The Road To Grace

Life with Lane and Charis, My Husband, and My God

The Dog and His Boy

IMG_1710.JPGIn my previous posts I’ve revealed that I and my son both suffer from anxiety, so naturally I’ve been doing some research on coping techniques.  I have some experience with brea thing exercises, meditation, and a more Christian approach to mindfulness.  But as a six year old, those things are hard.  In fact, he’s even told me during an attack that he can’t stop and take breaths.  And I get it.  It’s nearly impossible.  So I’ve been researching other things we can do.

So far my best ideas are weighted blankets and dogs.  I can’t afford to buy a weighted blanket yet, but I do, in fact, have a dog.  She’s not especially trained in, well, anything.  Heck, she can’t even sit.  She was abused as a puppy and consequently has some serious issues with taking orders, in that she doesn’t.  She just kind of shuts down when you try to give her a command.  Leash training?  Oh, forget it.  She lays down as if she’s dead.  Now, I’ve had some dogs that were just stubborn (like my Siberian Husky…she was an interesting experiment) but this isn’t stubbornness.  This is fear.  She’s genuinely scared, even after almost a decade of me being her owner, that I’m going to hurt her, and I’ve never once raised a hand to her.  That’s a bit of a tangent, but probably relevant.  So I had the brilliant idea of giving my son the responsibility of feeding and watering the dog.  He also has to help me bathe her and administer her medicines.  In return, the dog gets to sleep with him.

Now, I’m not trying to claim that she’s an emotional support dog by any stretch.  She’s more emotional than him most days.  But I’ve already noticed a few changes.  Where he normally gets upset and defiant when I ask him to do his chores, he gets excited about feeding and bathing the dog.  Bed time is much less of a challenge.  Used to I had to fight with him, sometimes dragging him kicking and screaming to his bed, but now he goes to his room without incident most nights.  (Getting to sleep is still difficult, but we’re getting there.)  He’s even started waking up at night to go to the bathroom, which is something we’ve been working on for years.

Now, I haven’t noticed a huge difference in his behavior at home and school, but we are making progress.  And the dog is happier than she’s been in years.  So, overall I’d say we’re winning.

Note: If you feel that you need an emotional support animal, PLEASE see a medical professional.  Don’t try and get a certification online.  There are so many that legitimately need these animals, and getting a fake certification undermines their need and the public’s acceptance of it.  We don’t have a certification and probably won’t get one, especially not with this dog, but I definitely believe in their potential.  Sorry, I’ll get off my soapbox now.


To My Son’s Future First Grade Teacher

IMG_1526.JPGNo, I’m not going to tell you how special my child is. I get it. I know that you’re doing the best you can with what you have, which isn’t much. I know you asked for extra Kleenex because, well, kids use a ton of Kleenex, and I know you can’t afford to buy them. I also know that you will end up buying them anyway. I know that you stay up at night worrying about your kids. The ones that maybe don’t get the help at home they need? I know they are on your mind at the grocery store. I know my child isn’t your only priority, but I also know that if you could make him your only priority, you would. You would make every child your only priority, if only there were twenty of you. I know all of this without even meeting you, because you’re a teacher. I know that you don’t get paid much, and you’re under a ton of pressure from the administration, from state, and from other parents. I know you could probably be doing something else, anything else, making the same or more, but you choose not to because this is who you are.

What I want to tell you is that I’m here for you. I’m here for conferences. I’m here for action plans to help my son learn better. I’m here for disciplinary actions if necessary. I’m here to go on field trips and to help with field day. I’m here for PTO meetings and I’m here to bring dessert or lunch to school for teachers on teacher appreciation day, or just because. I’m here to help when my son’s anxiety gets the best of him and, as a result, gets the best of you too. See, Lane is my son, and he does have an anxiety disorder, and that makes him special to me. But instead of telling you how special he is, I want you to remember one thing; that I’m here. I’m here to tell you that sending him to time out doesn’t work, but giving him high-fives does. I’m here to tell you that giving him a sticker for his hand instead of his paper is the best way to get his work done. I’m here to let you know that Lane will require more than you can give, and that’s ok. He requires more than I can give, and I have had to come to terms with that. So when you start to doubt whether you can help him or not, remember that I know you are helping him more than it seems. On the surface, he may not look like he’s not getting anything out of what you’re putting in, but I promise he is. I’m here to help you help him. My child isn’t a bad kid, but he’s not an easy kid either. I know you will get weary of him not listening. I know that will bother you. But I also know that together, we can have a good year. So don’t be afraid to text me. I’ll do everything I can.

