I Let My Boys Raid My Jewellery Box...

And guess what?

They were happy.

End of story.

Jewels are fun.  Mummy's things are interesting - even nicer when Mummy shares and lets them keep some 'treasure' for themselves.

Tom came home today from the school jumble sale wearing two very spangly women's bracelets.

He also happened to bring back a rather cool and gorgeous re patent handbag and a floral purse.

I asked him if they were for me?

No.  They were for him.

What is he going to do with these items?

'Ah, just keep them and use them.  They're really nice to look at.'

I was really proud of my boy.  Very proud that my boy chose things he liked, not based on gender, not based on the fact that they might be 'girl' or 'boy' things, but just that they were things that he happened to like (he has good taste too!)

Ethan was also sporting a rather gorgeous bracelet with a heart on it.

Now, Ethan is a bit more into what other people think of him, so I was surprised when he was also wearing a very shiny and very pretty thing around his wrist.

Hey, Ethan, why did you choose that one?

Oh, he says, he just likes it.  It reminds him of the necklace I wear and he wanted one too.  He doesn't have any jewellery and he would love some more.

I don't even think twice.  Without hesitation I say, hey, I have a ton of crap up there I never wear or even like any more - would you like to have some?

They are both excited, both eager - yes please is the strong reply.

I gather up my jewels, my treasure, and I go through it.  I've been meaning to for ages anyway.  I was going to chuck some stuff away and keep what I loved, after all, it's a waste to have it all just sitting there doing nothing.

I divvied up the spoils.  The boys were chuffed.

Tom was adorned in bracelets, Ethan was wearing five necklaces.

It was really cute.  They were happy, I was happy that they were happy, it was a winning situation all round.

Later on, when we were sitting down to eat, the boys both sitting beside their pile of 'treasure' (read: old junk), Tom sidles up to me.

'People were laughing at me because of the things I bought today.  It made me sad, so I ran inside'

'Do you like the things you bought?'

'Yes, I really do'

'Then that's all that matters. Screw them! As long as you like what you got, what is it to them?'

He smiles and, well, that's kind of the end of it.

He still likes his things. The masses haven't won today.
I guess I'm waiting tentatively for this stuff to matter to him.  He's getting older and it's getting harder to mitigate against the huge tide of 'boy vs girl', especially when it comes from caregivers, school, other kids who have been taught about 'boy things' and 'girl things'.

The boys doing 'boy shit', or actually, what every kid wants to do (me and my sis were there too, dying to have a shot!)

Me and my boy!

But right now, it doesn't.  Right now, it's about him just doing his 'kid' thing for as long as possible.

Right now it's about him doing what makes him happy.

It should always be as simple as that.

And if anyone wants to tell my boy, this guy, raised by me, a woman, that a 'girl' thing is in any way, shape or form weaker or inferior or wrong, let's dance.

Likewise, if one day he comes home and tells me that 'girls suck' or 'girls are stupid'  then I will take him to town too.

It's a nicely balanced deal.

Today, my boys are enjoying their jewels.

They look damn fine in them too.

Pushing The Blame Around

I put my hands up.

I am one of 'those' mothers.  I'm one of those parents who absolutely does not have their eye on the ball 100% of the time.

Hell, I'm lackadaisical when we are out sometimes.  SOMETIMES we are on a day out, and the sun is shining and my husband is there too and we are having a great day and I relax a bit.  Weird!

And, unbelievably I know, I am never able to watch all of my children all of the time, because guess what?

I have three kids and one set of eyes.

I have been the mother whose kid is doing something batshit beyond-the-realms-of-normality crazy.

My spidey-sense can only go so far.

Granted, I haven't found them in an animal enclosure (yet) but in all honesty, that could have been my kid in there.

If you have ever been in charge of a 4 year old who is intent on doing something, you will know.

4 year olds have no sense of 'just wait a minute' or consequence.

I am astonished at the sheer vitriol pounded out over the internet towards the mother of that child.

From parents too!

Horrified, even.

I am an animal lover beyond belief.  I am so saddened that Harambe was shot; he didn't stand a chance.

I cannot even begin to think of the mind who would wish a 4 year old boy be sacrificed in front of a crowd of onlookers in a zoo.

What an awful, horrifying situation.

We all look to blame when something like this happens.

Blame the mother, blame the zoo, blame the child...

