Wheel of Fortune

My friend Susan had a unicycle when I was in 6th grade, and I thought she was amazing.  SWS and I really wanted unicycles so we could be as cool and athletic as Susan, wheeling up and down her street balanced on her one wheel.  I somehow got an adult with a driver's license to take me to The Bike Shop downtown, where I made the disappointing discovery that a unicycle cost $60.00.  For a contraption with one wheel!  I made 25 cents an hour babysitting, so theoretically, I could save up enough money for a unicycle in about ten years, but I didn't want to be a circus freak when I was old and grey.  I wanted to be a circus freak immediately!

So I asked for a unicycle for my birthday, feeling guilty about the exorbitant cost, but still hoping my parents would take pity on me.  Time was slipping away, and I still wasn't cool or talented like I would be if I had a unicycle.  The night of my birthday, my dad came home from work and pulled his car in the garage.  I spied on him as he got out.  He wasn't carrying any unicycle-shaped packages, and my heart plummeted.  I watched my dad with an eagle eye all evening, until finally, he slipped back out to the garage.  I peeked and saw him wrestling with a roll of wrapping paper and a big cardboard box in the trunk of his car. 

When the time came to open the big box, I acted very surprised.  It felt like the best day of my life.

I loved that unicycle.  Sarah got one too, and we worked on our skills for hours.  I would start at the corner of the garage and balance ever-so-carefully.  I'd shove off, pedal once and fall down.  Over.  And over.  Susan coached us, but I never became the unicycle child prodigy that I had envisioned.  My dad kept telling people that I rode the unicycle, though.  He said it with pride, just like he said everything that related to his children.  That was the one thing my dad was never very good at:  recognizing his kids' failures.  Just like I couldn't ever get up on that single wheel, my dad could never tell when I was a miserable failure.  Couldn't tell, or just didn't let on.  Still doesn't.

Thanks, Dad!  And Happy Birthday.

Bling!

Golda was pretty cute before, but I think she needed some bling in her smile.  What do you think??  She wasn't too happy about being picked up from the ortho and going straight to a voice lesson, but it turned out, singing with braces wasn't as terrible as she feared.  A free shake from Dr. Rampton and applesauce and loads of delicious pudding, specially delivered by Aunt Jennie, brought back Golda's new and improved smile.  Love the new mug, Golda!

Solitude

There's a scene in Date Night where the wife (Tina Fey) tells the husband about her ultimate fantasy:  "I'd just like to check into a hotel, order room service and sit in a nice, clean, quiet, air conditioned room and eat my food without anyone touching me!"

I laughed so hard at that one.  I so relate.  While I have enough imagination to get away from it all even while I'm up to my eyeballs in it, and enough organizational skills to take my own time here and there, I can still picture that nice, quiet hotel room, air conditioner humming, and know...I want to go there!

Scott was in Park City all week for a conference, staying at my parents' condo.  He texted me and said, "You should come up here all by yourself Saturday night and stay over.  The leaves are so pretty."  I texted back, "No way!  It's a Utah game that night.  You want to go!"  After some text-gotiations, Scott convinced me that he didn't have to go to the game, and I agreed to pack my bags.  Now, let me just clarify, in case you don't know me:  I love my life, and everything about it, with the possible exception of packing lunches.  Having just one or two kids would have turned me into an awful helicopter/stage mom.  I would have smothered them.  And if I didn't have the violin shop and teaching, my house would surely be overflowing with macrame or antiques or nutritious dinners or...more kids...whatever hobby I chose to channel my energy into.  Having six kids and a job and teaching and being 25% too busy all the time suits me perfectly.  Still, it was quite therapeutic all week to know, when I couldn't seem to get to my novel or when a shoe or a puppy invariably went missing, that soon I would have a huge block of empty time all to myself.  It made me smile calmly more than once.

On Saturday, I went about my teaching and violin repairs and soccer game, practicing, housekeeping, phone call returning and errands with a growing zen buzz in the back of my mind.  Finally, with the kids mostly shipped off to a Primary activity, I got in my car and zoomed up the canyon, leaving Big Tolly and Little Tolly waving in the driveway.  Did I tell you Little Tolly isn't even weaned yet?  Scott is a brave soul.

