She got The Look (na na na na na, na na na na na...)

I got The Look again from Boy-o's teacher.  

Oh god.  I hate The Look.  

Though I should be used to it by now.  I get it from multiple directions and people, sometimes multiple times a week.  And usually I can brush it off with a quick check-in, a deep breath and a reminder to myself, that as far as moms go, I'm actually halfway decent.  

But this morning, The Look (which is a mixture of annoyance and plaintive 'why can't you be more responsible and on top of other things like the other mom?'-ishness) makes me shrivel and wilt into that bad-mom place. 

For the record, the other mom is more responsible and detail savvy. I freely admit that this is verily true. And it's also true that the details of daily life, they are not my best skill set. I have other strengths. Many, even.  Intuition. Big picture thinking. If you are feeling sad or unsteady in your world, I'm the girl you want standing next to you. Unflagging loyalty. I'm fairly articulate and sometimes a little funny. And by god, if you are lucky enough to be loved by me, that heart of mine is as open and giving as they come.  I also make a mean quiche and my cookies are freaking outta this world. I got skills.  Mad skills.

But I do not do those earthly daily details well. I lose keys and bank cards. (Like multiple times a day). I forget appts.  I forget to pay bills, like the parking tickets I get because I forget to plug the meter.  I forget to eat breakfast. And I almost never, ever time the school run right.  And thus, I get The Look. 

And today The Look is harder to take than most days.  Because we've had a morning from hell.  Like, not just a bit o' purgatory-leanings-towards-hell.  Hell-hell.  Hot-fires-of-molten-lava-tears-and-damnation-hell.  And because this morning of hell is my fault.  I kept the kids up past their bedtime so that I could go to an evening lecture at school. Selfish.  But true. I know they don't sleep in. I know Boy-o is wayyyy more challenging than usual when tired. (And as a kid with sensitivity issues, challenging at the best of times is how we roll). I know these things. But I did it anyways. And when the morning brings tantrums and attitude and dragging feet and shattering glass, I should not be surprised. When I am brought to tears not once, but twice just trying to get them out the door, I should not be surprised. When Boy-o jumps in a snow-bank sans snow pants and I have to go back and grab him an entirely new outfit, I should not be surprised. When we are late for school, I should not be surprised. And so when I get The Look, I should not be surprised.  

I'm not surprised, not really - but I am a little heart-sore.Heart-sore that it's hard to juggle the priorities and I don't always get it right. Heart-sore that I'm sending my sweet Boy-o off to school (which is often overwhelming for him at the best of times) over-tired, teary and raw from a morning of struggle.  Heart-sore because this is another one of those 'you can't have it all' moments.

Heart-sore because this morning, The Look is probably very well-deserved.

making mistakes

"If you can't stand to see your children unhappy, you are in the wrong business."  Best line ever.
Check out this article on letting your littles make mistakes and learn from them.  It's pretty good.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/05/opinion/sunday/raising-successful-children.html?smid=pl-share

self care, crazy-town and holding it all together

So - it's the second week of classes. I get up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to hit the ground running.

Ok.  That was a lie.

So - it's the second week of classes. I get up all bleary-eyed and exhausted because I stayed up too late last night reading and re-reading Foucault.  And I'm not at all ready to hit the ground running. I'm ready to have a panic attack.  I can feel it mounting as soon as I get out of bed. (For reasons academic and otherwise, school is a locale of pretty wild anxiety for me these days). I tell myself it's no big deal. I tell myself "you got this." I tell myself that sitting in my enormously overpopulated Foucault seminar, talking about theory that is sometimes over my head, is No Big Deal.  NBD, Mama T. NBD.  I tell myself "Haha! Anxiety -you aren't so tough. You aren't the boss of me."  And so anxiety does what it does best - it turns around and gives me the finger. With both hands.

In writing, anxiety might look and sound like this:

************** (radio crackle and static) (nefarious cackle) We interrupt this life to bring you a panic attack. We'll let you get back to thinking, seeing straight and breathing properly when we good and goddamned feel like it. (more nefarious cackling) (more radio crackle and static)***************


----------------------more time elapses -----------------------


Andddddddddddddd. Breathing again. Whewf. Made it. About ten minutes had gone by, as near as I can tell. And I'm beyond drained. I still have time to get out my door and make it to class.  But I don't have it in me.  I email the prof and tell him I have the stomach flu, wondering while I do it why it is somehow less embarrassing to have the stomach flu than it is to have a panic attack. But it just is. Those who dwell in this reality from time to time will likely know what I am talking about.

