Making Memories

Her first ride on an airplane.  I was a proud Momma. 

Walking through the airport, ten paces behind her Poppy and I, acting as if she owns the place and does it every day.  Staring out the window of the plane and awing at the reality that "We are higher than the clouds!"  Enjoying snacks and drinks and exclaiming "this is fun!".  Batting her eyes at my Dad, her Poppy, smiling with excitement and drawing us in.  Waving good-bye to Ohio and anticipating the adventure that awaits. . . My girl is a traveler.  

This trip was originally planned for just my Dad and I.  A quick jaunt to spend a few days with two very special people.  My Grandparents. . .

Let me just tell you. . . these two people are CRAZY COOL.  They have more than 160 years of experience and wisdom between them and they are the epitome of classy people.  They have experienced the full range of good times and bad and through it all, they still stand together. . . hand in hand.  Our time with them was wonderful.

We sat together.  We ate together.  We talked to one another.  We listened to one another.  We continue to heal. . .

These are my Mom's parents.  If you've read this blog before, you might know I lost my Mom five months ago.  This was the first time I have seen my Grandparents since our loss.  My loss of my Mom, my Dad's loss of his wife, and my Grandparents loss of their daughter. . . the loss of their third child.  The loss is still so raw, so painful, so real and unreal at the same time.  Being together makes it even more real as the empty spot is more prominent.  But something happened on this trip. . . something unexpected, something beautiful.

That something came in a small bundle of blonde hair, silly chatter, warm hugs, and utter joy.  That something was Chanelle, a last minute addition to our trip.  What I found on this trip is that in the midst of tragedy and the ache of pain is that words are not necessary, or even possible.  Words could never do what Chanelle did with her presence.

In this little person I think we all saw it. . . that we have so much to be thankful for.  As I watched my Grandparents take in the innocence of my daughter I saw their faces light up.  I saw hope in the midst of sadness.  I saw joy.  I saw life.  I saw love. . . such love!  I saw in that moment, life, Chanelle's little life, was bigger than our pain.

 Oh the smiles she brought as she sauntered through a restaurant dancing to the music.  The delight we felt when she made silly faces and played simple games.  The joy that was experienced as we watched this little one pick a flower, chase a chameleon, and play with a puppy.

  I will never know what it has been like to walk in the shoes of my Grandparents. Or those of my Dad.  I will never understand what has allowed them to continue to move forward in such a way that honors the sacredness of life.  One thing I do know, however, is that these people are survivors of the greatest kind.  People who have walked forward honorably, faithfully, and quietly in order to leave a legacy for me, my siblings, my children.  I am so thankful to them for this. . . and as I live this life it is my greatest hope that I can live with the same tenacity and perspective that each of them has shown to me.

And so I arrive home from this short three day trip with a lifetime of memories.  Memories with my Dad, my Grandparents and Chanelle.  Memories that I will store in my heart and carry with me wherever I go.  Memories that will be held close, like a treasured gift, and told and retold in order to honor the legacy that is before me and behind me.  Memories that tell a story. . . a beautiful story that make us who we are.  A story that, I believe, is worth telling. 

A Special Day

Chanelle and I have returned from sunny Florida and there are many thoughts/pictures to come. I couldn't let this day pass, however, without wishing a very special person a  very Happy Birthday. . . blog style.

This is my Friend, Lisa.  

We have known each other for just about 7 years.

I could talk forever about what this woman means to me.  There comes a point, however, when words just do not do justice to the reality of the feelings.  Sometimes, I think, words might even cheapen what is really there.  With that being said, I want to say to you, Lisa, thank you for being you.  Thank you for coming into my life and teaching me, by your unconditional acceptance, that it is okay to be me.  Thank you for sitting with me week after week for all of these years and laughing with me, crying with me, listening to me, challenging me, believing in me, and truly seeing me.  Thank you for walking beside me and letting me walk beside you so that when times get tough. . . we can hold each other up.  

You are the perfect example of quiet strength and enduring courage.  

I am so incredibly blessed to call you my Friend and so thankful that we get to do this life-mom-faith journey together.  

Everyone should be so lucky to have a Lisa in their life. . 

Happy Birthday my Beautiful Friend!

And We're Off. . .