Can there be total blame here?

Sure, the mother should have been watching her child, but in all honesty, complete and total honesty, if you have a 4 year old, can you honestly say you have never ever taken your eyes off the ball in what should be a safe place?

Never looked down to a crying baby only for your toddler to start heading towards the road?

Never looked away for a second in the supermarket?

Kids are fast. Kids are super crazy fast.  And sneaky.

The zoo should definitely have made their enclosure completely child-proof.  Heck, it begs belief that a 4 year old could manage to breach the walls and get in somehow.  A 4 year old! They are good at climbing, but not that good.  I'm sure we will learn how he managed to get in, but come on, it really shouldn't have been that easy to get into.  And I'm very sure that the keepers and everyone at the zoo will be beyond devastated that their mistake has led to the death of a much-loved and endangered animal in such a way.

It's so easy to be judgmental.

Like most things though, you cannot judge unless you have been there.

Granted, some people are idiots.  Some people do do some really stupid things.

A 4 year old kid though?

Come on.

RIP Harambe.

source:Getty  Images

I Miss The Bump

Miserable hospital me, allowed out to the hospital canteen...

This time last year I was in hospital, experiencing some proper pain and some gnarly contractions.

The baby was breech.

The baby was sideways.

The baby was the right way round.

The baby was high up.

The baby was so low down the doc touched him when she examined me (ouch).

The baby was coming.

The baby was not coming.

The baby was fidgeting and causing some crazy pain.

The baby sat on his ass sideways (SIDEWAYS!!!) and probably made laughter waves on the damned monitor.

I was in hospital, on the edge for a week.

One doc told me I would have to stay there for three weeks, arranged me a side room and basically told me to hang tight.  Others promised an early c-section.  Another told me I could labour naturally; others laughed in my face.

I saw the full spectrum.

I had some lovely midwives who held my hand as I basically killed theirs when the pain got intense and I had some really awesome drugs which helped everything slow down enough for me to ride out the last few weeks.

I have never really had an 'easy' pregnancy.

I am a short little lady and I get really huge when I am pregnant.  My little body literally cannot hold any kind of capacity, thus it all tends to go out the way.

Weeks 5-13 are generally torture, as I experience waves of nausea, vomiting, and really not wanting to eat while experiencing intense hunger pangs, more often than not in the middle of the night.  I wake frequently and sweat profusely while looking quite podgy instead of 'nicely pregnant'.  I am usually exhausted and need to sleep tons, but find myself waking at 6am. It's joyful.

Weeks 14-28 are the 'grace' period.  This is my favourite pregnant time.  My skin looks great, I sleep normally (apart from the midnight snacks, which I'm happy to indulge) and I have some energy.  I'm also nicely rounded, but not so big as to have people ask horrific questions or touch me. I can still bend down to reach stuff and can wear nice maternity clothes.  Life is good.

Weeks 29+ are usually a nightmare. By week 32 I have reached peak pregnant and I am pretty much ready to be the heavily pregnant lady who takes every seat offered.  People have started saying lovely things about the size of the bump (read: rude things), but mainly because I am the size of a HOUSE and have so long still to go.  I can't reach my shoes or anything on the floor. I'm exhausted. Clothes have started to not fit. The bump has reached comedy proportions.

Week 32+ I am done.  Completely finished.  My body starts to give up pretending that it's okay with being squished from the inside out. It wants to breathe.  It would like it's organs back int he right place, please.  It begins making noises that it would like the imposter in here out now please, okay!!?  I, on the other hand, try to ignore it's awesome attempts at Braxton Hicks and crazy middle of the night peeing sessions and constant demands to be fed (in vain).  Pregnancy at this point is a full time job.  Which I believe is why they let you come off on maternity leave around this time.

It goes without saying that the last few weeks of pregnancy are hellish.  There's all the waiting.  There's the pain.  The constant trips to the bathroom to monitor any signs of 'progress'.  The constant feeding of the huge baby.  I mean, I can EAT when I am sprogged up!

We all know the awful things in pregnancy - even if it's just the small things.  We all know what can go wrong.  We all know how hard it can be, the risk it carries, the crazy things we do.  We all know it's rarely a smooth and thing without worry or stress or fear.

The day of the big C-Section! 39 weeks :)

But, today, in this moment of time, as I look at the picture of my 39 week bump - that massive solid, round thing, I can hardly believe it was possible once, let alone three times.