I roamed the outlets, picked up some food and went to the condo.  Scott had left a cute note and a display of treats with the puffy bathrobe and slippers I could relax in.  I immediately changed into my swimsuit for some poolside relaxation and plunged into the ice-cold water.  For a minute, I thought I was going to die alone, but my heart recovered and I sat in the hot tub taking in the beauty of the fall leaves and the big swaths of bare ground cut through the trees that will soon be the ski runs of Deer Valley.  I didn't have to tell anyone to stop splashing or convince anyone to stay at the pool for a few more minutes.  (It's fun!  We're relaxing!  Why don't you read?  Or get in?")  After my swim, my main goals were to consume more calories than Kobayashi at Coney Island and to read an entire book.  Check, and check.  A package of Oreos, a Mrs. Field's cookie, a spicy tuna roll, orange chicken and lo mein, and a nutty ice cream shake later, I tucked into page one of my book and never looked up.  Actually, I might have taken a break to send a few texts like this one:  "Is Tolly OK?  Is he breathing?  Can he reach any electrical outlets or sewing machine cords?  Is it dark in his room?  I can come home in the night!"  Just a few texts.  After I convinced my inner worrywart that everything was OK at home, I slept better than I have since May 21, 2006, (Hong Kong) and woke to the mountains flooded with light.

My soul is flooded with light, too, at the generosity and sportsmanship of my wonderful husband, the sweetness and preciousness of my children, and the extreme beauty of the world.  I'm so ready for the week, and so grateful that my life occasions me to need a break now and then, and so grateful for the chance to take one.  Thanks, Scott!

Password Protected

Does everybody know Xanthe's username and password for computer lab by now?  Do we all have it memorized?  If not, it's written on both of her hands every day, just in case she forgets the paper that's in her backpack that has the numbers on it.  Xanthe's school personality is so funny!  Her teacher, trying to teach the kids to log on themselves, wouldn't help Xanthe do it, and told her to practice at home with her mom.  She got so worked up about logging onto the computer that she said she "wouldn't go if it's 'puter day."  Right.  Scott has a better chance of being the next Oprah than Xanthe does of staying home from school.  It's not happening on my watch.  I need my quiet time!  So I wrote the username and password on Xanthe's hand.  She said, "Now write it on the other hand in case I forget which hand it's on."

Even though 'puter day is only on Thursday, Xanthe won't go to school without the numbers written on both of her hands EVERY day.  Just in case.  And who am I to put a stop to such a funny idiosyncrasy?  Thursday, she came in the door singing, "I did it!  I got on Curious George!  I typed in the numbers!"  All that for Curious George?  Gotta love kindergarten.

Famous Last Words

"There's no way I can paint a wall.  I have too many chores to do.  I will not go to Home Depot.  I will not go to Home Depot."

Once you take that paint swatch fan with you to your car, it's all over.  One red light too many, and I've picked a color.  On the plus side, the promise of slathering all that happy green on a white wall motivated me to get my chores done.  And now Freestone's room looks more like a fun seaside resort and less like a basement room in an insane asylum.  Yay!

When Freestone got up this morning, I asked him how he liked sleeping in his "new" room.  He said it was "howwible."  "There's no kid stuff and my favorite picture is gone!"  His favorite picture just happens to be a bunch of dogs peering into a wide-angle lens, making their noses look gigantic.  (Scott loves it.)  With the dog art back on the wall, the room now has a Dog Beach theme.  Watch your step...just in case Prestie decides to authenticate the dog beach theme in her own little way.

Great Scott

In an economic climate as tight as this one, it seems like good news is at a premium for everybody.  Scott got some welcome good news at work.  He got a contract as a prosecutor for another city, in addition to the cities he already serves.  I am proud of him for getting this contract through years of building a good reputation as an honest, compassionate, fair and genuine person and professional.  (Much like his boss!)  I find lawyer jokes tiresome and misguided.  Lawyers are no more responsible for the litigious nature of our society than oncologists are responsible for cancer.  Most lawyers are hard-working and highly ethical people.  Scott certainly is, and it's gratifying to see it pay off.

