I’m writing this letter as I sit next to you on an airplane, Boston-bound for the Thanksgiving holiday. You’re flipping through a dinosaur activity book, but primarily you’re trying very hard to stay awake. We got up around 4 this morning to catch our flight – something you found incredibly exciting at the time.
“Good morning!” Boo said to you as we picked her up from her house on the way to the airport.
“No!” you shouted back. “Good middle of the night!” And then you laughed and laughed.
However, now the novelty is wearing off and the grumpiness is setting in, but still you manage to be a good traveler. No one around us will know you’re overtired, but your mama knows. And no matter how many times I tell you that you’ll feel better if you take a nap, you just can’t risk missing something.
Well, as long as you’re entertaining yourself, I will use this free time to reflect on the happenings of the last month. Most notably, it was Halloween! For many months leading up to Halloween, you thought you’d dress up as Batgirl. But then in August we visited the Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC and that visit lit a spark. You were fascinated by the story, the clothing, the music and the culture of Native American people.
We talked some about the history of the American Indian – the good and the bad. The way many of the tribes welcomed and assisted our ancestors, and the poor way they were repaid.
On Columbus Day, you came home from school in a huff. “I don’t know why this is a holiday,” you said, disdainfully. “Columbus came to this country and then made all the Indians move. That wasn’t very nice.”
You feel the same way about Thanksgiving, unwilling to celebrate the Pilgrims, so I’m trying to help you remember the good parts of the story too. We definitely need to learn from the bad parts and not repeat past mistakes. But we also need to hold on to the good parts, remember why they’re good and learn from them, too. The parts about perseverance, bravery, adventure and sharing.
Thankfully, none of your buddies dressed as pilgrims for Halloween, so we didn’t have to spend that day rehashing the past. Boo made you a fantastic Indian costume, and you were thrilled.
We joined up with buddies in the neighborhood and had a grand time trick-or-treating.
The weekend after Halloween was a big one. We were lucky to have our friends the Valleses come into town for the Savannah Rock n Roll Marathon weekend. After the adults raced on Saturday, your turn came on Sunday.
There was a 1-mile Kids Rock race planned in Daffin Park, and we got a team of kids together to represent your Daddy’s website, Brew Drink Run. We called you all Team BDR JR., and even got you all matching shirts.
You love to help Daddy on brew day, and you love to run, but we drew a slash through the word, “Drink.” You even started referring to the team as “Team Brew X Run.” Sounds good to me!
On race day I positioned myself at the finish line to catch photos of all the Team Members as they crossed. I didn’t get to see you running on the course, but Andrew got a photo of you in the final meters of the race.
I love this photo. I love how strong and healthy you look. How determined, how happy. You look like you’re flying, and you’re loving it. My happy, healthy, spirited girl. I love you oh so much.
Watch out world. I can run for President now.
Yesterday I officially entered my mid-thirties and I’m happy to report, things have started quite well. It’s interesting to me how one’s idea of a great birthday can evolve over the years. When you’re little, it’s all about gorging on cake and tearing open gifts, and having all your best buddies over for a party. Some years later it’s about a night out on the town, the kind that doesn’t end until the sun comes up. Who knows – in another 50 years it may be a lunch at Perkins Restaurant and a new set of dentures.
But yesterday, it was this. I woke up with my 6-year-old daughter creeping up to my bed in the dark, and whispering, “Happy birthday, Mommy.” Hugs and gifts followed. Lee took the day off work, and after taking Camille to school we ran the trails at Skidaway State Park. I’d never run there before and had been wanting to for a while.
We ran. We stopped. We took pictures. Lee made some birthday graffiti for me with chalk.
We rewarded ourselves with some post-run carbs.
After lunch, Lee took me to the movies. After the movie, I blew out birthday candles with my girl, Boo and Erin. Then Lee took me for a fancy dinner, complete with Gran Marnier creme brulee. Then I was in bed by 9:30 with a good book.
Can’t every day be my birthday? That was fun.
At 8 a.m. Saturday, the starting horn blasted at the intersection of Bay and Bull Streets. Somewhere far in front of us, Andrew was in corral 4, beginning to inch toward the banner that demarcated the start of the Rock N Roll Savannah Marathon course.
