Author's note post publish: I pushed the publish button at 1:07 am last night. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I wasn't sure I had really gotten to the heart of the matter. What I wanted to do was publish pictures of Logan's birthday party, but when you say part 1 of a 3 part essay, you kind of feel pressured to supply part two.
And when I awoke this morning--or rather, was awoken this morning--it was, if not the first thing I thought about, then the second. The thing is, I'm not really clear in my own brain about it all. There is a basic dogma here that I'm not buying, but how to articulate it, I'm not sure.
What I know: 1) Elizabeth Gilbert and I disagree on some core values. And that is okay. She has a complete right to her opinion. 2) There is a difference between micro and macro. Meaning, what she does in her personal life is her personal business, and I should have no say in that. But when she affects the cultural attitude, I can and should have an opinion about that. We should think a second time before we give everything a live and let live stamp.
It reminds me of a time when I watched Hallie Barry on Oprah. She was saying how she would never marry again because, she didn't "need a man to complete her." I don't take issue with her words necessarily. She'd been through a bad divorce. I get her bias. But what struck me like a thunderbolt was the audience's response. Everyone burst into applause. It was a real women's power moment. And I thought, "Do we all feel this way? Are we all supposed to be convinced that marriage is a bad thing?"
I don't think that marriage and children stand in the way of a women's fulfillment. I don't want our culture to buy into that. I think that would breed a lot of unhappy women. And so I pushed the publish button. Ready or not.
Feel free to weigh in, but be gentle. I was up late last night. :0)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Choosing Motherhood (part 2 of a 3 part essay)
Choosing. The older I get, the more I think that choosing is one of the trickiest part of living. Here's why: The most important choices we have to make are made when we have the least amount of experience to make them. That's another reason why Gilbert's philosophy bothers me. It just seems a little short sighted.
See, I had a grandmother, as well. Two to be exact. Like Gilbert's grandmother, my Grandma Doty cut up a lot of things, too: Scraps of fabric were made into quilts for beds; old clothes were revamped and resized as needed; cardboard was cut to shelter feet where soles of shoes had worn through. It was the depression. It was hard, and it was heavy, but it would be a great assumption on my part to say that she was unhappy. I was a spectator of her later years. Much of her life is a mystery to me, and so I wonder: Is Ms. Gilbert's grandmother's unhappiness a fact? Or is it her own personal bias talking?
Perhaps it is just as possible that her grandmother, thinking she would never have the chance to marry and have children, was deeply fulfilled. Maybe not in the way of foreign travel or exotic foods--those things that Ms. Gilbert values--but maybe in the way of a warm hearth, and Sunday dinners, and kisses goodnight. I'm sure she wasn't happy all the time, but who is? I can also safely say that I'm sure she wasn't unhappy all the time either. And, besides that, who's to say that "happy" is the great guidepost of life, anyway?
Sometimes, what will make us happy in the short run, will not be what's best for us long term. The question is: How are we to know that when our experience is so limited?
One of the reasons I am devoutly religious is that it gives me perspective outside of myself through thousands of years of discovery regarding the human soul. It is not possible for me to live long enough or to conduct enough personal experiments to attain the wisdom I find in religious tenet, and I find it interesting that almost every religious theory has some basic belief in sacrifice or selflessness. In some way, they all teach that in living for something beyond ourselves our lives will be more meaningful and satisfying--a long term result that often has difficult beginnings. It isn't easy to give up some of the things I want. It isn't easy to consider someone else all the time. It isn't easy to compromise. What is easy is doing exactly what I want, when I want to do it.
That seems to be the road Elizabeth Gilbert chose in her book, and you know what? I'm okay with that. It's her choice, and I don't have to agree with it. But what bothers me is the thousands of women she has influenced in both obvious and subtle ways. She writes a book about her perspective--her truth--and we laugh along with her and nod our heads and get all excited about girl power, and it changes us a bit. After reading it, how does a girl view motherhood? How does a young mother feel about her new calling? Do I, as a mother, consider my life wasted because it doesn't drip with excitement and self exploration?
Elizabeth Gilbert can write what she wants; I just want to be a voice for motherhood. I believe in it. We need good, devoted, intentional mothers because the world of tomorrow is riding on the backs of the moms today. For the most part we are not glamorous; we are not famous; but we are, simply, the life-blood of the future.
