This stretches the truth. THIS could really happen.

Just so you all get it straight:

This stretches the truth.

This could really happen.

CONNOR: Here's my homework, Mom.

I review the drawings.

MOMMY: Hmm. So... a guy can't grab a snake. But he can catch a whale? That could really happen?

Connor sighs heavily.

CONNOR: NO. Of course he can catch a snake. But he can't use it as a lasso to catch that bull. That couldn't really happen.

MOMMY: Well, no. I guess not. But then if he went fishing, he could catch a fish that big? That could really happen?

CONNOR: He would catch it. But then, see, the arrow means he would fall right in the water. That's what would really happen.

Got it.

Arterio? or Sclerosus, perhaps?

My 7 yr old son and I were shopping for a friend's birthday gift at Game Stop.  He spotted a poster for a video game called God of War.

CONNOR: Mom, what does that mean? God of War?
MOMMY: Well, remember how I told you a long, long time ago people used to think that there were lots of gods up in heaven, instead of just one?
CONNOR: Uh huh.
MOMMY: Well, there was a God of War. And a god of the sea. And a god of love. They had a god for everything that was really really important to them.

Connor thinks about this for a moment.

CONNOR: Was there a god of french fries?

this week on "The Office": Pam, Jim, and the Hooter Hider

Over at Alpha Mom, Amalah has a really interesting blog post this week on the big baby episode of The Office.  Like Amalah, I "hate-- nay, truly and forcefully LOATHE--the way pregnancy and birth are depicted on TV and in movies." You know, where the woman is screaming at her husband "You B*$%#! How could you have DONE THIS TO ME!" and it's sooo funny.

The Office got it closer to right than any TV show I have ever seen (except maybe Betty Draper's third childbirth on Mad Men, which was pretty bleak. I mean, I wasn't alive then, but I hear that's pretty much what it was like). The Office showed how labor progresses slowly but surely. Pam was not a whiner. They reused that old Knocked Up chestnut ("Do NOT go in there!") but I could forgive them that. The baby really was a newborn. Best of all, they showed a new mother having lots of trouble breastfeeding-- but not giving up-- and then, eventually, figuring it out.

Well. They kind of showed that. Amalah is right that "they got it mostly right" about breastfeeding, and that for television, it was a rather large step forward. For me, though, it was a Pyrrhic victory, because whenever they showed Pam breastfeeding her new baby, she put on a Hooter Hider. I mean an enormous cover. It looked like one of those aprons you have to wear when you get X-rays at the dentist.

Now, sure, Jenna Fischer (who plays Pam) is not actually lactating. But c'mon. When I do my play Mother Load I pretend to nurse this Frankenstein doll, and I just pull up my T-shirt a little bit and stick him on, and it looks rather realistic if I do say so myself. What the network executives at NBC, who were probably freaking about about showing a nursing mom on TV, don't understand is this: when a mother is successfully nursing, as long as she's wearing something that pulls up from the bottom, you pretty much CAN'T SEE ANYTHING.

I thought the huge "Don't Look I'm Breastfeeding Under Here" thing Pam wore throughout the episode was a disappointment. I'm thrilled to see breastfeeding portrayed as something positive, and normal. But I don't want the enormous coverups to become normalized as well, like they are a necessary part of the breastfeeding experience. I nursed three kids successfully, and even in the hospital I never saw one of those Aprons of Shame.

So I'm curious: what did you think of the episode? And what do you think of these things?

four weeks until my due date

My book's due date, that is... 

Much like the third trimester of my three pregnancies, I am nesting like mad: planning ahead, organizing junk drawers, getting very excited. 

If you're thinking about buying the book when it comes out, please consider pre-ordering it, either by the Amazon link to the left, or on this excellent HarperCollins pre-order page, with lots of indie bookseller options. Books can get big boosts from pre-orders; a book that is getting attention ahead of time from readers gets attention from other corners as well.

I am also excited to report that there are already three very nice user reviews up on Amazon (thanks to their early reader "Vine" program). I swear, none of these people is my mother.  

the American Girl madness begins

Last week, my two year old daughter and I were lucky enough to be invited to an after-hours private party at American Girl Place New York. It was a benefit for the Children's Cancer and Blood Foundation, and next year I will be sure to do all my readers a favor and tell you if this benefit happens again, because there were seriously about 35 people in the entire store. I gather that is not the usual feel of the place.

