listening in on my soundtrack

It is very bizarre to me that the music that speaks most to me at this time in my life--the music that stirs my heart and speaks its contents--is written by 20-something young men. How this is possible, I cannot say. All I know is that bands like Switchfoot, Lifehouse, Jason Upton, Daughtry--they resonate in a really meaningful, really freakish way.

I shoveled my driveway on Wednesday to Lifehouse. I could have posted several of the songs as having been relevant, but this one nailed where I am at the moment.

Broken

The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
I am here still waiting, though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
with a heavy heart that's still beating
In the pain is there healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead
I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
that are looking for purpose,
they're still looking for life

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain is there healing
In your name I find healing
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

I'm hanging on another day
just to see what you throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I would be okay

The broken lights on the freeway left me here alone
I may have lost my way now,
haven't forgotten my way home

(chorus)

grumpy mommy

“Are you not feeling well, Momma?” she asks in a tentative voice as we make our way through the six inches of slush into the warm glow of Walgreens. This is code—I recognize it right away. It is her veiled way of asking “Why do you seem so grumpy?” My daughter thinks I’m mad at her. Unfortunately, she has good reason. Despite the happy promise of a snow day, we did not have a good morning together. But it is several hours later, now, and the morning is behind us.

“Actually, I’m not, Bub. My back really hurts from shoveling all afternoon and I want to get home and lay on the heating pad. But I’m not upset, Sweetpea. I’m just in pain.”

“I understand,” she replies in a conspiratorial tone. “My back hurts, too. That was hard work.” I chuckle to myself, remembering her full 30 minutes of shoveling to my three and a half hours. But I smile and say nothing, and we go on our way in search of heat wraps and SAM-e, both for obvious reasons.

I sigh as we get back into the car, and my husband begins doing donuts in the parking lot on our way out. He grins impishly and the kids shriek in the back seat and I, as usual, just sit there. After a morning of whining and complaining over every little thing I’ve asked her to do and an afternoon spent breaking my back (on top of the headache I’ve been nursing since Sunday) out in the cold, I’m not in a very playful mood. And, truth be told, I’m a bit resentful of my husband’s.

Dinner earlier tonight was a replay of a similar and oft-created scene, though this time played on a different stage thanks to the ice-covered circuit blowing up behind our house this afternoon. As we sat in Noodles & Company eating a warm meal and enjoying their heat while waiting for our own to return, I watched my husband banter with our children and struggled, once again, to engage.

I don’t begrudge my husband his playful antics—he comes by them honestly and I’ve been subject to them from day one, over 20 years ago, so any complaints I may try to raise about them are really my own stupid fault for marrying the class clown. No, he is not the issue, though it is true his humor is sometimes, well, how shall I put it? Not humorous.

But he is not the problem—not tonight, not any night. There ought to be laughter at the dinner table, in the living room, in the bathtub, in the Walgreens’ parking lot. The problem is, simply, that I am the only one not laughing.

Most nights, come dinner time, I am a shell of the once-animated and engaged person I used to be. I sit, staring off into space, thinking about what needs done that evening and trying to push through the headache while my husband and my children crack one another up over leftovers. Once in a while I smile wearily—most often I get up to rinse my dishes and retreat to the computer to finish up whatever was undone from the day while they continue giggling and guffawing below me. This is not the person I want to be.

I don’t know how—at any time of day, truth be told—to push past the pain and the pressures and the piles of laundry and simply play with my family. Not in a consistent, meaningful way. Not in the way I desire to. No, I am the “Grumpy Mommy,” and played against my husband’s “Happy, Fun Dad” role, I am doomed to re-create a role I swore I’d never play.

I want recast out of this part. I want to be the joyful one—the one who doesn’t have a constant headache or work to be done on the computer upstairs or pointless arguments to have with children who know better than to argue with me. I want to be the light-hearted one. The funny one. The creative and interesting and dramatic and wild and fun and happy and engaged one. I want to be the one who never gets asked, “Momma, why do you seem so mad?” The one who makes everyone laugh at the dinner table. The one who smiles easily and gives praise readily.