Chanelle's not really driving, but she's taking her first ride on an airplane!  She's quite excited. . . Can you tell?

I tried over and over to get her to give me a sweet face. . . no such luck.  She's giddy with excitement!  And if you can't beat 'em. . . join 'em. . .

We're flying to Naples, Florida for a couple of days where I am sure we will have a blast, make memories, and take more pictures than we'll be able to handle.  Just the girls along with Poppy (a.k.a. Dad, to me).  We are going to visit my incredible grandparents who will see this sweet face for the first time since she was a tiny little baby.  I'm totally pumped for this trip. . .and I'm pumped about Chad and Charlie having a special guys weekend complete with a trip to the zoo, a baseball game and junk food that I hope I never find out about. 

Here's to making memories. . . wherever you are. . .

Ordinary Day

As the sun began to rise and I glanced out the window, I felt my breath catch as I took in this beautiful picture.  It's as if someone took a paint brush and danced it across the sky.  In my minds eye, I can see Bob Ross painting it and hear him saying, "Happy little clouds. . . Happy little clouds."  The sky calls out to me saying, "Stop! Look!  Take it in. . . this is for you!"  It is in these moments that I realize how small I really am and yet how big this life can be.  And beauty like this begins, for me, what is an ordinary day. . .

A trip to the park
A stop at the library
Living room tents
Playing follow the leader
Taking a walk
Eating meals
Preparing snacks
Mediating between the arguments of a 2 and 4-year old.
Taking baths
Saying Prayers
Singing "You are My Sunshine" before bed

Nothing spectacular. . . but beautiful nonetheless.  And when I really stop and think, I am absolutely sure that these ordinary days are the days that I will always remember.  These are the days that I will come back to with fond memories as I remember the way Charlie smiled or the way Chanelle laughed. . . at everything and nothing all at once. 

And what totally rocks my world is how these ordinary days so quickly become extraordinary when I see them through the lens of forever. . . 

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

-Carl Sandburg

                                                                       

On Dreaming. . .

There is something about coming to this blog each evening that brings me such joy.  It's kind of like opening a new journal with a fresh pen and endless thoughts to record.  Some might question why I feel its necessary to write such things publicly.  Why not just get a journal, write it down, and keep your life to yourself? I can't say that I know for sure why I have found this forum so appealing.  I know that writing in this way has challenged me to go beyond where I have ever gone before.  It's given me an avenue to be me, use my voice, but also feel safe while doing it. I have been so encouraged by those of you who read, comment, and encourage me to keep at it.  If I said it a million times it wouldn't be enough. . . thank you for accepting my Running Chatter into this community. 

I love coming to this blog each evening and reflecting on the day, the week, or this life and finding things for which I am thankful.  It is like tying a beautiful ribbon on the wrapped present I worked hard to pick out.  It has given me an opportunity to look, really look, at the blessings all around me.  Even when days are challenging, this blog has drawn me in to look deeper at the simple things. . . the things for which I am so thankful.

This is the place I often come to write these words. . .

 It's a quiet little space in the corner of our basement and I love it.  I look out the window to our backyard where flowers are blooming and trees are blowing in the wind.  On my desk sits this. . .

A friend of mine gave this to me because she knows I am a dreamer and she has always encouraged that in me.  Through the years my dreams have changed as my priorities have shifted.  I think that's the natural thing that happens when you have kids.  My dreams are not so much focused on my dreams, but theirs. . .

I dream that they, too, might dream. That they have the courage to be different.  That they find their passions and follow them.  They they are brave enough to risk failure.  I dream that their hearts stay tender and they continue to love without reservation.  That they define success not by their status or bank account, but by how fully they love.  I dream that they walk through this life with their eyes wide open and that they see how amazing it really is.  I dream that they will always delight at the simple things. . . a plant, a toad, the raindrops that fall into their wide open mouths as they dance in the rain.

I can tell them these things.  I can encourage them with my words. . . or I can make my life an example.  Oh, that I might teach them by my example.  What an opportunity I have. . . what a responsibility. . . what a gift.   If I'm being honest, I am as much scared as I am excited.  I think that it is okay.  Fear does not have to debilitate me and I am going to take the opportunity to see it, this life, all of it. . . and live it.  Because I would much rather live it scared than not live it at all.

