FailMom

I have a plan.  It’s a good plan.  It revolves around integrity and health and conscious living.  Around breathing in and out with ease and following through with my intentions and promises.  Around being present and joyous with my kids.  The keystone of this plan is a good night sleep… followed by another and another, etc.  It is the necessary foundation for a life well lived, and I am all in!!  Easy, right?

Like all of my best made plans, it is entitled FUBAR.  Each plan (or FUBAR) is followed by a brief word or two plus any necessary digits in order to distinguish it from the others… so that when I am looking for things to beat myself up about, I can easily access the appropriate memory to cause the greatest potential data for shame.  This plan is entitled FUBAR Good Night Sleep 207:

To bed @ 12:30am after hours of Valentine Day card and donut making, the clean up of which was in mom’s contract… apparently.  I gathered this because nobody else was jumping to do it.  In fact, nobody else even seemed to notice that it needed to be done or that they had any potential use value at all.  Gulliver was overtired and over sugared and completely self absorbed.  Kleo was pleasant bless her heart, but flitting.  Hubby was reading about crop circles online.  I’m not sure much more needs to be said about that to invoke the emotion I was feeling.  After cleaning the necessities and decompressing, it was way past when I swore I would go to bed.  Straight out of the box I had sabotaged myself.  Then at 1:23am, just as I had drifted off, Gulliver came down stairs… his penis itched and his dad who was sleeping next to him in his bed suggested he go downstairs and wake me up to help him.

First, I seethed over and then expunged the story that it made no sense for the grown-up who actually has a penis to send the small boy to the person who has never had to personally deal with penis itching issues.  When that judgement did nothing to help my son, I tried with all my might to pretend that having him simply lay next to me was enough to heal him.  After which I had no choice but to accept that I was being cruel – asking him to suffer because I was too lazy to get up and help him.

So I begrudgingly got up and tried to find something to stop the itching.  I considered poison oak medicine, but realized that it only made sense in my befuddled logic because it was close at hand and I could be back in bed the soonest if I resorted to it.  Again, a voice suggested that I have empathy and put my petty need for rest aside.  I found some anti monkey butt in the medicine cabinet that I had bought purely for the name, right?!  It did that powder/moisture absorption thing which would have been super useful had he had symptoms requiring moisture absorption.  We went back to bed, again, me knowing that by selfishly falling short of rock star mom, I was only dooming myself to get up again.  Which is what happened 5 minutes later.

This time, I searched for and found jock itch cream.  I was pretty sure just by the description that it fit his symptoms.  The tube was almost empty (troubling only because that meant ‘someone’ had been using it extensively which grosses me out).  I tried to read what it was for on the side of the bent up crinkled tube, and I only saw the word “balls”… nothing about putting it on the penis.  REALLY?!  I made an executive decision that the word jock really should include the entire region and slathered it on him.  We went back to bed with him whimpering.  Had it been any other part of his body, I would have held it or rubbed it or soothed it in some way.  I took a quick glance at my internal contract, realized that his entire body was my responsibility, realized that I loved all of him equally, and spent the rest of the night listening to him breathing peacefully while I lightly dozed… cupping his junk in my hand.

The next morning he was rested and lovely, and I had successfully completed plan FUBAR Good Night Sleep 207.

At the mere age of 10, my daughter is occasionally losing her shit.  Not that she has been consistently prodigal up until this point.  Quite the opposite, she has been a quintessential child, imbued with all the emotional flavors of a flourishing, self absorbed, evolving being trying to balance self preservation, desire, and empathy in a reality that is increasingly complicated.  The recent differences?  First, her emotions are unlimited in scope, quicker to flare up, slower to dissipate, intent on blaming others, and over reasons of increased pettiness.  Second, she now has a time tested valid excuse for her outbursts that no one can deny.  Hormones.  Hormones… dang… hormones.

I saw the boobs coming and have been able to breath my way through bra shopping.  I saw the pubic hair coming and, although thrown off my game by its earlier than expected arrival, I have handled it gracefully and without incident or unnecessarily emboldened significance.  We have discussed what happens when a girl gets her period with an ease and comfort level that I was never on the receiving side of and thus ended up stumbling through.  Now Kleo and I laugh about my mishaps and it fortifies her with the confidence to show me up when she faces the inevitable.  I thought I had the basics of prepuberty pretty much covered and checked off the list.  How did I forget about the hormones?