Maggie is too young to really know anything about American Girl dolls, but after about five minutes in the store, she looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, "I get dolly?" (Another word of wisdom for future visitors: bring a doll from home with you, even if it's not Matilda or Bathsheba or one of the actual American Girl varieties).

I was not going to get a two year old a hundred-dollar doll, so we found the Bitty Twins area (two for $95 and they allow split orders). We picked out the blonde chiquita pictured above and we were good to go. Since Bitty Twins don't come with preassigned names, Maggie quickly christened her baby "Dora Buffalo," after her favorite TV show and her favorite large, shaggy-haired sort of wild ox.

And then we took Dora Buffalo to the tea room, where she sat in a special doll booster seat while Maggie had two helpings of chocolate mousse.  Maggie was starry-eyed by the entire experience, almost as dazzled as I was. It was definitely exciting, after raising two little boys, to escort my young daughter to the Girly-Girliest Place on Earth. And although I am appalled at the idea of spending $38 on "Lulu's Turn of the Century Bathing Costume," or whatever, I have a feeling American Girl will be receiving a few more of my hard-earned dollars.

Whose library book is this?

Scene: yesterday morning. Amidst the backpacks and shoes, I find a forlorn library book, "What Tiggers Do Best." I hold it up so it can be claimed.

MOMMY: Whose library book is this?

CONNOR: Not mine.

SEAMUS: Not mine.

MOMMY: It's been here since last week. One of you must have brought it home.

CONNOR: Nope.

SEAMUS: Nope.

I check inside.

MOMMY: There isn't any library tag in here. Is this from one of your classrooms?

CONNOR: Nope.

SEAMUS: Nope.

CONNOR: We definitely don't have that book in our classroom.

SEAMUS: We do! Well. We did.

MOMMY: What do you mean?

SEAMUS: We used to have it. But now, Ms. Miller can't find it. She said it's been missing for a whole week!

I swear, on all that is holy, that this conversation actually took place.

rubber yucky

Are you reading this at home? If not, go home. Then read this. Then throw away every bath toy your children have.

According to the Today show, our children's bath toys "harbor secret filth." That's a direct quote. Scientists took samplings from bath toys at large in households just like yours and mine, and found E.coli, streptococci bacteria, and fecal matter on just about every single one. Then they tested the ones with holes. You know that black stuff that grows inside the squeezy ones? Basically, there's bubonic plague growing in there.

Good news, though! According to this segment, if you wash your children's bath toys in a bleach solution-- AFTER EVERY USE-- you shouldn't have any problem.

The "Today" reporter interviewed the shell-shocked mothers whose households were tested. "I feel like a complete failure as a mother," one murmured. She wasn't kidding. No one corrected her in that assumption, either.

Instead of the daily bleach solution suggestion, I opted to get out a garbage bag and toss every one.  If you watch this segment you will too. Honestly, it's been a while since my kids played with them, so it will be interesting to see how many days pass before they are missed. Next time my kids are bored in the tub, I'm going to throw some nice clean steak knives in there.

watch how you hold that crayon!

Thank goodness for The New York Times. Until this morning, I thought my two-year-old's fist-style grasp of her jumbo crayon was exactly as it should be. Now I know that I need to get her pediatric occupational therapy RIGHT NOW in order to save her a preschool year filled with shame and degradation.

Usually the Gray Lady serves up over-the-top parenting trends with at least some eye-rolling. But this morning's story Watch How You Hold That Crayon is long on the crazymaking and short on reality.

I'm not belittling occupational therapists or their usefulness. Far from it: my five-year-old has made great strides in his speech therapy this year. He used to say the word "really" like this: "weawy." Now he says "weally." Why, he's half the Elmer Fudd he was in September.

But I waited until he was five, and was pretty clearly not going to lose the baby talk on his own, before I even considered having him assessed. This article profiles a father who got private OT for his three-year-old because his crayon grip was exactly that of a THREE-YEAR-OLD, and the nursery schools to which he was applying might hold that against him.  Here was the father's rationalization:

The hottest question when we socialized at our country house this summer was not what country club do you belong to, but who is your child’s O.T. back in the city. And how can I get an appointment?

