Recently, I was reminiscing over our days in England. One memory came to mind that I really must share even though I've told the story several times. Just deal, OK?
We had recently made friends with the neighbors across the close (that's "cul de sac" to us Yankees). Their little girl Louise and our Hannah were spending every free moment together; this particular time, they were over at ours. It was winter, so it got dark pretty early, about 10 seconds after we got home from school, if I remember correctly. Since everyone was playing nicely, I thought it might be a good idea to sneak into the bathroom for some personal pursuits. Just as I'm getting, er, situated, Hannah calls up that Louise was going home. Normally, this event would have acted as a catalyst, starting with a phone call across the street to let the neighbors know she was on her way, followed by standing at my door and watching as she walked the 18 steps across the close into her home, where HER mom would be waiting at their open door. Yes, we are over protective mothers, but it was DARK and she was only six years old. However, since I was rather indisposed at the time, I asked Hannah to watch her friend cross the road for me. Situation handled, but I still felt a twinge of guilt for dispensing with protocol.
Maybe some 10 minutes later, an amiable fellow came to the house. He introduced himself as Louise's father so we stood chit chatting just inside the door. We're in England, and he's English, so I figured he was just being polite and had come to say "hello" or whatever genteel thing the British do when they come over to one's home for no apparent reason. Of course, the awkward pause eventually ensued as our conversation skittered slowly to a halt. We stood for a moment, blinking at each other; I waiting for him to either state his business or make a gracious exit, he wondering why I was being obtuse and forcing him to be direct. "I've come for Louise," he finally says since I was obviously not going to offer to return his first born. Baby panic started fluttering in my stomach as guilt for not having watched Louise cross the street nibbled at my heart. I informed my newly met neighbor that she had gone home some 10-15 minutes ago. He stood smiling congenially at me, thinking I was joking. When I told him she SERIOUSLY had gone home, he politely excused himself, saying perhaps she was at home but that somehow they had overlooked her. He crossed the street and I stood watching, hoping that I would see an "all clear" sign from the neighbor, indicating that she was indeed home. Instead, I hear Louise's mom call her daughters name, the sound of panic and fear audible clear over to my house. Of course, that kicked my panic into sheer terror as I started imagining what horrible thing must have occurred when Louise had gone home alone, in the dark, unsupervised while I selfishly tended to my own needs. Neighbor Man came back over and I told him I would search upstairs if he would search down...remember we have JUST met and I'm asking him to be totally unBritish and snoop around my home.
I didn't find Louise upstairs, but Neighbor Man found her downstairs. Apparently, Louise had hidden herself in the closet under the stairs. Hannah had covered her with coats and the two of them were playing a fine joke on us! I was SO relieved that Louise wasn't kidnapped and really impressed with her tenacity at staying quietly hidden for so long. As they went home, he looking a bit grim, I was resigned to being viewed as the inept mother and neighbor. My only consolation was that being American, they probably hadn't expected too much to begin with.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Conversations
I feel compelled to write once more before the year ends and since I can't think of any particular topic, I thought I'd share some conversations the kids and I have had this year:
We had company over for dinner tonight and the kids decided to wrestle over the package Mrs. Crimbles Coconut Macaroons that we had gotten for Christmas. I know you'll be shocked and surprised when I tell you a glass of Crystal Lite got tipped over. A nearly FULL glass of RED Crystal Lite. In front of the company. I had only seen it happen out of the corner of my eye and from my observation, it look like Logan had caused this dining disaster. I went over with a paper towel, which upon arriving found it to be completely inadequate for the job. I asked Hannah if Logan had tipped over the glass and she said (in front of company), "No. I did. I'd like to say that Logan did it, but it was me."
Yesterday morning, I fixed the kids some eggs for breakfast. After having crammed a shovel like portion into his mouth, Logan sneezed. Twice. I could see it was going to happen and I wanted to say, "Cover your mouth!" but I knew it would have been too late. I wanted to cover his mouth with my hand, but self preservation paralyzed me. Luckily, I had JUST washed the table cloth so the eggs had a hygenic place to land after they were propelled at 100+mph from Logan's mouth. Of COURSE I was annoyed! I scolded Logan for not covering his mouth when he sneezed. Ever the peacemaker, Logan wanted to make good our relationship and offered this olive branch: "Mommy, I no pick my nose." I thanked him for reminding me what a great kid he actually is.