I'll never forget the magic of feeling the baby poke around with little hands and feet.

I'll never forget the feeling of never being alone and knowing that I was growing a wee soul inside of my body.

I'll never forget the amazing capacity that my body has to do this amazing thing, be chopped up and still be a working, functioning thing.

I very much doubt I will ever be pregnant again.  And besides, I hate being pregnant.  I like being pregnant for around 14 weeks or so, which isn't even half of the time!  I'm a terrible preggers.

But look what you get!

Not bad, eh?

Sleep Disorders And Night Terrors - Our Five Year Battle (And Counting)

Night terrors are kind of crazy.

For my middle son they happen most nights, about an hour after he goes to sleep.

He always screams.

He's always inconsolable.

He always wakes the baby.

There's nothing we can do for him; there's no comfort we can give him, no amount of trying to cuddle him, no amount of kind words or asking him to stop.

They come right out of nowhere.  Some nights he can be absolutely fine.

But most nights he wakes in this howling, screaming, terrified mess.

Hard to believe it, but they are tougher on us than they are on him.

He wakes in the morning with absolutely zero recollection of what has happened.  No awareness.  Just a nice, peaceful night, sometimes with a funny dream.

Thankfully.

We put the three boys to bed each night within a routine which has never really changed within the annals of time.

Bath, Supper, Teeth, Story, Story-tape, Bed.

It's pretty much the same every night.

It can be time-consuming.

Difficult to put into motion at the end of a long day.  It's important to me boys always go to bed happy.  Always with a hug and a kiss.

However, for poor Ethan, however much we tried, this wasn't always the case.

He may well have no memory of his night terror as they are now, but he used to have other fears at bed time too.

He's still scared of the dark.  He still fears the silence and the darkness around him when he wakes alone in the night.

His wee imagination goes into over-drive.

It all started when he was about a year old; the sudden middle-of-the-night screaming, the 'temper tantrums' which we just put down to sheer bloody-mindedness of our 'difficult' child.

He was never easy to put to bed.  He was a handful when he was awake!

But we all dreaded bedtime.

Our eldest son had always gone to bed nicely, easily, quietly.  But not Ethan.

He was terrified of going to sleep; absolutely adamant that he wasn't going to do it.

Every. Single. Night.

We'd spend hours indulging his night-time whims, reading him to sleep, changing bedrooms, changing lightbulbs, putting up blackout blinds and curtains on top of blinds.

We tried staying in the room and holding his hand, letting him sleep in our bed, letting him sleep in a sleeping bag, letting him go to bed with a million cuddly toys, as he was convinced that 'this time, mum, this time they'll look after me'.

Yup, this has been in the bed too! It's a bloody dressing up costume!

We tried to convince him he was being silly, it was 'just a phase', that he was big and didn't need us.

We listened at his door as he cried and screamed and pleaded with us to come back in the room until he fell asleep and we tried toughing it out.

We let him fill his belly before bed, we tried only letting him have something small, we tried different diets.
Reward charts.
Incentives.
Books which supposedly hypnotize.

It felt like we tried absolutely everything.

What we didn't know at the beginning, was that Ethan had terrible glue-ear, which was so profound that the doctor at the ENT clinic told us that basically, Ethan spent the first two years of his life hearing as though he was submerged under deep water all the time.

It took until he was two years old to diagnose, and then another year before he would get the grommets inserted, which changed his life overnight.  Suddenly he became verbal, a lot less frustrated and a lot easier to deal with.

The grommets were certainly an improvement beyond everything else, but we still had to deal with the fear and behaviour which comes from not being able to hear properly in those first three formative years.

It's had a huge impact.

He's a great kid.  He is very funny, with a rapier wit way beyond his years.  He is very clever.  But he has struggled.

Hearing properly very much contributes to other functions:

• Social interaction: He's never struggled to make a friend, but there's been a lot of misunderstandings and a lot of upsets!
• Communication: We've dealt with a LOT of tantrums, a lot of frustrated screaming and a lot of shouting.  Gradually we are teaching him to tone it down, but yes, this is a very hard thing to explain to others, especially as they think he is being horrible.
• Reading and Writing: He started school this year and he has tried so very hard, and is getting their, but his failure to hear words as they are supposed to sound for a long time has mucked up his internal alphabet system.  He has fought very hard for every single letter.
• Sensitivity: The grommets are great, but whereas before he didn't hear much, now he can hear everything, and to him it is very very loud! He therefore gets upset in places where there's more than your average noise levels, like parties, concerts and gym halls.