I want to be the one I used to be. The one I know I was meant to be. Made to be. But, unfortunately, more often than not, am afraid to be. I want to be me again. I want to be me…

top ten reasons why i need chocolate chip cookies

1. I just spent thirty minutes reading and talking with my daughter about puberty. I had to say words like "breast buds" and "pubic hair" and keep a straight face.

2. I was going to do yoga tonight. I have a sinus infection instead. Which means I have a headache, as well. I am not down with doing "down dog" with a headache. And no, that is not a double entendre.

3. I didn't work out yesterday, either, because of the same infection/headache. I've gained seven pounds since Thanksgiving, when I took a month off from working out because of my knee.

4. I've gained seven pounds.

5. I've gained seven pounds.

6. I'm still stuck in the imbecilic "eating chocolate chip cookies will make me feel better about gaining seven pounds" frame of mind. And nothing will convince me otherwise. Until, of course, about five minutes after I've eaten the cookies. And then I will be morose. For days. As I sit on the couch...

7. I drove home in the snow. During rush hour. With a couple hundred people who apparently have never seen snow before in their lives despite the fact they LIVE IN THE MIDWEST FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Say no more.

8. I'm fried. Overwhelmed. Burned out. Kaput. Maxed. At my limit. Over the top. On my last nerve. I want to run away. Far away. For, oh, about a week. Or a year. Or ten. (Cookies would be much less traumatic for my family--can we all agree with my rationalization?)

9. Did I mention I've gained seven pounds?

10. Sometimes, you just NEED chocolate chip cookies. "It's a need, it's a true need, it's a straight-up-undeniable-ain't-no-mistaking-it-for-somethin'-else need..." (Thank you, Charlie Peacock. Of course, he was talking about forgiveness... But let's not quibble.)

I'm off to preheat the oven. See you tomorrow, when I complain that I've gained eight pounds...

opening

And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin

The day it snowed six inches here, I was preparing to leave the next morning for our trip to Florida. While my son tumbled away at gymnastics, I hit the Kroger across the way to get a few last minute items and a couple of mags for the flight. Knowing money is tight, I really tried to not look around at all--really, I really tried--but on my way out of the book section a title caught my eye and I was curious. The sky blue cover drew me, and the title intrigued me. The lone, little bird on the front looked as if it were about to soar, and my heart recognized that longing. And so I picked up "Broken Open" by Elizabeth Lesser and tossed it in among the protein bars and snack packs.

Not being a member of the Church of Oprah, I was unaware what I was picking up. All I knew was that I was drawn to it. One of those God-moments when the right book appears at the right time and the right words penetrate your heart. This book has had a few of these moments, and just in time.

Life is messy and painful right now. No amount of chocolate chip cookies is going to fix it. I'm trying to take Ms. Lesser's advice and allow myself to be broken open, but it is so contrary to my nature. My nature is to fold my arms up tight, to withdraw, to close off, to push away. As she puts it, "I was like the rosebud, holding myself together, tight and tense, terrified of breaking open." A more apt description of my heart could probably not be written.

"But the time had come... It was time for me to step boldly into the fullness of life, with all of its dangers and all of its promises. Remaining tight in the bud had become a kind of death. The time had come to blossom."

I am tired of "holding myself together, tight and tense..." I don't know what blooming looks like--unfolding petal by petal or perhaps one great burst of color-- but I'm determined, by God's grace, to try and find out. Perhaps I am a bulb, preparing to burst up through the thawing ground come spring. Perhaps I am an Amarylis, meant to bring vibrant color to these winter days. Or perhaps I am a teacup rose, up on someone's window sill, pulled in from the porch as a reminder of summer days and a promise of the warmth to come. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But I'm willing to see what will break open...

an all-around proud momma

Bub had her first "real"meet today--and won the all-around title for her age group and level! Two first places on vault and floor, and a second and third place on beam and bars!

Chalking up for the uneven bars.

Airborn...

I wish Tom had done the one where you can see the muscles in this kid's arms. AMAZING. Really. This kid is freakishly strong...

home freezing home

There are two kinds of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to. If his peripheral vision gets diminished...his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye.