Last anecdote is from the archives, but it really is so astute a portrait of me, that I have to share it for posterity. Hannah was just little, probably around two years old. She would do stuff that was naughty and she knew better but she was two, so she HAD to do it. You know, normal stuff, like putting her teddy in the dish water or throwing random things from the balcony. I would tell her, "Hannah! That makes me so angry! You're making me crazy!" After one particular 2-year-old thing she did, I became cross with her which upset her and made her cry, "Mommy angry! Crazy!" Which immediately made me laugh at the razor sharp analysis of her demented mother.
We had company over for dinner tonight and the kids decided to wrestle over the package Mrs. Crimbles Coconut Macaroons that we had gotten for Christmas. I know you'll be shocked and surprised when I tell you a glass of Crystal Lite got tipped over. A nearly FULL glass of RED Crystal Lite. In front of the company. I had only seen it happen out of the corner of my eye and from my observation, it look like Logan had caused this dining disaster. I went over with a paper towel, which upon arriving found it to be completely inadequate for the job. I asked Hannah if Logan had tipped over the glass and she said (in front of company), "No. I did. I'd like to say that Logan did it, but it was me."
Yesterday morning, I fixed the kids some eggs for breakfast. After having crammed a shovel like portion into his mouth, Logan sneezed. Twice. I could see it was going to happen and I wanted to say, "Cover your mouth!" but I knew it would have been too late. I wanted to cover his mouth with my hand, but self preservation paralyzed me. Luckily, I had JUST washed the table cloth so the eggs had a hygenic place to land after they were propelled at 100+mph from Logan's mouth. Of COURSE I was annoyed! I scolded Logan for not covering his mouth when he sneezed. Ever the peacemaker, Logan wanted to make good our relationship and offered this olive branch: "Mommy, I no pick my nose." I thanked him for reminding me what a great kid he actually is.
Last anecdote is from the archives, but it really is so astute a portrait of me, that I have to share it for posterity. Hannah was just little, probably around two years old. She would do stuff that was naughty and she knew better but she was two, so she HAD to do it. You know, normal stuff, like putting her teddy in the dish water or throwing random things from the balcony. I would tell her, "Hannah! That makes me so angry! You're making me crazy!" After one particular 2-year-old thing she did, I became cross with her which upset her and made her cry, "Mommy angry! Crazy!" Which immediately made me laugh at the razor sharp analysis of her demented mother.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
A Christmas Story
I realize that all my previous posts have attempted humor, yet I'm going to take a moment to share a less frivolous story from my childhood--a time when I discovered the meaning of Christmas. I wrote this story last year when I was asked to speak in church, so I'll share an excerpt from that with you:
The “Christmas Spirit” is an elusive thing. It is entwined in traditions and baking, decorating the house and wrapping gifts. While living in England, we embraced the novelty of having our children involved in Christmas Nativities at school. Another facet of Christmas was developed when I lived in Mexico where Navidad meant Posadas. Bright, colorful paper lanterns, piñatas, music, friends and plenty of wonderful food welcomed the coming of the Christ child. It was in Mexico that I had my first real Christmas experience. It’s one more layer of what Christmas means to me.
When I was 12 years old, our family moved to Mexico. My three sisters and I had to learn the language by listening, practicing and making mistakes that brought laughter to those with whom we were trying to converse. The first year, I couldn’t speak one word, however, by the second year, I could understand most everything, and by the third year, I could chat away with anyone.
During that third year, our last one in Mexico, my family came to know Elisa’s family. It was quite common in the late ‘70s to hire help and Elisa was a lady who lived nearby and would come by everyday to cook, clean, do laundry—whatever my mother needed. Elisa had a large family and her young husband would find employment as a construction worker, an abañil, the humblest and least paid vocations of the time. One day I visited Elisa’s home, located in a vacant lot very near our large, two story, five bedroom home. I had never seen anything like it. The entire house couldn’t have been bigger than 15’ x 15’. It had dirt floors and the walls and roof were corrugated tin. The family bed was in one corner while the wood burning stove was in another. I noticed some out-of-date advertisement posters from my father’s work used to insulate the interior from those thin metal walls. Despite the difficult conditions, her home was immaculate. The dirt floor was tamped down hard and swept clean, the bed was made, and their one dilapidated dresser held the entire families' clothes; there was no clutter anywhere.