As he gets older he is becoming more and more able. His ability to communicate gets better and he is becoming less frustrated with life, which is great.

He now goes to bed with a lot less hassle.  Well, there's still some, but compared to what we used to deal with, it's nothing really.

We are however, still dealing with the night terrors. The last bastion of sleep disorder hell.

Apparently he'll grow out of them.

Apparently.

I really hope it's soon!

What Happened When I Spoke To My Kids About Refugees

I watched BBC2's programme last night on the IPlayer, where Stacey Dooley (who I really like) was documenting the journey and the experience of unaccompanied migrant children.

Usually I don't get to watch much television, but when I do, I like to watch documentaries.  I also don't usually get to watch much tv around the kids, but I'm finding more and more, that when I do, they also like to watch with me.

Last night was no different.

Ethan slipped onto my knee and under my blanket and we watched together in our comfort and safety, with full bellies after our evening meal, just before I got him ready for his warm bed.

This was not lost on my five year old son.  Not at all.

Some might argue that the content of the documentary is too much for a child.
Some might say that there is no need to burden them with the world's problems at such a young age.

It wasn't a graphic documentary. Situations were described, but there was no blood, no dead bodies.  Just some normal people, normal families, with normal, upset, tired, hungry and scared children who had made some really epic journeys in order to flee their war-torn countries.

Inevitably, I had to answer a lot of questions.

• What are they all doing?
• Why are they not at home?
• Where are all their things?
• Why is the daddy crying?
• Have they not got a pram?
• Why don't they have enough food to eat?
• Where will they sleep?

I answered each question as well as I could.  I tried to taper it all down to the appropriate age level.  I tried to be quite matter of fact.

I always feel it is important to let children know what is going on in our world.

I need my kids to know that we are lucky, us here in our nice house, eating food we like and going to school.

I need my kids to know and to appreciate that we might not always have everything we want, that sometimes the things we like or want or even need are not always there for us, but that indeed, we need to share, and see the positives and try harder sometimes.  

I need my kids to see the unfairness meted out to others and to feel empathy too; I need my kids to have that balance in their lives.

I would really like my kids to be helpers.  I don't mean the kind of people who give up their lives solely for others (only if they really want to), but the kind of people who think of others.  Who maybe pop some food in the trolley for the foodbank when they shop, or donate old clothes to charity, or put bird feeders in the garden in winter.

I guess I want my kids to have some kind of social conscience.

What happened when I spoke to my kids about the refugees?

We talked about how unfair their situation was.  How awful it was that babies and sick people had to sleep on the streets.  We talked about war and how scary it must be to live in a country at war.  We also talked about how nice our own home was.  How lucky we were.  How nice it might be to take some of our old toys and donate them so that the migrant children might have something to play with.

Essentially, nothing happened.

No bogeymen came in the night and stole their innocence.

There have been no nightmares. No stupid questions.

There was some empathy, a bit of understanding, and a realisation on my part that when explained in the right way, we can take the scary things, the strange things, the unjust and unfair things and speak to our kids about them in a way they understand without destroying their innocence.

Ethan: "Mum, I think we should definitely make friends with them when they get here.  They need a friend."

See.

If a 5 year old gets it, why are some adults having a hard time?

Now if we can just bottle that up and spread it around a bit, the world would be a better place. 

How to Home Dye Your Hair...An Honest Guide

I've been dying my hair for a lot of years now, but I style can't really get my head around it (ha!  See what I did there? HEAD?! Ahem, I'll get my coat...)

Ah, my newly dyed bonce!

I would love to be able to afford to go to the hairdressers every time some roots started to appear, but unfortunately, due to my fear of hairdressers, plus the fact that I'm really not into paying an extortionate amount of money every 6-8 weeks on my hair, when I could be spending it on, well, stuff I need, well, home-dye it is.

Here is my (somewhat tongue in cheek) guide to home-dying your hair.

1. Notice a grey hair poking through your parting one day.

Pluck it.  Watch over the next day and a half that at least 5 more have appeared in it's place. Pluck them.  Watch as 25 more grow.