Look, I learned something from my grandma, too, and it is this: At the end of the very long road of her 102 years, it was not the places she had been or the things that she had done that gave her life meaning. No. It was her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren that meant the most. She was surrounded and lifted up in our love, and while achievements will be forgotten, books will disinegrate, and careers will be ignored, my grandmother has left a living legacy that will never disappear.
Those are long-term results. One's that aren't always evident in the short run of diaper changes, tantrums, or account balances. I don't know if Ms. Gilbert is living with the end in mind, but I'm trying to. Choices are a tricky thing. Let's at least choose thoughtfully.
See, I had a grandmother, as well. Two to be exact. Like Gilbert's grandmother, my Grandma Doty cut up a lot of things, too: Scraps of fabric were made into quilts for beds; old clothes were revamped and resized as needed; cardboard was cut to shelter feet where soles of shoes had worn through. It was the depression. It was hard, and it was heavy, but it would be a great assumption on my part to say that she was unhappy. I was a spectator of her later years. Much of her life is a mystery to me, and so I wonder: Is Ms. Gilbert's grandmother's unhappiness a fact? Or is it her own personal bias talking?
Perhaps it is just as possible that her grandmother, thinking she would never have the chance to marry and have children, was deeply fulfilled. Maybe not in the way of foreign travel or exotic foods--those things that Ms. Gilbert values--but maybe in the way of a warm hearth, and Sunday dinners, and kisses goodnight. I'm sure she wasn't happy all the time, but who is? I can also safely say that I'm sure she wasn't unhappy all the time either. And, besides that, who's to say that "happy" is the great guidepost of life, anyway?
Sometimes, what will make us happy in the short run, will not be what's best for us long term. The question is: How are we to know that when our experience is so limited?
One of the reasons I am devoutly religious is that it gives me perspective outside of myself through thousands of years of discovery regarding the human soul. It is not possible for me to live long enough or to conduct enough personal experiments to attain the wisdom I find in religious tenet, and I find it interesting that almost every religious theory has some basic belief in sacrifice or selflessness. In some way, they all teach that in living for something beyond ourselves our lives will be more meaningful and satisfying--a long term result that often has difficult beginnings. It isn't easy to give up some of the things I want. It isn't easy to consider someone else all the time. It isn't easy to compromise. What is easy is doing exactly what I want, when I want to do it.
That seems to be the road Elizabeth Gilbert chose in her book, and you know what? I'm okay with that. It's her choice, and I don't have to agree with it. But what bothers me is the thousands of women she has influenced in both obvious and subtle ways. She writes a book about her perspective--her truth--and we laugh along with her and nod our heads and get all excited about girl power, and it changes us a bit. After reading it, how does a girl view motherhood? How does a young mother feel about her new calling? Do I, as a mother, consider my life wasted because it doesn't drip with excitement and self exploration?
Elizabeth Gilbert can write what she wants; I just want to be a voice for motherhood. I believe in it. We need good, devoted, intentional mothers because the world of tomorrow is riding on the backs of the moms today. For the most part we are not glamorous; we are not famous; but we are, simply, the life-blood of the future.
Look, I learned something from my grandma, too, and it is this: At the end of the very long road of her 102 years, it was not the places she had been or the things that she had done that gave her life meaning. No. It was her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren that meant the most. She was surrounded and lifted up in our love, and while achievements will be forgotten, books will disinegrate, and careers will be ignored, my grandmother has left a living legacy that will never disappear.
Those are long-term results. One's that aren't always evident in the short run of diaper changes, tantrums, or account balances. I don't know if Ms. Gilbert is living with the end in mind, but I'm trying to. Choices are a tricky thing. Let's at least choose thoughtfully.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Cutting Up Coats: Motherhood and Sacrifice (part 1 of a 3 part essay)
Things had just started getting easier. Mr. Wicke and I were just now able to take a Sunday afternoon nap again. After seven years it felt like such an indulgence. And speaking of sleep, the children no longer woke us up on Saturday morning. I no longer had to scrub scribbles off walls or clean urine off couches. Things weren't getting broken as often anymore. Mostly they had learned to keep their mitts off of my stuff. No one had cut their own hair in years. They could shower and bathe themselves. They carried their own dishes to the sink and put away their own clothes. They dressed themselves! I mean the list of luxeries of a life with older kids just goes on and on. Things were a getting easier, and now what had I done??? Had I honestly gone and got myself pregnant? With a baby?? What was I doing???