In December of that year, my mother came to us and explained that Elisa’s husband had been out of work for quite some time. Her family was managing because of Elisa’s income as our housekeeper, however, there would be no presents that year from El Niño Dios, the Baby Jesus. Mom asked us if we would be willing to allocate some of our Christmas budget on buying gifts for Elisa’s family. We said we would, but selfishly, I suggested we shop at the discount store. Mom took us shopping and we picked out gifts for each of Elisa’s 6 or 7 children. I picked out a large plastic dump truck and to my eternal shame, I will always remember saying to my mother, “This is good enough for Pedro.” During our shopping spree, my mother also picked out something for Elisa and another small gift for her husband, an act I very much begrudged; after all, Christmas is for children, not adults and buying two more gifts for them was taking away from money that could be spent on me.
We took all our purchases home and wrapped them with bright paper, colorful bows and curly ribbon, carefully putting a tag on each so everyone would get their rightful gift. Mom explained we couldn’t very well ALL go to Elisa’s little home with the presents, so on Christmas Eve, she put the gifts in an ENORMOUS bag and then put some of my father’s shirts on top to hide the vividly covered packages. She drove to Elisa’s home and took the large bag inside, telling Elisa that she needed these things washed before Christmas. At first, Elisa didn’t realize that my mom was simply trying to sneak something past the children who were curiously peeping at their mamá's employer. She just respectfully murmured, “ Sí Señora.” Never once did she complain that it was late afternoon Christmas Eve, or point out that she didn’t have a washing machine and it would take hours to wash everything in that bag by hand. To clue her in, Mom moved away the shirts, allowing Elisa a glimpse at the gifts inside. Confusion gave way to gratitude and then to tears as Elisa cried, “I will have it done for Christmas Señora!” Mom left her there with the "laundry" and later that evening when all the children slept, dropped off a bicycle that my little sister had outgrown for one of Elisa’s daughters.
When my mother returned and shared the story with us, my heart was stricken with remorse. I wanted to go back immediately and buy nicer presents. I wanted to spend all my Christmas money so that Elisa’s children could have a stunning Christmas. Of course, it was everlastingly too late. That is when I learned what Christmas really means--sharing with others, blessing those around us without thought for oneself, losing ourselves in the service of others.
Each year since then, I relive that Christmas. When I begin the yearly foray into innumerable boxes of tinsel and holly, Pedro’s plastic truck reminds me to make sure that spirit of giving from the heart is part of our Christmas traditions.
David O. McKay declared: “True happiness comes only by making others happy—In short, the Christmas spirit is the Christ spirit, that makes our hearts glow in brotherly love and friendship and prompts us to kind deeds of service."
Please know that I am wishing the true spirit of the season to bless your lives. Merry Christmas, dearest ones.
The “Christmas Spirit” is an elusive thing. It is entwined in traditions and baking, decorating the house and wrapping gifts. While living in England, we embraced the novelty of having our children involved in Christmas Nativities at school. Another facet of Christmas was developed when I lived in Mexico where Navidad meant Posadas. Bright, colorful paper lanterns, piñatas, music, friends and plenty of wonderful food welcomed the coming of the Christ child. It was in Mexico that I had my first real Christmas experience. It’s one more layer of what Christmas means to me.
When I was 12 years old, our family moved to Mexico. My three sisters and I had to learn the language by listening, practicing and making mistakes that brought laughter to those with whom we were trying to converse. The first year, I couldn’t speak one word, however, by the second year, I could understand most everything, and by the third year, I could chat away with anyone.
During that third year, our last one in Mexico, my family came to know Elisa’s family. It was quite common in the late ‘70s to hire help and Elisa was a lady who lived nearby and would come by everyday to cook, clean, do laundry—whatever my mother needed. Elisa had a large family and her young husband would find employment as a construction worker, an abañil, the humblest and least paid vocations of the time. One day I visited Elisa’s home, located in a vacant lot very near our large, two story, five bedroom home. I had never seen anything like it. The entire house couldn’t have been bigger than 15’ x 15’. It had dirt floors and the walls and roof were corrugated tin. The family bed was in one corner while the wood burning stove was in another. I noticed some out-of-date advertisement posters from my father’s work used to insulate the interior from those thin metal walls. Despite the difficult conditions, her home was immaculate. The dirt floor was tamped down hard and swept clean, the bed was made, and their one dilapidated dresser held the entire families' clothes; there was no clutter anywhere.
