A Good Place To Start

I get a fair number of emails from people, mostly women and mostly mothers, about recovery. Some are still figuring it out, deciding whether or not they have a problem. Some are new to recovery, and some have been sober for a while. I appreciate hearing from everyone - as I've stated again and again I feel that in sharing our stories, our struggles and our triumphs we go a long way towards combating the disease of addiction. I respect anonymity and confidentiality above everything - I have great respect for the fact that facing fears about drinking, or drugs, and whether or not you want to do something about it, is an intensely personal and private decision. I feel strongly, too, that talking with people who understand, who are safe, is pivotal to finding a strong path in recovery. If you think you may have a problem, it is hard to figure out how to take that first step.

I am often asked about information, books or articles that may be helpful. I have read several books that have to do with recovery - I'll share some of the best here. If you want to understand more about addiction - whether you think you may have a problem, are in recovery yourself, or have a loved one with addiction, these books are worth the read.

My favorite book on addiction and recovery, as it pertains to women, is Drinking, A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. Caroline is an excellent writer, and describes her journey into addiction, the struggle to get out of it, and life in recovery, with honesty and eloquence. I first read her book in 1997 - ten years before I stopping drinking. I wish I had paid more attention to the distant alarm bells that went off in my head when I read her story. If you are a woman who is wondering whether or not you have a problem with alcohol - this is the book to read.

Dry, by Augusten Burroughs (he wrote Running with Scissors, among many other books), was a compelling read. While I can't identify as much with his personal circumstances, he writes eloquently about his fall into addiction with drinking and drugs, a first attempt at recovery and subsequent relapse, and eventual sobriety - all while facing significant personal trials and tribulations.

The Night of the Gun, by David Carr. A reporter for the New York Times, Carr investigates his own history of drinking, drugs and addiction through interviews with friends, families and co-workers who were there through it all. The Night of the Gun is a fascinating exploration of memory, as well as a gripping memoir about addiction and recovery. It is also an interesting read from the perspective of people who love addicts, and a graceful story of regret and redemption.

There are several books I would describe as more in the "self-help" category, but some of them are particularly good. Living Sober, published by AA services, is kind of an owner's manual to early sobriety. Although published by AA, it doesn't deal with the 12 steps as much as how to navigate the tricky waters of early sobriety. I read it over and over as I faced some "firsts" in sobriety: first wedding, first party, first family gathering, and even how to face day-to-day stresses sober.

A Place Called Self: Women, Sobriety and Radical Transformation, by Stephanie Brown, is also a "self-help" book, written with eloquence and compassion by a woman in recovery. Brown discusses addiction and recovery as it relates to how women define themselves, delving deeper into the psychological, social and cultural issues that impact women in addiction (from anything - drugs, alcohol, shopping, sex or gambling) and in recovery.

One of the reasons I wanted to blog about the good recovery stories out there is in response to some of the parenting books that make light of drinking as a survival tool in parenting. Robert Wilder's Daddy Needs a Drink and Chris Mancini's Pacify Me, are examples of this. Interestingly, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor - who wrote Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay - recently admitted on her blog that she has a problem with alcohol, and is now in recovery. I commend her for speaking publicly about her journey. She writes with courage and grace - plus she is very, very funny. I recommend checking out her blog here.

This list is nowhere near comprehensive - just some thoughts on the books that were the most meaningful to me as I tried to figure out if I had a problem, struggled to get into recovery, and as I progress through my own journey in sobriety. If you have suggestions of your own please share them here, too.

If you are wondering whether or not you have a problem, reading can be a safe, quiet and private way to begin. Thank you again to everyone who has reached out to me - keep on coming - you all help me and I appreciate it very much.

The Sabre Tooth Tiger And The Gumdrop Tree

In recovery, we talk a lot about Fear. I find fear to be kind of slippery - I know it when I see it, but it is hard to define from a standstill. The technical definition of fear is this: an emotional response to threats and danger. It is a basic survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as pain or the threat of pain.

When I look at it closely, there aren't many situations in my day to day life that call for a true fear response, like a burglar in the bushes or the house catching on fire. Fear is designed to trigger the age old fight-or-flight instinct humans have used to protect themselves for eons: the caveman-meeting-up-with-a-sabre-tooth-tiger kind of fear. In our contemporary and relatively cushy modern lives, we are buffered from most of the life threatening situations our ancestors faced on a daily basis. But the fight-or-flight instinct remains.