I think that it’s because when I was young and in the middle of having my free will molested by hormonal surges, I wasn’t given the words to name it.  My choices were to either surmise that I was going crazy, or justify my fading sanity by believing my judgemental stories of the ineptitude of the muggles around me.  I chose the latter and thus, having glossed over my own part in my prepubertal dramas, was ill prepared for recognizing and empathizing with my daughter’s.

Having stepped out of the house on Sunday for all of 3 minutes, I heard discontent building within its walls.  By the time I got back inside, her father had already made demands of her that I was hoping he’d regret and retract, and Kleo had already slammed her bedroom door and begun her revisionist history of what had transpired.  The bottom rack of the dishwasher had rolled onto the floor.  Big fucking deal… right?  It hadn’t lopped off anyone’s foot.  I mean, in the larger picture, I didn’t see the need to give a shit let alone add judgment or blame to the event.  But she was the last one who touched it and most likely left it precariously unbalanced.  And, being altruistically beneficent, her father felt the need to point this out to her.  And she felt the need to defend her self worth and competence.  And he felt the need to be spoken to in a tone several decibels lower and free of rage.  And she felt the need to scream louder.  And he felt the need to make her go away.

Talking to him first, his demands were clear.  She needed to come to him and apologize for yelling at him and then she could resume her run of the house.  I pointed out that she was 10 and he was 41 and that perhaps, considering that he was the obvious role model for healthy communication and dialogue, it made more sense for him to model his desires by going to her.  Just a thought…

When I got to her room, she was on her bed sobbing.  I sat down next to her and in my best loving and empathetic motherly voice, asked her what was wrong.  She briskly turned her head toward me and, with piercing eyes filled with venom and a vocal cadence that is not appropriate until at least 16 and only if your name is Heather, said briskly “WHAT’S WRONG IS THAT DAD IS BEING A COMPLETE BITCH!!”

I was totally taken aback.  Kleo has always chosen her rare insults carefully and used unseemly words with a professional level of accuracy.  Whenever she has used words such as “fuck” and “shit,” I have always thought “yea… that’s perfectly descriptive… couldn’t have expressed it better myself.”  Her use of the word “bitch” to describe her emotional interpretation of her father’s actions was no different, yet so much more caustic than I was prepared to hold.  I believe my unhelpful and prudish reaction was “KLEO!” in a shocked voice.  To which she continued “WELL IT’S TRUE.  HE’S BEING A COMPLETE BITCH AND I WANT TO SLAP HIM ACROSS THE FACE!!”

I could have done so much in that moment.  I could have scolded her for her evil profanity, agreeing to come back when she was calmer.  I could have asked her to explain in more descriptive and clearer words what occurred.  I could have demonstrated that clarity, illuminating to her why her choice of that particular catchy phrase wasn’t appropriate and was not going to help her build her case against him, which she was clearly attached to presenting.  I could have broken down the “me vs. him” paradigm, pontificated that misunderstandings happen and it’s better to say “dad… you really hurt my feelings.”  I could have explained how, when we keep calm and speak our needs, we are heard and validated more than when we rage and call people names.  I could have bumbled through Non Violent Communication and said “You sound angry.  So you have a need for love and honesty, and being blamed for something you didn’t do makes you sad and frustrated?”  Shit, I could have spanked her insolent little ass and at least someone in the mid west would have let me keep the title of “mother.”  But before any of these options could marinate long enough to be in the running, I fucked up and blew my lines.

In the midst of all these parentally sanctioned options, one of which I’m sure was my lines, my gaping mouth shut and I turned my head away and tried in vain to hold back the laughter.  It wasn’t containable… my mouth refused to portray somber, and as the smile burst, so did the noise.  It was a more of a barely contained belly laugh than a minor giggle… and it wouldn’t stop.  It was exactly like a blooper reel from a movie or sit com.  I expected someone to yell “cut!” and for Kleo to break out of character and start laughing too.  Why was she still in character?  Didn’t she see that I had messed up my lines and we were gonna have to redo the scene?  She just glared at me… the tables were turned and now she was the one holding the indignant shock.  I looked at her and said through my inability to stop laughing “I’m sorry… it’s just… wow…”  hoping she would say “I know… right?!”  But instead, as if she were creating the illusion of the sky growing darker and the lightning cracking, she pointed a finger at her door and said “GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!”