In December of that year, my mother came to us and explained that Elisa’s husband had been out of work for quite some time. Her family was managing because of Elisa’s income as our housekeeper, however, there would be no presents that year from El Niño Dios, the Baby Jesus. Mom asked us if we would be willing to allocate some of our Christmas budget on buying gifts for Elisa’s family. We said we would, but selfishly, I suggested we shop at the discount store. Mom took us shopping and we picked out gifts for each of Elisa’s 6 or 7 children. I picked out a large plastic dump truck and to my eternal shame, I will always remember saying to my mother, “This is good enough for Pedro.” During our shopping spree, my mother also picked out something for Elisa and another small gift for her husband, an act I very much begrudged; after all, Christmas is for children, not adults and buying two more gifts for them was taking away from money that could be spent on me.
We took all our purchases home and wrapped them with bright paper, colorful bows and curly ribbon, carefully putting a tag on each so everyone would get their rightful gift. Mom explained we couldn’t very well ALL go to Elisa’s little home with the presents, so on Christmas Eve, she put the gifts in an ENORMOUS bag and then put some of my father’s shirts on top to hide the vividly covered packages. She drove to Elisa’s home and took the large bag inside, telling Elisa that she needed these things washed before Christmas. At first, Elisa didn’t realize that my mom was simply trying to sneak something past the children who were curiously peeping at their mamá's employer. She just respectfully murmured, “ Sí Señora.” Never once did she complain that it was late afternoon Christmas Eve, or point out that she didn’t have a washing machine and it would take hours to wash everything in that bag by hand. To clue her in, Mom moved away the shirts, allowing Elisa a glimpse at the gifts inside. Confusion gave way to gratitude and then to tears as Elisa cried, “I will have it done for Christmas Señora!” Mom left her there with the "laundry" and later that evening when all the children slept, dropped off a bicycle that my little sister had outgrown for one of Elisa’s daughters.
When my mother returned and shared the story with us, my heart was stricken with remorse. I wanted to go back immediately and buy nicer presents. I wanted to spend all my Christmas money so that Elisa’s children could have a stunning Christmas. Of course, it was everlastingly too late. That is when I learned what Christmas really means--sharing with others, blessing those around us without thought for oneself, losing ourselves in the service of others.
Each year since then, I relive that Christmas. When I begin the yearly foray into innumerable boxes of tinsel and holly, Pedro’s plastic truck reminds me to make sure that spirit of giving from the heart is part of our Christmas traditions.
David O. McKay declared: “True happiness comes only by making others happy—In short, the Christmas spirit is the Christ spirit, that makes our hearts glow in brotherly love and friendship and prompts us to kind deeds of service."
Please know that I am wishing the true spirit of the season to bless your lives. Merry Christmas, dearest ones.
Monday, 14 December 2009
FF, RW,
We've used AFN (American Forces Network) or just local TV for all but the last year and a half of our lives. No TiVo, no DVR, no satelite--none of that big city stuff for our family; just "on" and "off".
HOWEVER, now that we are in Ah-mer-EE-ka, we are so luvin our Dish TV with DVR. We record things and pause the program if we need to visit the loo, then we get to FF through the commercials or RW if we missed a critical moment on iCarly. It's been a life altering experience.
So, on our way to school today, we were listening to the radio station that has been playing Christmas music 24/7 since Thanksgiving. When I turned it on, there was an EPIC tune playing that Hannah really liked. She asked me if I could RW it so we could start it at the beginning. I explained we were listening to the radio, not a CD, therefore I couldn't rewind. This was a concept that took a little time to grasp. She quizzed me on the veracity of my statement. I tried to explain that the radio station played music whether we listened or not. Tragically, I likened it to the TV, where shows continue to play even when we turn it off. Fatal comparison. I was grilled as to WHY on the TV we have command of the FF and RW and yet not on the radio. I had no answer. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm lying...
