Men, Cars, Reversing

I am curious. Has anyone else noticed this? Go to any parking lot. It doesn't matter if it is the grocery store, the mall, a church. Any parking lot will do. Watch for awhile. How often do you see a female backing into a parking spot? So far, I've yet to find one. If you see that reverse light go on, the driver will almost certainly be male. Is driving in reverse akin to driving fast? Is there an adrenaline rush when the shift to R is made?

When my son was home over Easter weekend, I let him drive my car. (Does it sound like my thoughts are centered around this car? I suppose if you count 3 dreams last week, I do think about it a lot.) Anyway, each time Christopher got home, he'd back the car into the garage. He's a pro at backing up. Yes, that means he gets paid. He works as a Valet Parking Attendant. Michael thought it was actually a good idea for my car to be backed into the garage. That way when I opened my car door, it wasn't next to his car.

I've never much liked spending much time in reverse-only when necessary. I may occasionally get an adrenaline rush, but it is pure fear. I suspect this comes from having driven large vehicles for so long. When you drive a full size van, there are blind spots when backing up. That can be scary. The same is true of a Suburban. It is also true in my S2000 if the top is up. (Truthfully, I've only driven twice with the top up. Once was Monday when it was snowing.) But with the top down, it is pretty safe to reverse.

I'm not an expert reverser yet. I can never get the car in the same place twice. This morning Michael said he reversed my car into the garage. What? You drove my car before I got up? "No," he replied. "I just pulled it out and backed it in. I wanted to see if it was as hard as you make it look."

"And, was it?"

"Nope," he grinned. "It's exactly where it should be."

It Happens

It was bound to happen. At least that is what everyone keeps telling me. Last week my baby turned 1 month old. (Yes, my baby is yellow, and some people refer to it as a sports car.) I've been taking such good care of it and its pristine interior/exterior. Saturday, after washing her up real nice, I was feeling quite generous. So I took my 16 year old out to teach her to drive a standard transmission.

She is currently driving my old baby, a 1999 Chevy Suburban. I took darn good care of her too. After 6 years I'd had no accidents, no fender-benders, hardly a door ding in that big white truck. I did manage to catch the side mirror-twice backing out of the garage. It chipped a bit off of the plastic. (Whose idea was it to put plastic mirrors on a truck????) When Michael found out those mirrors were $600 to replace, and since I'd bumped it twice, the chipped and cracked mirror is the only reminder of any negligence to my truck.

Last Tuesday, after arriving at school, I received a teary-eyed phone call from Sarabeth.

"What's wrong" I asked.

"Can I come home?" She barely managed to squeeze out.

"What's wrong?" I repeat.

"When I was pulling into my parking spot I hit Jen's car. It broke her tail light out. I went into the school to find her. The worst part is when she saw me she hugged me. She told me she was having a terrible day and was happy to see me and needed a hug. I told her, that her day was about to get worse..."

Michael handled it all so well. Very different than when our oldest was driving our big blue van and she stopped at a stop sign and her brother's head hit the windshield, cracking it. She didn't drive again for 2 years. This time, when Sarabeth arrived home, Michael took her in his arms and held her as she cried. He let her know that now that she'd had her first incident she could quit worrying about it. Also, that the first one was "free," he'd take care of it. (I did cringe when I saw the slightest mark on my old faithful truck bumper. She was showing the first scars of teenage driving.)

Back to Saturday. Since she'd had such a rough week with cars, I thought Sarabeth would enjoy learning to drive mine. We arrived at a vacant, recently closed Target parking lot. I taught the basics of clutching, shifting, braking. My little flame handled it well, stalling only a few times, a bit of grinding, revving the engine and if Sarabeth could just remember to take her foot off of the gas after pushing in the clutch. Driving got a little smoother. I was starting to get sunburned, so decided maybe we'd gotten far enough to let the new shifter drive my car home. And then it happened. We hit a dip a bit hard, going too fast. The car scraped on the bottom. It was a terrible scratching sound. I'd heard this sound before in Michael's car. His sits low to the ground and scrapes if you get to close to those concrete parking barriers. Ok, we'd survive. I let her drive home. We made it with only 1 stall.

