Sad Songs Say So Much (ooh, la-la-la-la, ooh, la-la-la-la)

Baby Lincoln turned one yesterday, and although he has since grown out of the "harmonica phase" as it will be forever known in our house, we enjoyed it while it lasted, which undoubtedly proves the twisted sense of humor we share.



Happy birthday, Baby Boy, and may music always touch you deeply--but perhaps not so painfully.

p.s.  yes, that is the paint I'm talking about.

Olfaction & My Leave of Absence

I didn't mean to leave, especially on that sad note, but Logan got sick, and then Griffin got the flu, and when I wasn't taking care of them, I was smelling Lincoln's hair.  I love his hair.  It's so soft and downy, and I love rubbing my face in it, and then it smells so good that I have to start all over.  It's a compulsion I can live with. 

But what I haven't been able to do is clean up vomit, do loads of laundry, sniff baby heads AND blog all at the same time.  Something had to give, and you can be sure it would not be the baby sniffing.  I only have a few months of that left.

I think falling in love with my children involves every sense, but especially strong for me is that of smell.  I remember going into Logan's room at night when she was a toddler just to watch her sleep.  I had waited so long for a baby that I was just thirsty for her.  I drank her in with my eyes, those chubby legs, rosy pink cheeks, and all of that curly blonde hair.  Then I'd crawl in bed beside her and bury my face in her neck, just to breathe her in.  People, in general, are not a great-smelling lot all on their own; something about babies, however, is altogether different.

I remember Griffin sometimes smelled like cinnamon.  He really did.  He has been my only baby that would let me snuggle him, and so I did, a lot.  Could I help it if some sniffing was involved?  He smelled a little like cinnamon.  He doesn't now.  Now he smells like a 6 year old boy/puppy.  That new baby smell does not last forever, that's for sure.

That's why baby sniffing is a top priority right now, and on little Lincoln I catch a wisp of cedar every now and again.  I swear, I do.  But that might be the love talking.  I'll sniff him again tomorrow and get back to you.  

A First Timer Tells All...Mostly

I was a total first timer. Just to give you an idea of exactly how naive I was about many birthing facts, I'll tell you this: I thought that when the doctor checked for dilation, it was a sort of spot check. Like he'd get in a catcher's position and sort of eyeball it. Maybe use some sort of tape measure or something.

The first clue that I had it wrong was when my doctor said, "You may think I'm reaching for your tonsils." The next was when I literally saw stars. It was so much worse than your run of the mill gyno exam. Especially when, come to find out, I was dilated to a ZERO. Like I said, so much worse. And then I had to come to terms with the fact that I was going to have to endure this every week until delivery. It was enough to make tears come to my eyes.

My major concern as a first timer was the epidural. I was not about to miss my window of opportunity there. Oh, no. Hearing all this business about women who arrived at the hospital too late, or the baby was already crowning...that was not going to be me. So one of my first questions to my nurse (whom we'll call Gigi) was, "Look. I don't mean to be a baby or anything, but I am wondering, when exactly do I ask for an epidural? I don't want to miss it, you know."

She laughed, I think looking back on it a bit diabolically. "Oh, you won't miss it. With a first pregnancy, your labor could go for 24 hours, and you'll know when you need it." I think it is quite possible that Gigi was trained by the Gestapo. She was nice enough and very knowledgeable, but she clearly did not have a problem with pain, as became evident when she said, "What we're looking for is a consistent labor pattern with strong contractions because you don't want to slow things down too much. I think your pain goal should be about a 9."

Pain goal? Nine?? What??? Should I actually have a "pain goal?" Those words don't seem to go together. I thought the whole ideology behind the epidural was the avoidance of pain. Not setting goals for enduring it. And a nine on a scale of 1-10? That's some pretty heavy duty pain in my mind. But like a good first timer I trusted my nurse and settled in for the long haul. "Nine. Hmmm...what does nine feel like, anyway?" I asked myself. "A 10 should be an intolerable sort of pain, so a nine would be somewhere near unbearable."

I had been hooked up to the pitocin for 3 hours and 45 minutes before I felt the first contraction that knocked the wind out of me. I tried to relax. Tried to breathe. I felt pretty proud for about a minute and a half, then the next one hit, and again and again. Wave upon wave. I couldn't get on top of the pain. "If I had some time to rest between I would--" Another contraction hit.

