Get To The Bus!

The kids usually drag their feet every morning on our way down the driveway to catch the bus.  Today, they were motivated to move it a bit quicker when this little guy greeted them right outside our front door.

Pretending: You're Doing It Wrong

It's really cool to watch your kids take an interest in something.  The boy is really in to reading right now and loves science.  The girl has taken up drawing and writing.  The baby is still just a lump of meat that I stick in front of the t.v. all day. 

But "Hooray" for the other two and their ability to overcome my poor parenting skills.  Maybe there is some value in overloading your child with t.v. in the developmental years.

While I'm glad that the older two are showing interest in non-digital, non-HD hobbies, I'm also slightly annoyed:  

Now I have to play with them. 

And, I don't play pretend well.  Between the three kids, a 30-year mortgage, and a degree I'll never use, I'm out of imagination.  I used to imagine that having kids would be a great idea.  Imagination is what landed me here.

Here.
Among the dirty urine-soaked underwear scattered on the floor.

Here.
Making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the kids' lunches every morning.

Here.
Standing on the tattered ruins of a carpet caked with ground-in Pop-Tarts.
(At least our house smells like Brown Sugar Cinnamon)

I have no imagination.  Or, at the least, I use it incorrectly.  Leah reminds me of this every time we play "Restaurant".  Her new found love of drawing has led to her carrying around a clipboard full of paper everywhere she goes. 

She likes to pretend she's a waitress and she always asks me:  "What do you want to eat?"

To which I respond, "A bacon cheeseburger."  "We don't have that."  "Okay, I'll take a steak."  "We don't have that either."  "How about some soup?"  "Sorry."

"Sorry?  You're sorry?  What kind of crap pretend restaurant is this?  I just wanted a nice fake meal in the comfort of my own home and now you're sorry?"

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, I'll have some tea please."

"We don't have that."

Early Bloomer

I love digging through the boy's backpack when he gets home from school.  I never know what I'm going to find.  Sometimes it's good grades and others it's artwork that only a mother could love.  Once in a while, it's a lunch box full of soggy sandwich bread and chocolate milk.  And then, on rare occasions, I get a note from a teacher that makes me laugh and makes me love the boy even more.

I've always thought of my son as a late bloomer.  He reached many developmental milestones later than normal and he still loves to watch cartoons.  I don't mean the awesome, ultra-violent super-hero cartoons either.  But, there is one area in which he has no problem--inviting girls over.  The only problem is that these girls aren't his age...they're his teachers.

 Four different teachers in as many years and he's invited them all over to the house.  At least he's being social.

Note To Self #4

The Girl:  What you doing Daddy?

Me:  The dishes.

The Girl:  You need help?

Me: I'd love some help if you want to.

The Girl:  I not want to.  Bye-bye.

Note to Self:  Never give the kids options.  It leaves an easy out.

 To be fair, she had a makeover she needed to attend.

How To Wake Up A Princess

Getting out of bed on Sunday mornings is hard.  Getting Leah out of bed on Sundays is even harder.

Now that I run the sound system at church on Sundays, I have to be there by 8 o'clock.  This is a huge change from our previous routine which landed us in town about five minutes before church started.  There has been more than one occasion in which we've had to sneak in through the back and quietly slip in to our seats. Quietly slipping isn't so easy when you're dragging along two girls in Sunday dresses that swish and swoosh with every footstep and a boy with the energy of a Chihuahua on Red Bull.

Last Sunday it was about 7:40 and everybody was up and ready to go.  Everybody except Leah.  She's like her Daddy.  We're not morning people.

So I go in to her room and try to wake her up.  "Leah, it's time to wake up.  Leah.  It's time for church.   Let's wake up Leah.  Time to get dressed."  Her response was less than enthusiastic:

It's at this point that I remember how much I hated when my Mom would wake me up whether it be for school or church.  She'd pop her head in the door and say, "Pooh Bear, it's time to wake up Pooh Bear."  God, how I hated that.  To this day, I despise all things Winnie the Pooh and I can appreciate Eeyore's suicidal tendencies.  But my hatred of hearing that each morning is where the genius lies.

The sooner I woke up, the sooner she'd stop saying "Pooh Bear" in that annoying, drawn-out tone.  I shudder just thinking about it.