My corral, number 17, was jam packed with excited and anxious runners including myself and best buddy Nicole. We checked and re-checked our RunKeeper apps and music playlists. We counted the number of horn blasts and wished Andrew good luck on his first marathon as he took off down the street. We knew he couldn’t hear us but hoped the good vibes helped anyway. I scanned the now-empty porta potties and wondered if I should go just one more time. But suddenly we were standing at the start line and the horn blast was for us.
And off we went. I love to read the clever signs being held aloft by spectators in races, and got my first chuckle just as we crossed the start. There was a person in a banana suit with a sign that read, “You are NOT almost done.”
Nicole and I had agreed to run our own races. This was her first half-marathon, and her goal was to finish strong. My primary goal was to beat last year’s finish time of 2:43. My “holy smokes” goal was a 2:30 finish, which I felt was both ambitious and unlikely.
And then suddenly, around mile 2, there she was. The 2:30 pace leader. Cute and fit in her skirt and tank top, she held a stick with a lavender sign on top reading 2:30. Pace leaders are counted upon to finish exactly on pace, and are a guide for other runners on the course. She pranced past, and I immediately quickened my steps. “Do your thing!” Nicole told me, and we separated so I could keep the pace leader in my sights.
But slowly, the pace leader began to move ahead of me. Around mile 4, she seemed despairingly far in front, and I had a decision to make. It was still pretty early in the race – if I was going to finish around 2:30 I needed to catch up. But if 2:30 was just too fast, I could be suffering in a few miles, having used up all my energy too soon.
“What the heck did you run 17 miles in training for?” I told myself. “Try to catch her, and if you bomb, at least you’ll know you tried!”
So I ran harder. When she stopped at a water station, I cruised through it, gaining ground and confidence. Then by mile 6, I was in front of her. Now I felt like it was a race between me and Miss Tank Top with the 2:30 sign. If I stayed just ahead of her, I’d make my “holy smokes” goal.
My thoughts ping-ponged between Miss Tank Top (was she right behind me? How close?) and Nicole. I fretted over Nicole like a mother hen – was she having fun? Was she running well? Was she too hot in her long-sleeves?
And then, around mile 8, Miss Tank Top appeared beside me. Mile 9, she was ahead. Mile 10, I couldn’t see her anymore. I just couldn’t keep up.
I tried not to feel defeated, but it was hard to watch her go. And harder still to run on tired legs. Mile 11, my focus shifted to just finishing. At mile 12.5 I started walking. I knew I wanted to run to the finish line, but was having a hard time communicating that to my weary legs.
And then suddenly, I heard a familiar scream behind me. A happy scream. A Nicole scream. “I found you! I can’t believe I found you!” she yelled. “C’mon, let’s do this!” And then she literally pushed me. And I started running.
Nicole was clearly having the time of her life, and my spirits lifted. My new goal came into clear focus – I wanted to finish beside her. She shouted encouragement as I willed myself forward to keep up with her, and we approached the finish with her victoriously fist-pumping the air. I wish I had a bigger picture of this, perhaps poster-sized, but this thumbnail proof gives you an idea of her enthusiasm.
We crossed the finish side-by-side at 2:31:30, much closer to that 2:30 mark than I thought I’d be. We got our medals and snapped this photo.
Miss Tank Top may have crossed the line before me, but I got to cross with Nicole, and I couldn’t have asked for a better finish. Together.
If all goes well, this time tomorrow I’ll have a light and happy heart, tired legs, and a finisher’s medal dangling around my neck. I love pre-race energy. I crave pre-race energy. And with a race this big, my energy is magnified by all the others who’ve come to my beautiful city to run my favorite streets. Savannah is buzzing, and I love it.
When I began this season’s training plan, knowing I’d go past 13.1 miles several times prior to the race, I wondered if the race would seem anti-climactic. I needn’t have worried. Last year, I remember standing in the starting corral, wondering if I really could run 13.1 miles. This year, I know that barring any unforeseen issues, I can absolutely run 13.1 miles. So my nervousness is replaced with confidence, and I find myself genuinely excited, but without as many pre-race jitters.
The last time I wrote about running was just before my 17-miler. Man, that was a loooooong run. The run took about 3:45, but I was actually out and about for more than 4 hours once you factor in bathroom breaks and these photo breaks.