I spend the morning drinking coffee, and then tea, under the softest blanket in the world, looking at the snow falling, and reading more Foucault. At first, I felt pretty horrible. I hate it when anxiety 'wins' over the iron will of my stubbornness - it's a rare occurrence, granted, but I hate it nonetheless. It feels yucky, and fail-y, and wimpy and did I mention fail-y already?

But then, the more I dwelled in those feelings of, you know, failing - the more I started to see the other side of the equation.  Maybe, crazy-town shows up every once in awhile to teach me some things.  For instance, like putting myself first (say whaaaaaat?), or like failing isn't the worst possible thing in the world that I could do (say whaaaaat?).

And maybe just mayyyyyybbbbeeee, in order to hold it all together, we may have to let it fall apart once in awhile, too.



*And, after that brief moment of 'navel-gazing,' it's back to cozy blankets and Foucault for this mama.

In or out?

I got a call for creative writing on the topic of inclusions and exclusions in my inbox this morning.  And, of course, when I should be reading for my class this afternoon, all I want to do is write about the ins and outs of my own places of belonging and not-belonging.  It's interesting (or maybe fortuitous?) that this found my eyes today, as I've really been thinking a lot in the past few days about how I straddle a strange sort of liminal space between belonging and not in so many areas of my life right now. And how those slippery, shifty places are interconnected. The areas foremost on my brain these days though are my roles as a mama and as a student.

Take, for example, the mommy club. A fairly well-known club, if I do say so myself. A club I have a membership to, but which also always seems in immanent danger of being revoked. I'm a mama. But I'm a queer girl. (Gasp - even the queer part is slippery... I'm a queer girl who sometimes crushes on boys! GASP! Do not tell anyone this. I have enough membership cards at risk of being revoked too!) I'm a queer girl who has kids. (This will never cease to be weird - though it does seem to provide excellent opportunities for guest lecturing.)  I'm a mama. But I'm divorced (But what about the children? Does anybody think of the children?!?!?).  I really don't do attachment parenting and you won't catch me posting memes about the beauty of it all. (Not that it isn't, you know, all beautiful and shit). I only have my kids half-time.  I 'left' my stay-at-home gig to get my phd.  I like to dance and drink and flirt my ass off.  (It just always kind of feels like, I'm a mama. But...).

And then there's the Phd student club. Another club I seem to be a member of these days.  I've got the transit pass I.D. and overdue book fines to prove it. And it's another club in which I don't entirely fit into. I'm a student. But I'm also a mama. This is a weird combination of roles when both jobs require you go at them with 100% of your energy. I'm a student. But I'm old. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not dinosaur old.  And I really like my cohort.  They seem to reasonably like me. (I'm generally reasonably likeable, I think, though lately I've been wondering about this more than usual, which is sayin' something...).  My cohort is full of super stars.  Really - smart people. Who will interview for jobs all across the country, and others, when they finish.  And get them.  Smarty-pants I tell ya.

And then there's me. I'm closer in age to my profs than most of my cohort. Weird. It is. It's a bit weird. It sometimes makes me feel like a loser-y slacker. I shouldn't admit that ( know it isn't even close to the truth). But as you know well, I'm all about the humiliating admissions, so there you go. It's a bit like I'm this kid who's been put back ten grades or something.  (Ummmm - not that that's anything wrong with that, natch). It's not that I don't also have the capacity to be a superstar in some way, shape or form. But my capacities (energies) often feel limited (or maybe overshadowed?) by my other roles. And on top of that, I will emphatically not be interviewing across the country (this, or any other) when I complete my doctoral work. By virtue of being divorced, it's Redneckville for me. Because my responsibility to my kids supercedes any superstardom (of the academic variety, anyways).  So, maybe I'll get a sessional lecturer gig. Maybe I'll get some other kind of job. Maybe I'll hit the unemployment line.  More than likely, it'll be a combination of all three. So - here I am. Straddling again - feeling like a student, but always on the periphery - never totally able to immerse in that identity. Parenting is not a school place. School is not a parent place. School brain and parent brain are *always* at odds.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm happy to be in both places. I like, I mean really like, both places. Books and babies.  What's not to love?! I think my ability to hop back and forth might give me unique perspectives and, well, maybe perspective in general.