Scott loves his job.  It's a nice little break from the much more demanding job of being a dad, right, Scott?  On Thursday nights, Ruby has to wait at dance until I finish teaching violin and come to pick her up.  When I drove up, I saw her through the door, alone in the dressing room.  She was looking at her phone and laughing, then texting.  When she got in the car, she told me she was texting Daddy.  He is away on a little business trip, but he still remembers to keep Ruby entertained while she waits at the studio.  I called Scott and said, "Ruby was supposed to be doing her math homework, but instead she was texting some guy!"  So thankful that "guy" is Scott.   I can trust him to do a really good, solid job, whether it's at work or home.  Or shopping for beach hats for the (10!) kids who are going with us to the beach.  That will be a well-deserved vacation, Scott.  From one of your jobs, at least!  Love ya!

Soccer. Sounds Like Sucker.

Can 90% of the world's population be completely wrong?  Yes.  I'll give you an example:  Soccer.

Soccer is universally regarded as vital to life on this planet.  I don't know what's up with the human race, but they are dead wrong about soccer.  Humankind evolves to the point where we have opposable thumbs and we invent a game where it's illegal to use your hands?

Soccer is proof positive that, in many parts of the world, there is just nothing to do.  But what about here?  What parental instinct convinces people to spend their Saturday sitting in the blazing sun hoping their child kicks a ball through a net? 

I used to hear parents talking about how they have games and practices every night, yada yada yada.  And I'd think, in the back of my mind, that someday I would be in that position, much the same way you hear about sleepless babies before you have kids and assume you'll go through that at some point in the future.  I thought we would someday enter the realm of the initiated, sports-wise, and I would develop an extension of my personality that would enable me to yell things like, "Way to hustle!" and "Get it in!"

Not yet.  When I go to Freestone's soccer games, I feel the same way I would if I stumbled into the wrong classroom in college.  Fitness 101 as opposed to Art History Through the Twentieth Century.  These are not my people!  Soccer people have athletic-looking yellow labs wearing collars equipped with dual water bottles.  They come to games with folding chairs, umbrellas and 25-gallon water coolers in wagons.  They set up tiny nets along the sidelines so that their toddlers can practice kicking balls. 

Me?  I'm sitting on a sweater.  I found a half-empty bottle of water for Freestone, who is so red, he looks like a fluid IV would be more appropriate, and Ptolemy and Xanthe are playing with an ingenious toy I came up with from the car:  a McDonald's cup full of bobby pins and hair nets.  At some point during each game, I look around and ask myself, "What am I doing here?"  Freestone has three signature soccer moves:  picking grass on the sidelines, running behind the other kids, and standing there in a trance while the ball hits him in the shins.  It occurs to me that I may never be that parent who says, "We're so busy with soccer practice every night and games all over the state and football hasn't even started yet!"  When Freestone runs, he doesn't even clench his fists.  His hands flop as he forges ahead, even when the other kids have changed direction with the ball.  Free's a dreamer.  Granted, he is the youngest second grader on a second-third grade team, and may yet develop into a jock.  But it doesn't matter.

After this last game, Freestone was all smiles.  He ran up to me with his post-game Twinkie (seriously?) and said, "It's so hot, what if there was a portal to the beach and we went through it and we were like ahhh, the ocean!  Let's go get in! And we didn't even have to drive and all of a sudden we were playing in the water..."  I said, "Free, that would be so cool.  I wish there were.  I'd make my portal end up right in the sand, with water up to my ankles, and I'd run into the waves and splash you."  He looked off into the clear sky and said wistfully, "Yeah..."

I don't need to fit in on the sidelines at a little league game.  Freestone doesn't need to kick the ball.  As long as I'm invited into a magic portal to the beach with my perfect little dreamer boy, I know where to find bliss.  And isn't that the goal?

Heeeeere's Ruby!

This is Ruby setting off for her North Pole Expedition.  No, not really.  Just setting off for her Monday.  She had her violin for orchestra, school backpack, ballet bag for going straight to ballet after school with another mom, and her lunch and after-school snack.  I literally took less luggage on a two-month backpacking trip.  And this wasn't even one of the days she takes a dinner with her. 

The orchestra thing is new, as of this week.  Ruby stopped playing the violin long ago when she fell in love with guitar.  I was a little heartbroken, because she was such a natural at violin, but she proved to have just as much propensity for guitar.  I love to listen to her practice.  The classical guitar repertoire is so beautiful, and Ruby is getting so accomplished.  I always thought 6th grade orchestra would be fun for her, with her violin background, but I never mentioned it because Ruby has plenty to do, and she hates suggestions.  Ruby was born an adult, and she runs her own show.  So, Sunday night, Ruby told me that she needed a violin for orchestra the next day.  I was secretly happy (Just kidding, Ruby.  Whatever.  I don't care.), and we went to the shop to choose one. 