I can’t say I enjoyed that run – it was an awfully long time to be out on the road, by myself, pounding the pavement. But I’m very proud of myself for sticking with my training plan, even when it was difficult. And now, I’m happy that it’s almost “pay day.”
The other reason I’m so pumped about the race is that I get to experience it with two of my dearest friends. Nicole is running her first half-marathon, and Andrew is running his first full marathon. They’re driving into town as we speak, and I could not be more excited about running this race with them.
Running is such an individual sport, yet runners are part of such a cohesive, supportive community. I know that when I step into corral 17 tomorrow, I’ll have Nicole by my side, and we’ll both be surrounded by other people full of energy, ready to run, ready to cheer for each other, ready to do this together. I can’t wait!
Happy 75 months my beautiful girl. My girl with the golden hair and a golden heart. We had family photos taken this month – how lucky we are to have a friend who also happens to be a talented photographer!
I love how the setting sun casts such a beautiful halo around you in this photo. It’s hard to imagine that just moments before, you were rolling around in the grass and dirt like a maniac while I secretly panicked about ruining your photo-shoot clothes. Or maybe you can imagine it, looking at your mischievous smile.
This month was a rare one – a month in which not a single bag was packed and every night was spent in our own beds. Not that we had nothing to do; we just enjoyed ourselves a bit closer to home. And it was nice.
We got to spend one afternoon in the company of your Uncle Jeff’s family as they stopped in town on their way to a wedding. We hadn’t seen cousins Stella and Jane since last Christmas. It took the three of you kids about 8 seconds to get re-acquainted, and soon you disappeared upstairs. You all emerged some time later dressed as princesses and performed a fabulous show.
Jane is almost 3 years old, but in your mind she is still the baby. The two of you were playing on your small outdoor slide, and you dutifully positioned yourself in the grass to catch Jane as she slid all 24 inches to the ground.
But grown-up girl that she is, you got more than you bargained for and found yourself bowled over. Or maybe that was the plan all along…
This month marked the completion, at least in your father’s proud eyes, of your proper Star Wars introduction. You watched (and loved) Return of the Jedi, the final movie of Lucas’ original trilogy. You found Daddy’s old Yoda toy and began carrying him around with you everywhere.
You requested Star Wars books at your school library. You and your Daddy drew ewoks together. When you had to get your first cavity filled (I don’t even want to recount that), you chose a flashing, beeping artoo detoo toy as your consolation prize. Your Daddy went up into the attic and brought down ziploc bags filled with old Star Wars action figures, and they’ve become the centerpiece of your playtime. This thrills your father of course, and the two of you love re-creating epic scenes from the movies. You add your own twists, and sometimes your Daddy loves to push your buttons. Like the time he made Darth Vader and Greedo dance. You clearly did not approve of this deviation from the script.
Speaking of script, we all went to a play at the Savannah Children’s Theater last weekend. It was an adaptation of the book Bunnicula, a funny children’s book about a loveable vampire bunny. You adored the show and particularly the bunny puppet, and once home, promptly donned bunny ears, a cape and fake vampire teeth.
You wore the ears and the cape all day, while we were doing some Halloween-inspired baking, and even out to a restaurant that evening with friends. So imagine my surprise when around 9 o’clock that night, an hour past your bedtime, you were cape-less and bunny-ear-less and full of tears. We were on our way home from the playdate and you bawled in the backseat. “I – sob – AM – sob – SCARED – sob – OF – sob – BUNNICULA’S – sob – FANGS!”
I tried to reason with you – after all, not 45 minutes earlier you wanted to BE Bunnicula. But now, if I even said the bunny’s name, you’d scream. “DON’T SAY IT!”
And I realized in that moment that I had passed two things down to you from my DNA – irrational fears, and some sort of allergic reaction to sleepiness. If I get tired, nothing is right, everything is awful, and – worst of all – everything will always be awful. You can’t convince me otherwise. After a good night’s sleep, I wake up fine. You will too. You won’t be able to recognize this in yourself until you’re much older. My parents told me this about myself when I was younger, but it just aggravated me. They weren’t taking my feelings seriously. They were blaming my anguish on my lack of sleep when clearly the world was upside-down.
So what did I do when you had the same problem? Just what my parents did. I told you that you were tired. And you wailed even louder. And then you fell asleep. And when you woke up, you were fine.