But I just don't feel like I'm ever either here or there.  Most days, I feel like I'm tap dancing across two different stages at the same time.  Maybe it'll make me more flexible.  Or maybe it'll drive me bat-shit crazy.  I guess only time will tell ;)

checkin' in

Soooooooo - for those of you who still wander on over here from time to time, I'm still kicking!  I made it through my first semester as a phd student, broke-ass, single mama.  I'm not sure I did it with a whole lot of grace, mind you. (Or any). I'm pretty sure I have way more grey hairs (who are we kidding, I don't even know what my natural hair colour is anymore), lines around the eyes, and I may have permanent dark circles under my eyes from lack 'o sleep.  I generally feel like I've been hit by a Mac Truck.  But, it's a Mac Truck I really like to think about.  I think about it a lot. What colour is it?  Why is it on the road barreling right towards me? Why isn't it putting on the brakes? And who's driving that fucker, anyways?  What do they think or feel about running my ass over? You see where I'm going here.... ? And though my body has taken a shit-kicking, my brain is in a constant state of whirring and motion, and holy hell, I love it.  Love. It.

I've had fellow students ask me 'how I do it'.  The single mom, phd student gig.  I generally say that I cry a lot and drink a little wine.  Or I drink wine a lot and cry a little. I wouldn't say that these bit of quippiness aren't true.  Of course I cry and drink wine.  DUH.  But really, the truth is: being separated 'affords' me some nights without the kids.  My "scramble" nights.  I try to sandwich everything in then, so when I have my babes, I can focus mostly on them.  Being a totally unreasonably hard-on-myself over-achiever, I more often than not fail at this sandwich-ing.  But, in terms of school-work, it helps some (though still I am chronically overwhelmed and over-tired). In terms of missing my small peeps and generally feeling like a crap mom, it's not so much helpful.  And the resentment (unfair and unwarranted) at having to miss all kinds of special lectures and school-ish things that happen in the evenings - also doesn't help with that 'fuck-up' mom feeling.

BUT- I passed my first term, with flying colours.  No one pointed their finger, shouted "fraud" and bade me to "never darken these doors" again.  No one gave me a B. (I know this fear is ridiculous.  But I can't help it. I'm B-phobic). And though academia is not exactly renowned as the most parent and/or kid-friendly place (and let's be clear, it really really isn't), I have had a wonderful experience with profs in my first term, one a parent herself who understood the ridiculous amount of times I or my kids had the flu, and one, who (mad props JR!) even offered that I could bring my 3 year old to class if she wasn't too germy-toxic.  These are not things I expected going in, and have been a really wonderful surprise. The kids are still alive and kicking, and sometimes (just sometimes), I feel like I'm doing a reasonably ok job with their little heads and hearts.

My task this term is to keep up the B-lack, and work on the self-care bit (which I may or may not have gotten a failing grade in last term). My current goal is to stay out of the hospital emergency room (lonnnnngggg story).  In this vein - I've taken up a non-academic class (pole-dancin' - cause nothing says 30-something, queer single mama like pole-dancin'!). I'm also endeavouring to get more sleep, and you know, feed myself, more regularly.  I have fantastic friends who, amoung other things, remind me to do these things.

And that, dear friends, is where our heroine finds herself these days.  Tired, reasonably happy, as un-well adjusted as usual....

xoxox

Oh, god. What to say?

Dear bloggy readers:

Well, Thanksgiving weekend is upon us.  I've been a terrible, terrible, absent blogger (bad blogger, bad!).  But so much has happened in the past year.  Too much to write about, even if I did have the words.  (And probably I don't, but as you know, this has never stopped me before ;)).

So - to recap -

Our heroine been separated for almost a year now, after 13 years of marriage.  Every day gets easier.  And harder.  And easier.  I feel more independent, stronger, braver.  I don't know who this woman is that I see in the mirror everyday - but I am getting to like her more and more.  I have my own place.  For the first time, well, ever.  And every time I walk in the door, no matter the mess that greets me, I get this little thrill.  My home.  This is my home!  My art.  My stuff.  A mess of my own making.