Then I realized, despite her annoying methods, maybe Mom could help me rouse Leah from her sleep.  We sit next to Grandma every week at church.  It's a fun-filled hour that's full of coloring, stickers, and little baggies of Goldfish crackers for each kid.  Grandma is a big hit on Sunday mornings.  I try again.

"Leah, do you want to go see Grandma?"

Mental Floss

I love trivia.  More accurately, I love knowing the answer to trivia that no one else knows.  The problem is, I don't know as much as I'd like to think I know.  I have a brother-in-law that can tell you the scores of every Super Bowl played since the beginning of time and who had the most stolen bases in Game 3 of the 1909 World Series.  Seriously, just make up some random question about sports and chances are he'll know the answer.

It's creepy.

And awesome.

And, I wish I had that kind of memory.  But, I don't.  My Dad has all kinds of useless facts roaming around in that brain of his, but not me.  Apparently, it skipped a generation.

I think the boy has it.

It's not even a good memory or useless trivia with him though; it's knowledge.  That's half the battle.

Tonight we played the Mental Floss board game.  A great game based on an even better magazine.  If you don't read it you should.  At least visit their website.  I was given this question:

"What is sodium bicarbonate also known as?"

Apparently, I should have known this.  Like I said, I'm not the brightest.  I was thinking it was salt or soda, I had no clue.  Lose a turn, feel ashamed, ask the boy.

"Hey Caleb, what is sodium bicarbonate?"

Without even pausing to think about it or missing a beat of his hand-flapping, he replied:  "Baking Soda."

That's my boy.

Do We Speak A Dead Language?

Teaching your kids new things is tough.  The toughest thing to teach?  Language.  Okay, besides how to not poop in your pants, it's language.  We've had two of our three kids in speech therapy.  The third one didn't quite make it because she decided to bust out ten brand new words on the day of her evaluation.  This is what kids do to you.

Sometimes, I feel like we're not teaching the kids how to speak as much as we're teaching them how not to cuss.  Take the boy.  One of his first words was "Fag."  It's not because he's hearing homophobic rants at home, it's because the "L" sound is ridiculously hard to say.  The boy loved flags.  He had a world atlas and would just study the flags of the world.  The lack of a clearly defined "L" was never much of a problem until we took him to his first 4th of July parade.

"Dad, see those fags?  That's a huge fag.  I've never seen so many fags."  While the other parade goers stare, I say "FLAG" loudly just to make sure nobody confuses me for one of those Westboro nuts.

Of course, no cursing repertoire would be complete without the "F" word.  No, not this F word, the F word.   Both the boy and the girl have had problems with this one.  Caleb preferred to drop the F bomb in the middle of words--like Kentucky.  Change the "t" to an "f" and you have yourself a fine curse word.  Don't believe me?  Listen for yourself:


Why the school taught him a song about fast-food joints eludes me.  Now I don't feel so bad about the school cutting music. Learning value aside, it was hilarious.  Leah's F bombs weren't quite as funny, at least not at first.

I heard her sitting on the couch one day, saying f*** over and over.  I knew she had overheard me attempting a simple DIY project the day before--a project that ended with the hammer introducing itself to my fingers and my tongue introducing the niceties of the french language to the girl.

Figuring I should go explain to her why she shouldn't use that word, I headed towards the couch.  When I saw her, I let out a sigh of relief.  She was waving a fork around in the air.  "R" is another tricky letter to master.  After a few days of practice, she got it down...kind of:


Leah butchers words.  Many of them are hilarious and rather than submit to my inner grammar-nazi, I've come to enjoy them.  There is one in particular though, that needs to be corrected immediately.  It could land me in jail.  Lee is a tech kid.  She loves playing on our Nook, texting on Momma's phone, and using the computer.  The problem is she can't say computer.

It's comes out as "peter".  She's always asking to play with my peter.  It was funny the first few times, but now I'm worried she'll go to school and tell her teacher.

Teacher:  "Leah, what did you do over the weekend?"
Leah:  "I played with Daddy's peter."

I can already hear the phone call from the school.  At least I'd get some peace and quiet in jail.

Bonding:Like Glue On A Wound

There is a special bond between Elizabeth and myself.  We do everything together.  We eat the same foods, we watch football together, and we even go to the hospital together.