This time around was much different than when we were expecting our first baby and even our second because now I wasn't naive. I'd been to the rodeo a couple of times, so to speak, and that bull is one tough ride! Parenthood will wring the selfishness out of you better than anything else. So you see, I can understand why people shrink in the face of procreation. Especially when one looks at all she would have to give up.
Elizabeth Gilbert, I think, looks at it that way. In her book Eat, Pray, Love she tells a story about her grandmother, who, born with a cleft palate, imagined herself unmarriageble and so got an education, worked, and lived independently. One of her personal rewards was buying a beloved fur-trimmed, wine-colored coat for $20.00. Later, when she does marry and has her first child, a daughter, she cuts the coat up to use for the baby. Gilbert seems to use this as an argument against motherhood.
She says, "That's the story of motherhood, in a large way. You take the thing that is most precious to you, and you cut it up and give it to somebody else who you love more than you love the thing. And we tend to idealize that, and I'm not sure we should. Because the sacrifice that it symbolizes is also huge. Her marriage and her seven children, in a life of constant struggle and deprivation — it was heavy. And that beautiful mind, that beautiful intellect, that exquisite sense of curiosity and exploration, was gone."
I can sorta' relate to that in my pregnancy-induced, panicky state of mind. There was some stuff I was going to have to give up. Getting back in the classroom? Delayed another six years, at least. Traveling to Europe? Gonna' have to wait. Shoot, traveling across town was going to be a little tricky again. Some of the things I wanted were going to have to be sacrificed. Sometimes, when that was my focus, it did feel a little heavy.
But then a funny thing happened. The baby was actually born. And when they put him in my arms, I did exactly what I had done with my other two: I wept. That moment, connecting with a brand new living soul, is the closest I will ever come in my human existence to heaven. In that sacred space, where love and joy, gratitude and humility, light and limitless potential entertwine, things become very clear: None of that other stuff even matters. It is this new understanding that allows us to do crazy-fool things like cut up coats and give up careers; not for some self-martyring notion that it is what one must do, but because those things no longer hold the value they once did.
Believe it or not, there was a time when I could not imagine my life without theater. Acting, singing, entertaining--I loved it! I was good at it. To me, it felt like flying. And a lot of my twenties was spent revolving around that world. Then the kids came, and they became the sun and the center of my universe. I was surprised to find that I didn't like to be away from them every night for large chunks of time. I missed them. It made me feel disconnected from my life. It gave me stress. I don't do much acting anymore. Some people call that a waste of talent. Some people call that giving up. I just call it being happy.
Those kinds of choices may be hard for some people to understand because they can only be judged by experience; one sadly, that Ms. Gilbert has chosen to never have. Just as I finished reading her interview, my son began to awake from his morning nap. Hearing him call for me, I made my way to his room, her description of contant struggle, deprivation, and sacrifice still simmering in my brain. As I opened the door he turned to me, eyes lighting up in joyful recognition, his chubby arms reaching out for me. I lifted him from the crib, pressed his soft, warm cheek to mine as he put his arms around my neck, and I whispered in his ear, "You are my trip to India. You, my darling boy, are my ride on an elephant."
If, in fact, I never do those things, I will not consider my life poorer because of it. What is sacrifice after all? It is to give up something valuable for something else. That something would have to be esteemed as something even better, would it not? Heavier? Maybe, but what of value in this life is not heavy? Perhaps the weight of our life should be a measure of its depth. And if to love and to be loved, to feel that one really matters, is the desire of every human soul, I feel I have chosen the better part.
(More to come...)
Thursday, January 7, 2010
On My Mind
This is a portion of an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love from O Magazine.
You tell a story in the book that is pivotal for you, about your grandmother. She was born with a cleft palate and thought to be unmarriageable, so she got an education and took care of herself, one day rewarding herself with a $20 fur-trimmed, wine-colored coat, which she adored. Eventually she does marry. And when she gives birth to her first daughter, she cuts up the coat to make something for the child.