Boy-o and Girlio are starting to adjust pretty well, and have been the most incredible troopers.  We each have them half time.  It's still hard.  I miss them much of the time.  And it will, likely, always be difficult for them, and for their parents (and not a day goes by that I don't remind myself that my sense of freedom comes at great costs.)  But they are loving school and daycare and they are flourishing.  And that is all a parent can hope for, really.

I started my phd.  I STARTED MY PHD!  I cannot even describe the feelings this brings to the fore.  It feels terrifying.  It feels overwhelming (like, what kind of idiot thinks, HEY! I know - I'll get divorced and become a single parent and start my phd?! Who does that?  Well, me, apparently.)  There is always too much to do.  There is almost always a little person who needs my energy.  School work that needs my energy.  A home that needs my energy.  There is little, little sleep.  And still, it feels like coming home.  I feel freaking amazing.  I am out in the world again.  I am using my brain again.  I feel passionate and invigorated.   This, too, is hard.  Because lurking around every corner are reminders that tell me that I am being selfish.  That this is not the right choice for a mother to make.  That I'm too old for this.  That my expectations are pie-in-the-sky unreasonable.  (Luckily, I've never been accused of reasonability!)  And this, I will defend with everything I have.  This is where I should be, and maybe where I should have been all along.   This is *mine*.

And so, I find myself again, here at thanksgiving, a year older -

I have so much to be thankful for, still.

I am thankful all of the love and support I have found this past year.
I am thankful for this amazing community of friends I am building.
I am immensely grateful for the resilience of my children, who everyday thrill me with who they are, and are becoming, and challenge me to become a better person.
I am thankful for my family, whose love an support is unflagging, even when I am far too often preoccupied and bogged down with the daily grind(s) to reciprocate.
I am thankful (and amazed) for this person I am becoming - this familiar-stranger - who seems bigger and bolder and braver and fiercer than she was before.

And I am, and will always remain, amazingly grateful for this blog (for you, reader, if you are still out there reading).  It may seem overly dramatic to say that this blog saved my life.  But that's kind of how I feel (and those of you who have been reading for awhile will be intimately familiar with my penchant for the dramatic!).  I came to blogging at a time when I was sure that I had lost parts of me that were unrecoverable.  When I was certain that I had lost my voice.   And as it turned out - I had some things to say.  And the feeling of community I discovered here was the start of recovering my sense of self. So, blog - I am so, so thankful for you.

But - this is also very likely my last blog here at AQFGIR.  The daily grind has gotten, well, a little grindier in the past while (as evidenced by my lack of blogginess).  I'll miss the blog, the readers and comments, and the I'll-spill-my-guts-even-though-I-don't-have-time-to-edit-my-guts immediacy of writing and posting and writing and posting.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  I hope this weekend finds you feeling loved and embraced in your homes and communities.

And thanks.  For reading, for lurking, for commenting, for spurring me on to write more, for the encouragement - for being here in whatever capacity - on my baby-making, baby-raising, working-through-it journey.

Love,

Mama T

Repost on mothering and the writing life...

Please go and check out this wonderful post by Elisa A Garza on gender, mothering and the writing life.  Really.

Voicing Fears 

dwell·ing  (dwlng) n. A place to live in; an abode.

I am on the brink of embarking on the nearly lifelong goal of pursuing my Ph.D.   This is, of course, in many ways, exciting, heady, exhilarating.    More than any of these things though, currently, I am terrified.

I live with anxiety, ever my uncomfortable companion.   A shadow of sorts; one which I spend, an inordinate (and unfortunate) amount of time trying to shake.  

But right now, I want to take the time, a few moments (or, more properly several hours) to really live in my fear.   Sit in it.  Take up residence.   Dwell. 

Breaking Silences

I am a mother.  Of course, I am multitudinous other things.   I am, in fact, a bloody complicated human being.  A writer.  A storyteller.  A peacemaker.  A femme.  A believer in spirit and in humanity.  A confidant.  A fighter.  A lover of music and art.  A friend.  A listener.  A caretaker.  An observer.  A thinker.  A survivor.   I have a veritable wealth of beings, and of human experience to bring with me to the academy, to my process of learning and navigating and grappling.  But first, foremost, I am and will always be mother.   This is my primary identifier in the world.  How I am seen.  How my worth is appraised.