The results of a recent MRI led to an even more recent surgical procedure--namely, spinal surgery (that's totally metal).  The night before my surgery, Libby was feeling sympathetic.  Rather than just share in my emotional pain, she shared in my physical pain.  One badly placed footstep and a well-placed chin later, she was in the hospital emergency room getting her own little surgery.

When I say surgery, what I really mean is that they super-glued her wound shut.  Two-hundred and fifty dollars for them to glue her chin.  I certainly appreciate the ER nurses and their ability to keep my baby from bleeding out, but a quarter of a thousand dollars sounds pretty steep for a glue-job.  Lesson learned.  I've a 97-cent bottle of Elmer's and some Duct-Tape I'll try next time.

The price seems more ridiculous when you consider that my spinal surgery cost us a little over 700 dollars.  That's the difference between In-Network and Out-of-Network.  Not to worry though, the Affordable Care Act will make everything more affordable.  It's in the name, it can't fail right?  On the plus side, for a little under 1,000 dollars we both received some cool scars and matching bracelets.

I also scored this sweet pair of socks with a built-in sunroof.

Even though my back still hurts, my foot is still asleep, and we'll have bills to pay over the next several months, it was worth it.  #LiesITellMyself

Sure, we could have gone fishing together, toured the pumpkin patch, or gone out for ice cream, but you can't put a price on this type of bonding experience.  Just look at the joy and love on Libby's face:

She's Lump

I've been working at my computer for an hour.  The girls have been sitting on the couch nearby watching television.  I walk upstairs to start picking up the house--a routine that always begins with making our bed.  Then I hear footsteps.  (sigh)

  No, not that kind of sigh.

  Yep, that's the kind.

 There's this game we play. Actually, the kids play it while i feign interest.  It's called "Lump" and it's been going on for almost five years now.  It all started with the boy when he was around 2 1/2 or 3 years of age.  I'd make the bed and he would climb up underneath the sheets.  I'd  ask, "Where's Caleb?", then I would lay down on the bed (and him) and comment on how lumpy the bed was.  He'd start giggling and wiggling free, then he'd pop out and say, "Here I Am";  we'd laugh.  It was our thing and it was cute...

...for a while.  Then it just became another hurdle to getting my housework done.  That's when you have to step back and chill.  What's more important:  making the bed or playing with your child?  The aging parent in me says, "playing with your child", while the task-oriented alpha-male in me says, "get off that bed, I have important work here."

  Hey, I'm walking working here!

Caleb has since outgrown this game, but the girls have taken the torch from him and are running with it.  Two lumps are more annoying than one.  It's possible that I'll miss this one day, so for now, I'll stay calm and play the game.  Besides, Lee doesn't respond well when I refuse to play.

Another reason I dislike this game: The Presidents get stuck in my head every time we play.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Enjoy!!!

The Perfect Drug

We just had the boy's Parent-Teacher Conference last week--a wake-up call that we've expected for some time now.  While PTC may sound like the latest street-drug, it is not.  I can assure you that the effects are similar.  Both give you a euphoric high at the beginning, but when it's all said and done, the crash leaves you depressed.  We've always had high hopes going in to Caleb's conferences and this time was no different.

It started out good; he's doing well in school, gets along with others, and hates math.  He's a normal 7-year old.  But then the teacher went over her concerns.  We've had four years of PTCs under our belt going in to this session so we knew what was coming next.  Quirky Behavior.  Stemming.  Horrific Fine Motor Skills.  It's his ADHD Trifecta.

 If only his handwriting was that neat.

We've heard it before and we've hoped that some of it could be attributed to phases (much of it has), but the latest PTC was the perfect drug to wake us up.  We always said that we would avoid the labels and medication as long as the behaviors didn't interfere with school.  They are.  There are some behaviors that may not just "phase themselves out" and it's time to get serious.

Talk of medication and gluten-free diets is in the air.  I don't know what gluten is, but I imagine it's what makes food taste delicious.  Any time a dietician recommends eliminating something from your diet, you can bet it's something tasty.  It's hard enough to get the kids to eat already, I can't create a new menu based on restrictive food and expect to have the kids eat it, can I?

Thus begins the developmental pediatrician visits, dietician appointments, and the occupational therapy.    On the plus side, the time I spend grocery shopping should be cut down exponentially considering that all of my purchases will come from one tiny section of the store dedicated to gluten-free products.  So, while we wait for doctor appointments and some much-needed guidance, we'll just sit back and embrace the quirkiness.