Sincerely, a parent of a special child

There, I Said It


I didn’t want to have kids.

There, I said it.

Not because I hate kids, or because I wanted all my time to myself, or any other reason you may come up with to throw at me.  (I’ve come to realize that I’m not the only one who decided not to have kids and that there are many, many good reasons for this.  And ultimately, it’s nobody’s business why.)  But here’s why:

When I was 28, I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.  I also have debilitating anxiety.  My main concern when deciding whether or not to have kids was “do I want to pass this mess on to another generation?”  The answer was no.  So when I found out at 29 that I was indeed pregnant, I had a lot to think about.  Obviously, you know my decision.  I was concerned not for myself, but for the mental health of another generation of humans who would likely suffer from the same things that have run in my family for generations.





Take your pick.  I prayed every day that my son wouldn’t inherit any of these things, and yet before he was two I knew that he had.  Over the years, I’ve had people ask me if he was autistic because of his meltdowns that resulted from nothing other than anxiety.  Severe, debilitating anxiety.  (On a side note, if you don’t know for sure someone’s child is autistic, please don’t assume.  Yes, my son has issues.  Asking me if he’s high-functioning or has Asperger’s is hurtful.  Not because I would love him less, but because I’m overwhelmed and you just put another dreadful thought in my mind.)  I would always smile and say he wasn’t diagnosed, because I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t entirely sure what.

This past week, we took him to the counselor to be tested for ADHD, and while there he had what I have come to know was a minor meltdown.  His anxiety was preventing him from doing two basic things: sitting in a chair and clicking a button.  The counselor, whom I’ve known a while, asked caringly, but also frustrated, if he was being treated for his anxiety disorder.  Without being diagnosed, he was diagnosed.

We’ve known for a while he was anxious.  A while back, he was diagnosed with cyclical vomiting syndrome, which is triggered by (among other things) anxiety.  Plus, having it myself, I knew the signs.  What I didn’t understand was just how bad it was.  It was so bad it was skewing the results of the TOVA test.  So, we really don’t know if he’s ADHD or just anxious, though I suspect he’s both.

So here we are, six and a half years after seeing those two pink lines and wondering what on earth I was going to do with a child while treating my disorder, and my son has the same exact issues I had both as a child and now as an adult.  And it’s starting to make sense why I’ve struggled with all of these things for so many years; because I would one day have a son with the same issues who would need my help.  I am so, so glad that I’ve been through this fire and I can help him more than my parents could help me.  Because I know he can’t help it.  And I know that just being there for him and not trying to fix it is the best thing anyone can do.  I love my little boy more than life itself, and it hurts that he struggles.  But it’s also good to know, because now we can have a plan.

Dear Elizabeth

  It’s been seven years today.  The day you went home.  I still remember it like it was yesterday.  I knew when I answered the door at 7 am to find my dad and brother that something wasn’t right.  I suppose it was past time.  Look at all that’s happened since you’ve been gone.  I nearly cry every time I look in my little girl’s eyes because I see you looking back.  You would have treasured her.  I know you’re in a much better place, Elizabeth Emma.  But somehow that doesn’t make the hurt go away.  I thought you had left a hole.  For a long time, that’s how I perceived what was going on in my heart.  But then I came to the realization that you hadn’t left a hole; you left a spot for a baby girl.  My baby girl.

Meet Charis, your great-granddaughter.  She’s beautiful and funny and kind and temperamental.  She gets angry and it’s cute.  She loves her brother and she fights with him constantly.  She’s a conundrum, much like you were in life.  She’s fiercely independent.  I think she gets that from Mom.  Hell, she stole a dozen cookies this week from other kids at school.  Sound familiar?  She drinks my cold coffee like it’s the best thing she’s ever had and she cheers when we get ice cream from Sonic.  I know it’s not Dairy Queen, but hey.  That was our thing.