Among the many, many things (both positive and less so) I have learned as a mother, is that nobody really expects mothers to think, and/or to externalize their thoughts into voice.   Mothers are doers.  They are feelers, cajolers, teachers, nurturers.  They expend endless amounts of energy outwards, onto and into their children.  They speak for and about their offspring.  But I must also acknowledge, in this dwelling in fear, that motherhood, while clearly very much an embodied experience, has for me very much been about a kind of disembodiment or dis/location of my own voice. 

While it is true that mothers (myself included) are writing, blogging and sharing more and more of their private sphere worlds, (spawning blog sharing sites such as ‘Moms Who Think,’ as if somehow, somewhere, there are moms who don’t think) this writing has, more often than not, been dismissed as insignificant.  Navel-gazing.  Self-absorption.  The world, it seems, simultaneously venerates the role of mothers, (indeed expects women to mother), but would prefer that mothers keep their thoughts and ruminations about the world to themselves.

There are, naturally, also certain elements of motherhood that prepare me well for life as a graduate student.  The dislocation of selfhood and relocation of energies into others.  To be a mother is to always be fractured.  To know that you can never be enough.  That the work will always be undone, no matter how efficiently or diligently you chip away, day in and day out.   That the developmental needs of your children will never be static.  That you will never know enough.   And the multitasking!  I can shave my legs while sharing the shower with not one, but two children jockeying for space.  I can talk on the phone to the people at the bank with one hand wrist deep in play-doh and the other one stirring dinner.  And I may, actually, have grown eyes in the back of my head.   I know too, that the understandings of the world borne out of the profound experience of being ‘other,’  out of dwelling in that other-worldliness, to my life with children that will ultimately serve me well, even in the vastly different world of academia.

But I carry with me too, lingering feelings that will serve me less well in my new endeavours, (often supported by external messaging both intangible and overt), that my ‘mother’ brain, and the epistemologies of mothering, do not matter outside the often constraining walls of my dwelling. 

And the silencing effects of being this entity called ‘mother.’ 

Transitory Migrations

As if migrating from life as a stay-at-home mama to life as an out-in-the-world mama and graduate student were not enough of a transitional leap; I embark on this journey at a stage in my life that previously seemed unimaginable. 

Divorcing after thirteen years of partnership.  Living on my own for the first time in my life, at the age of thirty-seven.  The mother of two children with shaken foundations; who are having to negotiate life between two households (to say nothing of childcare and full-time school) for the very first time.  And me, struggling to foster new friendships, build new community, find a place of acceptance, find out what it means to be single for the first time since my very early twenties.  Stretching to create alternative places of family; of being.  This slippery foothold between worlds old and new feels precarious enough without the addition of the intensity and rigours of academia. 

Though some people have been wonderfully supportive and encouraging of my present and upcoming challenges, there have also been no shortage of less positive messages.  I have bitten off more than I can chew.  I will be letting my children down.  That there cannot possibly be a way for me to succeed and I would be patently foolish to even try.  My doctor, for instance, upon hearing of my marital separation, exclaimed: “you can’t possibly still be thinking of starting your doctoral work?!”. Many others have exclaimed about my “bravery” for choosing this path at this time (which, though seemingly kind, is hardly reassuring of said path’s do-ability!) Another person recently asked, horrified: “You mean you’re starting school THIS September?!” 

Yes.  THIS September.  Yes.  Still planning on doing this thing.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes. 

(Yes?)

 New Tricks for This Old Dog

Age ain’t nuthin’ but a number. 

Riiiiiiiigggggght.  Sure it ain’t. 

So what if pulling an all-nighter might kill me?  So what if I’ll be closer in age (or older) than my professors? 

No big deal.  I’m all cool with it and stuff.

And having been out of the academic world for the better part of eight years? Heading into an entirely new disciplinary terrain? 

Easy peasy.  Nothing to it.

Just like riding a bicycle…

 Beginning/End Notes

Being a person for whom anxiety is an unfortunate, though somewhat normal state of being, it occurs that I am perhaps much more comfortable dwelling in the articulation of fear than I am trying to reside in a place of hopefulness or optimism.  Far easier to ask  “What if I fail?” than to acknowledge that I might, just maybe, flourish.  Or at the very least, do just fine.