Gilbert: That's the story of motherhood, in a large way. You take the thing that is most precious to you, and you cut it up and give it to somebody else who you love more than you love the thing. And we tend to idealize that, and I'm not sure we should. Because the sacrifice that it symbolizes is also huge. Her marriage and her seven children, in a life of constant struggle and deprivation — it was heavy. And that beautiful mind, that beautiful intellect, that exquisite sense of curiosity and exploration, was gone.
Hmmm...I feel a post coming. But not today, because I have to cut something precious up and give it away in the form of cleaning up after Christmas holiday, and while I do, this will be burning around in my brain, gurgling up in my chest, and will perhaps have to pour out onto paper; it's just not sitting well after digestion. Not at all.
For the whole interview go here.
You tell a story in the book that is pivotal for you, about your grandmother. She was born with a cleft palate and thought to be unmarriageable, so she got an education and took care of herself, one day rewarding herself with a $20 fur-trimmed, wine-colored coat, which she adored. Eventually she does marry. And when she gives birth to her first daughter, she cuts up the coat to make something for the child.
Gilbert: That's the story of motherhood, in a large way. You take the thing that is most precious to you, and you cut it up and give it to somebody else who you love more than you love the thing. And we tend to idealize that, and I'm not sure we should. Because the sacrifice that it symbolizes is also huge. Her marriage and her seven children, in a life of constant struggle and deprivation — it was heavy. And that beautiful mind, that beautiful intellect, that exquisite sense of curiosity and exploration, was gone.
Hmmm...I feel a post coming. But not today, because I have to cut something precious up and give it away in the form of cleaning up after Christmas holiday, and while I do, this will be burning around in my brain, gurgling up in my chest, and will perhaps have to pour out onto paper; it's just not sitting well after digestion. Not at all.
For the whole interview go here.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Karma and Penance: part 3
...Giddy with excitement, I pulled the tissue paper back and discovered, instead of the dress of my dreams, the dress of my mother's dreams; that is no small gap at 15, the toddlery of teenhood. That age when one is determined to do it herself! To find her own way! To like what she likes, without the interference of anyone, and maybe most of all her mother, whom she is determined never to become!
I was not this self aware at 15. I could not make any sense of these feelings nor put words to them. All I knew was that I hated that dress. Really, really hated it. It was 1985, and I was completely converted to the church of bigger, blingier, shinier, and shoulderpadier. This dress was from a different era altogether. The 1960's, perhaps, with its paired down and quaint cut. I could not fathom was she was thinking. Mercifully, despite my selfcenteredness at the time, I was not mean. I didn't want to hurt my mom's feelings, so I feigned delight. I thanked her, but then--and this is the behavior that will haunt me to my death--when she asked me to try it on, I...would...not. Oh, I didn't outright refuse, I just...uum...postponed it. "Oh, I will--later. Mom! I will. Just not right this minute..." And then I NEVER DID. Not once.
I know. It's awful. I don't even know what became of that dress. It hung in my closet as a silent accuser which I ignored. Sure, I had stabs of guilt every now and again, but I was a determined soul and pushed it further into the dark recesses of cast off clothes, as if I could erase it's existence. As if my mother, not seeing it, would forget. As if I would forget.
I have not. Twenty-four years later I am more embarrassed by my truculence than ever. Now that I know what it is to be my mother. To sacrifice my most precious resource, which is not money, but time, the one thing that I never have in abundance, because I believe it will make my children happy, because I love them, because I would do anything for them. And I do, which often includes absorbing their inexperienced, unintended, cruelties and loving them despite them--no, loving them through them.
Beyond the hundreds of Christmas gifts that my mother has given me, some that I remember, some that I do not, that is her real gift. And though she would never require it, I do feel there is some penance to be paid her. Some payment for the million sacrifices of her life for me, but I know that it is impossible to be even, except in this: Love. I don't know where it began, but it seems to flow from one generation to the next. My love for her is expressed in the way I love my children. At fifteen I was so determined to never become her, and now I hope I can be all of the things I love and adore about her. This Christmas I sewed for my children, and whether they appreciate it or not, this kind of karma is a really good thing.