Adam Gopnik, Paris to the Moon

It will come as no surprise that I am the second traveler. It will likewise come as no surprise that my husband is the first. He is very gracious, however, in allowing me to attempt to match up what I "see" to the vision I have in my head, because he knows that, while I may become a neurotic, melancholy mess in the process, the outcome is usually worth it. Here are a few snapshots of our trip, which included seeing manatees in the wild, two swamp hikes (complete with alligators), three days at the beach (complete with shelling), dinner at The Bubble Room, and an incredibly expensive round of putt-putt. A good time was had by all, and I am only mildly melancholy upon our return, which is a vast improvement upon my norm.

Fort Myers Beach--our first, and best, day at the beach, in my opinion. This was the day I wrote the "sitting" post. It was also, more importantly, the day we had ice cream for dinner.

Standing with her Poppa against the waves of this world... (This is Barefoot Beach, our coolest and choppiest day at the beach.)

We visit Sanibel Island every trip we take to see Aunt Rhoda, and every time we take a pix of the kids on this log. I have a frame at home to put all five in, to mark the passage of time.

This is also at Sanibel, after I returned from one last shell sweep. Notice my children have no clothes on. I had on a sweatshirt. This is further evidence that I am getting OLD.


Now, I am off to bed, where I will crawl atop my heated mattress cover and not move again until morning, having worked 10 hours today and facing 12 hours tomorrow!

today's treasure

Had a good day on Sanibel Island...off to lay on the heating pad! All that bending over made my back hurt!

irony

Because home base is 45 minutes from the beach, we spend a fair amount of our time in Florida in the car. In the past, I have felt this was wasted time, because all we've done is sit and listen to the radio, all zoned out and in our own private worlds. SO, when I found Food For Talk on Amazon this fall, I decided the travel addition would be the perfect thing for our trips to Fort Myers. A box full of fun games and conversation starters to fill our time in the car and keep us engaged with one another. What could be better?

"Santa" brought the cards for Christmas, and we broke them out once we arrived. We've had a blast playing the games and answering the questions, and the first words I hear when we get in the car are, "Momma, can we read another card?" Which is great, right? Right. Unless, of course, one wants to listen to the radio...

Sigh...

first fruits

sitting

The beach chair beacons me to sit, and I heed its call. Bundled against the unseasonably chilly breeze, I turn my chair toward the sun and shift into park for the first time in months. The children dash headlong toward the surf, and for once I feel no guilt for not joining them. It is simply too cold—no further explanation needed, no further questions asked. I pull from my bag a book and my ever-present notepad, and begin to read.

From time to time shadows cross my paper, causing me to glance up to determine their source. I watch as the passersby pass, and the juxtapositions amuse me. Consider the retiree in her black Harley-style “Rock and Roll” t-shirt, tucked in to her brand new unbelted Levi’s which end at sparkling white Keds. Her impeccably teased short, brassy blonde hair nearly glows atop her oversized black, rhinestone-studded sunglasses. Beside her is a tan, balding man without a shirt sporting a large, gold cross around his neck. His stomach protrudes over his shorts and his feet are safely tucked into very manly aquasox.

Next comes a more athletic type. She is outfitted in a running tank and matching shorts, obviously more a function of perfecting her tan than keeping her body temperature regulated. Her highlighted hair looks unnaturally natural, given her age. Her tan face beams as she bounces along to the music playing through her coordinating ear buds, and she marches along in step to the beat. Her partner sports oversized shorts and a likewise oversized belly, tennis shoes with tube socks pulled halfway up to his knees, and a jacket tossed over his shoulder. He decidedly does NOT bounce.

I begin paying more attention to what is going on around me. Seagulls swarm an older couple harassing them over a couple of sandwiches. The couple sits in jeans and sweatshirts with their hoods pulled up, arms tucked in, and sandwiches held tight. Nearby, a trio of college girls assume “the position,” though with more layers than usual. They are one of many groups lined up in rows upon their towels, heads all turned toward the sun. A pasty looking family walks by with young kids in tow, followed by a leathery pair of retirees who look as if they’ve lived their whole life right here on this beach.