OK, retch, but he really sad part is, this father may not be wrong.  Maybe Bam-Bam wouldn't get into a New York City nursery school with his hamfisted crayon technique. If that's true, though, then that kid (and all of our kids) has larger problems, since the way he's being raised is completely screwed up.

The one voice of sanity in the article comes from Anthony DiCarlo, a longtime elementary school principal. Here's his take on the problem:

...in the last five years, I’ve seen a dramatic increase in the number of kids who don’t have the strength in their hands to wield a scissors or do arts and crafts projects, which in turn prepares them for writing.... I’m all for academic rigor, but these days I tell parents that letting their child mold clay, play in the sand or build with Play-Doh builds important school-readiness skills, too.

More Play-Doh time. That's something almost any parent should be able to fund handsomely.

and now, for something completely different: participating Mommy

Among my greatest dislikes are being cold, wearing shoes that are too tight, and looking like an idiot.  Two days ago, I took on all of these turn-offs at once and did something I was pretty sure I was going to hate: I downhill skied for the very first time.

My husband has taken our 7 year old son, and this year our 5 year old as well, up on the mountain without me several times over the last three years. I was happy to see them go without me, really.  My parents didn't know how to ski,  so I just never did it either, and it seemed way too late now to be taking it on. I mean, Natasha Richardson wasn't doing giant slaloms or anything, and she DIED. Even if I wore a helmet, a compound fracture seemed eminently likely for a fraidy-lady like me. 

But I have been reflecting on the message this sends to my boys: they and Daddy go off and do cool athletic stuff; Mommy and baby Maggie stay home.  This is not something I want my kids growing up thinking is the way of the world.

"Tell me I'm going to love this," I begged David. "Because I do not want to go."

"Makin' memories," he said sagely. "No matter what happens, you'll be makin' memories."

And so, bright and early on Sunday morning we left Maggie with my in-laws and drove to the ski resort at the top of their mountain. My heart pounded as David showed me how to strap on the vise-like boots. I was giddy as we took the 45 second chair lift to the top of the bunny slope. When we got to the top, the boys yelled "Bye Mom!" and flew down the bunny slope at top speed. Without poles. The adrenaline rush I got from watching that was probably enough thrill for the day, but now it was my turn.

"We're going to work our way across the hill sideways," David said. "Keep your toes pointed in. Nice and sl--"

I didn't hear anything he said after that because now I was also flying down the hill, also at top speed.

My skis were in charge. My mind was in slo-mo. Oh my God, I thought. This is it. I'm going to lose a limb.

"Snowplow! SNOWPLOW!!" David was yelling behind me, and I knew that that would be a helpful suggestion, providing I knew what "snowplow" meant.

I was barreling toward the boys now, who were watching me with jaws agape, and I think I prayed a little bit, and then I was at the bottom and I came to a stop and found, to my surprise, that I was all in one piece, and that I had not fallen. Then I whooped and hollered like a Canadian ice dancer.

I mastered the bunny slope that day. Connor and I fell off the chair lift at one point but were no worse for the wear. And we're going back this weekend. My God, I ENJOYED it. I am so proud of me.

please don't go out Mommy!

I am hardly a social butterfly, but I do entitle myself to an evening out now and again. Whenever I do, even if I carve out extra Harry Potter read-aloud time first, I can be sure that my seven-year-old will be in high dudgeon, mumbling to himself "why does she have to go out EVERY NIGHT?" and holding back the tears.

Last night, though, he was totally copacetic with the idea. I tousled his hair, got a "purple kiss and purple hug" from Maggie, and was free to be out the door as soon as I said goodbye to their five-year-old brother.

Not in the toy room. Not in the bathroom.

I found him in his bedroom. Under the covers. Sobbing.

MOMMY: Shea! What's the matter?

SEAMUS: I weally don't want you to weave.

MOMMY: Honey, I'll be home soon.

SEAMUS: But what if I need you?

MOMMY: Daddy will be here.

SEAMUS: But what if I need YOU?

MOMMY: Why would you need only me?

SEAMUS: What if I make you something?

MOMMY: How can you make me something if you're in your bed?

SEAMUS: What if I get up, and get out of bed when Daddy's not wooking, and get paper, and dwaw a valentine for you, and you're not here when I'm done? WHAT THEN?