Ruby is like a beautiful garden that blooms with new, unexpected and exquisite flowers all the time.  She knows where she's going.  (She wants to be living on her own in San Francisco by the time she's sixteen.  I told her she could probably live there on her own now, and I believe it.)  In the world she is creating for herself, there is a lot of dance, music, art, humor, personal interaction and good food.  There's no math, though.  It sounds perfect, just like Ruby!

Belgrade to Pocatello

Fourteen years ago, Scott and I were swimming in the Mediterranean Sea in the village of Platamon, on the eastern coast of Greece, when Scott put his hand on a sharp sea anemone.  A gentleman swam over to us and explained, in careful English, what to do about the anemone needles.  He introduced himself to us as Vladimir from Yugoslavia and invited us to have lunch with his family.  Under the trees near the beach where the family was camping, we ate our meal and met Vladimir's wife, Borjanka, and his teenage children, Zeljko and Miroslava.  We talked about life in Belgrade, which is now in Serbia, and life in Utah.  I can't explain why we became friends, why we exchanged gifts, or why we kept in touch.  We just felt a connection.

A couple of years later, there was trouble in Kosovo.  Young men in Yugoslavia were being drafted into the army in the middle of the night.  Long story short, Zeljko came to live with Scott and me in Idaho in the summer of 1999, thanks to generous donations from our friends and family.  He went to school, joined the LDS church and did not see his parents for three years.  But he was safe.  When Zeljko's parents came to Utah for the first time in 2002, it was a very emotional reunion.  This weekend, we went to Pocatello to see Vladimir and Borjanka again.  They are visiting Zeljko and Jen and their three (and a half!! congrats!!) little boys.  During our visit, Vladimir pulled me aside to give me a heartfelt and emotional thank you for helping Zeljko emigrate.  Not wanting anything to get lost in translation, I called Zeljko over and said, "Tell your dad that all the sacrifices have been his and Borjanka's, and I am not the one to thank."  Indeed, sending your son half a world away to save his very life is a sacrifice that only the most courageous could go through with.  People think they would do anything for their child, but what if the cost was never having him back in your home?  What if you knew that the people you would love the most, your grandchildren, would be raised in a foreign country, speaking a foreign language and with big chunks of time between visits from their "Baka and Deda?"  That is to sacrifice everything, and parenthood can come to that.  And I think being a parent is intense now?

With Vladimir and Borjanka in town, we (minus Scott and Xanthe) had the kind of weekend that restores everything back to center.  When we arrived in Pocatello, Borjanka had prepared a meal so delicious, I still regret not just consuming the whole pan.  If only my stomach were bigger!  We spent the evening reminiscing and watching the eight kids play, cry and fall down.  Araceli fell off the trampoline and took a little nap to recover.  Concussion?  I don't know, but only the first child goes to the ER for head trauma.  She ended up being fine.  Afterward, we swam at the hotel, made elaborate hot chocolate concoctions and set up our sleeping quarters in the room.  The next morning, there was breakfast with the other hotel guests, more swimming and more relaxing in the hot tub.  We couldn't leave Pocatello without spending a couple more hours with our favorite Europeans.  They gave us Milka chocolate bars to snack on as we looked at pictures of Belgrade, so life was perfect.  The ride home was quiet and sunny, and we arrived home to a clean house and a happy Scott and Xanthe.  I hope and pray that it is not long before the Serbo-Croatian side of our family is in town again!  

 

We love you! Vladimir, Borjanka, Zeljko, Jen, and all the boys...thanks!