I Wanna Rock

We all have our bedtime routines.  For the boy, it's a glass of water and wanting to talk while he falls asleep.  While it was annoying at first (I figured it was just a ploy to stay up later), it soon turned in to one of my favorite parts of the day.  I'm not competing with SpongeBob SquarePants or Angry Birds for his attention.  And like his absorbent, yellow, porous friend, he soaks up everything we talk about at night.  It's a great opportunity to warn him about the dangers of drugs, not wearing a seat belt, and the flaws of a "Two Party" system.

The girl's routine consists of getting out of bed a minimum of three times: once for hugs, again for kisses, and a third for the all-important glass of water.  Depending on her level of tiredness and the inefficacy of my yelling at her to go back to bed, we may see her three or more times yet again.  This results in us locking our bedroom doors, turning out the lights, and turning a deaf ear.  It works.  We might trip over a 4-year old sleeping outside our bedroom door in the morning, but it works.

The baby has taken a lesson from her older sister and comes out of her room each night before bed too.  But instead of wanting hugs, kisses, and water, she only wants one thing.  Like her speed-metal-loving Dad, she just wants to rock.  How can I say no?

  She likes to rock out with her book about crocs out.

If you don't have a rocking chair, you're missing out.  It's the best way to fall asleep, but that can also lead to problems.  The idea is for the baby to pass out, but I usually end up falling asleep first.  It doesn't matter if it's 10 o'clock at night or 10 minutes after seven.  If I'm rocking in that chair, I will be unconscious first.

Every time.

No matter the time.

While the saliva gathers at the corners of my mouth, Libby is left with unfettered freedom to destroy the house in true Rock Star fashion.  Eventually, she tires of pulling the cookware out of the cabinets and spreading toys across the floor; she falls asleep.  I guess we all have our bedtime routines.

The Duggar Escape Plan

I remember the joys and wonders of our first pregnancy--the hopes and dreams, the worries, the baby-proofing.  It's hard to believe that was over seven years ago.  I recall one question people loved to ask us after our first-born:  Are you done?  The potato has barely cooled down since coming out of the oven and people already want to know if that's that.  Give me some time to figure out if I like this one before asking me if there's going to be another.  Ask me again in two years.

There are many times I would have loved to answer "Yes" to that question.  But the truth is, if you're going to have one kid, you need to have two.  The benefits of two children far outweigh the initial start-up costs of adding a second child.  If you can have them both at the same time, you'll save yourself a bit of money.  Sure, having a kid is expensive and with the world in its current state, maybe we should be adopting kids instead of making new ones.  But, having that second child solves a lot of problems.

 Twins are cute and cost-effective when compared to two pregnancies.

An only child gets all the attention, doesn't have to share, and worse yet, wants to play with you.  You need to shake his world up.  I don't care how cute the first child is, he'll take a backseat to a newborn every time.   He'll learn his place once you start calling him by the baby's name.  That's if he's lucky.  More than likely, you'll have such a hard time coming up with his name that he'll only get a "Hey you" or "Big Brother".

Don't worry.  It's perfectly fine to forget your child's name or to use the wrong one.  In fact, it's helpful.  I have no research to back this up, but have you seen child research?  It's creepy.

  See. Creepy. Good luck sleeping tonight.

Do you want your first-born to be a spoiled, ego-centric narcissist? Do you?  Then hurry up with that second child.  Big brother will be old news and he'll learn that the world doesn't revolve around him.  He'll hear the baby screaming at 2 in the morning and then watch you run in to spend time with his little sister.   Meanwhile, anytime he screams for something to drink, you tell him to quiet down and get it himself.  You know that's going to knock him down a few rungs.  Mom and Dad can't get baby a bottle fast enough, but won't lift a finger to get the boy some chocolate milk.  Such is life.

Now that your first-born is knocked back to reality, it's time to focus on another problem that a second child can fix--tantrums.  Tantrums will soon be a thing of the past.  While the older child lies on the floor kicking and screaming, you can take the baby into another room and relax.   While you're getting your chill on with the baby, big sister's screams eventually deplete her of air and she passes out leaving you and baby to your rocking chair and scented candles.  Enjoy.