At 11:30 I asked Thomas, "Where is my mom? When is she coming?" Mom arrived close to 12:00, just in time to hear me say, "I can't lay down. I've got to get up. Help me up!" Thomas pulled me to my knees and I threw my arms around his neck burying my face in his chest. "I've got you," he soothed, as the pain made my body go weak.

And then my first birthing miracle occurred. Gigi had to leave to deliver another baby. Nurse #2 entered the room and within two minutes said, "Would you like something for the pain?"

"Yes! What are my options?"

"Well, would you like your epidural?"

"What? Yes! Now. Immediately if possible." I never saw her again, but she has my undying love. The anaesthesiologist was not long before coming in. "Now this might hurt," he warned. But it didn't. The little pinching I felt did not even compare to the hour and a half before it, and then came the drugs: cold loveliness across my shoulder and back. I began to relax, and as I felt the pain blessedly begin to subside, I thought, "I'll never be a first timer again. Huh, nine, shmine! Give my regards to the gestapo, Gigi!"

A Hearty Welcome Home

Imagine my surprise this morning when I awoke to find old friends come home to roost. They haven't completely moved in yet. There are still some corners that need straightening and bags to be unpacked, but they are here nonetheless, and I am thrilled. Thrilled beyond belief to see my old ankles and feet again.

It has been so long since I have seen them that I took nearly two minutes of full looking, and I have to say, that they looked downright spindly. (I had to look up the spelling of that word in the dictionary. I don't think I've ever written that word before. At least not in connection with my body.)

You see, I have a long, complicated history with my ankles. It all began in eighth grade when all of my 5'2" self played basketball. (Have I mentioned before that I come from a very small town; hence the reason I made the team?) Anyway, somewhere in the season I suffered a minor sprain that required taping. Before one game my coach took up medical tape and scissors to complete the job and said, and I quote, "Wow. You have the ankles of a man." The scene is totally intact in my brain.

Prior to this interaction I had never considered my ankles. They seemed useful and strong, but that's about as much attention as I had paid to them or anyone else's for that matter. Then suddenly I saw my ankles through different eyes. Were they unusually large? The size of a man's? I didn't have a lot of experience in the ankles department. Maybe he was right. I've had a thing with ankles ever since. Thank you, Coach Beamer, for that particular neuroticism.

I should probably also mention that he had nicknamed me Shamu and often said that we girls could run a lot faster if we unhooked that piano from our behinds. I didn't know enough about male chauvinist pigs at that time to tell him to take a hike. Sadly his ankle statement has stayed with me for years.

Then I got pregnant, and my man-sized ankles disappeared for seven months. They were swallowed by what I lovingly described as my "giant troll feet." Oh, how I missed my man sized ankles. There is nothing to make one more grateful for something even mediocre than not having it for awhile. And now that they are back, I intend to treat them right because, masculine or not, they are mine.

Welcome home, my dear, sweet mankles. Can I get you anything? Anything at all?

The Scoop

You heard it here first, folks. Tonight at 9:00pm MST I am being induced. Guess when the ultrasound suggests that you're having a NINE POUND baby, they let you go early. AAAAaaaaaahhhhhh! NINE POUNDS?! Please, dear Lord of heaven and earth, let that ultrasound be wrong, wrong, wrong.

Still Waiting

Still no baby. Just a week to go. Nothing to write about. Nothing is delightfully entertaining around here. Especially me. I just lumber around making a bed here or there, spot cleaning, or letting the laundry sit in the dryer for two days, whichever I please. It's hard to bend over.

But a ray of sunshine is on the horizon. Mom flies in at noon today. TLC is coming. Ahhh....

Nervous? First Time?

The big question everyone is asking lately is, "Are you nervous?"

My answer: "Uhhh....YEAH!" (If you can imagine that said with a lot of added sarcasm you can catch the true flavor.)

Truth is, I think about it all the time. Delivery: Labor. Pushing. Epidural. Episiotomy. Pain. It's sort of on a loop in my brain. The problem, though, is that I don't really know what to expect. I mean, sure. I've heard the stories. I've watched the Discovery Channel and TLC. I've seen movie deliveries. I even witnessed a live birth. But...I don't know what to expect of ME. I'm the unknown integer in this little formula.