I took my keys back and was happy to have them back in my possession. It wasn't until later when Michael asked me if I'd parked to close to something that I even questioned that there might have been damage.

When I looked I wanted to cry. The whole front of my car, that beautiful yellow fiberglass was scraped with black showing through. It's only 1/2-1 inch, but it is across most of the front. Sigh. I wasn't as kind as Michael. I didn't yell or get outwardly angry, but I was sullen the rest of the day. It wasn't as if this was a precious golden calf. Or was it?

Funeral

I'm on my way to a funeral. I received a phone call last night that an old friend had lost her son. He was 29 and had custody of his two young boys. It was very unexpected. He had a heart attack. His 4 and 6 year old found their father in the bathroom and couldn't help him. The only phone, a cell phone was in their father's pocket. They waited the night out until their grandmother arrived the next day to find her son dead on the bathroom floor. The children sad because they could not help their father. They couldn't even unlock the front door to go for help.

We don't know what tomorrow holds, or even today. I am thankful for the breath I am breathing, in spite of allergies. I won't complain because of this temporary discomfort. It will pass. The pain of losing a son will not. I cannot imagine, nor will I pretend to comprehend what my friend is walking through. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the devastation. But I will. However feeble my hands may be, I will offer my support. I will stand and allow her to lean. Knowing the only way any of us stand or walk, or take our next breath, is by God's grace, we will hold onto Him together.

Upside Down

At times in our life, we feel as if our world has been turned upside down. Maybe what we don't realize, is that we are just looking at it from the wrong perspective. It might take the help of someone else for us to notice that our world really isn't upside down, we just aren't looking at it the way others see it. My kids showed me a clear picture of why I am feeling so out-of-sorts.



So there really isn't anything wrong in my world, just me seeing things wacky.

"For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts." (Is.55:8-9)

He's My Son

I was driving in my car, the top down, listening to the radio. I was thinking about this weekend. Christopher is flying in for Easter. He hasn't been home since Christmas. Then this song came on the radio. Tears filled my eyes. I haven't heard this song for over 2 years. I remembered the last time this song played. I was driving then also, but instead of tears, I erupted into full-fledged sobbing.

It was August. I had the privilege of driving 900 miles with Christopher to see him off to college. We had some great talks along the way. But, have you ever been to Phoenix in August? It was 115 degrees. Christopher's dorm was on the 3rd floor. No elevator, just concrete steps that were outdoors. So up and down we went carrying boxes, bedding, more boxes, computer, a small refrigerator, boxes, microwave and even more boxes in the blistering heat. When we finally carried the last load up those steps we sat in his room trying to cool down. The air conditioning was running, but I sure didn't feel cooler. I was dripping wet with sweat, red in the face and dog-tired. I said good-bye and took my last trip down the stairs.

I was holding up pretty well. Mostly, because I was wiped out and wanting to cool down. While I was driving, that song came on the radio. I melted into heap of emotion and cried my eyes out.

"He's My Son"

I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs Your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure You can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is You.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that You're there.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Can You hear me?
Can You see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son.

What will they think of next?

It was a gorgeous spring day yesterday. My girls were sunning themselves and found the sidewalk chalk. They decided to pose and then outline their shadows. It was quite amusing. Elisabeth, my gymnast, had to take her poses to the next level.



I didn't get pics of their chalk outlines, but am going to try before they are all erased. I love that the kids still find ways to entertain themselves without getting into trouble.

I'm A Godmother

When my niece was born, I had the privilege of becoming a godmother. I take my responsibility seriously, and feel it is important to invest in her life. I want to do everything I can to help her grow up and use her gifts and talents. I'm trying to figure out if she has some artistic ability like my mom, her grandmother.

Twenty-Five Years

Twenty-five years ago, at 5:04 p.m. I became a mom. My little girl weighed in at a mere 5 lbs. 6 oz. Because of her low weight, she was whisked away shortly after her birth. I caught just a glimpse of her and the first words out of my mouth were, "She's real!" To which the reply came, "yeah, they quit giving out fake ones a long time ago." I don't believe I'm the only one to utter something foolish at seeing a newborn. My mom says the first time my dad laid eyes on me, he remarked, "she looks like a dried-up monkey without a tail." Thanks, Dad. (Now I know where I get it from.)