I know you didn’t have an easy life.  I’m starting to understand as I get older some of the things you struggled with.  I know now that you couldn’t control some of the things you said and did.  And I love you even more for it.  I know you were in turmoil from the minute you got up to the time you went to sleep every day.  I wish I could say it ended with you, but it didn’t.  But I’m getting on with life.  I wake up every day because I have to.  Because I can.  Because I have the most precious children anyone could ask for.  I just wish you were still here to see them.  I wish you were here to talk to.  I wish I could tell you that I understand now.  I wish you could hear Lane singing Jesus Loves Me and watch him beg to play with his Bible app on his Kindle.  How proud he is to carry his Bible to church.  But most of all I wish you could see me.  I wish you could see that it wasn’t just you who grew eagle’s wings that day.  Several years after you passed God gave me another word regarding Isaiah 40:31.  He told me that the eagle was me.  And I’m finally starting to fly.  I have my false starts, my failures to launch.  But I’m closer now to breaking into open sky than I’ve ever been.  And I miss you so much.  I just wish you could see us all.

I love you, Elizabeth Emma Rudd, and I look forward to the day that we will meet again in the shadow of God’s wings.  Love always,


The Truth About Toys

There are several giant retailers who have recently decided that they would no longer specify between “boy” toys and “girl” toys. This has a lot of my friends talking. Some of my liberal friends are happy because this means that we’re beginning to see an end to the tyranny of “society-taught gender roles” by de-emphasizing the types of toys that are appropriate for boys and girls. Some of my conservative friends are upset because now their boys are going to be playing with dolls and having tea parties instead of playing with trucks or trains or being “boys.” (Please note, this is an over-generalization and I know it. I know not all of you fall under either extreme. But face it, you know someone who does.)

Here’s my take on it. This whole argument is irrelevant. Completely. Here’s why.

First of all, studies show that if you put a bunch of kids in a room full of toys, some of which are traditional “boy” toys and some of which are traditional “girl” toys, and you tell them to play with whatever they want, the boys tend to go for the trucks and the girls for the dolls. I don’t have the studies readily available to cite because you can go to any preschool or day care and observe the same phenomenon.

Secondly, it doesn’t matter if your boy plays with dolls or your girl drives trucks. More than likely, they’re still going to identify with their birth gender. My son is all boy. He plays with trucks and trains and he loves to dig in the dirt. He also plays with his sister’s Raggedy Ann doll and sleeps with a stuffed animal that sings to him. He’s all about “boy” stuff – building stuff, fishing, racing cars. You know, the usual. He goes to a day care that has always had a wide assortment of toys for the kids to play with, and they do not tell the kids what they can and cannot play with. I’ve come in to pick him up to find him toting a baby doll around. And I’m unconcerned. And then there’s my daughter who drives Lane’s dump trucks with a doll on her hip. She loves dirt, and she fights Lane for his dump trucks and backhoes. They both watch Bob The Builder and Sophia the First, and Lane has yet to ask me for a Sophia gown. He did ask to put on this tiara I bought for a Halloween costume once, and I let him. No, he’s not asking to wear dresses to school. He laughed at himself in the mirror and it’s now forgotten about. And Charis likes to have her toenails painted, her hair fixed, and she likes to wear cute clothes (not dresses because they get in the way.) And Lord help the person who tells her she can’t have a shoe she picked out. Don’t take girlfriend in the shoe department if you don’t intend to buy her sparkly shoes.

I’m not espousing a particular theory of play here. What I am saying is that kids play. They play with all kinds of toys, and they don’t care if the box pictures a little girl or a little boy. They don’t care if dolls are for girls or trucks are for boys. They don’t know that adults fighting over whether or not we should let them play with certain kinds of toys, and if they did, they would tell us we’re insane and we should just shut up, for Pete’s sake, because we’re interrupting their moving five-part rendition of “Let It Go.” What they do know is that they’re having fun. And yes, they do know that they are boys or they are girls (girls seem to understand this from birth.) I’m not saying that gender confusion doesn’t happen, because it does. And while I have never dealt with it, I have dealt with not being comfortable with the person you are, and it sucks. It hurts, and it makes growing up rough, so I’m not making light of it. But I think it has very little to do with the toys kids play with as toddlers. So, lighten up everyone. And I mean everyone. Let your kids be kids and stop worrying about what they play with or how the aisles are numbered or grouped in the toy department at your given retailer of choice. I think the most important thing you can do for your kid is show that you love them and support them. Embrace who they are, because they already have distinct personalities, and they know if you accept them or not. And read to them. A lot.