Will I be brave? Will I keep at least a tiny sense of humor? Will I manage to maintain a little dignity?

My friends are wondering the same thing. Kimball said, "I want to be there. Not in the room," he quickly clarified. "Just outside the door, listening." And then everyone laughed. Apparently the prevailing attitude is that it might make for a good show. Bets are being placed on how many swear words may be used. Or how long it will take before I lose my temper. Sympathy is already flowing in Mr. Wicke's direction.

I do not like the unexpected. The not knowing always makes me nervous. And I do not like losing control, which is bound to happen. So, yeah. 16 days to go, and I'm feeling a little anxious. But, then again, I guess that's to be expected. At least that's what everyone says. And then they laugh. Again.

Confessions of a Bad Blogger

I am a bad blogger of late. But I am also a bad housekeeper, a mediocre mother, a bad phonecall returner, and a bad email checker. Forgive me. Truth is, I would like to hibernate for the next three weeks. Actually, the truth is, I kind of am.

The nesting thing isn't happening for me. Oh, how I wish it were. No, what is happening to me is that I want to sleep all the time, and if I am not sleeping then I want to be eating Cold Stone's Rocky Road ice cream because its chewy marshmellows and crunchy toasted almonds mixed with creamy chocolate ice cream makes me oh, so very happy. If I could forget about the health and weight ramifications, I would make it my steady diet. Seriously.

The other thing that is happening to me is that I am in the midst of a very nasty head cold. It is completely unfair for a uber-pregnant woman to be sick in the last couple of weeks of her pregnancy, and as such I am feeling very sorry for myself. Mostly because when I cough or sneeze, which I am doing with regular frequency, I nearly or sometimes partially wet my pants. Between that and the drooling that I have taken to doing at night, I'm not sure how Mr. Wicke keeps his hands off me.

And so, if I am not a regular poster for the next couple of weeks, you'll know why. It's hard to type while you're sleeping.

Attacking the Blank

On Saturday I led a valiant charge against the "blankness" going on in my eyes. Remember that? To sum it up, it's just a general tired expression that I seem to be wearing every where I go--at least according the photographic evidence.

Here are the purchases that I am hoping will help:
1. Roc's intensive eye cream. It promises to clear up those pesky dark circles and nasty crow's feet in four weeks. Just in time for hospital pictures.

2. Roc's nightime facial cream. It's supposed to give me firmer younger looking skin in, again, just four weeks. Some of you may not recognize me by then.

And #3--the big winner and my personal favorite: a darker and pinker blush. I don't know if adding a bit more color to my cheeks is doing anything for my eyes, but it sure is helping my face! Who knew that one little change could make me feel so much better?

Sadly, however, I was too tired to put it on today. Oh, the irony.

Blank

I am tired. How can I tell? My beds have not been made this week. My friend asked how I was doing and I burst into tears. I have not blogged. I have not read. I have asked my children to fetch a lot of things. The Schwan's man not only brought in the items I bought but also put them in the freezer while I remained on the couch. (And I didn't even care that I have no pride.) But it's the pictures--the pictures, people--that really tell the story.

Over the last couple of weeks I have been editing and filing the pictures we have taken over the last few months. It's not pretty. And I don't even care about the body. I expected the big belly. I never had a flat belly anyway. In fact, this is probably the firmest my stomach has ever been or ever will be for that matter. No. It is all in the eyes.

In every photo within the last five months it looks like someone has stolen my soul--or given me a lot of Valium. Take your pick. The smile is there, big enough to make sure that my "smile lines" are loud and clear, but the eyes? Blank. I've usually got both arms around my kids, but the eyes? Blank. It's the same in every photo.

It's like someone's posing a cardboard cutout of me at various events. Me on Christmas morning: Blank. Me at the zoo: Blank. Me sledding with the kids: Blank. (And don't think for a minute that I'm going to be posting any of the pictures that I'm talking about. I come from a long line of vain women, after all. No, they will stay unpublished where they belong.)

But here's the real tragedy. I don't feel blank. I'm loving this time of my life, despite all the groaning I do about my troll feet (and they are really ugly) but even still, I am truly enjoying the journey, so why don't my eyes tell the story?