I think of fear as a kind of root emotion, in the sense that a lot of thoughts and feelings are driven by fear, although I process them as something else, like anger, resentment or even sadness. In recovery I have learned that fear drives the bus a lot more than we realize. Anger is oftentimes born out of fear - fear of being hurt or being wrong, for instance. We lash out to protect ourselves from the possibility of pain - either physical or emotional. Resentment also usually comes from fear - we can build monuments of resentment towards people, or places, or even things in order to avoid processing the fear they may instill. For instance, instead of processing bad memories, we create a resentment that we carry around with us like luggage. As long as we're carrying the suitcase around, we don't have to look at what is inside.

Then we have Anxiety -many people use anxiety and fear interchangeably, when in fact anxiety is fear that occurs without any immediate external threat. Fear would be called for if your house was actually on fire - anxiety comes into play when you're worrying that your house might catch on fire. I think of anxiety as the fight-or-flight instinct gone haywire. When we're anxious, we are creating situations that cause us worry and fear, but not in direct response to a threat. We can experience anxiousness over the unknown - like a new job, or a party where we don't know anyone. There is no real threat, but our minds try to process every possible outcome and prepare for any unforeseen trouble - otherwise known as Worry.

I suffered from anxiety on and off for years. Certainly, anxiety was a large contributor to my eventual addiction - drinking or doing drugs is one of the only ways to hide from yourself. As a person in recovery, I am learning the important distinction between Fear and Anxiety. Fear can be an extremely useful emotion, and when I'm experiencing genuine fear it is important to pay attention to it - it could save my life. Anxiety, however, is a different story. Learning to differentiate between a perceived threat and a real one is a work in progress. But just understanding that some of the bogeymen come from my brain, my thinking, has been helpful. It is like I developed two voices in my head - I still react to the world with anxiousness, but I have an impartial observer in my head who helps me understand if this is something of my own creation, or a real fear I need to pay attention to.

All of this came into play the other night, when my daughter woke up terrified. She suffers from night terrors on occasion - but it has been a while since she had one this badly. She was crying hysterically, convinced there were ticks all over her room, and if she fell asleep they were going to get her. First we turn on the light and do a room check - show her that there aren't any ticks, that she is safe. Then comes the trickier part. She can't fall asleep, because her anxiety is in overdrive. So I sit on her bed, rub her back, and we talk it through. We talk about how minds can "play tricks" sometimes, how her mind can create a fear that feels very real, and even though she can see it isn't, her mind won't stop thinking about it.

"So you need to give your mind something else to do, something else to think about," I say.

She sniffs and thinks for a moment. "Something that makes me happy? Like a gumdrop tree?"

I smile, "Yes, a gumdrop tree would work. Or a happy memory, or a place you love to go."

She is quiet for a minute. "But, the problem is that I start out thinking happy things, and my brain starts thinking about ticks anyway."

"Do you want to know a trick people have been using for thousands of years? When they are afraid and can't fall asleep?"

Her eyes are wide. "Yes," she whispers.

"Close your eyes, and start taking deep, slow breaths. Don't think about anything but your breath, the sound of it coming in and out of your lungs. Then start counting your breaths - breathe in deeply, and as you're letting it out, count one. Then two - and so on."

She opens her eyes, looking anxious. "Okay, I'll try it," she says bravely.

I turn out the light, leave her door open a crack the way she likes it, and head back to bed. I count my own breaths to fall asleep.

The next morning I pull her aside. "I'm really proud of you. You were afraid last night, but you were brave and tried something new. You should be really proud - you faced your fear." She smiles quietly.

"How many breaths did you count before you fell asleep?" I asked.

She grins from ear to ear. "Three," she says, and laughs.

On Being Fwee

We've been spending a lot of time with friends lately - long summer days and sleepovers at night. Mostly, because of his age, Finn is tagging along with Greta's friends. They are usually great about including him, but sometimes it gets a little rocky:

Overheard during a playdate with Greta and two of her friends, who are 8 year old twins - Luke and Sarah*. They are having races outside on the lawn:

Luke: "I win! I win! I'm the fastest one!"