I Had Another Post Here

  But it was stupid, pointless, and I didn’t tell you anything about how I really feel.  Let’s start out with the highlights.

  1. I got pooped on.  Twice.  In one day.  The same day my son peed on my OCD stepdad’s couch.
  2. I was supposed to be on vacation this week.  Instead, I came in Monday, spent half the day Tuesday and half the day Wednesday either on the phone, texting, or actually coming in to fix stuff.  In my swimsuit, mind you.  I am petitioning for half a day back for all of this.
  3. I did get to see my aunt and uncle who live in Louisiana, so that was nice.
  4. We decided to sell the house.
  5. Charis got two baths on Saturday because she was standing in the toilet with both feet, splashing toilet water all over my bathroom.  This was also the same day as number 1.
  6. Let’s revisit number 4.  Yes, we decided to sell the house.  No, we have no clue what we’re going to do.  I cried.  I got sick to my stomach.  I went shopping at midnight.  And I cried some more.
  7. The new water park isn’t so bad.  For kids.  Who aren’t joined at the hip to their mother.  I can see where it isn’t so great for adults who don’t have kids.  Or those that do.
  8. We’re going to Galveston tomorrow.  I’m not sure that’s a plus or minus for the week.
  9. The fleas.  Oh em gee the fleas.  If you live in East Texas you know that they are way worse than they’ve been in years, I guess because of all the bloody rain.  We cannot get rid of them.  I spent yesterday either de-fleaing my car or sleeping off a Benadryl.  I think I may have done them both at the same time.
  10. Well, at least I got one awesome thing out of it.  Laneism of the week: “Daddy, spit blueberries at sister!”   “…Do you mean blow raspberries at sister?”  “Yeah!”

So now I’m at my brother’s rent house washing clothes so we can have two washing machines going at once.  I’ve been here since 4 and it’s 10, and the dryer hasn’t stopped for more than two minutes.  And I only had two baskets full.  My son is asleep on the couch after having a nuclear meltdown because the internet slowed down for a second and it caused his Bob the Builder playback to stop for a microsecond.  And I’m tired.  And I’m angry and sad and overwhelmed because I have a 30 page paper due in about ten days.  And I made a B on my quiz this week and God forbid I make a B on a quiz.  Whoever talked me into going back to school needs to  be beat.  Oh wait, I think it was my idea.  I’m also a little miffed because I’m supposed to be funny, dammit, and I’m not.  I can’t even make a toddler standing in a toilet sound funny.  Sigh.  Well, I’m done for now.  Sorry I don’t have any how-to lists or ten best ways to do x.  I’m just not that awesome.

P.S. For some reason, on my edit screen the bullet points are numbered, but they’re lettered when I post it.  I’m sure there’s a way to fix this, but I don’t care enough.  Or maybe mommy just needs a Valium.

P.P.S Now they’re numbered.  Go me.  Sometimes, you just need to take the doors off, I guess.

My Kerosene

I inadvertently met someone who had a daughter named Karis once at the Renaissance Festival. (That’s how you pronounce Charis, in case you were wondering, because I’m sure you were.) It’s not unheard of, but it’s not exactly common either, to find another Charis/Karis out there, so we struck up a conversation. The mother asked me if I ever called her Care Bear as a nickname. The fact that it had never occurred to me to call her that stuck out in my mind, because she’s not a care bear. She’s Kerosene. That’s been her nickname since she was six months old. One of the nursery workers called her that one day and it stuck. And boy, if you knew her, you would understand.  Here are some of the things I can recall saying to her.

“Charis, don’t eat the router, sweetheart.”

“Charis, give your brother back his tractor. And please do not hit him on the head with it.”

“Charis, don’t eat the dishwashing tabs.”

“Charis, don’t drink the furniture polish.”

“Charis, please do not climb on the couch/recliner/slide/insert piece of furniture or playground equipment at least four feet high.”


Ok, I made that last one up. Sort of. But the others are legitimate, and all-too-common. Anything, and I mean anything, goes in her mouth. Dirt, soap, toys, rocks, old animal crackers, books…I could go on for hours. She’s eaten more than one book. Eaten. Destroyed completely. She’s not even 2, folks. What are the “terrible twos” going to look like for her? I’m not sure I’m going to make it.