The truth is, no matter my other physical shortcomings, somehow I possessed a certain inner vivacity that saved me. I was never the model type. I was the short, "full-figured" gal that was tons of fun. I can't do blank! I don't even recognize that person. And here's the question that puts fear into my heart: Is that blank lady here to stay? Will the Shwan's man always have to put my food in the freezer?

Bottom line: I want one good picture of me pregnant. Just one. One that reflects at least a glimmer of the joy that I feel in my heart. Just so that this sweet boy knows how happy his mom was to shelter him for a while. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Does anyone know a good photographer? I'm afraid I may need a lot of help.

Gluttony and Sloth

They say confession is good for the soul. Well, here goes:

On Saturday I probably ate 12 mini candybars. I didn't keep count, but it's got to be close. When I told my friend about it she tried to be kind and said, "Well...they're tiny."

I, having no false illusions about the occurance, responded, "That is like FOUR regular candybars! Who eats four regular candybars in ONE day?!"

And if I'm going to be completely honest, I should add that I also ate a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge that night.

And maybe I should also mention that I laid on the couch all day in my jammies and watched 4 movies.

So now that I've put that out there for the world to see, I should feel better, right? I'm waiting....Nope. Still kind of embarrassing.

In the Wee Small Hours

There is a dirty word that, until now, I have been unfamiliar with. Sadly, my innocence has been shattered. I am now all too familiar with...

...INSOMNIA

There it is in all its nastiness. It even looks ugly, doesn't it? Like a word you want to cross the street to avoid?

These last few weeks, for some inexplicable reason--or perhaps not too inexplicable as my bladder has shrunk to the size of a walnut--I have been finding myself wide awake in the middle of the night. I toss and turn and try to sleep but to no avail. The minutes on the clock turn to hours, and the panic rises knowing how useless I will be in the morning.

So now I have given up lying there counting sheep. Generally I will wander downstairs to the kitchen with a book and pour myself a tall, cold glass of milk to enjoy with a side of toast and homemade strawberry jam, all of which I find terribly comforting, and I'll read myself back to sleep.

It doesn't sound all that bad, and I suppose it wouldn't be if I could sleep the day away, but I have a daytime life that does not gel with these nocturnal activities. My body generally insists on a solid eight hour deep sleep. The kind of sleep that has taught my two children to wake their father in the middle of the night, as he is much more responsive. The kind of sleep that feels more like a coma than a nap. The kind of sleep where even dreams don't interfere.

I used to sleep like that, and I could do it almost on cue. When I put my mind to it, I could be asleep in two minutes--pretty much anywhere.

Oh, I miss that girl. I miss her so badly that even homemade strawberry jam can't silence the ache for her. I hope she comes back. Someday. And I hope she brings her regular-sized ankles with her.

Sigmund Need Not Analyze. I Got This One Figured.

I had a weird dream. And because no one can ever successfully communicate the absolute weirdness of their dreams, I will not go into great detail.

Here's a paraphrase: It had to do with giving birth--something I have never done before, but about which I know enough to know that the following does not make any sense. But, then again, dreams rarely do. (Like the reoccurring dream I had a few years ago where I was a chain-smoking fool, and loving it by the way. It happened so often it started weirding me out. Anyway...)

So in my current freaky dream, my water breaks while on location at the hospital; however, I'm not at the hospital when it happens. I know. Doesn't make sense. I told you. When I arrive the doctor is all upset, and up on the table I go for examination where they find some sort of viral/fungal growth in my womb that looks ridiculously like air puffed Cheetos. The doc says the baby has to come out NOW! The next word I hear is episiotomy and they reach for...(wait for it)...A CIRCULAR SAW WITH LIKE A QUARTER INCH BLADE!!!

Can you say subconscious fear of birthing? Don't bother getting up Mr. Freud. I get it already. But I could use some feedback on that chain-smoking dream, if you don't mind.

How a Crazy Woman Knows She's Loved

Most of the time I love being pregnant. I'm over the moon about it. After all, it's not like this happened accidentally for us. We chased after it, and we got it! And usually I'm super grateful. But today I cried. I mean an ugly, hyperventilating kind of cry.

I'm pretty sure losing my mind has to do with being hormonal, but it also has to do with the fact that my underwear suddenly don't fit. That put me in a bad mood this morning to begin with. And the fact that after coming home from our weekend getaway all of my maternity pants are dirty. So I pretty much had nothing to wear. Standing in my closet in my ill-fitting underwear and trying to determine what I could possibly clothe myself in, I started feeling the low rumblings of angry discord somewhere in the pit of my soul, but I plowed forward. Maybe that green dress of mine would work. It's comfortable and casual enough for every day. But footwear...that was a problem.