Greta: "I came in second!"

Sarah: "I came in third, but at least I didn't lose!"

Finn, his face a crumpled mess of disappointment: "I losed."

Luke: "Its okay, Finn. It is because you're three. I'm almost 9, so of course I'm faster than you."

Finn: "I slow. I so, so slow."

Sarah: "Don't worry, Finn - I couldn't run this fast when I was three, either."

Finn: Sniff.

Greta: "It is because you're legs aren't long enough to keep up - its okay."

Finn (exasperated) : "But.... But.... But my legs are as long as they supposed to be!"

*not their real names
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greta and Finn are hanging out with 9 year old Zak, and 7 year old Abi. I'm reading in the next room, and my ears prick up when I hear this:

Zak: "So that is why there couldn't be a tooth fairy."

I peek around the corner, and the younger three are looking up at him with wide eyes.

Zak: "Because, like I said, my friend Elizabeth found the little pink container the tooth fairy leaves her money in .... it was in her Mom's drawer."

Greta: "Maybe the tooth fairy leaves it there? You know, to use when she leaves the money?"

Zak: "I dunno. But when my friend Sean lost his tooth? At a friend's house? The tooth fairy didn't even come. So I don't think the tooth fairy is real."

Greta: "That is an easy one - the tooth fairy only comes when you are home. You're supposed to keep the tooth and put it under your own pillow. So the tooth fairy is REAL."

Zak: "And there are lots of kids who say Santa isn't real. I've been thinking about it a lot. I mean - anyone can eat the cookies, or leave a note. But I know Santa is real because each year we leave carrots out for the reindeer, and every year a reindeer takes a bite. Its not people teeth marks in it, either."

There is silence, as the kids absorb this life altering information. I'm wondering if I should step in and distract them.

Finn (emphatically) : "Santa puts da toys IN the pwesents!! HE IS THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN DO DAT!!"

That seems to settle the matter for the moment, at least.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finn is still licking his wounds from the races on the lawn. Clutching his blanket like Linus, he shuffles onto my lap, and sighs.

Finn: "Momma, I slow. I never win."

Me: "You are the fastest three year old I know!"

Finn (sighing): "I don't wanna be fwee any more."

Me: "I wish I was still three. Its a fun age."

Finn: "You wish you were FWEE? Why?"

Me: "Because three year olds can run fast. Do you want to race?"

Finn: "I not going to win."

Me: "Lets try."

We race across through the living room into the bedroom. I'd like to say he beat me because I let him, but it wouldn't be true.

Finn: "I winned!"

Me: "See? You are really fast."

He thinks for a moment. "But you're 40. You're 'posed to be slow."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm tucking Finn into bed. It has been a long couple of days, hanging out with older kids. Greta has a friend sleeping over, and as is our tradition he sleeps in our bed, and we have our own sleepover. As he is drifting off to sleep he says quietly:

"I the littlest, Momma."

"Yes, sweetheart, you were the youngest one there today. But you're my big boy, you know that, right?"

He smiles, his eyes closed. "I know dat. And I'm bigger den da two year olds."

"Yes, you are."

"And I faster, too. I can beat dem in a race."

"Yes, you can."

"But I never going to call them small. Because some day they will be big like me."

"Yes, they will," I say, but he is already asleep.

Summer Daze

I have blogged about the tougher stuff, finding the balance of work and kids during the long summer days. We have had a lot of good old fashioned fun so far, too:

Boogie Boarding at the Beach

Fishing with Dad

Running through the sprinkler

Going to the playground

Interacting with wildlife

No pool? No problem.

And then, in a desperate attempt to keep him busy for half an hour, this:

Silence = Death - The Diane Schuler Tragedy

I read a news report a couple of days ago about a 36 year old woman who crashed her car, which was carrying her two children ages 2 and 5, and her three nieces, ages 8, 7 and 5, into an SUV carrying three men. She was traveling at high speed, going the wrong way down the Taconic State Parkway for 2 miles before the collision. A little before the crash, she called her brother, the father of her nieces, to say she "wasn't feeling well" and sounded disoriented. He told her to pull over to the side of the road - he was coming to help. She disregarded his advice, and half an hour later she crashed, killing her 2 year old, her three nieces, the three men in the SUV, and herself. Her 5 year old son survived.