My mother tells me that I was once a little girl, and that once I acted just like she does. I’m yet to be convinced. Photographic evidence is circumstantial. I don’t get her. She loves dirt probably more than her brother does. She drives his trucks. And she likes sparkly shoes and pedicures. Take her in the shoe department and she will grab the shiniest, most sparkly shoes in there and try to wear them home. Never mind that they’re women’s size 10 with a 3 inch stiletto heel. She watches Bob The Builder and Sofia The First. She does everything her brother does, as fast as he does it and as long as he does it for, with a doll or stuffed animal on her hip. She’s a conundrum for sure. 

I don’t recall Lane being like this. Ever. Especially not at 18 months. Heck, he was still not walking all that well at 18 months. Maybe it just seems worse because I have two of them running around like ewoks on speed, screaming because they’re happy, because they’re mad, because the other one is screaming, or just because they can. Sometimes, I just want to sit down in the floor and cry. But then, they start laughing for no apparent reason, and the fact that the other one is laughing makes them laugh harder, until they can’t breathe and their gut hurts. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything, including the “are you serious?” moments that make me wonder “where is my husband and why isn’t he here?”

Birthday Awesomeness

  So mommy blogs. Yeah. There are like, a million and five mommy blogs, and I doubt mine will be any different. But it’s mine, so you get to deal with it. I have another blog, but it’s mostly geared toward spiritual insights. There may be some crossover, so forgive me if that happens.

Birthday parties are the best and worst things ever. They’re the best because the kids have a stupid amount of fun and end the day so exhausted that bedtime means no argument, which is awesome as a parent. They are also the worst things ever, regardless of whose party it is. If it’s your kid’s party, the reasons for this are so obvious that I don’t even really have to expound upon, but I will briefly anyway, because you need me to annoy you. First of all, there’s the weeks-long prep to undergo. Decide on theme: check. Decide on cake: check. Change mind about theme: check, check. Change cake order: check. Secure venue: check. Search frantically for Bob The Builder invitations because NO ONE has them: check. (Get free thank-you notes from Etsy seller: bonus check.) Order the cutesy birthday shirt that says So-and-so is turning X: check. Get sister matching shirt to avoid fight: check. Order party favors: check. Have heart attack because shirts and party favors arrive THE LAST DAY BEFORE THE PARTY: check. Pick up cake, purchase food, hope no one is allergic to strawberries and cheese: check. Have meltdown before party: triple-check. It goes on for a while so I’ll stop here.

So why is another kid’s party the worst thing ever? Well, let’s take for example the party we went to this weekend. It was a pleasant little gathering with food, cake, fans, and a waterslide (which, I might add, makes the party ten times more fun and the kids at least twice as tired.) We left the house in swimsuits, but forgot earplugs and swim diapers. (Both kids have T-tubes; thankfully only one is still in diapers.) So, already we have a Walmart stop planned and we’re already an hour late. Mark lets me out at the dreaded retail giant and goes to get gas while I shop. So, twenty minutes and an anxiety attack later, we’re on the road again (still late, in case you forgot.) Then, arrive at party. After putting in earplugs, fighting kids, changing diapers, and just general mayhem that goes along with anything water-related, the kids are finally ready to go sliding.

And then, it happens. The inevitable diaper explosion. There’s nothing like diarrhea that’s been washed in pool water. In a swim diaper. That’s just leaked into a swimsuit, and has now worked its way out of said diaper onto the slide. And of course, there are thirty seven-year-old kids in the pool, so the fact that the baby’s diaper leaked on the side of the slide has just been broadcast to the entire neighborhood. It never fails, too, that this is the one time you left the diaper bag with the wipes in the car. Great. Dad is left holding a poopy kid with poop running down both kid and slide while you run through waterslide runoff in dollar store flip flops to get the wipes out of the car. Meanwhile, the other darling angels are flipping out and embarrassed parents are telling their miniature public service announcement vehicles to kindly shut their mouths for Pete’s sake because not everyone wants to hear about poop.