The parade continues. People in shorts and t-shirts and tennis shoes, walking for exercise, together or alone. People in jeans and jackets, walking as if to say, “I came here to walk on the beach and I’m going to walk on the beach if it kills me!” People clad only in bathing suits and deep tans, daring their bodies to goosepimple in the light of the sun. People are everywhere— looking up, looking down, looking at other people.

I wonder what I look like to those who happen to look my way. Parked here in my chair with my husband, my white skin glowing in the sun, causing people to cover their eyes against the glare. My knee length shorts and my gray hoodie serve to both hide the body about which I am still self-conscious and keep it warm against the nationwide cold spell that has chilled even the sunny Gulf. My curly hair blows wildly about my face as my eyes, used to the Midwestern mid-winter haze, squint against the sun despite the sunglasses.

The breeze lessens and the sun climbs higher and I pause from my furious reading and writing and people watching to shed a layer. My husband replaces his hand on my knee and we smile at one another, his soft green eyes all crinkly around the edges. How he is beginning to tan already is beyond me—a healthy glow that says “I’ve been to the beach” forming across his face. I decide to pretend not to notice. It is just better that way.

I glance up from time to time at the kids playing along the shore. The cooler temperatures spare us from having to be right on top of them as they play in the water, because it is too cool to even be in the water, and therefore allows me the luxury of indulging without guilt in my second favorite beach pastime—parking my fanny in a chair and reading/writing for hours. Tomorrow will be warmer. Tomorrow there will be long walks with downward glances and the filling of ziplock bags with Sanibel’s treasure. But today, for a long-needed and well-deserved moment, I will simply sit in the sun and do my own happy version of nothing.

For as long as I darn well please.

a little light beach reading

The soul's knock in the night can take many forms. You may experience it as a deep sense of longing. Not the kind of longing that leads to the mall or the refrigerator, but the kind that moves downward, to a soft ache in the heart. It's the kind of longing that leads you to ask, "Is this all there is to my life? Is this what I am supposed to be going, feeling, giving, getting?" This kind of longing can feel threatening. And so you silence its rumblings over and over until it demands to be heard--until it morphs into something else: a crisis or an illness or an addiction or some other Strange Angel.

Broken Open, Elizabeth Lesser

beach haiku

the beach in winter--
white sand, cool breeze, warm sunlight
--beats home any day


surf mixes with sand
giggles ride on waves to shore
carried on the breeze


we are drawn, as if
by the tide, to the place where
the land meets the sea

it's all in the bag

It is said that life imitates art. Or perhaps it is that art imitates life. No matter—I have observed, within the past 24 hours, that packing is what truly imitates life.

To say I am organized is an understatement. To say I am neurotic is only slight hyperbole. Because this is not a strength my husband and I share to any great degree (read: at all), it falls to me to do the vast majority of our packing when we travel. Which is generally fine (except for when it isn’t fine), because I am a very thorough and efficient (though not sparing) packer. Most of the time.

A compulsive list maker, I typically have every detail under control. Passing thoughts of I need to remember to take _____ get written down own sticky notes. Sticky notes multiply like wire hangers, accumulating into lists. I begin weeks before our departure thinking about what we will need, about what we might need, about what we might not need but might want and be disappointed if we don’t take. Every contingency is considered—weather, activity level, color coordination, mood, alignment of the planets—I will be ready. I have a list, and I know how to use it. This typically is a fair representation of what life looks like in my world. Lists, contingencies, a place for everything, everything in its place. And a cute pair of shoes to match.

