little bummed out--one of my favorite cousins had to move her annual 4th of July party to Saturday because of Hurricane Arthur, and we already have plans on Saturday.  Today has been spent playing video games and avoiding going out in the rain.  Still, it's never the wrong kind of day for a tutu photo.

It's quick, it's easy, and with the Pic Collage app, it's a simple jump from a cute pic to a fantastic greeting card photo.  Go download the app--it's free! And enjoy!

Camp Awesome Begins!

Its officially the first day of summer for us, and we have gotten off to an auspicious start.  We made Summer Bucket Lists last night, which included (on Happyboy's list) "hug Punkgirl every day" and (on Punkgirl's list) "avoid Happyboy's hugs daily"...

Being a former educator, I like to put my ideas into lesson plans.  I can't help myself.  It makes it so much easier to plug fun things into a day.  It's not like we have to follow it to a t, but it's nice to look and see that recipe for clay and making ornaments that I really wanted them to try.  My book looks like this: 

My favorite are the writing prompts.  In the book it says "writing prompts 1-5"...on a separate sheet, I have about 50 writing prompts, some I came up with, some I looked up online, some I asked them for.  I then torture Happyboy (who loves to create a story but hates to actually write) by adding an option to give me a 10 page typewritten (double-spaced, I'm not THAT mean) report, with evidence, that will convince me that he shouldn't have to write at all this summer.  I figure if he puts in that much effort he deserves to skip it.

Now, that might sound like I force the kids to do everything in my little book.  Au contraire.  This is the book I pull out when they say "I'm bored." Ok. You're bored.  Great!!! I have writing prompts today!  They'll either do it because they really are bored, or they'll go find something to do on their own!  Either I get something fun to read, and "free" (this word has such a different meaning for parents) time, or they go find something to do and I don't have to hear "I'm bored!"

This week's writing prompts look like this:

I can't wait to see what they come up with!

Narcissist Rose

Like most toddlers, Rose has become "all about me."  She particularly loves to see pictures and videos of herself, and has been known, at times, to grab at my phone and cry "Bebayyyyy!!! Bebayyyyy!!!", looking pitiously for the little baby in the box.

Lately her favorite thing to watch is a video that I'm bound to regret when she is 12.  Normally, we do play popular music, but we pay attention to lyrics and keep it pretty appropriate, but Fancy just happened to be on Coffeeguy's playlist, and Rose felt the need to jam.  We weren't expecting her...um...skills.  You can see the "Bebayyyyyyyy" here:

http://youtu.be/llVY3eJLwd4

The Scent of Success

So this month I decided to participate in a diaper study.  It's a study where you get 16 days worth of diapers, you try them out, record data each day, and hand the diapers (which you put inside heavy ziplock bags and then inside a construction-weight trash bag) back in with your paperwork a couple of times per week.  At the end you get $190 for your time, effort, and baby poop.  Sweet deal, right?  I have to change Rose's diapers anyway, so now I'll just get PAID to do it.  Plus, 16 days' worth of free diapers, yo.

       Rose thinks that's pretty cool.

I'm going to digress here and tell you that if you are a SAHM or hold a part-time job, go find the nearest focus group company around you.  I get emails from a group called Focus on Boston, and while I don't qualify for many of their studies (food allergies, or I'm not diabetic or the right age, etc), the ones I have done pay really well.  Like this one, they take up a small amount of your time, and you get paid the day it's complete.  

Back to my original story.  The first week I turned in my bag of diapers & paperwork and thought, "PIECE OF CAKE!!" This is going to be soooo easy!  Everything was organized by the company, plus they sent email reminders on which diaper to use on which week.  It was making me feel pretty successful, and like I was making a contribution to the household bank account (and also a little bit to my own personal wallet, since I feel like, in doing this work, I've earned it.)  