HOWEVER, now that we are in Ah-mer-EE-ka, we are so luvin our Dish TV with DVR. We record things and pause the program if we need to visit the loo, then we get to FF through the commercials or RW if we missed a critical moment on iCarly. It's been a life altering experience.
So, on our way to school today, we were listening to the radio station that has been playing Christmas music 24/7 since Thanksgiving. When I turned it on, there was an EPIC tune playing that Hannah really liked. She asked me if I could RW it so we could start it at the beginning. I explained we were listening to the radio, not a CD, therefore I couldn't rewind. This was a concept that took a little time to grasp. She quizzed me on the veracity of my statement. I tried to explain that the radio station played music whether we listened or not. Tragically, I likened it to the TV, where shows continue to play even when we turn it off. Fatal comparison. I was grilled as to WHY on the TV we have command of the FF and RW and yet not on the radio. I had no answer. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm lying...
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Hopeless
Hannah came down with a really high temperature...how high you ask? I really don't know because the new thermometer I bought this month to replace the two I lost doesn't work anymore. The Mom-ometer in my hand assessed her at 103 degrees, at least. Motrin and Tylenol weren't helping much and she spent the entire day listlessly on the couch declining all invitations to eat.
Jonathan spent the whole of the night before waking every 2 hours because he was miserable and needed to make sure his mother was kept apprised of the situation.
Michelle had to drive 70 miles away this morning to get her military ID issued, so I stayed home with both kids after taking Logan to school at 7:15.
Hannah was feeling so poorly she wanted me to sit by her, but I HAD to clear up the kitchen before sitting down and then stayed there for hours as I stared at the messy living room and agonized over what a disaster the bedrooms had become. Sometimes, worrying about when I was going to find time to look for some critical paperwork for refinancing the house helped to distract me from those uncomfortable thoughts.
Nearing 11:00 a.m., Jonathan was rallying and I invited him to come in the front so I could mow the lawn. That lasted 10 minutes before I had to take the tear streaked lamb inside and cuddle him. The lawn mower is still waiting for me.
After Michelle returned and laid down with Jonathan for his nap, I started dinner and made another attempt to clear away the debris in the kitchen. Then it was time to pick up Logan. He came home starving. A hot dog, a banana, a Popsicle and several cookies were not enough to tame his hunger before dinner was ready.
When Jonathan awoke, he had wet the bed, so the sheets had to be washed and I didn't remember to make the bed until it was bed time, of course.
Ever have one of those days?
Jonathan spent the whole of the night before waking every 2 hours because he was miserable and needed to make sure his mother was kept apprised of the situation.
Michelle had to drive 70 miles away this morning to get her military ID issued, so I stayed home with both kids after taking Logan to school at 7:15.
Hannah was feeling so poorly she wanted me to sit by her, but I HAD to clear up the kitchen before sitting down and then stayed there for hours as I stared at the messy living room and agonized over what a disaster the bedrooms had become. Sometimes, worrying about when I was going to find time to look for some critical paperwork for refinancing the house helped to distract me from those uncomfortable thoughts.
Nearing 11:00 a.m., Jonathan was rallying and I invited him to come in the front so I could mow the lawn. That lasted 10 minutes before I had to take the tear streaked lamb inside and cuddle him. The lawn mower is still waiting for me.
After Michelle returned and laid down with Jonathan for his nap, I started dinner and made another attempt to clear away the debris in the kitchen. Then it was time to pick up Logan. He came home starving. A hot dog, a banana, a Popsicle and several cookies were not enough to tame his hunger before dinner was ready.
When Jonathan awoke, he had wet the bed, so the sheets had to be washed and I didn't remember to make the bed until it was bed time, of course.
Ever have one of those days?
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Einstein, Oracles and Tickles
Soooooooooo, Logan has reached the magical age of five; supposedly the age Einstein was when he began talking. Anyone who had ever heard Logan's odd speech would tell me not to worry, and would trot out the story about Einstein. However, the Speech teacher at school is itching to work with Logan because he defies "normal" speech abnormalities and she is looking forward to the challenge.
To illustrate: On the way to school the other day, Logan told me that his sacred guru Mrs. Brown, Kinder teacher and Oracle of all Wisdom in the Universe, would give him a tickle if he did something or other (that part was unclear). I repeated back to him what I heard: "Mrs. Brown will give you a tickle?!" That sounded fun. I began to imagine Mrs. Brown giving a friendly tickle when the kids had accomplished something wonderful (or whatever).