What then, indeed. Well played, Seamus. I had no choice but to change tactics and distract via tickle torture before sneaking out.

Home at 9:30 p.m. No valentine emergencies while I was gone, thank goodness.

2010 is a leap leap leap leap leap leap year

at least according to Seamus.

Max and Ruby: can we talk?

Right now my daughter's favorite show is Max and Ruby. Yes, I find it unwatchable, but so is Ni Hao, Kai-Lan! and she watches that almost every day too. I mean, no one's head gets blown off, and I don't have to sit and watch it *with* her, so who cares?

But when I mentioned Max and Ruby last week, in a post not really about them, I was intrigued to find that these two adorable bunnies were what people wanted to discuss.

It all started when Wendi said that Ruby scares her. Wendi is a funny woman (click above for her blog) but I think she was being serious.

Then Mollie said that Wendi made her "laugh out loud" but concurred: "Ruby is one seriously unlikable character."

I myself have always hate Ruby's weird voice. I also hate that she never just loses her shit and screams her head off at her pest of a little brother. But I'm telling you, there is a hatred of Max and Ruby out there that goes much further. I googled "Ruby from Max and Ruby is annoying" and discovered a treasure trove of ill will.

Over on a blog called The Baughers, one commenter says, "If I was Max I would kick Ruby's teeth in."

Another goes further, into almost totally unfounded rumor-mongering: "I wonder sometimes if Ruby is really Max's unwed teenage mother."

It's not all aimed at Ruby, either. Max says like one word an episode (over and over) and for some people, that's even worse. I read one comment online saying that "Max needs a good kick in the ass." Another admitted that in her darker moments "Max makes me want to stab him."

My friend AJ has a larger heart. She left a comment here saying she thinks Max is misunderstood, "a savant whose bizarre screwups are always genius in the end." I can live with that, although after seeing the depth of animosity towards these two bunnies on the internet, I will probably DVR Maggie some good old Miffy instead. (Cute bunny without the annoying voice.) Even when Max and Ruby are not in heavy rotation in my household, though, there will be one question keeping me up at night:

Where the hell are their parents?

I was WONDERING why they called her that

Thursday night. Seamus in the bathtub. Me sitting on the (closed) toilet seat.

SEAMUS: Mommy, you have a vagina.
MOMMY: You're right, I do.
SEAMUS: And it's named after a color.

Pause.

MOMMY: What?
SEAMUS: (quite sure of himself) And it's named after a color.
MOMMY: It is?
SEAMUS: Mm-hmm.
MOMMY: ...Which one?

Pause.

SEAMUS: Blue's fwiend.

Pause.

MOMMY: Blue from Blue's Clues?
SEAMUS: Mm-hmm.

Pause.

MOMMY: Seamus, Blue's friend's name is Magenta.
SEAMUS: Oh.

Pause.

SEAMUS: I fought it was Vagina.

snow day project: virtual move

12-18 inches of snow is due to land here in NYC today, and snow days are the kind of days my children seem to prefer to spend indoors (much to my relief). I'll pick cabin fever over frostbite any day, although fear not: we all walked to the neighborhood diner this morning and got at least some fresh air.

Snow days are fun because they're time-out-of-time-- no one expects you to adhere to your usual daily routine. After playing a few rounds of Mastermind with the boys, I tackled an exciting project of my own, something that doesn't rate among the forty or so items on my to-do list, but which seemed Snow-Day worthy: organizing a cabinet stuffed to bursting with nearly every piece of art my kids have created since 2006.

I was inspired to try this by Gretchen Rubin (of The Happiness Project fame), who suggests, as a clutter-busting happiness booster, Eight tips to prepare for a real (or virtual) move. Please do check out Gretchen's tips, because they're good, but my main takeaway was the idea that I could purge, as if for a move, without having to go to all the trouble of actually moving.

I attacked the art projects pile. The boys abandoned Mastermind and drifted over. We all had many laughs going through their oh-so-immature nursery school masterpieces, and curated a collection of the very best. I dated the backs of them with their school years (while I can still remember), then I sorted them into a box for each kid.

Wow, did this make me happy. (This is a picture of me, happy, so you can envision.) A neat cabinet, an organized box of mementoes, and three giggling children. Snow days are awesome.

my 2 year old should be on Hoarders

This morning, in order to go watch Max & Ruby on our couch, this is what my two-year-old REALLY needed to take out of her crib and bring with her:

-blankie
-pillow
-Sheepie
-Kee Cat
-book
-another book
-another book
-and "cover," a pink velour throw with her name on it that easily weighs as much as she does.