Then came this week.  Now, I worked in early education for 17 years.  I changed diarrhea poops and cleaned up vomit, even got pooped on once and had to go home and (shower and) change.  I'm no stranger to the yuck that comes with children.  That is until I realized that, even though the instructions told me this already, I was going to actually have to "shake the BM into the toilet."  Now, if Rose had perfect little formed BMs this wouldn't be a problem, but for whatever reason that kid has the mushiest poop in the universe.  It's impossible to get it all off.  Couple that with the fact that I have to keep the diaper, and this week is the longest one during the trial (you go from Tuesday to Tuesday before turning it in) and you have a recipe for stench.  I've bagged the plastic Baggie inside the construction bag INSIDE A SCENTED TRASH BAG and the smell is still over-powering.  I'm convinced if I left it on the porch it would scare away neighboring coyote, but I can't take the chance that a skunk might think he's found a new lover in that bag.  No, who am I kidding, even a skunk would be afraid.  

I've got two more days before I can turn this bag in, and I now have a "stick-up/glade" on my grocery list for today,  but you can bet that since they open at 7:30 a.m. I'll be out the door in record time on Tuesday.  I can't wait to get rid of the smell of success.

That Comic Book Smell, and Other Memories

Do you remember your childhood places?

Growing up, my brother and I used to frequent the same comic book store every week.  It wasn't anything fancy, just a small sort of hole in the wall, but upon walking through its doors we were transported to our world, a world where story after story came to life on inked and colored paper.  

There was a kid behind the counter, an Asian-American boy with a ponytail and thick glasses.  In the "real world" he was probably a total geek, was probably picked on at school, was maybe an outcast.  Here he was someone special, the cool guy, a Comic Book guru and a font of knowledge.  

We were geeks, too.  My brother was the "fat kid" and I was the "dorky girl", but there, we blended into the crowd.  We bought the newest comics every week, and sometimes back issues of some of the better storylines.  We might get into a conversation with (let's call him Tom), or he might suggest something that would compliment our selection. I'm sure we were slightly memorable, if only because we often came with rolled up change, in significant amounts, courtesy of my father, who used to throw all the change from his tool box into a jar and give it to us for comics.  (He stopped doing this the year he realized he had given us $122 in one bag of coins.)

As life got bigger, as we grew older, we stopped going.  We had buckets full of comics to read through, but we didn't make the weekly trek any more.  Several years after we stopped going, my brother died.  Years of visits to the comic store disappeared in an instant, lost with the shared memories that my brother and I had.  Nobody else would remember the way we would negotiate which comics we were getting that week, and if they were going to be new or old, or a combination of the two.  Nobody else understood the way we hunted for specific story lines, because they interacted between titles, or the need to have the Classic Xmen comic even though we had the same stories printed in the original version.  Over time, the memories began to fade, because no one was there to really share them with.

They were gone until my kids turned 12 and 10.  They asked me one day if we could go to a comic store, and the memories of such good times came flooding back.  Instead of going to the place down the street, with it's limited comics and funky fashions, we made the drive to the next town over, back to "our store", on a little corner on Hancock St.  I took my kids down the alleyway, which is how you get there from the parking garage, and it's also how you get to see all the comic book posters covering the window of the store.  The excitement began building the moment I saw the Xmen logo.  Sleek designs, superheroes in colorful costumes, and the smell of old paper hit me as I walked in the door.  

And there behind the counter, sporting a white-haired ponytail, was good old Tom.  

I don't think he remembered me--why would he?  I was one of thousands of customers.  But I remembered him, and in remembering, memories of my brother and the time we spent there came flooding back.  Tears filled my eyes, and I had to disguise them by sticking my face into the bins of old comics.  Coffeeguy realized that it was a moment for me, and showed the kids around a little while I composed my 41 year old self.  

I got it together, and began to show them the old comics, the newest comics, and introduce them to my favorite titles.  They were fascinated, and my heart swelled, watching them look around exactly the way big brother and I had.  

They now ask, whenever we have extra time, if they can go to the comic book store, which makes me so very happy, to pass on a tradition that was such a huge part of my childhood.

The last time we went, just the other day, Coffeeguy had a jar with him.  I asked what it was, and he said, "I remembered the story about the change.  I've been throwing mine in here, and I figured we could give it to them when we get there."  I love that man.