Dreams are renewable. No matter what our age or condition, there are still untapped possibilities within us and new beauty waiting to be born.
Dr. Dale E. Turner

And we celebrate. . .

We celebrate with homemade cards. . .

We celebrate with balloons. . .

We celebrate with food.

We celebrate by yelling, "Congratulations!"

We celebrate because he did it.

Twenty-five days of radiation therapy and many miles traveled.  He crossed the finish line.

. . . and we are proud.

We celebrate the man who we know as Kim, Dad, Gramps. . . Because he is a good man. . .

With a HUGE heart.

Who loves to chill.

And who knows how to to be silly.

We celebrate because even when times are hard, we find much for which we are thankful.  And we are thankful for this man who embraces this challenge with all its ups and downs and continues to love, laugh, and live life. We celebrate because cancer has not stolen his joy, only enhanced it.  We celebrate because. . .

. . . we love him.

Written Permission

 Witty.

Creative.

Passionate.

Inspiration.

Encourager.

Hilarious.

Just a few words that describe the beautiful woman I call Friend.  Happy Birthday, S! (a.k.a.Written Permission.)

What a privilege to know you!  What a gift to read your words! 

  

I thank you, S, for being an encourager and using the gift you have with words to spur me forward.  You are a treasure, even ifs its mostly via the World Wide Web. I can not wait until the day when I will read your stories to my children!

I wish you the happiest of birthday's and a wonderfully, beautiful year. 

Loss

It's been almost five months.  Just typing the words produces tears.  It seems like an eternity ago and yesterday all at once.  I remember everything from that day.  I remember that I didn't feel right all day. . . that something seemed off.  I remember that I had just gotten home from work.  I remember that I was chopping celery for dinner the next day.  I remember that Chad and the kids had just gone into the garage to do something.  I remember that I was wearing gray pants and a pink shirt.  I remember it was around 7 o'clock.  I remember that I had a cancellation at work and got home an hour earlier than expected.  I remember the phone call.

I relive the phone call more than I care to admit.  The words from my Dad replay in my head like a CD set on repeat. . . "Mom, passed away tonight."  

I remember phone calls being made.  I remember my in-laws arriving in minutes.  I remember the arrival of a dear friend.  I remember texts and emails that poured in within minutes.  I remember tears and hugs from little tiny arms.  I remember Charlie handing me my Bible and gently saying, "here Mommy, this will help you feel better."  I remember driving to my hometown the next morning and being with my family.  All of them gathered together, aunts and uncles, surrounding my Dad. . . surrounding all of us.  I remember tears.  Lots and lots of tears.  But there was laughter, too.  Laughter is as healing as tears.  We are a family who laughs.  

I remember a week spent in a fog.  Making funeral arrangements, greeting family and friends, and being overwhelmed by the outpouring of love, support, and help from so many.  Flowers.  Food.  Notes.  Phone calls.  Emails.  Help with the details.  Friends and family putting their lives on hold to just be with us.  Tears.  Laughter.  Remembering.  Trying to wrap our minds around it.

This is the last picture of have of the two of us.  Me and my Mom.  It was taken just last summer.  She liked this picture.  So do I.  I wish I had a million more.  Maybe that is why I feel compelled to take pictures of everything.  I don't want to forget anything.

So, here I am almost five months later and walking through the mucky and muddy waters of grief.  Learning to live without her and trying to understand what that means.  She was too young and so was I.  At what age do you stop needing your Mom?  I know it's not 32.  There are so many days when I expect a call.  Even now. . . five months later. . . I forget that it's real.  She's really gone.  It's final.  I miss the almost daily for-no-reason phone calls, the funny cards in the mail, and the listen-to-you-no-matter-how-silly-what-your-saying-is ear. I miss the unmatched comfort that the I've-known-you-since-the-second-you-were-born relationship holds.  I miss it all and sometimes I cry.  I've learned to be very okay with that.  So has my wonderful family.

The loss of my Mom was a shock and the hows and whys are for another day.  Right now, I'm working through the loss.  Learning to be a mom without my Mom.  Learning to be in this world without her.  My Dad told me that we move forward one day at a time and before we know it we'll look back and be surprised at how far we've come.  I'm comforted by that.  No pressure.  One day at a time. 