Forms of Blindness

I should have just not mentioned the eye exam to Xanthe when that stupid paper came home.  I could have opted out, of course, but it didn't seem like a big deal until after I had casually explained the eye test to Xanthe and she spent the next five days worrying.  I told her she didn't have to do it, but then she had a million questions about that.  I told her Aunt Jennie would be giving the exam, and to look for Aunt Jennie.  I thought talking her through it would be a good learning experience, but this morning, the day of the exam, she was pacing around repeating, "I can't find Aunt Jennie!  I can't find Aunt Jennie!"  OK, we need to talk about verb tense, but first let's just talk about TENSE!!  As in, Xanthe's whole body was rigid with fear.  I called Aunt Jennie's phone so that she could tell Xanthe where to find her, and Jennie told us to come over right then.  I immediately drove Xanthe to the school to get the exam done and put us both out of our misery.  Xanthe's eyes were darting around hysterically, and Jennie was helping Xanthe "cheat" on the test because Xanthe couldn't see a darn thing, even with her good eye, she was so wound up.  She didn't follow the game of holding your hand at the different angles to match the E's on the wall, either.  I was feeling pretty feisty and aggressive when the school nurse walked over to me, which is why our conversation went down like it did.

Nurse, leaning toward me, whispers sympathetically, "Oooh, can she not speak English?"
I look at her in the eye and say, "No, she can.  Why?"  Then I watch her squirm.  I want to see her try to explain to me that she jumped to the conclusion that my daughter didn't speak English because of how she looks.  It was unfair of me to put her on the spot, and mean.  But you know what?  Give yourself a split second to question your assumptions before you say something stupid.

I let the nurse scramble and stammer for a few moments before I jumped in and saved her by explaining how Xanthe is blind in one eye, hence the struggles with the exam.  I thought I could shrug off the insensitive comment, but I found myself shaking with rage.  Blind with rage, if you will.  If you think the nurse's comment was in any way justified, then I can't help you.  You live in a different world than I do.  In my world, millions of Americans are of Asian descent.  And yeah, they speak English.

There are uglier forms of blindness than the kind Xanthe has in her left eye.

Finishing a

My car is full of canned food because Ari had an asthma attack at school while I was at the grocery store.

Ptolemy's high chair is covered in apple sauce because he fell out of it on his head as I was about to clean it.

There is a big pile of clean laundry on the floor because the phone rang when I was folding and it kept ringing and it's hard to fold with one hand and write on the calendar with the other hand while talking to people about violin rentals.

The garbage can is by the front door because, on my way outside to dump it, Freestone "really needed a towel."  He really did, for the sake of everyone in the vicinity.

The kitchen sink is full of dishes because I was going to unload/load the dishwasher right after I fed Ptolemy, but he fell asleep, and I didn't want to wake him up with noisy dish sounds.  And dinner is still in the planning stage because I'm so multi-tasked out that all I can think to make is toast.

Eventually, I'll have more time and I'll be able to do just one thing at a time, and do it well.  But then what will I blame my incompetence on?

Here's a video of Araceli playing a piece she just finished.  Most of it, anyway.  The camera ran out of memory.  I can totally relate.  Araceli, you did it!  Great job finishing a

Little Twig

Xanthe and her loot from Coco and Bill's trip to Europe! She's in heaven!

 Xanthe practicing for Crazy Hair day.  Seriously, practicing for Crazy Hair day.

Xanthe has some hangnails that are always bothering her.  She said,  "I have two owies.  When you're Chinese, you have a LOT of owies."  I tried to tell her that being Chinese doesn't mean you have a lot of owies, but she replied, "Weeeeeell, Ruby has a lot of owies."  I said, "See?  And Ruby isn't Chinese."  Xanthe said, "Uh, kind of."  Ruby is kind of Chinese?  Yep, in Xanthe's world she is.

I took the opportunity of Xanthe bringing up her ethnicity to talk about her about where she came from.  We decided that Ruby wasn't born in China, but Xanthe was.  Xanthe described herself as having brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin.  She said matter-of-factly, "And when I was born, you weren't there because you were getting my crib ready."  Not the whole story, but OK.  I said, "Do you remember me telling you about your birth mother?  Remember when Ptolemy was in my tummy?  Well, you were in another mama's tummy.  When you were born, she couldn't keep you."

Then the inevitable, "Why couldn't she keep me?"

"Because she didn't have any nice, warm clothes for you or any..."  I trailed off because my voice was getting flimsy and I didn't know the truth, anyway.

Xanthe finished the thought:  "She didn't have a nice, warm jacket for me?"

All I could say was, "No."