Ad infinitum.

Try to tell yourself that you're not that grey really.  Catch yourself in the mirror a few times and wince at the grey bits around your temples.

Ask a colleague if they think you're grey, and watch as they tactfully try to say you are not, but you can tell by their lying eyes that you damn well are.

Spend copious amounts of time in the bathroom rippling your hair and watching as each grey glimmers in the dim light of the staffroom toilets.

2.   Resolve to dye your hair.

Think about what shade you fancy going this time.

Have daydreams of all kinds of fanciful shades, like Plum Power and Amber Nights.

Go to the shop and stand in front of a wall of hair dye for half an hour and try to work out the difference between Honey Honey and Honey Sun.

Go home, clueless and tell yourself it's not that bad really.

3. Arrive back in front of confusing dye wall a day later after your husband has told you that you haven't rubbed the dry shampoo into your hair properly and you angrily tell him 'it's NOT dry shampoo'.

Close eyes and make a circling motion with finger, pointing to a box and plucking it off the shelf, muttering 'fuck it, fuck it, this'll do', as you head to the wine aisle to buy strong wine.

4. Rest the box of dye on your bathroom shelf for approximately two weeks.  Look at it every time you go to the loo.

Read instructions half-assedly while sitting on the toilet catching a break from the sprogs.

Realise that it takes more effort than you thought and resolve to do it on a day when you get peace from the kids; who gets about 3/4 of an hour where they don't have to do something crazy? Hold off for the elusive day.

5.  Realise one Sunday morning that the only time you get to dye hair is on a Sunday morning when you've snuck into the bathroom in your pyjamas for a bath.

You think, 'yeah, this is perfect actually - I'll have a soak and my hair will have a soak too, then I'll just get dressed.

 It's just another bit added to the routine.  Easy!' This genius idea stops you having to avoid bumping into things with huge dye head, like some kind of walking permanent ink pen. Great idea!

6.  Open box.  Glance over instructions again (not too hard though - remember you've already 'read' them) while you mix the two chemicals together in the bottle to make up the dye.

There's no going back now; that one sentence you definitely read said that it must be used IMMEDIATELY.

Put on the terrible oversized comedy plastic gloves and push the tip off the nozzle.

It begins.

7.  Start by using the nozzle to squeeze the non-drip formula around your hairline, telling yourself this is best practice to avoid forehead colouring.

Source: ifunny

Swear a bit as non-drip formula drips somehow onto the floor.  It's okay, you have time - concentrate on the job at hand.

8. Worry about the line you've drawn around your head that might make you look like you've got  wig on. Start rubbing it with the oversized fingers.

Curse a bit as oversized fingers mean you get some on your forehead and above your eyebrows.  And nose.
It's okay - you have time before it stains properly.  30 mins for it to develop, you have ages!  You'll be done in a few - don't lose sight of the final job in hand.  You've started, so you'll finish.

9.  Realise that you got some stuff on the tips of your ears.

  Decide to get baby wipe to counter the mess - you've heard good things about baby wipes saving the day.  Only problem is, you've forgotten the baby wipes.  And you've locked the door. never mind, it's okay.  Wet toilet roll is the same, right?

10.  Oversized gloves are now covered in little flecks of stained toilet roll, as are forehead and tips of ears.

 It's okay, simply shake oversized glove over the sink to get the bits off - you can mop it up later; sinks are porcelein and don't stain (much).  Concentrate on trying to do back of head and try to imagine where your hairline is at the back.   Feel around in oversized gloves and hope for the best while dabbing globs of dye where you think is best.

11. Check dye bottle to see how much dye is left.

  Panic because there's not as much as you thought.  Start shaking bottle vigorously into palm and squeezing it out.  Watch as nondrip formula drips absolutely everywhere; thank goodness you are wearing an old pyjama top.  Mush dye into hair and pile hair up onto top of head and think about how much you look like Wilma Flintstone.

 Wonder why the dye looks black when you are really very sure it should be red.  Hope it changes with time.  Now for the bath.

12. Realise that you should have probably done the hair dye while topless to avoid this bit. 

 Stretch the collar of pyjama top as wide as it will go to stretch around hair.  Totally don't stretch it far enough and end up catching precariously bundled hair as you lift it over head.  Watch as hair slaps down onto your shoulders/face causing little dye marks which you furiously spend the next the next 5 minutes wiping off with toilet roll.