Currently I have three pairs of shoes that fit. Lace up tennies (Thank the Lord for laces!), ankle boots (that I can get into most days), and knee high dress boots that I bought two sizes bigger than usual to hide the cankles pregnancy has blessed me with. None of these options were inspired.

Then I spied them in the dark corner of my closet: My tan leather and suede cowboy boots I've had since college. I could probably make them work with the dress in an artsy sort of way. So I put on the green dress. I quickly realized, however, that what worked in month three looks rather ridiculous in month 6. That angry discord began to rise as I yanked it off.

Okay...What about my new heather grey maternity dress? That could work, and probably would look better with the boots anyway. Who cares if I wear it every week? It's a no failer. At least for now...Taking a look in the mirror I concluded that it would do.

Finally it was time for the boots. Except as I pushed my giant troll feet into them, it began to be apparent that they might not--NO WAY! This was not happening. I stood up, looped my swollen fingers through the leather pull straps and yanked, and yanked, and stomped, and yanked again. Of course I had to be careful of my right wrist which has developed carple-tunnel-like symptoms because of the MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF WATER THAT I AM RETAINING!!! However, despite the obstacles, and thanks to the stomping and yanking, I finally forced my way into them... only to find the pinching and constriction unbearable.

That's when I lost my mind. I yelled and stomped, trying desperately to get the thing off, and began blubbering. That's what Mr. Wicke found when he ran up the stairs thinking I had possibly fallen down. I threw myself into the rocking chair, weeping and cursing my enormous troll feet, and then, thanks to my current limited lung capacity I found myself unable to catch my breath.

It's all too humiliating to recall. I am fully aware that I was ridiculous. I was aware as it was happening that I was ridiculous. And it's even more humiliating to think that someone other than God witnessed it. What was poor Mr. Wicke supposed to do with all that crazed, hormonal, emotion?

You know what he did? He petted my head, and then gently tried to remove the offending boots...eventually he had to muscle them off, but I appreciated the initial gentle effort. Then he told me to lie down and get some rest. He even offered to pick me up some new underwear today. And you know what else? I'll bet he'll never mention it again. Now that is love.

Like Barbara Streisand Once Sang: The Best Gift I Ever Got, Really Didn't Weigh a Lot...

Yesterday I turned 38. I celebrated by attending a parent/teacher conference and then a doctor's appointment. Yes. I know how to get CAH-RAZY! But there are things that need to be done despite my grand entrance into the world. And as it turns out, my doctor made my day.

First he said, "Blood pressure looks good, your bloodwork came back looking good...let's see, looks like you've gained some weight this month, but nothing to be concerned about..." My heart began to melt a little bit right there. Any man who can ignore 5 lbs in a month wins just a piece of my heart.

And then, when I laid my vulnerability in front of him by saying, "You know, I turned 38 today, and I'm just feeling a little old to be doing this..."

He said, "Oh. That's just a number. It's more about how healthy you are, how well you've taken care of yourself, and it looks like you've done a really good job."

That's when it happened. I fell in love with him a tiny bit. Not enough to give Mr. Wicke any kind of competition. No. Nothing like that. But I'll admit he sure does know how to sweet-talk a girl, and I will go to my grave saying that Dr. Huish is the best doctor in the world.

The Committee has Spoken

Yesterday I was told by a dear friend that "pregnant Laurel is funny." And I don't think she meant funny like"You should really look into being a stand up comic," but rather funny like "You might consider counseling." (These kind of conversations can only happen with people who truly, deeply love you and have a good sense of humor. She has both.) As she pointed out, apparently I have been using the word "hate" a lot. As in "I hate Halloween...I hate costume planning...I hate planning birthday parties...I hate scrapbooking...I hate soccor. You get the idea. Basically, right now I hate anything that requires a lot of extra effort on my part.

Evidently that includes calling people back because the same friend has insisted that I change my outgoing message. She says my recently recorded message sounds grouchy, and it isn't very inviting when I say, "Leave a message and we'll do our best to call you back." Look. I was just trying to be honest.