It definitely wasn't the ideal conversation, but I didn't have any regrets about our little heart-to-heart.  I don't have to say the right thing or have all the answers, now or ever.  I have my whole life to sort out with Xanthe where she came from and why.  I am Xanthe's mom, but also the steward of this tiny twig from a family tree I'll never see, whose roots are deep in unknown soil.  Hundreds of generations of a pure Han Chinese family, no doubt a family incredibly rich in tradition, culminated in our daughter.  She is lost to them on this earth, but I like to think that her ancestors know exactly where she is. She's right here, worrying about computer lab tomorrow, even though she has practiced typing in her username and password dozens of times.  That's our Xanthe.  Oh, sorry, Ancestors...your Xanthe, too.

Peace Be Still

Ninety-nine percent of Freestone's sentences start with, "What if."  This morning, it was "What if there was a giant ball and it had bumps on it and you were an ant hanging onto it and it started bouncing and you were like WHHOOOOOOOOAAAA!  That's what Jesus felt like when he was tossed on the waves."

Scott and I glanced at each other and tuned in more attentively to the story, now that Jesus was a main character.  I wasn't sure where he was going with the ant-on-a-giant-ball/Jesus-tossed-on-the-waves analogy. 

He went on, "But then Jesus said, 'Peace be still,' and the waves as big as mountains went teeny.

Right in the middle of cereal and finding shoes and packing lunches, Freestone had given a little devotional.  Short, sweet and far more effective than my teaching moment on the way home from church yesterday when I found myself saying loudly, "Xanthe!  Jesus would never throw a Littlest Pet Shop toy at his brother!"  I heard someone mutter the obvious, "Jesus didn't even have Littlest Pet Shops.  Or a brother."

From now on, I'm going to leave the teaching of Gospel principles to Freestone.  And I'm just going to listen.

Four for Four and Grateful!

The Saturday after Labor Day is always Nutcracker auditions, one of the most thrilling days of the year, fraught with every emotion imaginable.  Golda was first, being in the taller group.  It was a huge group, 87 dancers, and I saw a lot of girls walk out afterward, shaking their heads.  Others, with a glance at their result paper, looked relieved and hurried to find their moms in the crowd.  There were so many disappointed faces, that the girls who did get parts kept their joy low-key, which struck me as extremely gracious.  I was doubly nervous because Golda and my niece Lexie were both auditioning.  They finally came out, having looked at their papers together at the same time.  It was good news.  Thankfully, I thought, "That's two down, two to go," thinking of Ruby and Ari.   

I was lucky enough to teach one of the audition dances, so I was in the try-outs with Ari when Ruby came out into the alley from her audition.  I wanted her to have someone there to see her (Scott was at the Utah game), so Golda and Lexie waited.  I slipped out of my audition long enough to see the three "Siskins" (sisters/cousins) standing in the alley.  More good news.  Ruby got a part!  With three down and one to go, I was more nervous than ever.  Araceli, at eight years old, was up against a lot of older girls.  This is her first year to try out, and she skipped the shortest group because of her height.  Although she seemed to be doing well and looked adorable in her perfect bun and the ribbon Golda chose for her, I kept thinking how devastating it would be for her to be left out.  As the third sister, being left behind is a familiar feeling.   Ari is never old enough or big enough or advanced enough to be "one of the big kids."

When the result papers arrived,  I was in a unique position as a teacher to see Ari's results and reaction first.  I saw "congratulations" and sagged with relief!  Golda and Ruby were waiting anxiously in the alley to celebrate with Ari, and she ran to them. Is there a sweeter moment sisters could share?  Ruby has been worried about Ari not making Nutcracker since last year.  In the car on the way down, Golda had told Ari, "I want you to remember that you're a really good dancer and you can do all this stuff.  Just smile and point your toes."  Ari said, "OK.  I might get a Clara callback!"  Confidence?  Not a problem for this eight-year-old.  :)

At home, Ari ran in the house and shouted, "I made it!  I made Nutcracker!"  Freestone put it all in perspective for us when he replied, "I have to go see that again?"  He liked the idea of celebrating, though, so we went to Wendy's with Uncle Trajan.  But the real party was later at Yogo Togo with all four Nutcracker girls and the two moms who are grateful to share this journey with them, Jennie and me.  The frozen yogurt was good, but the real treat was seeing all the girls talk about something they love, dance.  They are so fortunate to have this opportunity.  Their childhood recollections will be made up of the thrill of days like this.  It's a rare and wonderful thing to be a part of, and we feel so lucky.