I was staggering under the weight of all her accoutrements. Seriously, when did I sign up to be a lady-in-waiting and lug all this crap around? (She knew that I had no choice but to do her bidding, since her brothers were still asleep and but one howl of protest from her would wake them.)

Then, to take her brothers to school on the city bus, she had to load up her "kackpack" with a Barbie, sunglasses, some socks, and the rubber band that was around the plastic container of grape tomatoes.

I had my own backpack, of course, loaded up with my laptop, charger, phone, wallet, datebook, newspaper, book, water, and workout clothes in case I got to the gym. But, as the late great George Carlin once pointed out, other people's stuff is shit. My shit is stuff.

is that a "realistic" two-inch gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

A fourth-grader on Staten Island was nearly suspended from school after his principal caught him playing with this Lego policeman toy during his lunch period.

It wasn't the policeman that was the problem, of course: it was the two-inch Lego gun that he was holding. Since the Staten Island Dept of Education has a zero-tolerance policy for toy guns in schools, wee Patrick Timoney, holder of said Lego figure, was in some deep trouble.

Here's the Dept of Education's stance:

...all imitation weapons are prohibited because they are regarded as harmful to the school community. The principal can evaluate if the weapon looks realistic before considering suspension.

OK, great. But why is that the standard? Why is a "realistic" toy gun harmful to the school community?  Because a realistic toy gun LOOKS LIKE  A REAL GUN. It's pretty hard to argue that the toothpick-sized gun pictured above is realistic. It's bigger than the cop holding it, for one thing. It's smaller than a bullet, for another. If any of Patrick Timoney's classmates were actually intimidated by this bit of shoddy plastic craftsmanship, the school nurse would call to have their heads examined.

Enough with the disclipining kids for teensy toys and hippy hair. Back to work, people.




(picture cribbed from msnbc article cited above)

it depends on what the meaning of "pre-washed" is

The latest issue of Consumer Reports gives us the lowdown on just how clean bagged salads are.

Their results?

"In our samples, all of which were within their use-by date, we did find bacteria that are common indicators of poor sanitation and fecal contamination—in some cases, at rather high levels. 

Several industry experts we consulted suggested that for leafy greens, an unacceptable level of total coliforms or enterococcus is 10,000 or more colony forming units per gram (CFU/g) or a comparable estimate. In our tests, 39 percent of samples exceeded that level for total coliforms and 23 percent for enterococcus."

OK. 39% of the bagged salads they sampled had "unacceptable levels" of fecal contamination. They do not tell us what percentage of the salads had what would be considered acceptable levels. I'd like to think there is only one truly acceptable level-- zero-- but sounds like if your salad has but 5,000 colony forming units per gram of tiny pieces of crap, you can consider yourself fortunate.

Do I usually wash bagged salads? Yes, ever since the spinach scare a couple years back, but I have certainly been known to dump and serve. Wasn't that the point of pre-washed salads, to save busy mothers the hassle of cleaning the greens? I think I'll be washing more thoroughly from now on, assuming I can bring myself to ever eat salad again.

By the way, in addition to washing your greens carefully, Consumer Reports recommends that you consume greens that are as far from their sell-by date as possible. The closer to the sell-by date, the more nasties they found.  Clean out those produce drawers!

city mouse

Yesterday, I elaborated on what seem to me to be the considerable advantages of country living with little ones underfoot. Today, the advantages of city living with kids. There definitely are a few:

-having no finished basement means not ever having to clean your finished basement.
-having less space for crap means you must continually and ruthlessly edit your family's belongings.
Ergo, less crap.
-There are thirty restaurants that deliver in a three-block radius, so if you get home late, your kids can still be eating dinner in fifteen minutes.
-you can have one kid in the bath, one kid finishing dinner, and one kid starting homework, and be able to keep an eye on all three of them at once. Try that in some big house!
-not driving = not buckling and unbuckling the baby from her car seat twelve times a day.

Notice what is sixth on my list:

-your kids can be constantly enriched by exposure to all the museums and performing arts that are just a short subway ride away.