  The only scented candle a man should own.

Baby also learns from older siblings.  Potty-training Caleb was a nightmare.  Leah was a breeze.  (Here's to hoping Libby is too.) She watched big brother going potty and wanted to do it herself.  And she did.  She basically potty-trained herself, leaving her Mom and me to more important things, like watching LOST and Dexter (there wasn't much else on t.v. in 2008).  Leah learned to dress herself while we were busy helping Caleb get dressed and she mastered utensils while watching us feed the boy.  I'm telling you, the second one is so much easier.  If you feel like a crappy parent with your first child, the second one will be a confidence booster.

  It's important to remember that being confident doesn't necessarily mean you're NOT a crappy parent.

But here's the most important benefit.   After some time, the older kid realizes that the baby gets all the good stuff from Mom and Dad--hugs and kisses instead of yells and switches.  (Does anybody use a switch anymore?  I think it's time we brought 'em back.)  Once they've discovered this, they start playing with the baby.  This frees you up from having to deal with either one of them.  Genius!

Some of you may want to know about the problems that arise from having two kids instead of one.  While things do get a little hairy with a second child, it's an easy fix.   Have a third kid.  By this time, your oldest can help with the baby, and the middle child is happy to have somebody smaller to boss around.  All you'll have to do is pour food in their bowls in the morning.  When you start having problems with your three children, toss a fourth into the mix.  Problem solved.  Eventually, you'll have enough kids to start your own reality t.v. show.  You'll be rich and famous.  You're welcome.

The Bra Trick (For Babies)

Kids ruin everything--your hopes and dreams, bank account, and sexy things.  There used to be something sexy about a girl removing her bra without taking her shirt off.  Then the baby ruined it for me.

  This creepy bastard has also ruined it for me.

If you've read any of the Disgusting Diary, you'd know about Libby's love of playing in poo.  We've had to resort to putting her in onesies lately.  If we don't, she pulls off her bloomers/shorts/pants, rips off her diaper and swings it around in the air like a single-mother trying to make a living.

She can't unbutton the onesie, so we figured we'd be safe.

We were wrong.  Horribly, horribly wrong.

 Better judgment (aka--My Wife) kept me from posting a picture of Libby's used diaper. But, for interested parties, just do a Google Image Search "baby poo" and you'll have an idea of what I mean by "Horribly Wrong".

The girl has skills.  Too many times I've walked in to her room to see her waving a diaper over her head.

"Where'd she get that diaper?", I ask myself.  Then I notice she is no longer wearing one and her onesie is still buttoned.  Either she has learned to unbutton her jumper, remove her diaper, and then re-button her clothes, or she can take her diaper off without removing her clothes.  I've seen the latter in action and if it's any indication of her inhibitions (or lack thereof), well,  at least she'll be the most popular girl at all the parties.

Say Hello To My Little Friend.

"Silence is golden, unless you have kids--then it's just suspicious."

I don't know who said it  and I don't care enough to take five seconds to do a Google search.  But I can identify with the genius behind the phrase.  Yesterday, I received a little dose of the silent treatment from Leah.  The only time she is quiet is when she's unconscious or getting into trouble.  Otherwise, it's rapid-fire demands and questions.   How I wish she was asleep yesterday.

I was working on the computer (writing some quality parenting advice, no doubt) when I thought, "It's awfully quiet in this house...a little too quiet".  I went downstairs and found her playing nicely with the cat.

  Nothing suspicious looking here.

I asked her what she was doing and she said, "Playing with Sparky."  

"You are?", I replied.

"Yes, we dot a mouse!"

"A mouse?  How fun!"  Leah loves to play make-believe, so I thought her and the cat were playing a fun little game.  Then she asked me.

"You wan nuh see her?"

"Sure", I said, fully expecting her to hold out a stuffed animal, a Lego block, or some other small toy she pretended was a mouse.

Then this:

 Holy Mother of God!

I liked it better when she was just playing with mouse traps.

Flesh Wounds and Life Lessons

I had the opportunity to share a special Dad and Daughter moment last night with Leah.  Rachel and I were sitting on the back deck discussing how old we were.  I had just sat down with an ice-cold Lemon Shandy and began whittling a new door-stop while my wife worked on chopping soap for our special home-made laundry detergent.  I said we were old.

The scene of the bloody crime.