Oh well, we can’t always control which parts of us we pass along to our children (like my cavity-prone teeth – really sorry about that). Happily, there is so much about you to love, that if I can take credit for even a few of your traits, then I have accomplished much. Thanks for another great month my love. Mama loves you so much.
Another running post already? Well, it is the season for races, so yes. And with more to come.
But this post isn’t just about a race. It’s about a 4-mile slosh through mud, through water, through briar patches, down slides, under logs, over walls, and you get the idea. Oh, and I almost had to do this race without pants. More on that shortly.
I ran the Big Nasty Mud Run a couple of weeks ago as part of Team Muckrakers with Raymond, Andreas and Rob. My husband and my parents think I’m crazy, and maybe so – it’s hard to explain why I’d want to get covered in mud and run through obstacles. But for me, there’s something liberating about acting so childish and yet challenging myself at the same time. In college, I secretly wanted to be on that MTV show Road Rules where a group of kids travel around in an RV completing various obstacles (minus the ensuing drama). So this was my chance.
And thankfully, I was running with a group of people who didn’t view it so much as a competition but as a chance to play.
Never having done anything remotely like this before, I didn’t know what to expect. We listened to advice from veterans and wrapped our old running shoes in duct tape to keep them from getting sucked off our feet in the mud pits. I didn’t want to ruin any of my nice running clothes, so I bought some light cotton capris on clearance and paired them with an old cotton tank top.
Big mistake.
When the horn sounded for our wave to begin, our first task was to run up a dirt hill, down the other side and into our first mud pit. I did have a moment of hesitation as we approached that pit, a moment when the adult in me said “What are you thinking? You are clean! That is mud! Run away! Run away!” But in I jumped. I crawled through on my belly, and as I reached the other side, my first thought was:
OH NO.
Do you know what cotton does in mud? It swells and soaks up every bit of that mud and water.
As I came up out of the mud, I first felt my shirt grow about 5 sizes and begin hanging precariously low on me. “Ok,” I thought, “That’s why I’m wearing a sports bra underneath.” But then I stood up and my cotton capris grew about 8 sizes and began to literally fall off. My team was already ahead of me beginning to run to the next obstacle, so I just grabbed on to my waistband with both hands and started (ineffectively) running. When I caught up to them, I explained my situation. How on EARTH was I going to run 4 miles while holding my pants? And what on EARTH was I going to do when I actually needed those hands to complete an obstacle? Completing the race with no pants was not on my agenda.
Andreas came to the rescue with some quick-thinking resourcefulness. The trail was littered with duct tape discarded by previous runners. He snagged some and fashioned a duct tape belt around my pants. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked! I also found that it was easier to run if I pulled my pant legs up so the fabric wouldn’t swing so heavily. So off we went to the next obstacle, with my pants duct-taped to my body, my pant legs pulled up so that it looked like I was running in a big muddy diaper.
Where oh where were the race photographers?
Some of the obstacles were a lot of fun, like a waterslide into a pond. We crawled through tunnels, under logs, through trenches of mud with sink holes ready to plunge you chest-deep. The only obstacle that actually scared me was a 30-foot ladder wall. I wasn’t scared initially and scrambled up one side, but the top of that wall was covered in slick mud. As I prepared to throw a leg over so I could crawl down the other side, I desperately wished for a harness. But I just held on tight and thankfully made it down safely.
The next-to-last obstacle was the one I’d been dreading. It was a slanted wooden wall that you had to scale by pulling yourself up with a rope. I have zero arm strength, so this obstacle would have been tough for me
in the best conditions. But this wall was now covered in the mud of the
runners before me, and made so much more slippery.
I watched Raymond go over. Then Rob. I decided to go next. I grabbed the rope and started scrambling, but when I got to the top I felt no traction under my shoes. This was the moment I needed to reach for the top of the wall, the moment when I’d seen so many people slide back down. I felt that coming. I think I even said out loud, “This isn’t happening.”
Then I heard Andreas start yelling, “You will NOT let go of that rope! Don’t you DARE let go of that rope!” At the same time, Raymond and Rob had their arms stretched out, ready to help me over the top. I reached for them, and I did it! I made it over the top on the very first try! I was elated.
The race was challenging, but the race was fun. Sure, my q-tips were still finding mud in my ears more than a week post-race, but I’d do it all over again.