As I'm reading this, I'm thinking: she was drunk, or high - more victims to this horrible disease of addiction.

Initial reports did not mention that alcohol or narcotics were involved, only that investigators were looking further into the details of the crash, suspecting an aneurysm, stroke or heart attack were likely causes. Family and neighbors were interviewed, describing Diane as a 'wonderful mother', and 'active, engaged and loving with her children'. When the crash occurred, she was returning from camping - an activity they did often as a family - at a campground they frequented often during the summer. Her husband, who had left earlier to return home, said that when he left everything seemed "fine."

Unfortunately, I was not surprised to read the following report today (from newsday.com) :

"Diane Schuler was drunk and had consumed marijuana not long before driving a minivan with five children the wrong way on the Taconic State Parkway, authorities said Tuesday, a stunning revelation that helps explain the collision that killed her and seven others.
Citing blood work results, authorities said the West Babylon mother had a blood-alcohol content of 0.19, more than twice the legal limit of 0.08 and the equivalent of about 10 drinks. She had enough [marijuana] in her blood stream to indicate that she ingested it 15 minutes to an hour before the July 26 accident, authorities said."

And then, this:

"Tuesday's news outraged the [family of the men traveling in the SUV] and shocked many who knew Schuler...Most importantly, Carey said, they do not know why Schuler - a Cablevision manager whom neighbors, friends and family described as a trustworthy, caring mother - would drive drunk and high with children. State police said they informed Schuler's husband, Daniel, and [Diane's brother and father to her nieces] of the results Tuesday morning and they seemed very surprised......In West Babylon, where Schuler lived, not everyone believed the police explanation. 'I've never seen her drink; I've never seen her smoke,' said neighbor Julie Shaughnessy. 'I don't believe that. There has to be another explanation'...... Friends struggled with the news. 'We're all in disbelief, all of us,' said Sharon Gregor, 51, of Massapequa, who camped many weekends with Schuler."

I want to be very clear that I do not condone or excuse Diane Schuler's behavior. Ultimately, we are all responsible for our own poor decisions, our own actions - I believe this to be true with all my heart.

I also want to be clear that I don't know her, don't have most of the details, don't know her history, and can't possibly know what happened that day. But I do know this: she was struggling with addiction. A grown woman, mother of two and aunt to three, doesn't end up drunk and high at one in the afternoon if she isn't struggling with addiction. She didn't spontaneously wake up that day and decide to get drunk and high for the first time. Her disease caught up to her, and, heartbreakingly, those who loved her.

To me, her story is a tragic and poignant example both of the power that addiction has on the addict, and on the people in their lives. This is especially, and tragically, true with mothers. The stigma of being an alcoholic or addicted mother - not parent - but mother, runs very deep. Fathers who admit to addiction face different hurdles than mothers do. Society is quicker to explain away why a man, a father, may turn to alcohol or drugs: his job is stressful, they had money problems, they were in danger of losing their house, it all just got to be too much. People are also quicker to suspect a problem with alcohol, or drugs, when it comes to men.

This does not mean an alcoholic father, or the people who love him, suffers any less. Just differently. Mothers who end up addicted very, very often do so alone and in silence. Most don't sit in bar rooms, complaining to anyone planted on the stool next to them that life is too much. They struggle valiantly to maintain, to appear normal, so that the world can't find out. They are very reluctant to ask for help, because of the fear of being branded a bad mother. Like any other alcoholic or addict, an addicted mother is a sick mother. A mother who needs help.

It doesn't surprise me that neighbors, friends and even family express outrage and surprise. Who knows to what degree they had their own quiet suspicions. But when it comes to women, mothers, who seem to have it all together - maybe some fraying around the edges, some odd episodes - the last thing they suspect is alcoholism or addiction. It just doesn't fit. It is too horrible to think about. So any suspicions are cast aside, odd behavior ignored. Addiction is a disease that thrives on silence and isolation, and in quiet suburbs everywhere there are women behind the whitewashed fences and window boxes who are suffering and addicted.