I was whittling away and quenching my thirst when Leah came out to see what we were doing.  "I not see eww", as she says.  Well, she found us (she always does, no matter how hard we hide) and like all inquisitive four-year olds, wanted to know what we were doing.

 I showed her my extremely sharp knife, while Rach showed her the soap.  Around that time the baby started screaming about something, so Rachel stood up to deal with her.

About that time, I thought to myself, "There has to be a quicker way to whittle this stupid thing."  I rearranged the block of wood and stared at it for a while, pondering my next move.  "If I cut this way, I'm sure to cut my finger off", I thought to myself.  "Oh, I'll just try it one time, I won't even use full cutting pressure.  It'll be alright.  One time won't hurt."

That's when it happened.

One swipe of the blade and thirteen blood-soaked paper towels later, I had one hell of a flesh wound.  After the bleeding and dizziness stopped, I turned this into an important life lesson for Leah.  I slowly inched towards her and said, "See Leah, one time is all it takes.  People will tell you that one time won't hurt,  but look at Daddy's finger.  That's what can happen 'Just One Time'.  Please remember this baby, one time." 

She must have taken this lesson seriously, because she immediately teared up and began to tend to my wound.  Rachel suggested I go to the Emergency Room and get stitches, but let's face it,  the E.R. doctor wouldn't give me a kiss and a Dora necklace.

An Ear-Piercing Shriek.

Ear piercings, nail polish, and dresses--Oh My!  My little girl is growing up and I'm not ready for it.  A few weeks ago, we took Leah to get her ears pierced.  I can't remember now what brought it up, but she asked to get them pierced and when pretty girls ask their finger-wrapped Daddies for things, they get them.  Before we took her to the mall, I took one last picture of those precious, unaltered ears.  I want to remember my innocent little girl before she ends up with piercings in places I can't photograph.  If she loves piercings as much as she loves tattoos, I'm in trouble.

On the way to the mall, Caleb asked what would happen to his sister.  "Well, they're going to punch a hole in Leah's ear", I said.  "Why would anybody want to do that?", Caleb asked.  "I don't know son, I don't know." 

When we arrived at the mall, there was another little girl (about Lee's age) sitting in the chair, waiting to get her ear's pierced.  MeMaw, in her wisdom, suggested that we walk around the mall until the other girl was finished.  "It might scare Leah, if the girl cries", she said.

Good Call MeMaw!

We were at the other end of the mall when we heard it--an ear-piercing shriek that sounded like two bobcats going at it.  I'm sure every stray dog within a two-mile radius was circling outside the mall doors.  The screaming and crying was so bad that we ducked into the mall's library for 30-minutes while we waited for the little girl to compose herself.  Now I was concerned about my little girl and her ability to take a piercing gun to her ears.

Lee looked a little concerned herself.  Better still her fears by showing her some bright, shiny jewelry.

Much better.  With her new earrings picked out, there was only one thing left to do--mark and tag, baby!

She's starting to look a little concerned again.  As nervous as Leah was, I think her Mom and I were even more so.  Lee is a hot, crying mess by nature and I knew that if it went bad, the crying might not stop.  So how did she do?  Take a look:

What a trooper.  Enjoy those earrings girl, you earned them.

Shriner Whiner

Every year, the Shriner Circus comes to our little town.  Every year, the kids want to go.  Every year, it's the same.  People juggle, animals pretend they're people, and acrobats acrobat.  It gets old once you've seen it six years in a row.  But, I don't go to watch the circus, I go to watch my kids watch the circus.  Their facial expressions are more entertaining than anything you'll see in the ring---except for six dudes riding motorcycles in a steel cage, that shit's awesome.

  I told you. Awesome.

While I didn't make it to the circus this year (I had heavy-metal related commitments to attend to), my wife did.  Reluctantly, I lent her my new camera .  And, even though I didn't get to watch the circus, I still got to see my kids watch the circus.

  She's brave letting him drink an entire soda at 7:30p.m.

  She's seen this circus three times before. Still she smiles.

  Still smiling.

  I think he just realized he's seen this act before.

  And he is not happy about it.

  She realizes it too.

  Another act he's seen before. He's getting mad now.

 You wouldn't like him when he's mad. Better get him on the pony rides quick.

  That's better.

  Much better.

See you at next year's circus!