Losing My Fears For My Gay Middle School Daughter

On Huffington Post today:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sandy-roffey/losing-my-fears-for-my-ga_b_5424152.html

A Hero's Doodie

Rose's Mysterious Twitch

Rose has been doing a couple of odd things for about a month, but I didn't think anything of it until they happened in combination.  She has been rolling her eyes, which looks really creepy but which we thought was just to get a new viewpoint.  She also has been squeezing her eyes very tightly.  The other day she was dancing, but then all of a sudden she stopped, squeezed her eyes tight, grabbed her face, and then rolled her eyes and fell to the right.  

       Rose squeezing her eyes tight 

On a separate occasion, she squeezed her eyes tight, and her shoulder twitched up and down.

I should mention here, Rose is a very smart kid, and all of her developmental milestones are on target or ahead of schedule.  She is incredibly active, and has a great sense of humor for a 17 month old.  

Rose enjoying the Museum of Science

I wasn't incredibly worried, but she had my attention, enough so that I called the doctor.  We should have a neurology appointment within two weeks.  My problem is that now every cute thing she does has me wondering if it's "something" instead of enjoying the way a toddler explores the world.  Her enjoyment of spinning in circles suddenly makes me wonder if it's a toddler learning how to be dizzy or something I should tell her to stop doing.  The growling noises she has made off and on for the last two days have become less funny and a little worrisome.  And sometimes she just stops what she's doing and lays on the floor.

Rose lays down.  Changing her perspective, or feeling unwell? We may never know.

The doctor was very reassuring, telling us she just wants to rule out anything that might be of concern, but that it's probably, if anything, something very benign, like a tic disorder.  

I have had to monitor myself in the past two days, my worry making me want to teach her not to spin, or growl, or give 1001 kisses.  I stop myself in the last instant, telling myself to enjoy the little moments, and worry only when it's confirmed there's something to worry about.  

Have any of your kids experienced this? And was it just a "toddler being a toddler", or was there an underlying cause?  I'm a firm believer in moms sharing scary experiences, because sometimes that's the only way that we catch things early, and get our little ones on the road to wellness a little faster.  And maybe there is no road--maybe it's something she'll just out-grow...but it's nice to know I'm not alone, and neither are you.

Ahhhh Sunshine!

I love when it's warm enough that even I will venture outside.  Today we took the kids to the local park trail, and we got some much-needed fresh air and sunshine. 

While we were there, it kept occurring to me that there are lots of great photos of the kids & Coffeeguy:

...and even some great pics of the local wildlife:

....but not so much of me.  When I die they'll look for pictures for the slide show and they'll find none, because I'm always behind the camera.  I tried taking a "selfie":

...but my arms are so short that I couldn't get much of the background!

Are you the photographer in your family? I am thinking of hiring someone so we can all be in a few pictures together!

Fine Motor Fun

I gave Rose a fine motor activity today that seemed like a wonderful way to re-use and recycle.  I had an old Huggies wipes container and a set of old poker chips that my husband never used.  The chips are very thick, so they weren't too small for Rose's chubby little fingers.  I encouraged her to slip the chips into the hole where the wipes come out...this builds hand-eye coordination as well as fine motor development of the hand.  Added bonus, she can shake the box when it's full, making it a sensory and rhythm experience as well!

 

It did occur to me afterward that the poker chips gave it a gambling feel, and maybe I was setting her up for a slot machine addiction!  But you can also use old milk jug covers, or if your child puts toys in his/her mouth, use the metal ends that come off of frozen juice concentrate cans!  It's cheap, easy, and it keeps Rose busy for at least 10 minutes!  Just enough time for me to write this post!

The Climber

Currently my life consists of trying to keep Rose from breaking a limb or wrecking the joint.  She is 13 months old and has learned to climb, well, everything.  She's driving me crazy.  I used to teach toddlers, and loved it, so how is it that this one child is enough to defeat me??  I have had to come up with solutions such as this:

Yes, that's a fireplace grate blocking off my hutch and the little table she eats at.  I tried simply moving the table, but since she still climbed up on it I was afraid she would fall and hurt herself.  Then there's this:

And this:

And this happened:

All of which is leading to this:

I've tried interesting her in coloring, dancing, painting, and puzzles.  We read books, and played with the dollhouse.  If it weren't 19 degrees outside we would go there.  In fact, we might anyways...