There is a powerful lesson here. If you think someone is behaving oddly, if you think something is wrong - trust your instincts. Better to be embarrassed and wrong than to have something tragic like this occur. If you suspect someone is struggling with addiction, it is okay to say so. To tell them they need help, and they will have your support if they get it. Because I am in recovery I hear the same story over and over again. "Nobody knew. I couldn't believe nobody knew, but I worked really hard at hiding it. It was my darkest secret. I couldn't stop myself, and I didn't know why. I had to be stopped, be told to get help." Sadly, it usually takes a tragic event, or close call, to bring an addict's struggles to the light of day.

I often see women I think may be struggling - and it isn't because they got all wobbly at the last evening out for drinks. It is often the quiet ones who seem to get sick a lot, who don't return calls for a while, who sort of slip off the radar. Or the woman at the party who seems more intoxicated than everyone else, even though she has only had a glass of wine or two - she started before the party, so she could do her 'normal drinking' in public. Someone who complains of other, more accepted problems - she is just "tired", or "ate something bad" - and this happens more than once. She cancels or reschedules morning playdates. She stops inviting people over. She calls at odd times and pours out her problems, and then seems sheepish or remorseful the next time I see her. All too often things look okay on the outside, but are falling to pieces on the inside.

Diane Schuler, 36, Erin Schuler, 2, Emma Hance, 8, Alyson Hance, 7, Kate Hance, 5, Guy Bastardi, 49, Michael Bastardi, 81, Daniel Longo, 74 - may you rest in peace. May this horrific tragedy help someone speak up about their own troubles, or inspire someone to put out their hand to help.

Priorities

Often, especially these days with the kids both home all the time, I open my eyes in the morning, and think about all the things that I have to do during the day. I lie in bed and tick them off in my head one by one: I have to get to the store, change the oil in the car, call that person back, make jewelry orders, schedule that appointment, do the laundry, work out, pick up the dog's medication at the vet's, pick up the house at least a little, and -oh yeah - pay attention to my kids. I lie there and work myself into a quiet panic - how on earth am I going to get it all done? There isn't enough time. I can't do it all. Some days it just makes me want to curl up and go back to sleep for, like, days.

I take a moment to breathe, and then try to puzzle it out - make it all fit somehow. Then the kids come bounding in, bouncing on the bed - full of zest and ready for the day - and we're off and running.

Before I know it, it is 10am and all I have managed to do is give them breakfast and get them dressed. The panic starts gnawing at me a little - I'm losing time, I'm losing time. I try to prioritize; I tick through the list and figure out which things are most important. I come up empty - damn it, I think, its all important. My days pass in fits and starts - one step forward, and two steps back. If I pick up the house, the jewelry isn't getting made. If I make jewelry, the house is getting progressively messier as the kids freewheel around the house. If I run those errands, the kids will be cranky and bored and will need something fun to do. If I do something fun, nothing is getting done. Sometimes it just makes me want to throw in the proverbial towel.

Then I get to thinking about my professional days - how on earth did I manage a multi-million dollar client? How did I walk into board meetings of Fortune 500 companies, kick ass and take names? How did I become this woman who is overwhelmed by kids and laundry?

I realize the answer is sort of basic: managing my professional world was more straight forward on many levels, the most important of which being that at the end of the day I could punch out and go back to my personal life. There were two distinct versions of me back then: the ass-kicking, name taking corporate professional - I could wear that role like a mask, or a suit of armor - and then the gentler, more human version of me who just wanted a good book and a comfy couch at the end of the day. There is no differentiating line for a stay-at-home Mom raising kids. My job is my life.

Most days I'm cool with it - I am full of gratitude for the richness of my life. I wallow in the chaos, happy just to be in the middle of it all. Other days I look at my kids and think: you're still here? The fact that I have these little lives to nurture, these adorable human souls who rely so much on me, overwhelms me. I realize it is harder than Corporate America because it is so much more meaningful, so much more important. Once you become a parent there isn't any punching out. Even if you flake out and run away from it all, you are still someone's Parent.

When I'm overwhelmed, or resentful or just plain bored, I realize I'm bucking the tide instead of letting it carry me. Instead of rolling with the momentum of life with younger kids, I'm struggling to get it all done - to achieve some sense of accomplishment at the end of the day - Look! I did everything on my list!