I was not this self aware at 15. I could not make any sense of these feelings nor put words to them. All I knew was that I hated that dress. Really, really hated it. It was 1985, and I was completely converted to the church of bigger, blingier, shinier, and shoulderpadier. This dress was from a different era altogether. The 1960's, perhaps, with its paired down and quaint cut. I could not fathom was she was thinking. Mercifully, despite my selfcenteredness at the time, I was not mean. I didn't want to hurt my mom's feelings, so I feigned delight. I thanked her, but then--and this is the behavior that will haunt me to my death--when she asked me to try it on, I...would...not. Oh, I didn't outright refuse, I just...uum...postponed it. "Oh, I will--later. Mom! I will. Just not right this minute..." And then I NEVER DID. Not once.
I know. It's awful. I don't even know what became of that dress. It hung in my closet as a silent accuser which I ignored. Sure, I had stabs of guilt every now and again, but I was a determined soul and pushed it further into the dark recesses of cast off clothes, as if I could erase it's existence. As if my mother, not seeing it, would forget. As if I would forget.
I have not. Twenty-four years later I am more embarrassed by my truculence than ever. Now that I know what it is to be my mother. To sacrifice my most precious resource, which is not money, but time, the one thing that I never have in abundance, because I believe it will make my children happy, because I love them, because I would do anything for them. And I do, which often includes absorbing their inexperienced, unintended, cruelties and loving them despite them--no, loving them through them.
Beyond the hundreds of Christmas gifts that my mother has given me, some that I remember, some that I do not, that is her real gift. And though she would never require it, I do feel there is some penance to be paid her. Some payment for the million sacrifices of her life for me, but I know that it is impossible to be even, except in this: Love. I don't know where it began, but it seems to flow from one generation to the next. My love for her is expressed in the way I love my children. At fifteen I was so determined to never become her, and now I hope I can be all of the things I love and adore about her. This Christmas I sewed for my children, and whether they appreciate it or not, this kind of karma is a really good thing.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Karma and Penance: part 2
I was a teenager when it happened--most likely in that awful year for girls that is fifteen: When you still know everything, before you have truly contemplated flying the nest and therefore still believe that you are the center of the universe. I must have been that age. That is my only excuse.
It was Christmas. And my mom was busy with a sewing project. She was visibly excited, and so was I. She didn't know, but I had taken a quick peek at the material, just to get an idea of what she was up to, and I loved it. Remember, please, that it was the 80's when I say that it was pink lame. That distinctive shimmery fabric that defined the decade. Now, gold lame had been done: It dripped from the solid gold dancers and from half of the prom dresses sold in 1985, but pink lame with a silver shimmer? This was unusual, and beautiful, and soon to be mine! Christmas could not come soon enough, at least for me. Mom, on the other hand, probably needed some extra time.
After all, she had Christmas goodies to make, decorations to hang, cards to address, dinners to prepare, parties to throw, and now, aditionally, a dress to finish. My glorious, pink lame, party dress. All of that other stuff didn't even enter into my stream of conscious. That stuff just--happened. It always had, magically, and it always would, as far as I was concerned. What caught my attention as I came and went as was my modus operandi in those days, flitting from one event to another, was the drone of the sewing machine. No, Christmas could not come soon enough.
Then, suddenly, it was here, and I unwrapped the box that could only hold the dress of my dreams. I had at least twelve different plans for that dress. Giddy with excitement, I folded back the tissue paper and discovered...
(to be continued)
It was Christmas. And my mom was busy with a sewing project. She was visibly excited, and so was I. She didn't know, but I had taken a quick peek at the material, just to get an idea of what she was up to, and I loved it. Remember, please, that it was the 80's when I say that it was pink lame. That distinctive shimmery fabric that defined the decade. Now, gold lame had been done: It dripped from the solid gold dancers and from half of the prom dresses sold in 1985, but pink lame with a silver shimmer? This was unusual, and beautiful, and soon to be mine! Christmas could not come soon enough, at least for me. Mom, on the other hand, probably needed some extra time.
After all, she had Christmas goodies to make, decorations to hang, cards to address, dinners to prepare, parties to throw, and now, aditionally, a dress to finish. My glorious, pink lame, party dress. All of that other stuff didn't even enter into my stream of conscious. That stuff just--happened. It always had, magically, and it always would, as far as I was concerned. What caught my attention as I came and went as was my modus operandi in those days, flitting from one event to another, was the drone of the sewing machine. No, Christmas could not come soon enough.