So let’s start with the shoes, shall we? For this trip, I packed two pair, and wore a third, not counting the aquasocks. Three pair. Isn’t that appalling? Usually I have at LEAST five for a trip to Florida. At LEAST. But you see, after working 32 hours in the past three days (keep in mind I’m “part time”), I couldn’t bring myself, in my one hour window within which I had to pack both myself and my five-year-old, to care about which shoes looked absolutely best with each outfit (because I couldn’t even pull together outfits, but we’ll get to that in a moment.) (And don’t even get me started about my unadorned toenails…)

In the furor of trying to get ready to go on vacation, I somehow never had the time or the energy to plan for our vacation. Sticky notes were amassed, but failed to multiply. Lists were never generated. Outfits were never planned. I found myself on Wednesday, in the middle of a snow storm, grimily tossing whatever shorts I could fasten around my post-Christmas waist into my suitcase, followed by every layering t-shirt I could find and a pair of tennis shoes. I glanced in the mirror on my way back to the closet—I didn’t know the woman reflected back at me.

My son’s suitcase was no better. Three pair of jeans. Check. Three pair of shorts. Check. As many long and short-sleeve shirts of a similar color scheme as I could wad into half the bag. Check. Pajamas. Oh yeah… Toothbrush. Hmmm… Not sure.

And so here I am, in Florida, riffling through my suitcase looking for some relaxation and realizing I’d forgotten to pack it, along with my little bag of patience. Joy was lost a long time ago, but I thought for sure I’d put a little bit of happiness in the bag—perhaps it’s under the pile of relentless, heavy burdens that weighed the suitcase down as I drug it from the house to the car. Fortunately, the toothbrushes we can grab at one of the fifteen WalGreens within a five mile radius. The other items, however, I think are going to be harder to come by. Hopefully, by the end of our time here, I will find them all somewhere in the bottom of the bag—I just hope to find them in time to enjoy them.

i am happiest when...

...curled up on my couch by the fire (or, in our current house, the candles), under a blanket with a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a purring cat.
...snuggling in bed with my kiddos on a cold morning (as long as they both go back to sleep!).
...hiking at a new park.
...looking for shells (like I need MORE shells) on Sanibel. (Like I could stop picking them up if I tried.)
..."on stage" in my living room, singing along to Wicked, or Mamma Mia, or Grease, or whatever is on the stereo.
...singing. Period.
...creating.
...writing.
...exploring a new place with my husband.
...crawling in to my heated bed on a cold evening.
...Christmas music is on every station.
...surrounded by friends and family.
...everything around me is in its place.
...it is 75 degrees and sunny.
...laughing. A good, hearty, tears-in-your-eyes-could-pee-your-pants-or-shoot-milk-out-your-nose kind of laugh.
...playing cards.
...doing something new.
...spending time with the people I love.
...exercising regularly.
...enjoying God's creation.
...taking pictures.
...practicing gratitude.
...eating a really good meal, especially in a really nice atmosphere.
...eating. Period.
...alone.
...not alone.
...taking an afternoon nap.
...sleeping in without guilt.
...the snow day falls on my day off.
...school cancels the night before.
..."counseling" my daughter before bed. ("Am I like one of your clients, Momma? Because you listen to me and help me feel better...")
...singing the same lullaby to my son, again.
...my children are laughing.
...my husband is smiling.
...there is time to decompress.
...allowing myself to be happy...

interesting insight from my favorite parisophile

We surf the waves of capitalism, from crest to trough and back again, but the funny thing is that no matter how often we ride the wave, nobody notices that it's wet. When we are on the crest, we believe that we have climbed a mountain through our own virtuous efforts, and when we are in the trough, we believe that we have fallen into a pit through our own vice.

Adam Gopnik
Paris to the Moon

sad

The door opens with its familiar “click” and I strain my ears to discern whose footfalls proceed out into the hallway. They are the muffled “fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph” steps of my son’s footie-pajamaed feet crossing the hardwood floor. My internal eyebrow raises, and I turn from my glowing screen to greet him with a questioning gaze.

“Momma?” he begins, rubbing his eyes, his face turned downward. “I can’t sleep. I’m saaaaad.”

I cock my head to one side, knowing full well he’s only been in bed for, oh, about three minutes. And he was as cheery as a bird when I left. This sounds like a stall to me. “Hmmm…Why are you sad, Buddy?”

“I don’t know. I just feel sad.” He is trying his best to look sad. It is not working.