13. De-Glove.  Put gloves in box. 

 Congratulate yourself on being nice and tidy.  Look at rest of bathroom and resolve to clean it after bath.  Get into bath.  Realise that it's impossible to relax, as you can't put head back, lest hair bundle falls onto shoulders or face.  Sit rigidly in bath. Remember you need to wait 30 mins.  Or was it?   Instruction leaflet is in the box under the gloves. Oh well...

14. After waiting what you feel has been the allotted amount of time (and swearing to bring a watch next time), and performed, handily, all of the other tasks, like washing and shaving legs, now decide it's time to wash out the dye. 

 But how?  The answer looks so obvious, as you look at the bath water around you.  You won't get dye all over you if you wash your hair in the bath. Right?

15.  Realise that dunking dyed hair in the bath while you are still in it is a very terrible, bad idea as you sit up and realise that not only is there deep red water everywhere, but your boobs have red tide marks.

Source: Getty Images

Panic, fearing you are to be stained red for the next 8 weeks and jump out of the bath, hair only partially rinsed and thus still full of dye. Drain bath and turn on shower.
Oh god, this was a terrible idea, you think, as you look at the red drips all over the lovely light blue bath mat.

16. Hose down the bath and get in the tub again and hose yourself while bending completely over and trying to avoid dye getting in your eyes.

Get it in your eyes anyway and blindly feel around for the shower head.  Stand like this for approximately three hours as you wait for the red to just stop running from your hair.

17. Get out of the tub like a traumatised war hero.

  Witness the devastation around you. Hear your neglected children screaming from the bowels of the house beyond the bathroom door.
Look in the mirror and squint your eyes at the outcome.

It looks okay.

Good job, soldier, good job.

18.  Realise that you've missed a bit.  And you have red ears. And a red blotch on your forehead.  And red fingers. And you might have stained the shower curtain.

It's okay.  You have at least 8 weeks before you can begin this whole process again...

Taking A Break

I have three kids.

I work with kids.

And books.  Thankfully, I have a nice bookish buffer between me and other people's kids at work, but more often than not, my job involves placating, entertaining and listening to small children.

Life's always a laugh with these crackers!

I love it - I really do.

I work in a children's library and I get a real kick out of helping them fire up their imaginations using the written word.

It's a real privilege.

Today, however, I was sent to cover a different department (which is usual for my work - sometimes we are short-staffed and we are expected to cover areas which need to be covered.  It's nice to get a wee change); one which is just for the adults.

When you've spent the last goodness-knows-how-long being at the beck and call of small children and their endless crazy demands and challenges and hilarious musings, it was a bit difficult to get myself in the mindset of not speaking to kids.

It was kind of nice.

I got myself a cup of tea in my travel mug.

I found myself glancing over adult fiction and non-fiction.  It's been a wee while since I properly had the head-space to do this and it was a weird sensation.  Usually I'm looking for ways to entertain, things which sound funny or look funny in the eyes of a child, but today it was all for me.

I read a newspaper at break time.

I spoke to adults about things which weren't about parenting, or housekeeping or what my baby's poo looked like and it was pretty cool.

I could actually feel a different part of my brain being used, and for a second, I kind of remembered who I was.

After my four hours, I went down to my locker and put on my coat.  I brushed my hair in the mirror and actually felt the rumbling in my tummy signalling that yet again I had missed lunch.

This time, I resolved to do something about it, rather than the usual of just pushing through and ignoring it.

While walking up the road to my car, I switched back to 'Mum' mode.  Switched back on to 'must collect the baby and get the other two from school and plan what to have for tea' mode. Felt the rumbling in my tummy again and tried to forget about it. Felt myself slipping back into responsibility, like putting on an old, worn-out coat with holes in the elbows.

But - for four hours today, I relaxed.

It gave me space to think. To be.

I think I forget to do that sometimes.

That's the thing about having kids; it's relentless.  You never stop.  And although most of the time it's fun and full of laughter and madness and crazy stuff that you'd never even thought about doing - it's tough going.

Like anything, sometimes you just need a break.

Reminder to self: Always try to do something different.  My initial reaction to going somewhere else today was 'oh no!', but actually, it was great.  It's okay to break out of the mold. It's okay to have some down time.