"NO. A TICK-oo!" Happy imaginings abruptly ended. I ruminated a bit more on the part of his story I thought I had understood and wondered what the Great and Powerful Mrs. Brown (actually pronounce Mist-oo Bwown, a la Logan) would give that would make him sound so happy and in addition sounded like "tick-oo". As I'm rummaging around in my head, he continues to correct me by repeating "tick-oo" several more times, just louder in order to break through my barrier of ignorance.
Now, I'm not sure I can take credit for translating "tick-oo", because Hannah was in the car with us and she is the best interpretor, bar none, of Logan's language. The point IS, we learned that Mist-oo Bwown would give Stickers to anyone who mumblemumblemumbled (we never got to deciphering that). Eureka! It's like translating parts of the Rosetta Stone. There is so much satisfaction that comes when we have a break through.
To illustrate: On the way to school the other day, Logan told me that his sacred guru Mrs. Brown, Kinder teacher and Oracle of all Wisdom in the Universe, would give him a tickle if he did something or other (that part was unclear). I repeated back to him what I heard: "Mrs. Brown will give you a tickle?!" That sounded fun. I began to imagine Mrs. Brown giving a friendly tickle when the kids had accomplished something wonderful (or whatever).
"NO. A TICK-oo!" Happy imaginings abruptly ended. I ruminated a bit more on the part of his story I thought I had understood and wondered what the Great and Powerful Mrs. Brown (actually pronounce Mist-oo Bwown, a la Logan) would give that would make him sound so happy and in addition sounded like "tick-oo". As I'm rummaging around in my head, he continues to correct me by repeating "tick-oo" several more times, just louder in order to break through my barrier of ignorance.
Now, I'm not sure I can take credit for translating "tick-oo", because Hannah was in the car with us and she is the best interpretor, bar none, of Logan's language. The point IS, we learned that Mist-oo Bwown would give Stickers to anyone who mumblemumblemumbled (we never got to deciphering that). Eureka! It's like translating parts of the Rosetta Stone. There is so much satisfaction that comes when we have a break through.
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Things That Matter Most
Yesterday afternoon was the PTA "Country Fair" fundraiser. There was a silent auction, cake walk, ring toss games, candy hunts in haystacks as well as a chance to guess how many popped corn kernals were in a large jar. Whomever guessed closest would win the popcorn AND the $20 bill tucked inside. Each of my kids paid 50 cents to take a turn, recording their guess before wandering off to find friends, buy snow cones, eat candy and in general, contribute to the chaos. Logan complained several times that he wanted to eat that popcorn, not understanding the whole concept of throwing money away for a good cause. Hannah scored 2 liters of A&W root beer in the ring toss (which then became my responsibility to lug around), Logan's buddy won a cake in the cake walk, but Logan's victories were all rewarded with bite size candy--to his bitter dismay.
Just before the Fair came to a close, the winner of the costume contest was announced (Hannah was insulted when her name wasn't called) followed by the popcorn guessing winner (drum roll please). There, in front of all those parents, children, and teachers, LOGAN'S name was called! His guess was 400 and the actual amount of popped corn was 407.
Logan was lifted up to claim his prize and when the judges handed over the coveted jar, he realized he was finally being given the longed for popcorn. The lid was immediately ripped off as Logan stuffed his mouth with the long denied snack. The $20 was not even on the radar!
We got home that night and celebrated by watching an X-Men cartoon and eating popcorn for dinner. I'll have to take the discarded twenty and save it for another day.
Just before the Fair came to a close, the winner of the costume contest was announced (Hannah was insulted when her name wasn't called) followed by the popcorn guessing winner (drum roll please). There, in front of all those parents, children, and teachers, LOGAN'S name was called! His guess was 400 and the actual amount of popped corn was 407.
Logan was lifted up to claim his prize and when the judges handed over the coveted jar, he realized he was finally being given the longed for popcorn. The lid was immediately ripped off as Logan stuffed his mouth with the long denied snack. The $20 was not even on the radar!
We got home that night and celebrated by watching an X-Men cartoon and eating popcorn for dinner. I'll have to take the discarded twenty and save it for another day.
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