Then, suddenly, it was here, and I unwrapped the box that could only hold the dress of my dreams. I had at least twelve different plans for that dress. Giddy with excitement, I folded back the tissue paper and discovered...
(to be continued)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Karma and Penance
"You're sewing a little hat?" Mr. Wicke chuckled.
"Yup," I replied none too cheerfully. I was on the second project of the 4-part Christmas Craziness Project. The one that two months ago inspired cozy thoughts of homemade Christmases of years past. The one that was soooo cute that I overlooked all the handsewing, handstuffing, handturning, and handcutting involved. Little tiny pieces. Little tiny stitches. Big amounts of time.
"Is sewing little things easier?"
"What?" Apparently he had never dressed Barbie Dolls as a young child. I had. Those little tiny buttons and snaps drove me crazy then.
"Well, you hate sewing big things. Is sewing little things easier?"
"Yeah, I know, and no, it's not. I still hate it." My fine motor skills have not improved since I was 10.
I may not have taken on this kind of project at all if it weren't for my Grandma Doty. She had some of the coolest toys. Old fashioned, quirky, and totally unique. My favorite was a doll of Little Red Riding Hood. But this was no ordinary doll. No. When you turned her over inside out, there was the wolf, dressed as granny. I loved flipping that thing back and forth. I played with it every time I visited. I don't know what happened to that doll, and I've never been able to find one of my own. But these little projects for my kids? They kind of reminded me of that. Quirky, unique, and special.
And it will all be worth it when my children open their packages and their eyes widen in delight. They'll play with it...
...for about two minutes and then it will be on to something else. Or more rightly, the toys will be sources of endless bickering:
"That one's mine!"
"I had it first!"
"She won't give me a turn."
"He's had it a long time!"
Karma tells me that they won't get it: How sore my fingertips are, how many hours I've spent, how much love is involved. Nope. They won't fully appreciate it.
I know I didn't. In fact, remembering one particular Christmas is cringe-worthy. It may be the worst thing I have ever done to my mother. And while she was visiting this past month, and helping with project number one, I apologized--again. I don't believe for a minute that it made us even, but she graciously forgave me again anyway. She's kind like that. So kind that I doubt she'll even take pleasure in seeing me get my paybacks on Christmas morning.
(to be continued...)
"Yup," I replied none too cheerfully. I was on the second project of the 4-part Christmas Craziness Project. The one that two months ago inspired cozy thoughts of homemade Christmases of years past. The one that was soooo cute that I overlooked all the handsewing, handstuffing, handturning, and handcutting involved. Little tiny pieces. Little tiny stitches. Big amounts of time.
"Is sewing little things easier?"
"What?" Apparently he had never dressed Barbie Dolls as a young child. I had. Those little tiny buttons and snaps drove me crazy then.
"Well, you hate sewing big things. Is sewing little things easier?"
"Yeah, I know, and no, it's not. I still hate it." My fine motor skills have not improved since I was 10.
I may not have taken on this kind of project at all if it weren't for my Grandma Doty. She had some of the coolest toys. Old fashioned, quirky, and totally unique. My favorite was a doll of Little Red Riding Hood. But this was no ordinary doll. No. When you turned her over inside out, there was the wolf, dressed as granny. I loved flipping that thing back and forth. I played with it every time I visited. I don't know what happened to that doll, and I've never been able to find one of my own. But these little projects for my kids? They kind of reminded me of that. Quirky, unique, and special.
And it will all be worth it when my children open their packages and their eyes widen in delight. They'll play with it...
...for about two minutes and then it will be on to something else. Or more rightly, the toys will be sources of endless bickering:
"That one's mine!"
"I had it first!"
"She won't give me a turn."
"He's had it a long time!"
Karma tells me that they won't get it: How sore my fingertips are, how many hours I've spent, how much love is involved. Nope. They won't fully appreciate it.
I know I didn't. In fact, remembering one particular Christmas is cringe-worthy. It may be the worst thing I have ever done to my mother. And while she was visiting this past month, and helping with project number one, I apologized--again. I don't believe for a minute that it made us even, but she graciously forgave me again anyway. She's kind like that. So kind that I doubt she'll even take pleasure in seeing me get my paybacks on Christmas morning.
(to be continued...)
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