Happy Birthday Christina!

Looking at that tiny newborn, I was filled with hopes and dreams for her. Seeing her as an adult, I couldn't be more proud of the lovely lady she has become. Christina is a mom herself now. A mom's life isn't usually described as easy, but Christina has some added challenges. She is a single mom to a child with special needs. Watching her as she so lovingly cares for him, I am overwhelmed with emotion. God couldn't have picked a more perfect mom for Ethan.

Duct Tape

I've always heard men can fix just about anything with duct tape. The funny thing is, I have never seen my darling fix anything with duct tape. He prefers to fix things the "proper" way. (Probably why I married him.)

I, on the other hand, love duct tape. Recently, when I went out to his work bench to borrow it, I found we had RED. Now isn't that a fun color! My lil' Ethan snapped a little plastic piece off of the back of my MP3 player. (No, I don't have an IPOD.) So with just a little strip of red, I can wear it again while working out. Thankfully, the back is against my skin so it doesn't show.

Another creative use for duct tape is a quick hem for pants. I've done this for years with jeans. I am not very tall and it is hard to find the right length. Plus, I like to wear different shoes. So if I'm in the mood for heals, great. If I want to wear flats, out comes the duct tape. Voila! In just a few minutes, my jeans are the perfect length. I've also been known to hem pants in the old fashioned way, but too many times have cut them off to short. After sewing, tearing it out and resewing the smallest possible hem they were still too short even for flats. (At least without my kids saying they would die of embarrassment if I wore them in public.) So I revert to duct tape.

Last week I decided to wear a pair of black slacks to church. My toenails were not polished, so I couldn't wear a dress and open shoes. I pulled out a pair of black pants that were new. Ugh! Way too long. Out came the red duct tape. Worked great, until I decided to wear the same pair of pants this week.

It was beautiful outside, I was having a great hair day as I strutted into church. I saw a few heads turn and watch me walk by. They must have noticed my hair. It wasn't until after much singing and I sat down that I noticed the bunched up red duct tape hanging off the bottom of my black pants. At that point I was wishing we'd had black duct tape. Of course once the tape has been tromped on it is folded on itself and there is no way to unfold it. It was useless to try to pry it apart and restick it. Should I sit there in church and pull off the rest of the tape in the front so each leg would drag freely all around? Or should I just let it drag in the back with the possibility of pulling the other pieces loose?

Let's just say, I'm going to cut off the bottom of those pants and try hemming them with needle and thread. The stickiness leftover after the duct tape has been removed on slacks is a magnet for dirt and does NOT wash off. (I never had this trouble with jeans before.) So I will never hem slacks again with red duct tape. Well, maybe if I can find black duct tape.

It's Time To Go

As a young mom of lots of kids, I tried unsuccessfully to have a beautiful, well-maintained home. I very much wanted my home to be a reflection of Christ. We didn't own a single piece of new furniture. We had a little bit of shabby chic going on, much more of "shabby tacky" than chic.

With each pregnancy, I wished for an old fashioned rocking chair. My dear husband wondered why I would ever want to give up this lovely swivel rocker for a hard wooden one. Well, probably because it was a lime green, velvet, 20 year old chair that matched nothing in the room. The brown tweed couch wasn't particularly attractive either, but it did match the brown loveseat. I have to admit, the rocker was comfy to rest in at 2 a.m. feedings. And yes, there were times I remember my head must have leaned back and I actually dozed during some of those feedings. The chair was an eyesore, but it became my comforter.

I grew accustomed to the squeak at one particular juncture in the rock. Rather than letting it be an irritant, I imagined it as a sing-song tune that helped my babies get back to sleep. That song helped rock sick children back to health. Could a hard wooden rocker do that?

One day I walked in the room to find Christopher sitting behind the chair. He had just learned to write his name. What better way to practice than on this bright green canvas in permanent marker? I wanted to cry. As if our furniture wasn't shabby enough, I now had to live with graffiti. And in my own living room. There on the back of the rocker, scrawled out in 5 year old penmanship were the letters:

C H R I S T

Either I interrupted his writing, or he ran out of room, but that is as far as Christopher got on his name.