I ran that conversation past a second dear friend (I send all important information out to "the committee" you know.) She immediately laughed and said, "Well, you do have more violent tendencies."

"Violent tendencies?!"

"Well, violent is the wrong word. It's just that you don't seem to have an edit mechanism. Whatever you're feeling just comes out of your mouth."

Perhaps she is talking about my reaction at the Fall Festival when I may have said that, "I wanted to kill an old man with a plastic fork." But, in my defense, he was very rude. Or she may be referring to the incident when I purportedly said that someone was "the stupidest man I've ever met." Or maybe--and I am not proud of this--it was when I said that I may, "have to beat the crap out of my son." Again. Only honesty, folks. I defy any parent to deny that the thought hasn't at least flicked across their consciousness at one point.

Admittedly I struggle with a poorly functioning edit button on most days. And on top of that do you realize that pregnancy is causing my feet to sweat, among other sundry and unusual symptoms that I don't talk about? So, okay. People seem a lot more irritating right now. I concede that the committee may have a point. Maybe I do need to reign in "pregnant Laurel" just a bit, sweaty feet and all.

But I really am hating Halloween right now. It just seems like a lot of work. Don't tell my kids I said that, though. I think I have them fooled. (And just for the record, I'm not beating the crap out of anybody. Just so we are all clear on that.)

I Smile

This morning I woke up to hear Griffin say, "Daddy, can I snuggle with you?" It wasn't long before Logan was up and dressing for school. I rolled onto my tummy thinking about the day ahead, but I couldn't help but notice the hardness of the bump in my abdomen. It has just recently begun to feel like I'm lying on a small Nerf ball. I find this changing body incredibly fascinating. The first flutter was so insignificant that it didn't even register. My thoughts were on hair and breakfast, but the second one was more noticable. "Was that a muscle spasm?" I questioned. Then immediately I felt it again. A light little knock on my tummy. And I smiled.

*********************************************************

As we watched the last session of our church's world wide General Conference, Logan came in and sat on her daddy's lap. She watched as I took notes, jotting down impressions and specific points to contemplate later. Then she asked, "What are you writing?"

"Oh, things that I think are important from the talks. Things I want to remember."

Before I knew it she was gone and back again with her own notebook and pencil. During the next three talks, she listened intently and chose four sentences to carefully copy into her book. After conference ended and she was off playing again with her brother, I took a peek inside. Here is what my almost 7 year old wrote:

"The Book of Mormon is the word of God. Sometimes the best things are not easy. If you are prepared you shall not fear. There is nothing the Lord cannot do."

And I smiled.

Bring on the Blue

It's a boy!

And so far, he is perfect. And apparently very active. My friend, who was doing the ultrasound said, "Wow. He keeps this up, you're going to have your hands full." I'm nervous. I mean, have you met Griffin? I need another hand.

Just the Facts, Ma'am, 'Cause The Details are Killin' Us.

Here's a few headlines from the newspaper of my life:

Insomniac Grouchy After Sleepless Night

Nightly Heartburn Heats Up but Douses Romance

Pregnant Woman Accused of Caffeine Withdrawal by Own Mother While Suffering Hormonal Headaches

I'm only giving you the headlines because I am trying not to talk about this stuff. Especially since my 6 year old has taken to repeating phrases such as:

"I don't feel well."

"My stomach is upset."

"I think I might throw up."

Where is she getting this stuff, I wonder??? She has always had a tendency to take on the symptoms of those around her. Sometimes it's hard to tell whose pregnant around here, her or me.

But the following conversation really convinced me to put a lid on my whining. At dinner the other night Logan said, "My teacher doesn't believe me when I tell her I don't feel good."

"Hmm..." I answered. "Well, how often do you tell her that you are sick?"

"Oh...I'd say...a couple of times a day."

Uh, oh. Like I said, I think it's best to stick to the headlines.

Will the Real Laurel Please Stand Up? Soon?

Things I Haven't Done in the last three weeks:

1. Blogged
2. Read a book
3. Made my bed
4. Put on makeup voluntarily
5. Spent an entire day without crawling onto the couch and curling into the fetal position at some point

I am not myself. But I hope to return to myself shortly. Please be patient. I know I said I'd stop talking about this stuff, but I can't be creative right now. My brain does not seem to be functioning appropriately.