This is true. But, as anyone who lives in a city will tell you, parents don't take advantage of this stuff enough. This is one of my resolutions for 2010-- if we live in the city, let's expose our children to what is wonderful about it. Otherwise let's go get that finished basement.

And so last weekend I was spontaneous and took the boys to a Saturday afternoon Story Pirates show, and I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. (Oh yeah, the kids liked it too.) It was a most successful arts outing, and so I think I'm going to take them to see the Tim Burton exhibit at MoMA next.

Which is not to say that I'm not still fantasizing about my friend's house with the playroom in the basement. But hey, a girl can't have everything. Which do you have? Do you ever wish you were on the other side?

how the other half lives

Yesterday we all went for a drive to Connecticut to visit some friends who moved out of the city two years ago. My friend invited three of us city slicker families to come up for the afternoon, have lunch, and let the kids play. We all readily accepted the invitation, since it was about two degrees outside and our apartments' walls were closing in on us

like The Haunted Mansion at Disney World. It boggled my mind that my friend was actually inviting eight children under the age of seven over to join the three she already has, but a most pleasant time was had by all, the kind of pleasant time that makes a mother who lives in the city dream of greener pastures.

Here are the main advantages, as I see them, to country living:

-in houses, playrooms are in basements.
-in houses, people HAVE basements! and usually, second floors as well! three separate levels over which a family can space itself out.
-in houses, people have PLAYROOMS, dedicated areas for toys, as opposed to a film of Legos and My Pretty Ponies over every square inch of living surface.
-in houses, people wear sweaters in the winter time. In our apartment, the colder it is outside, the hotter it is in here. As I write, the thermostat nearby reads 78, there is a window open in every room, and I am wearing a tank top. As soon as my kids get home from school they strip to their skivvies, it's so hot in here. It's like dorm living, FOREVER.
-in houses, you don't wake up on a weekend morning thinking oh my God get me out of here we HAVE to get out of this apartment what am I going to DO with these kids today? At 6:45 a.m.

These are considerable benefits.
Tomorrow, the advantages of city living with kids. (That gives me 24 hours to think of some.)

oh yeah, I have that too

Have you ever heard of Morgellons Disease? Sufferers swear that they can feel, and see, little fiber-y things crawling under their skin. The medical community is split on whether they're delusional, or whether what they have is unexplained. One recent medical journal suggested that it was an "internet meme," and that once google hits on it went down, so would reported cases. I have no authority to say whether it's a real condition or it's not, but it sounds awful to those who are sure they are suffering from it;  so whatever you do, please don't mention it to my husband, because he will be immediately and totally sure he has it.

My husband is a hypochondriac (my mother-in-law says he got it from her side of the family; I'm going to tactfully decline to disagree).  I can usually convince him that he doesn't have lung tumors, or whatever we just saw on House, but when there is an actual sickness in the household, my husband's anxiety that he is already exhibiting similar symptoms makes him almost as bad a patient as the sick person him or herself, who most times, is under the age of seven.

Over the past week and a half, I have been up all night while each of my children, and then myself, retched at half-hour intervals. (By the way, why do the vomity bugs always come on in the middle of the night?) My husband is the only one who has survived, probably because each time, I have told him to decamp to the Murphy bed in the office so one of us can get some sleep (unlike him, I can usually manage to grab a nap with the sickie the next day). But I do consider this rather selfless on my part. Last night it was my seven year old's turn and-- I am not exaggerating-- he had 16 bouts of vomiting/dry heaving in a six-hour period.  When my two year old Rooster awoke at her usual 6 a.m., I got her out of bed and woke my husband to hand her over. "Oh no, I can't take her," he said, rolling over. "I was up all night."

"Excuse me?" I said.

"I was so sure I was getting sick that I couldn't sleep," he explained.

I stood there for a minute. waiting. He looked at me, and in the dim light, must have been able to make out just how MY night had been, because (to his credit) he rather quickly said, "Oh," and took our daughter, and let me go back to the sick bay and sleep until the glorious hour of 7:15.

The thing is, I know he really DID have a lousy night's sleep because he's so sure he's getting sick, and by tonight, will be so beside himself I'll be slipping syrup of ipecac in his protein shake just so we can get it over with already. "I am not a good patient," he reminded me this morning. Oh yes. Of that I am well aware.