I'd wanted my life and home to be a reflection of Christ and unbeknownst to me, I had a visual reminder, every day of that desire. Some days I had visitors. I wondered what they thought of our chair with Christ's name emblazoned on the back. I knew they saw it. But more importantly, did they see Christ in me?

I wish I could show you a picture, but after 16 years the letters have faded. All that remains is a shadow from a "miracle product" cleaner used a few years later. It actually removed some of the ink, and a bit of color from the chair. The chair is still here. How do you throw out Christ's chair?

When we moved into our present house, we invested in a few pieces of matching furniture. Christ's chair became a permanent fixture in Christopher's room. That room has now become Hilary's room. She has no fondness for an old worn-out chair that is no less than 30 years old. It now resides in a corner of the family room. I think it is time to let it go to the place where all good, completely used up furniture goes. But nothing will replace the memories. And although it is not visible, I know I wear CHRIST's name. I hope that it shines as brightly as those letters stood out, on the back of the chair. Thanks Christopher for sharing your name and Christ with so many. I'm glad you two share the same name!

Starbucks

Now look at this grin at getting a Starbucks drink. Imagine his horror when he found out it was NOT coffee. His smile faded pretty quick and he didn't drink any of it. How do I convince him he does NOT like coffee???

Ignore

I know I haven't been keeping up of late. Do you ever get hung up on a post? I have one saved in my drafts and keep getting stuck. Why does this happen? I believe I find myself wrestling with thoughts. How open do I really want to be? What will others think? Is now a good time to open the door for all to look in at my inner self? Then I go and write something like this and I kick myself. Now someone is going to be waiting with baited breath for some shocking event or news. Perhaps they expect me to reveal some dark secret. Now I've set others up for disappointments. Grrrr....and I shouldn't really care....or should I? Others will ask, "is this it? Was she talking about this?" And maybe I will never post it at all and the thoughts will forever be banished to the little drafts folder. Let's pretend I never posted at all. I'm going to ignore my draft folder and move on and maybe never pull it out. It will make posting so much easier.

Grandkids are the best!

I've always loved kids, and always wanted a houseful. (My house seems to be so empty these days-only 3 here full time.) On the weekend Christina (my oldest) and my 3 year old grandson are usually here. They didn't come down this week, so Michael and I decided to take my new car for a spin. (Good excuse to go visit.)

Ethan was so excited to see us. What a wonderful feeling to be on the other side of that excitement. I love him every bit as much as any of my own children, but without the responsibility of training him up. I don't have to worry whether or not he will be spoiled if he gets a cookie, or even if he says please and thank-you. I can just enjoy him.

I forgot my camera, but got a couple of pics with my phone. (Hence the poor quality.) But you can probably see from Ethan's expression how much fun he had riding in Gramma's new car with Grandpa and playing at the park.

I love Colorado

Friday evening I was standing at my kitchen window doing dishes. I looked up and this is what I saw:





There were 6 altogether, but by the time I grabbed the camera, I couldn't get them all in the shot. I took it through the window and the screen blurred it a bit. There was one right up next to the front door, but he moved when I tried to take his picture.

Happy Spring!

The First Day of Spring in Colorado

Happy 14th Birthday Hilary!

Hilary arrived 14 years ago today. Being the youngest of 5, we knew she'd be fast in order to keep up with her siblings. We left for the hospital at 3:30a.m. I awoke to 1 hard contraction and knew it was time. I had 1 more before we left. The hospital was 30 minutes away.

Upon arrival, nurses scurried about rather quickly. They skipped a lot of the usual protocol and called my doctor immediately. He was there just before 5:00a.m. He broke my water, stepped out of the room to change his shoes, and out came this beautiful baby. One nurse ran over and picked her up, the other screamed out the door for the doctor.

Things settled down and it was time to pick out a name. We didn't know if we were having a boy or girl. I was leaning towards boy since we had 1 and 3 girls. Ever since our 3rd pregancy, Michael had another boy's name picked out, so I was sure we'd use it. She was definately not a boy.