In fact, I am doing it all over again. Next weekend. A different race with a different team, and most surely with different attire. But it’ll still be me vs. mud!
I got a little bit of video of some of the earlier waves of our race, and a friend also snagged some pics of our team on the Over/Under logs. I put it all together in this little homage to Team Muckrakers.
Go team!
We are just over 3 weeks away from the Rock n Roll half-marathon in Savannah, and I have one thing to say.
HALLELUJAH.
The training plan I’m using this year is rather unique because it takes you well past the race distance prior to the race. It’s a Jeff Galloway time goal program, and the logic is that if I run farther than 13.1 miles in my training, then I’m less likely to hit a wall of fatigue on race day.
My longest run during this training will be 17 miles. That’s a whole lotta pavement.
Five weeks ago I hit 12.5 miles. Two weeks later, 14 miles. Last week was my first ever 15-miler, and my longest duration at over 3 hours of running. I’m getting a bit tired.
I’m tired, but I don’t resent the plan. Each long run, I go a little farther before I start struggling. On that 15-miler, I felt pretty solid through 13 miles. Sure, the last two miles were really, really tough, but I ran the half marathon distance without too much difficulty. I think Galloway may know what he’s doing.
I’ve tweaked my official race goal to be simply a personal best. I’d like to beat my 2:43:08 record from last year. When I began the program in the summer, I had a race goal of 2:30, but I’m not sure it’s realistic. I’ve nailed all my targets in training, but when I do my long runs they are significantly slower than 2:30. I imagine race-day adrenaline will give me something of a boost, but it may not boost me an extra minute per mile. But I’ve decided I’m ok with this.
This week I’ve got about an 8 mile long run, but next week is the big, bad 17-miler. I’m hoarding podcasts and refining music playlists in order to keep me sane on the run. I’ve been experimenting with fuel and hydration. I have new shoes and a new fuel belt. I’m nervous about it, but also know that I’ve prepared for it and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
And best of all, it’s the last significant long run of the program, so then it’ll be race day and hopefully a chance to see this hard work pay off. And then, a warm bath, a cold beer and some well-earned rest!
Happy 74 months to my First Grade girl! We are about a month into the new school year, and I can happily say that this year is starting off much better than the last.
Last year, school started with unexpected changes and lots of unknowns. But this year you’re with the same teacher and in the same kindergarten-first grade room. And bonus – THIS year you get to be the upperclassman. The helper. The BOSS.
At the teacher’s request, I got to hang out for a few minutes on that first day of school to help. The first activity of the day was to get everyone to sit for circle time. The teacher demonstrated how she expected each child, when his/her name was called, to quietly tuck in their chair, walk to the circle and sit with hands folded in laps.
Then, it was the students’ turn. She looked around the hushed room, and whispered, “Camille.”
As the first one called, it was your moment to shine. You could’ve won an Oscar for your portrayal of “The Model Student,” as you followed the prescribed steps with such purpose and care (and a bit of flourish). You beamed. I slipped out of the room, confident that your first day was off to a great start.
After school, we met up with a group of buddies for celebratory fro-yo, and it felt good to be back in the mix with these great friends.
With school back in session, we’ve returned to a nice weekday routine, but still manage to jam our weekends quite full. Last weekend we surprised you with a quick trip to Disneyworld – a pretty great surprise indeed! We had one day remaining on a 4-day ticket we’d purchased earlier in the year, and the tickets were about to expire. Well that would’ve been sad, so off we went to Orlando.
We had a fantastic time at Hollywood Studios, riding the Star Wars ride a couple of times until I was sure I would throw up if we rode it once more. Then it was off to Magic Kingdom where we hit all the favorite rides, amid a park that had been spruced up for fall.
Despite all the fun rides and shows to see, your favorite experiences are often the quiet moments you have with a beloved Disney character. For someone who can clam up around strangers, you show no hesitation when a princess reaches out for your hand. This time, it was Merida from the movie Brave. You fell into her arms and gripped her around her waist for several minutes while she asked about your day, what rides you’d ridden, what else you were going to see. You were breathlessly enraptured.
I feel like you probably understand that this person isn’t a real princess, that’s it’s just a regular person wearing a character’s clothing. But I don’t dare mention it, because your joy is certainly real. And it’s a joy to watch as well.