Knowing that I had failed but being unable to do anything about it, I appreciated that she was making the best decision for both of us, hung my head in shame, and walked off stage.

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That was only part 1.  Emotions that big are the organic brain children of larger than life stories.  So I knew that, after I pulled myself together and got back in character, I was going to hear the part about what said “BITCH” did to earn his highfalutin and flattering title.  According to Bitch, he merely suggested that carelessness could be avoided with presence.  I can only assume his suggestion was tinged with frustration and a particularly passive aggressive sigh, because according to Kleo’s new and advanced hormone boosted alter ego with its guaranteed accuracy within +/- .015%, he said to her “I have no room for a clumsy person in my family!!”

Hormonal translations are about as accurate as Biblical ones.  Actually, I take that back… in some ways they are legitimately spot-on.  It’s true that hormonal translations of actual words fall short of any reasonable aptitude test.  But that is because hormonal interpretations of events ingeniously bypass the triviality of words and cut right to their significance.  As he spoke, she heard “I am frustrated because this is an avoidable inconvenience that is all your fault and had you paid attention, you would have known better, but now you deserve this big stinky handful of shame.”  Pretty bitchy, right?  Dang.  To which she replied by summoning all of her defensive troops to build a resolute and securely fortified and unbreakable line of defense.  She was self-righteously certain that it had nothing to do with her… how could a mere child of 10 be responsible for the unpredictable movings about of the universe?

Here I was, in the middle of a story about two people who thought that they were on opposite teams.  But from my vantage point I could clearly see that they were on the same team.  Together with finely tuned symbiosis, they had created a huge, steaming pile of shit.  And instead of looking at it impressively and giving each other high 5’s over a job well done, they went to their separate corners and each looked toward me to clean it up.

The only 2 things I knew for certain were that I didn’t fucking care that the dishwasher rack rolled off the open door, and that eventually, the hormone surge would pass and a reasonable person would re-enter my daughter’s body, at which time, she would facilely acknowledge that her dad is not in fact a bitch and that perhaps… God forbid… she was being a bit dramatic.  I knew the time would present itself for my fairytale conclusion if i was just patient.  And it did… 2 hours later, we were joking around and, with love in her heart, she called me an idiot.  It’s true… I was touched.  I looked at  her and said “I’ll make you a deal… I’ll take the idiot title and wear it proudly if you take back the bitch pseudonym and refer to the man who loves you and makes your world go round as ‘Dad.’  Deal?”  “Deal” she said, and just like that, we had survived another hormone tsunami.

I live in Nevada County, CA.  It is home to a very diverse group of white people.  We have every flavor, shape, and politically opinionated genre of white people this side of Germany.  My personal favorite… my people… are those living on the hippie continuum.  From the Sikhs to the 3rd generation pot growers, in the form of a smile and an extra 3 seconds of eye contact beyond the culturally allotted time considered commodious, you can always find a reminder that the here and now are good.

So… scene set… I had the best Nevada County moment EVER yesterday.  For the sake of common comprehension, I am tempted to say I was at a restaurant, but that would invoke an inaccurate image.  Picture a shack the size of 3 Westphalias nose to butt, ½ of which poses as a kitchen and the other ½ of which houses 4 nondescript tables and a cat that, like all cats, baits you to pet it and then bites you, leaving you wondering what idiot thinks it’s a good idea to continue to feed it.

The condiments on the table best define the clientele…  Braggs, nutritional yeast, cocao powder, agave nectar, and hot sauce benefiting a social justice non-profit.  The “kitchen” is the artist studio for three 20 something boys who, believe it or not, are culinary geniuses.  It could be the loud hip hop or the unashamed conversations, or perhaps it’s the unsanitary conditions exemplified by the presence of the maniacal cat, but dang the food is consistently yummy.

The grimy visage of the place is excellent muggle repellent, and so only a small percentage of our counties stunning diversity frequent it.  That is why I wasn’t taken aback by the 4 year old clean eyed grimy skinned boy covered in dirt rolled in dirt smeared with dirt with a side of dirt that walked barefoot through the door and sat himself down at our table as comfortably as if it were his mother’s womb.  Not yet being old enough to have personalized the unnecessary story that he required explanation, he started spraying Braggs and sprinkling chocolate from the communal condiments onto his sticky hands and licking them, wrist to finger tips, while staring at us.  After welcoming him to his own space, my 7 year old son Gulliver and I continued our conversation about the day’s drama.