Michael left the hospital with the baby name book in hand. He came back with 3 names. Catherine, Theresa, and Hilary.

Early in the pregnancy, as I prayed for my baby in utero, I felt the Lord tell me she would be a child of joy. I looked up the meaning of the names. Hilary comes from the same root word as Hilarious, and indeed meant happiness and joy.

Happy Birthday Hilary Rose, our bundle of joy and laughter.



P.S. This was Hilary in these silly pics.

Nail Biter

Have you ever had to interview for a job, try-out for a part in a play, audition for a musical, or try to make the team? If so, you know how stressful the waiting to find out can be. The only thing worse is when it is one of your children-or 2.

This week SB tried out for high school Concert Choir. Thursday afternoon the new "Concert Choir List" would be posted for all to see. That is when the world knows if you were successful or failed at your tryout. It is the best and worst of tmes for a teen.

Also on Thursday, Hilary was trying out for the Pom line. She would find out sometime that evening. As long as both kids were successful, life would be grand. But what if one makes it, while the other doesn't? Or if both fail? These are those times of character building.

We've been down this road before with our kids. Last year SB tried out for concert choir and didn't make it. She was one of the few who checks the list and walks away feeling the sting of rejection. A past failure makes it especially hard on the parent who has encouraged, cheered them to practice, work hard, and try again. At your urging they attempt once more to achieve success. And you wonder if it was the right thing. Fear can sneak into your heart at the thought that it could happen again.

When Elisabeth was Hilary's age, she tried out for Cheerleading. The next morning at school the list was posted for every hall-walker to see, each and every student in the entire school would know if she made it or not. I was having a bible study at my home when the phone call came in.

"Excuse me, I have to answer this one." They all knew that I was waiting to hear news. I picked up the phone. "Hello?" Silence. Uh oh, this was not good. A sniffle. I knew there were tears, I understood the feeling of not being one of the chosen. I wanted to cry too, but I was the mom. I was supposed to make things better, to offer up words of encouragement, help her to know that everything would be alright. The sun would still rise tomorrow. But at this moment in time, this is a 14 year olds entire world.

It was especially difficult because her best friend made the Varsity Squad. It took the entire next year to convince her to try again. I could hardly breathe when I found myself once again waiting for that phone call. This time was better, but not the best. She had made the JV Cheerleading squad. The following year was the most celebrated as she made THE list of Varsity Cheerleaders.

Michael and I sat at the kitchen table just waiting. Sarabeth, who had gotten her driver's license on the previous Friday, had driven to school. She was afraid she might miss the bus since the list wouldn't be posted until after school. She did not want to look too anxious or excited by rushing to the list to avoid being late for the bus, so we allowed her to drive.

Would she phone when she knew? If she didn't call, was that good news or bad? If she was late, was that because she was crying and had to compose herself before driving home? Or did that mean she simply had been rejoicing with her peers, causing her tardiness? Elisabeth joined us in the wait and shared in the experience of the parents on the other side of the waiting. We reminisced about her times of tryouts and we waited.

Sarabeth appeared in the open doorway. I saw just a hint of a smile. She shared her news and broke out in a run. We embraced joyfully! Her hard work and practice had paid off. She was now a proud member of the Concert Choir. Now, the second waiting began.

Hilary shared in the waiting. She'd returned from her try-outs and was home. Some of her friends waited at the school for the posting. It was to happen around 11:30p.m. A friend had promised to call as soon as she knew.

Hilary didn't think she did as well as she could have. But she was still hoping to make the JV Pom Line. She mentioned that her friends had said if they didn't make Varsity, but made JV, they wouldn't do it at all. In fact, they were asked that question as part of the interview process. Hilary had answered of course she would be on JV if she didn't make the Varsity Squad.

11:00p.m.
Her phone began to ring. "Hilary?" The voice was loud enough we could all hear it. "You made it!"

"Which did I make?"

"Varsity!"