This is part of my story.  Part of my story that has left me forever changed.  A part of my story that has left me asking questions about the kind of person I want to be.  About the kind of person I will be for my kids. My husband. My friends.  About what is really important in life.  About what I believe and why.  About how I want to live this life.

Loss.  It's something each of us have to deal with in its many forms.  I believe, though, that healing comes in its very unique, individual, and beautiful way.  My story is not any others persons story. I do believe, though, that all of our stories somehow connect together to create something wonderful.  Now I spend more time looking for that wonderful.  And I see it.  I see it everywhere.  That doesn't mean I don't hurt.  Oh, how I hurt some days.  How I miss her and long for her to see the wonderful with me.  But I'm going to be okay.  I know that now.  Without a doubt, I will be okay.  And so I embrace this story, my story, with all it's highs and lows and I choose to live it.  Because the choice is mine.

The Journey

 A trip to the library.  One of our favorite places.  Books, book, and more books.  Charlie said, "I wish we could take them all home."  So do I, Buddy, so do I.  How I wish time would allow for us to drink it all in.  The words. . . all the words.  The beautiful, lovely, fun, silly, tragic, and exciting words.

We had to pick a few.  He picked his and this was how we spent our afternoon. . . 

Chilling out on a blanket, reading books,  laughing, guessing about what will happen next, and exploring short snippets of another world.

Perfection.

And for me. . . taking the time to enjoy beautiful things.  I chose a poetry book.  After flipping through the introduction, these words from The Journey by Mary Oliver greeted me:

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

I was immediately drawn in. These words are my story.  My story now.  And as I read further the words continued to illustrate my feelings.  Grab me at a level that reaches beneath my skin, through my heart and into my soul. . . 

. . . . the stars began to burn 

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly 

recongnized as your own

that kept you company 

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world, 

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life that you could save.

One day I knew what I had to do. . .

I had to write. 

. . . . and I began.

And in beginning I felt better.

Do You Remember This?

A few nights ago we were driving and Chanelle was marveling at the sunset.  It reminded me of this commercial.

It makes me smile. . .

An Exercise in Patience

It has been really hot lately.  On this particular day it was so hot that the kids didn't even want to be outside.  That is a rarity as most of our summer months are spent outside.  So we decided to bake.  The kids were excited.

As I've said before, I love to bake.  There is something about breaking eggs, pouring flour, and measuring spices that is calming.  There is something incredible about taking a bunch of ingredients, none of them spectacular individually, and turning them into something wonderful.  I take such pleasure in filling our home with inviting aromas, faces with smiles, and bellies with satisfaction. . .

Something happens, though, when you add a 4-year old and a 2-year old to the baking experience. It is no longer just an experience, it is an event.

I work to divide the tasks so they each get equal time.  Chanelle doesn't get to break eggs yet, but Charlie has gotten quite good at it.  Check it out. . . he's a champ.  He's going to make some woman very happy. . . many, many, many years from now.

 

Chanelle loves to get into it as well.  The biggest treat is using the mixer.  It is important that each get equal time.

Another thing that happens when you add a pre-schooler and toddler to the experience is the process slows a bit.  You know, the attention span is not quite there.  This is where I am really working to ENJOY THE MOMENT.  There really isn't anything wrong with taking a break to dance with Elmo, right?

. . . Okay, kiddos, back to work.


Cookies. . . simple, right?  Usually.


But when you add a 4-year old and 2-year old, sometimes it gets slightly more complicated. Or, shall we say. . . Messy?

Breathe in. . . breathe out. . . Chanelle was a bit traumatized by this event.  She turned the mixer on full force and was surprised with a flour shower.  Flour was everywhere.

                                       

Charlie thought it was hilarious!  And after a few deep breaths and counting to five. . . so did I.  Never mind the hour I spent cleaning flour out of all the crevices in the kitchen.  Chanelle recovered and finished her job. . . in her underwear. . . hey, we're family, right?

Then we waited. . . and got clean. . . and ate cookies.

Overall, it was a good time.  These are the little glimpses I am trying hard not to miss.  These moments that I will never have again.  These are the memories we are making.  Simple, messy, and chaotic all at the same time.  As a bonus. . . an exercise in patience. 