The following evening my 10 year old daughter Kleo and 4 of her classmates were at our house making soap to “sell” in their classroom’s reenactment of an apothecary.   After an evening of productivity punctuated by bouts of healthy childhood procrastination, the oatmeal soaps infused with lavender, rosemary, frankincense, and myrrh were left in a wicker basket on the middle of the dining room table to be taken to school in the morning.  They were charming and functional… really… a Waldorf parent would have been particularly impressed and perhaps a bit confused, considering that these kids could also read.  Anyway, the first words out of my daughter’s mouth that morning had been “mom… where’s the soap”… to which I replied confidently “in the basket on the table”… to which she replied condescendingly though not yet alarmed “noooa… it’s not!”  After calling her classmates and asking if any of them had taken the soap home, we began the fruitless task of looking for clues.

We each multi-tasked… she looked for clues while freaking the fuck out and referring to life as unacceptable and the tragedy as categorically paramount to Armageddon.  Oh… and if you take into account that fact that she blamed me for it, she was actually multi-tasking at a very high level.  I was reasonably sure that I hadn’t done my signature move of putting them in a safe place so I would definitely remember where… if I didn’t predictably forget.  The basket was still on the table exactly as it had been the night before… same angle and distance from the edge.  What the fuck!!  I looked for evidence of foul play or daft parenting while at the same time spending most of my energy wondering how I was going to fulfill my ill casted role of effectively soothing Kleo… effectively being the rigged agenda item.

There were no little shards of soap anywhere… the floor and table were clean… well… not actually clean, but soap free.  I came to the only possible conclusion… the dog ate the soap.  The uncoordinated dog carefully and without slobbering or dribbling ate 40 bars of soap out of the basket on the table.  She looked guilty enough as she hung her head and slunk out of the room.  This meant that either she ate the soap, or she knew we were blaming her for our discontented frantic morning and she felt shame because her heart is big and her brain is small.  I settled on admonishing the dog, mostly for my daughter’s pain and her temporary amnesia that she actually loved me, and then I threw money at the problem.  I saved my daughter’s life by stopping at the health food store and spending $40 on local soap, handmade by the clientele of the “restaurant” I was now sitting in with my new friend, the sparkly eyed grungy boy with the sticky hands.

In order to accurately explain the complexity of this entire scene to my new wide eyed friend and it’s implications for the the success or failure of my motherhood, I settled on the Cliff Note “our dog ate soap.”  Clear enough I thought.  Which is why I didn’t understand his momentarily perplexed look, evident even though the dirt on his face was now obscured by 4 different colored and textured condiments. Without blinking or leaving the present at all, my new favorite cherub asked, “what’s soap?”  At which point I burst out laughing in spite of my role and rank.  Doubled over out of breath head thrown back gawking unabashed laughter at his expense.  Eventually I convinced myself that it mattered that I was the adult at the table and, with an air of universal motherhood, explained the point and use of soap as though it were a valid question.  And although he seemed to grasp the concept, it was obvious that I could not accurately translate its value.  Afterwards, I tried to tell myself that it was wrong to laugh at an innocent little kid, but I didn’t believe me.

When my daughter was born, she was perfect.  Unblemished, untainted, the perfect canvas for a parent with good intentions and no baggage… or at least reasonably little and a pink polka dotted closet to neatly store it in.  I was certain that I was that parent… picked because of my resume which clearly portrayed the high level of competence that I would devote to her every breath.  I loved every second of being pregnant.  I ate the healthiest organic vegan sugar free meals and exercised every day.  When she kicked and squirmed and hiccuped, my world was complete.  If I had been a Disney cartoon, bluebirds would have been singing on my shoulder… and in retrospect, that should have been the first foreboding sign.  I’m pretty sure that the average time those fucking birds are in any Disney story is about 5 minutes, and that their sole function is to align you with the high hopes of the protagonist so that when the wall of doom hits her, your empathy feels personal.