There were shouts and cheers. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hugged her. Two celebrations in one day. I could go to sleep peacefully tonight. I didn't have any soothing of hurt feelings to take care of. Not this time. But nothing changes. Even with my children grown, I will always be here, whether it is a job interview or waiting on the successful delivery of a child. I will be here to cheer and shout, or to help pick up the broken pieces and see them put back together for a future success. That's a parent's job till the day we die.

Busy with my Birthday

I haven't been around so much this week. I have a new birthday present that has been consuming all of my time. My kids aren't so happy, as they cannot really enjoy it with me, at least not as a family or together-just one at a time. Here is that all-consuming gift:

Making a Chocolate Cake

Who designed a mixer with only 2 beaters? It must have been someone with only 2 children. I think a mixer should have the same number of beaters as a house has children. Anyone with children, who has ever mixed a chocolate cake, knows of the fight that ensues over the coveted beaters.

For years I tried to come up with a way to satisfy all of the chocolate cake batter, licking kids. Two beaters, 1 spatula, and 2 kids to share licking the bowl was how I usually divided the chocolate goo. But no matter how I tried to leave the same amount on the spatula as on the beaters and twice as much stuck to the inside of the bowl, everyone still wanted the beaters. I think it is because they are so much more fun to lick and it takes longer to eat, making it much more savory.

I even tried to bake my cakes while some of the kids were at school. But invariably when the cake was being consumed, someone would ask who had gotten the privilege of licking the beaters. Of couse the recipients would gleefully respond it was them. I'd have some unhappy campers. Try using the mixer when the kids are outside playing. It doesn't matter, they will hear the whir and come running.

Maybe I'll redesign the Mixer. And for my friend with the 13 children, maybe I can make it with mini-beaters or something. To make it perfectly fair, every kid should get one to lick to his heart's content.

Number 44

For six years, #44 was my favorite. This is the number my only son wore on his back during his lacrosse career. Summer days in scorching heat I yelled and cheered for 44 until I was parched. I sweated for that number. Lacrosse games were rarely cancelled because of weather. Only when lightening strikes, anything else and the game went on. I've stood in torrents of rain as Christopher slid up and skidded down a muddy field. On bitter cold days, Michael and I huddled close under heavy blankets while the snow refused to give up. But neither would #44. He was tough and played hard in spite of the elements or his opponents.



I learned to multi-task during lacrosse games. One eye was transfixed on #44 while the other kept track of his younger siblings playing on the sidelines. I'd hand out snacks, videotape the games, carry on a conversation with other lacrosse moms while never missing a single shot or hit. All except for one game.

This game was on the other side of town in an unfamiliar area. For a few moments I was distracted. My littles were out of my sight. I whipped around in order to gain visibility in every direction. I spent a minute in panic before I spied them playing under a tree. Turning back to the field, I noticed the boys "taking a knee." This meant a player was down. Surrounded by a coach, a trainer and some others was a blue jersey and gold helmet. Darn! The injured player was one of ours. I glanced up and down the field. Where was he? While kneeling it was much more difficult to find number 44. During play, I knew his stride even when I couldn't see his back. I recognized his hits, his stick, his swing, even his socks. I saw those familiar legs, from the knees down. It was my boy they were gathered around.




I tried not to be a hovering, overprotective parent, but I scrambled in haste as if I was one. I broke out in a run, but slowed to a jaunt as I neared the center line. I waited anxiously, not daring to sprint onto the field. I heard a voice yell out, "are his parents here?" That was my invitation.

In the middle of the commotion there was a frantic search for something to sling his arm. His jersey was being torn, shoulder pads cut off. I heard words like "broken collar bone, very painful, needs emergency attention." We got him to my car and into the reclined front seat. Shaking, I drove to the only hospital I knew, which was 45 minutes away. Each bump he grimaced and drew in his breath. Silence, groaning, then he'd weakly ask, "are we almost there?" "Yes," I kept lying.

Number 44 was tough. He'd be fine. He's my boy. He's my 44. He did have a fractured clavacle, some bumps and bruises. He missed the rest of that season. But he came back playing stronger and harder than ever before.



Today #44 takes on new meaning. It is my birthday and somehow I've found that same number pinned to me. I'm going to learn to love this number all over again.