Eyes Wide Open

It's getting ready to storm.  I'm sitting on my front porch and the sound of the trees whispering in the wind is one of the most wonderful sounds I know.  I love a good storm.  Even as a child, I couldn't wait to hear the thunder and see the lightening. Right now, I hear the thunder off in the distance and the trees are beginning to shake more violently. The clouds over the house are big, black and beautiful.  I hope it's going to be a good one.  

I'm home alone right now.  For this moment I am not going to worry about the laundry that needs folded or the carpets that need vacuumed.  This is my time out. . . this blog has become like therapy.  After kissing the kids and Chad good-bye this morning and then spending the afternoon with a friend I find myself feeling happy. Content.

(Ah, it's raining now. . .big powerful drops. I love the smell)

I'm 32.  I've got a lot of living yet to do (God willing) and lately I've been experiencing life in a different way.  Experiencing it more deeply.  Seeing it more clearly.  Living it more intentionally.

(Now it is sideways rain.  I should go inside now.)

My MIL, who prefers to be known as "one who should have been born blonde" recently sent this to me in an email referring to this blog:

I'm so pleased that this venue has given you an opportunity to stretch and grow.  The cruel reality that life is finite puts us at a crossroads....do we choose the bitter route or the better route?  Do we open our eyes to all this life holds or do we close them to slits to limit our vision and protect our hearts from further hurt?   I hope this exercise in self-discovery has helped/will continue to help a bit in the grieving process so you can continue to travel that "better" route.

She's pretty cool, isn't she?

Anyway, I'm doing my best to travel that better route and keep my eyes wide open. I've got a lot to learn, but along the way I've learned some things. . . 

*I've learned that each of us have a story.  A story filled with endless scenes, plots, and characters that shape us into who we are.  It's important that we tell our stories. . . to someone.  We all need to be heard.
*I've learned that in each of us there are passions.  Some find it more easily than others, but we all have them.
*I've learned that marriage can be a healing agent.
*I've learned that I can learn so much from people who think differently than I do.  That diversity is beautiful.  That when I am okay with myself, our differences are no longer threatening.
*I've learned that while being disciplined is good, if taken too far it kills creativity and steals joy.  To fully live, it's important that I find a balance.
*I've learned that I need affirmation.  While I wish I could be self-sustaining, I've learned that I  need to know that someone is proud of me, rooting for me, encouraging me.  It is the affirmation that spurs me forward.  Maybe that makes me sound needy. . . I think it makes me human.
*I've learned that God can not be contained in a box or in a building.  I believe that some of the most deeply spiritual people will not be found sitting in a church on Sunday morning. 
*I've learned that girlfriends are vital to my existence.  And it IS possible for girls to have friendships that do not get messy with "girl stuff".  
*I've learned that a journal, a pen, and some uninterrupted time can be better than four hours of therapy. 
*I've learned that a hand-written note of appreciation can change a person.  
*I've learned that I'll never regret saying "I love you" before we part, but I will regret not saying it.  
*I've learned that sometimes there are just not words. . . just being there is enough.  
*I've learned that even though it's scary, it's important to do it anyway.  It's okay if I am silently counseling myself through it or fighting back tears. This is how I will grow.
*I've learned that in the wake of tragedy, beauty can be found.  If I look for it, I'll see it.
*I've learned that my most important education did not come with my feet on the ground and facing forward in a classroom.  It came from living, listening, experiencing.  
*I've learned that I need to bake. . . three times a week, minimum.  Even if I just give it away, there is something about baking that brings me joy.
*I've learned that my skin is a thick as it's going to get.  I can't make it get thicker. . . I was made this way. 
*I've learned that my kids have endless lessons to teach me.  About love, joy, acceptance, and compassion.  Their uncluttered minds and unfiltered hearts touch the deepest level of my soul.
*I've learned that being around a lot of people drains me.  I used to feel bad about that and fight against it.  Now I accept it.  
*I've learned that life is full of choices.  Choices to survive or to thrive.  To grow or be stagnant.  
*I've learned that it's okay to highlight my hair. It's worth the investment, because it makes me feel pretty.
*I've learned that I am stronger than I ever thought I was. 

The storm has subsided and there is just a gentle rain now and this is where I am today.  Some things I have learned, endless things I have yet to learn. I find myself excited at that possibilities.  Struck with the incredible reality that there is so much of life ahead of me and I wonder what it will hold.  I have learned that there are so many things in this life that I cannot control.  One thing I can control is how wide I open my eyes to this life. 