So there is this, too.  I might fail.  This much is as true for me as for anyone.  But in my thirty seven years, in my life as a mother, in my grappling with anxiety, in my experiences of loss, in my shedding of skins, in the undeniable liminality of the time and space that I currently inhabit; I have learned much about myself.   And I have faith that I am building, from the ground up, new possibilities and places of dwelling(s).  

for Girlio

For Girlio, who turns three tomorrow...

We should have known, dear one, from the moment that you hurtled into the world like a little baby storm, how very fiery and fierce you would be.  Your passion for the world around you (whether you're liking it or not ;) is always in evidence.  We also should have known, after labouring all through the night, that you would be a night owl, through and through ;).

Your first expression, and your mommy and I both concur on this, was one of mild chagrin and disbelief-- as if you were concerned, at the ripe old age of a few minutes, of the validity of our parenting credentials.  I cannot believe that three whole years have passed since that amazing day when you came into our lives.  I cannot believe the tall, certain-of-herself, clever wee creature you have become.

Your expressiveness is really something to behold.  Your face holds a thousand or more expressions, and each one is so telling and so demonstrative.  I can never really pinpoint a'favourite' photo of you - they're all so full of character, and so very, very full of you-ness.

I continue to be astounded, each day, at how articulate you are.  The other day, I said something to you - I can't remember what exactly- and you looked at me quizzically and responded: "Well, that's very curious, isn't it?"  Curious, indeed sweet child.  I still remember your first sentence, at the rips old age of 19 months, when you looked at the cat, pointed and reprimanded imperiously: "KITTY!  Off table NOW!"  And you continue to wow me with your utterances and phrases.  You miss nothing.  I see how you watch the world around you intently - and how you take it all in with those big blue eyes of yours.  I look so forward to the many conversations we will have about the ways in which you see the world!

You don't give your love away immediately, like your more easily wooed big brother.  But man oh man, how you make people reallllly want to work for it.  Sweetie - I am hard-pressed to think of a sound more delicious than your laugh.  And your cuddles - oh! - they are amazing and soul-balmy.  We've nicknamed you "koala-baby" for the way you completely wrap yourself around us with your arms and legs.  It's like being utterly enveloped in the marvellous, squeeze-y love!

Your love of movement, dancing, music is so beautiful to watch!  Pretty much every song that comes on the radio is met with "That's MY song!", followed by some hip-shakin' dance moves (in the living room, in your car seat, in the grocery store).

Everything about you is a full bodied experience.  Full bodied happy, full bodied mad, full bodied everything.  It all happens with some serious gusto.   But your intensity fits in well around here.  And even though we all butt heads sometimes - we love pretty fiercely, too.

I love your brave, sweet heart.  Though, like your mama, you are shy to start with - there is a determination about you that transcends shy, especially when sticking up for your 'peeps,' (as you like to inform people, 'peeps' is what we say for 'our people.')  My own brave, sweet heart almost cracked open when your big brother was speaking about some kids being mean to him on the playground.  And without missing a beat, you looked up at him seriously, adoringly and oh-so-fiercely and snarled: "I will beat them with my sword!"  Nobody will ever mess with your peeps and get away with it!  Not on your watch.  I get a little thrill every time you show off 'your muscles' and talk about how strong you are.  And you are strong!  I imagine you will excel at sports someday - given your love of running and tumbling (and you know, hitting things with sticks!).

As two draws to a close for you, you are wildly comical, dramatic, silly, coy, shy, brave, active, and so full of enthusiasm for life.  (And I would be remiss if I didn't point out here that you are the best ever shoe shopping partner ;)).  t can't wait to see what the next year brings for you and for us.

Happy birthday, my fierce and gorgeous daughter.  You are such a gift and I simply cannot imagine a world making sense without you in it.

Love always,

Your Mama

p.s.  Ok, sweetie.  So just one thing -  you've got this princess phase going on.  I can deal with it (since I'm a bit of a princess myself).  I'm just hoping you'll remember (and if not, I'll keep reminding you) that princesses always, always, always rescue themselves!

Getting art-y

So, for my birthday, I got this amazingly wonderful gift of attending a multi-media art workshop at a local art studio.  And here's what I created.  I'm sorta, kinda, a wee bit proud of my first attempt :)