Alright, poop cleaned up, diaper changed, swimsuit back on. We’re geared up for round two, because round one lasted exactly eight minutes. Intermission clocked in at an astounding twenty minute ordeal. Now we have roughly eighteen minutes until cake and “everyone get the hell out,” because we were an hour and fifteen minutes late, remember. Oh, ok, baby decides she’s done with the water. So, I just spent five minutes and three tries to get this suit on you and you don’t even want to swim? Awesome. Can someone please make a little girl swimsuit that’s easy to put on? No, that’s a stupid question, because women’s suits are hard enough to get on, and I am pretty certain that fact has nothing to do with the size of my behind.

Let’s focus on big brother for a minute. First of all, he’s four, and all the other kids are at least seven. (This is a one-year-old’s party, FYI.) So he’s the smallest, the slowest, and the most easily injured. Do the other kids care? Nope. Will they walk over him if he’s too slow climbing the ladder to the top of the slide? Yep. I don’t understand it. Kids that normally behave rationally on a playground turn into mindless sugar monsters when water is involved. They do stupid things. They forget the playground rules of engagement. Pushing someone out of the way on a regular slide is a blatant violation of the playground ethos, but it’s fair game if water is involved. Also, it’s now acceptable to slide on top of someone, even if that means crashing into their head, kicking them in the back, or otherwise breaking them in half. What am I witnessing? I ask myself. Are the other parents concerned? Maybe I’m being the helicopter mom? But I’m a former lifeguard, I remind myself. If I think some water-bound activity is unsafe, it probably is, because, after all, I’m a trained professional. Never mind that my certification expired a decade ago. Ok, so now what do I do? Am I that mom that calls the other moms out? Do I let it go? Or do I just tell the host the baby is sick and we have to leave, dragging a screaming four-year-old along with me? Luckily for me, the party ended before I had to make a decision. (That didn’t change the screaming four-year-old part.)

Essential insight: Parties are the best thing in the world for kids because they have a ton of fun, but they are the worst thing in the world for parents because they consist of multiple breakdown-worthy events. At least I had two tired kiddos after the fact and I got to take a nap with my baby girl. Oh, wait, no I didn’t, because when she’s sleep-deprived she turns into a raving lunatic and runs around squealing.


Well I took an apparently stupidly long hiatus from this blog, but I think I’m going to pick it up again.  Let’s see, where are we now?  Well, I had another kid.  Yep.  Lane has a sister named Charis (pronounced like Harris with a K.)  So Lane is three now, and he’s talking all.the.time.  He moved up to another room, and within a week his vocabulary took off.  We’re still not potty trained, but we’re working on it.  Yesterday we went to see a friend of ours (I’m friends with mommy, Lane is friends with little boy), and afterwards went to a mostly impromptu birthday party for another mommy/Lane friend.  His social skills are developing, but sometimes I worry that he’s a little bit of a loner.  (Like that would be unusual.)  He doesn’t mind playing with other kids, but he’s going to do his own thing, and if other kids want to play with him, fine.  We had our first bully incident at the party.  Two older boys, neither of them friends of ours, were pushing, hitting, and calling Lane names in the bounce house.  I was so mad that it took every ounce of restraint not to find their mothers and beat them.  I didn’t let him leave my side for the rest of the party.  But it was a good teachable moment.  Lane and I talked about it later, and he said that it hurt him and made him sad.  So I told him that’s why we don’t do that to other people.  I made sure to tell him that his momma loves him and that, despite what mean little boys tell him, he is not a baby and he is a very sweet boy.  It just breaks my heart that my three year old has to worry about being bullied.  THREE YEAR OLD.

Ok, I’m off my soapobx for now.  Charis is 9 months now and is a doll.  She’s doing very well.  She’s very mobile and will be walking by Christmas.  She’s already earned the nicknames Kerosene and Meddlesome Mattie (which was my nickname at that age as well) because she goes non-stop and gets into everything.  She’d rather meddle than play with her toys.  Because, you know she doesn’t have any toys to play with.  Nope.  None.  Some days Charis looks just like my grandmother Elizabeth, and other days she looks just like my Mamaw Betty.  So it’s been challenging, because I miss both of them very much.  Sometimes I cry when I look at her.  I try to hold it back because I don’t want her thinking I’m crying because of her.  But it’s hard.

Incidentally, September 29 came and went yet another year.  It was really hard this year, and I don’t know why.  Some years I do ok, but this year was different.  I guess I’ll never really have my birthday all to myself again.  And I guess that’s ok.

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