Happy Birthday To A Fellow Leo

I want to take a moment and wish my dear Friend and fellow blogger over at Two Pretzels a very, very Happy Birthday.

To a woman who has inspired me with her ability to live life to the fullest.  A woman who is willing to take risks, be transparent, and to find joy in the big and little things. A woman who inspires with her words and her perspective.  A woman who laughs and draws me in with her humor.  A woman who is as strong as she is sensitive.  A woman who I am so grateful to call, Friend.

Happy Birthday, K!  I hope your day is beautiful!

Life Is Beautiful

I have poison ivy.  Not like a small patch of poison ivy on which I spread a little pink lotion and all is better.  I mean I really have poison ivy.  Everywhere.  Big, huge splotches covering my arms, legs, and entire upper torso.  The kind of poison ivy that has led to sleepless nights when I can be found clawing at my skin.  The kind of poison ivy that has left me crying tears of frustration.

This has been going on for four weeks.  I have tried everything. . . Caladryl, Calamine, Tea Tree Oil, Hair Gel, Nail Polish Remover. . . (confession #17:  I'm slightly doctor resistant. . . or prideful, call it what you will).  Nothing has worked.

So, it is with an effort to get my eyes off my splotches and my hands away from scratching that I choose to be thankful. . .  

I'm thankful that I have a little girl who loves pretty things.  A little one who wants to put on a dress and twirl like a ballerina.  A little girl who wants to have her nails painted, jewelry on, and headband always matching her outfit.  A little girl who wants to be a "princess" only because she likes to and not because she has anything to prove.  This little girl has taught me that it's okay to want to look pretty and really, it doesn't take work.  Beauty is being just who you are.  

I am thankful for these two people.  May I introduce you to my in-laws?  From day one they have accepted me into their family as one of their own.  They have embraced me just as I am.  They raised a really good boy. . . two of them, actually.  Now, they are helping us raise our wee-ones.  I could not have designed two better people to have as in-laws.  

I am thankful for these smiling faces.  Who are they, you ask?  These are my siblings  My older brother and my younger sister.  I. love. them.  We are as different as different can be.  Sweet, sour, and salty.  North, south, and east. Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy.  (I won't assign names to any of these).  You get the idea.  As different as we are, we genuinely like each other and enjoy each others company.  Really, we do.  They are pretty awesome.  Our lives have changed dramatically since this picture was taken. . . we've gone though some pretty tough stuff.  They have softened the blow for me.  They have allowed me to be different and loved me for it.  I'm a lucky, lucky girl. 

I'm thankful for those big hands.  (That is my Dad's hand. . . holding Charlie's hand).  Even though I don't remember much, I know that those big hands held mine so many years ago.  I'm thankful that even though the hands had to let go, the heart never did.  That heart is still so connected to mine because that is what parenthood is. . . letting go, but really, truly never letting go.  And when those big hands hold the hands of my little ones, I am over-whelmed with the profound splendor of the circle of life. 

I am thankful for this man.  My husband.  The father of my children.  The man with whom I joined my life just over nine years ago.  My very best friend.  The man who has made me feel more safe and secure than any other person in the entire world.  The man who has let me be me, in all my forms, and has accepted each one of them.  The most patient person I have ever known. The man who sees my passions and lays the path to them.  The man who has taught me what it means to slow down.  The man who I look at from afar and still think to myself, I can't believe he's mine.  The man who works so hard, day in and day out, and never, ever complains.  The man who wraps his arms around our beautiful children and is met with squeals of delight.  The man who knows how to play, just as hard as he works.  This is my husband, Chad.  I adore him.

 I could go on forever.  I have much for which I am thankful.  I'll spare you for tonight.  You know what's funny?  As I wrote this post, my itching subsided.  I think that's pretty cool.  Maybe it was because I got my eyes off of my problem, even for just a bit. . .

. . . or maybe it was the shot and the lotion the doctor gave me today.  

Oh, did I forgot to tell you that?  In an effort to get over myself (read: pride). . . I made a doctors appointment today. 

Maybe it was a combination of both.  Either way, there is one thing I know for sure. . .