“Okay, Buddy—here’s what I want you to do. Get back in bed, and I want you to think about all the things that make you happy. Playing with Finn, playing with Sam, going to kindergarten…” I’m getting no response. “…playing at COSI, going to fishing camp…” His face finally lights up. “There you go! Hop in bed and I want you to think about fishing camp until you fall asleep, okay?”

He agrees and we exchange our fourth round of good night kisses as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back off to bed.

I breathe a small sigh of relief and return to the never-ending tasks at hand. Flying along more quickly than I expected, I eagerly anticipate having a few moments later in the evening to read, or, dare I hope?, to write. I point and click away, and then I hear it.

Click. Fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph. “Momma?”

I turn to face my son, reminding myself to smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. “What’s up, Buddy?”

Sniffle. Sniffle. Turn down cheeks, cue the tears… “I’m still sad, Momma. I tried to think of stuff, but it didn’t work. I’m still really saaaaaaad.” His voice catches. My heart softens. He is sincere.

“Come here, Bud.” I pull him up on my lap. “There’s nothing to be sad about, Buddy. We’ve had a great weekend. I want you to think about everything we did this weekend, and about all the things you want to do in Florida. Got it?”

“Okay, Momma,” he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve for the umpteenth time. I silently hand him a tissue, and he half-heartedly blows his nose as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back to his room. Again.

I get back to work. Again. Time is passing, but writing may not be entirely out of the question. I continue to cruise through my various to-dos and delete each item off my list with glee. Finish item, delete item. Finish item, delete item. Finish item,

Click.

I sigh very not-patiently. He fhwumphs in a third time, and I turn around to find tears. “Momma, could you come open my window-things a little bit?” I question what he wants and why, not fully understanding what’s on his little mind. “I need you to open those things on my windows because I’m still sad (crying begins in earnest) and looking out the window (sob) helps me (sob) not be so sad.” Ah, now I understand. I understand all too well.

I walk my tender little boy back to bed, rubbing his warm, fleecy back. I am remembering my own melancholy five-year-old self, sitting at my own window, watching fireflies or snowflakes, counting semis on the distant turnpike, trying not to feel my own sad. I am remembering my thirty-eight-year-old self not wanting to be up late alone, making my husband fall asleep to the glow of my bedside light while I read or do Sudoku cozied up next to him in bed, still for the very same reasons. Indeed, I understand this sad all too well.

We take care of the blinds, lifting the bottom up high enough to allow him a slice of our street still aglow with Christmas lights. I tuck him in, kissing his curly, golden head, and, almost as an afterthought, do what I should have done in the first place. Kissing my writing time goodbye, I climb up into the top bunk with him, pulling his tiny body into the curve of my own. We pray, and we ask God to come and take away all that sad, and I hold him tight until his breathing becomes heavier and his heart becomes lighter, reminding him, as I so often need reminded, that he is not alone in the big, dark, lonely nighttime world. I leave after five minutes, exchanging kisses for the seventh time, and his door does not open again.

Sometimes, there is no reason to be sad. Sad just is. And whether we’re five or fifty-five, sad should never have to be faced alone. Tonight, my Buddy and I pushed back his sad together, if only for a moment. In an hour or two, I may still have my own to face, but I will not be alone, either.

Together, we will push back the sad. Together.

six words

i came upon a fun little book sometime this summer on the "six-word autobiography," and have been playing with it ever since. you can find more here. here are a few of my attempts:

one new year's resolution after another.

missed the truck. hit the wall.

always one word short of six.

midlife crisis looms around next corner.

the one that didn't get away.

ember smolders but still burns red.

care to give it a try?

a new year tradition

our annual winter hike, this year at clear creek metro park

testing the new binoculars from "Santa"...

a few artsy shots, just for fun

resolute

I'm not one for New Year' s resolutions, given that I don't tend to keep them longer than a week at best. But my writing angst keeps tugging on my sleeve, pleading with that whiny tone to be paid attention to, and so I am resolving, in my own vague and tentative way, to write and post with some sort of weekly regularity. Tonight equals one.

have i mentioned lately how i could eat him up?