Speaking of princesses and fairies, you got a visit from the very enchanting Tooth Fairy this month when you lost your first tooth! The saga really began several weeks prior when, the day before you turned 6, I noticed that one of your permanent teeth had begun emerging behind your not-yet-loose baby tooth. This concerned me initially, but a call to the dentist revealed it wasn’t a big deal. The baby tooth would soon come out, they said.
And they were right. It got all wiggly and you begged us not to pull it, but to let it fall out on its own. Considering the fact that your father and I both get light-headed at the sight of a wiggly tooth, you needn’t have worried.
Then one Sunday, the day before you started 1st grade, the tooth just fell out. Plunk, right into your little hand. Without pulling. Without tying a string to a doorknob. It happened just as you hoped it would.
You were so excited, and carried your tooth around in a satin-lined box all day. But worry crept in when you thought about the tooth fairy actually taking your beloved first tooth. So you wrote a note.
And the tooth fairy wrote a note in return, congratulating you on your first tooth and allowing you to keep it, along with the monetary prize. The tooth is still in its satin box, which has been given a place of honor on your bookshelf near your bed.
Will you be mad at us one day when you find out the tooth fairy isn’t real? I hope not. Your Daddy and I enjoy bringing a little bit of magic into your life. After all, you bring so much into ours. We love you, sweet girl.
Is there anywhere in the WORLD hotter than Sanford Stadium on the 1st of September? I think not.
We had the great fortune to go to the Georgia Bulldogs’ home opener this year, and happy to have my parents join us too. It was the first time any of us had attended the pre-game “Dawg Walk,” and it was a real highlight. We had a great spot behind the trumpets of the Redcoat Band as the team, coaches and cheerleaders paraded through the mass of chanting people.
We also got an up-close view of UGA IX. It’s not right how much I adore that dog. But I do. And of course my best girl does too.
Then it was game time, and the clouds parted just in time to BAKE US. Seriously, if you got up to get an icee from the concession stand, by the time you returned your metal bleacher would be so hot it would burn your legs. About mid-way through the first quarter, Camille announced she was too hot and ready to go. But trooper that she is, she hung in all the way into the fourth quarter anyway and cheered like a proper Bulldog fanatic.
As always, it was fun to be back in Sanford Stadium, but I’m looking forward to watching the rest of the September games in the comfort of my air conditioned home. Next year, I’m thinking a November game sounds just about right. Does that make me any less of a legitimate dawg fan? I think not. It makes me a sane one.
Now if someone wants to give me some Box Seats, that would be a different story…
For about 10 years – the bulk of my childhood – life revolved happily around the church my father pastored in Macon. Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings and Wednesday nights were always spent at West Highland Baptist.
It has been 20 years since my dad served there, but last Sunday he was asked to come preach for their Homecoming Service. I couldn’t miss the chance to revisit that wonderful church and see Dad up there behind the pulpit again.
The building has been expanded, but the center of the church is still filled with the same blue upholstered pews where I squirmed as a child. Where, if I got too chatty with my neighbor, Dad would say from the pulpit, “Now Ginger, I need you to pay attention.” That’ll make you be quiet and sit up a little straighter for sure.
They are still singing out of the same hymnals we used, singing the songs I learned there, like Blessed Assurance. “This is my story / this is my song,” we sang last Sunday morning. And I thought, “Yes, this is my story.”
Familiar faces filled those pews, bringing back lots of good memories. My childhood best friend, with whom I shared many, many a service at West Highland, was there for Homecoming too.
Seeing Erica meant so much, and I marveled at how instantaneously Camille hit it off with Erica’s oldest. They were holding hands and sharing a chair at lunch and generally enamored with each other, and I saw something of our childhood friendship there. And it was good.
After the service, Erica and I explored with the girls a bit. We visited the baptistry where I was baptized, right next to the window where we crawled out onto the church’s roof and got in trouble for tracking tar everywhere. There was the preschool area where I had Sunday School, next to the lawn where Jeff kicked a soccer ball through the stained glass windows of the sanctuary.
It was in front of those windows that I was photographed with my Dad – I think it was the day I was baptized.
I’m so glad I went back, and that it still felt familiar in all the best ways. I’m glad to know that even if you must leave a place that is dear, it never really leaves you.