When my husband comes in the door after work, he innocently asks: "What did you guys do today?" I look around at the messy kitchen table from our craft project, the dishes I didn't get to because I was building a fort on the porch, the bathing suits dripping dry on the back of the chair from running through the sprinklers, the artwork plastered all over the refrigerator from a marathon coloring session. The kids say, "Not much." I haven't achieved more than one or two things on my list of things that seemed so important that morning, and have lost ground on several other items on that same list.

If being a Mom came with a checklist it might look something like this: Did you laugh over and over at your son's knock knock joke? Check. Did you kiss a scraped knee? Check. Did you answer question after question without telling them to just be quiet? Check. Did you referee countless squabbles? Check. Did you dry tears with soothing words? Check. Did you hug your kids and tell them you loved them? Check. Then the most important things were accomplished. If I do a good job at this, I will raise kids who are self-confident and strong and can't wait to get away from me and start their own lives. The laundry can wait.

I See Me

I look at him and I'm so amazed,

I'm so proud and then so afraid,

That the apple didn't fall quite far enough
from the tree -

Yeah I look at him and I see me.

-"I See Me", Travis Tritt

I identify with these lyrics when I think about my daughter. First of all, she looks exactly like I did at her age: same brown eyes, same straight hair that refuses to cooperate, same height - she sticks up the same three inches above almost all of her friends.

So much of her personality is like mine, too. I view this, of course, as both a blessing and a curse. It makes the joys and successes that much sweeter, and the obstacles that much harder. When I see her struggling with a fear or anxiety that I had as a kid (some that I still have), I feel that little pang: Oh, man - she got that from me. I work hard at keeping the challenges of my Adult World off her radar, to the degree I can, so sometimes I see something I know just comes right from the core of her, right from the ole gene pool.

There are aspects to her that remind me of me that I am grateful for: her empathy, her loving soul, her generous nature, her cheeky sense of humor. Then there are the parts that are bittersweet - her eagerness to please others, her need for validation, her anxiety about unknown things. Like I did at her age, she has a fascination with the Adult World, and a keen ear for conflict. Ever since she was a baby, she was perfectly happy sitting amongst a group of adults, eyes wide open, taking it all in. When I was a little older than she is now, I remember listening to my parents' dinner conversation, writing down the words I didn't know and looking them up in the dictionary so I could follow along better.

Then there is a particular quirk we both share: a sense of over-responsibility. Like me, Greta cannot stand to see anyone suffer, and she tries as hard as she can to avoid any kind of conflict. Sometimes when my husband and I are discussing something heated, like politics, she will come up between us and say "Ohmmmmmm" with her eyes closed, attempting to get us to bring it down a notch. She worries about whether the car has enough gas or about my driving (she watches my RPMs like a hawk, and says "Momma - you're above 3!!" and panics - even if I'm going the speed limit). She wonders if the boat will sink, if the house will burn down, and when we're going to die. I remember thinking this way; once I realized that adults couldn't always promise that everything will be okay, I started underwriting the universe. Pat answers and assurances didn't hold much water for me anymore.

I realize we don't get to pick and choose which traits our kids will get from us. I understand that people are just as much a product of nurture as they are of nature. But it is still difficult when I see those innate tendencies that I wish I didn't have surface in my daughter.

It takes two people to make a person - so there are plenty of characteristics she shares with my husband: an impish streak, a love of practical jokes, a big huge laugh and a love of the natural world. He is way more laid-back than I am when it comes to parenting, and the two of us balance out nicely most of the time. When something is too close to home for me, I'll pitch it to him to handle, and his fresh perspective does me just as much good as it does her. And my husband is a tad on the compulsive side when it comes to cleanliness, which, trust me, is a good thing.

Also, of course, I worry about how addiction can run in families. I am adopted, so I don't know my biological history, and I don't have any idea how thickly alcoholism or addiction may run in my own bloodline. There was no way for anyone in my family to know this particular time bomb was ticking away in my genetic makeup. But I am grateful - so, so grateful - to be in recovery. To have more information and experience with this disease, so I can be watchful and supportive of her. I hope against all hope that what I went through, what I learned, will spare her the same path. But, of course, this is not up to me. We'll just take it one day at a time.