I attribute my hands down fantastic pregnancy to the prenatal Kundalini yoga classes I attended 3 days a week; filled with other shiny happy optimistic pregnant women and taught by a world renowned guru.  She told the class on numerous occasions that fairies lived inside stuffed animals and came out when they were sleeping or otherwise distracted.  She also suggested that the best parenting gift we could bestow our soon to be little mirrors was to examine our baggage and unpack it before the special day.  And so I did.

And then my flawless little being took her first breaths and I realized that my world renowned, sage guru was full of shit.  Okay… so the part about the fairies in the stuffed animals should have given it away, right?!  But in my overwhelmed sleep deprived new role as the mother of perfection, it became very obvious very quickly that I had no idea what my baggage was.  I’d wake up in the morning and there was another bag, packed carelessly with my name Sharpied all over it.  Turns out, until you vacate the center of your own universe and begin rotating around a child, you have no idea what your baggage is… or at least I didn’t.  Years later I ran into Ms. Guru and asked her to please stop saying that… unless she meant it as a sick joke… in which case I approved.

We lived in West Hollywood in a duplex at the apex where the queens and the cool young waitstaff (ie. actors and musicians) overlapped.  Our dearest friends in the neighborhood represented both upstanding interest groups… queer industry hopefuls.  Some were even living the dream already.  When Kleo was born, our friend Lard, who was fabulous from the ground up, came over to poke her inquisitively and deliver the obligatory and genuinely thoughtful baby gift.  He handed me the pinkest cutest hippest largest piggy bank I had ever seen.  It was the campiest most perfect color pink and looked more Anime than gender specific.  I smiled and thanked him for the “piggy bank” and he replied in all seriousness, “oh no honey… it’s a therapy jar.”

Upon hearing the best sentence ever, I stared at him speechlessly.  In a turn of a phrase, he had transitioned from a well intended friend to a life coach.  He told me that whenever I did anything fucked up or regrettable or caused unintended temporary or permanent damage, I was to put an appropriate sum in the therapy jar for her future recovery.  It was a tool to use in the place of guilt.  Whenever I was sure I had ruined her life, instead of flogging myself over and over and trying to repair the damages myself, I just simply had to drop money in the top of the pig and a professional of her choosing would smooth it all out in the end.

He was serious, and I was amused.  Not that I didn’t think it was brilliant… I just had no intention of ever fucking up.  And even if I did, Jews don’t relinquish guilt that easily.  My amusement turned to resignation when Kleo was 2 weeks old.  I cut the tip of her thumb off while trying to trim her already diva like nails.  Whoever is in charge of this whole sticky messy thing called life had put me in charge of perfection and I had tainted it.  She was wailing, I was wailing, pedestals where falling.  I was saying shit like “I ruined her” and “I’m a terrible mother.”  My partner, sure that his words of comfort would be smashed with a proverbial bat and shoved up his ass, bravely handed me the therapy jar, and the reality of motherhood sunk in.

Welcome to Failmom 2.0.  About 2 years ago I made the decision to flog myself in a public forum.  At the time, it made sense to consciously choose the tools of my lashing rather than wait ‘til it they inevitably chose me.  I’ve done that waiting around and reacting as shit flies toward me thing before, and it is always way to enjoyable to those slinging it.  Choosing a modicum of pride sometimes means dropping the bomb on oneself.  Like all misguided egos, mine preferred to see myself striding into battle to defend my right to suck on my own 2 feet, as opposed to simply reacting to it’s disclosure.

So one night uber late when I should have been deeply sleeping so that my chances of sucking less the following day were marginally higher,  I started Failmom.  I wrote a manifesto that strove to essentially vomit the contents of my inner self deprecation onto a virtual carpet and, instead of cleaning it up before the OCD neighbors could see, left it there on purpose in all it’s repulsive glory.  My dedication to this mission lasted all of 2 entries because, well, that’s what I do.  Completion is not my greatest asset for no other reason than that I am infinitely distractable.  I’m all about the journey of life and often get so wrapped up in the moment that I forget I was headed for a destination.  Perhaps it’s quirky and innocent and representative of a healthy person deeply engaged with presence, or perhaps it’s because you can never fail in the mist of a journey, but missed goals can easily leave you naked and shamed.  This is for my children to judge in therapy years from now as they try to dissect the ways in which they thrived in spite of me.  I’d like to blame it on the fast pace and flexible nature of professional motherhood, but the truth is that this particular piece of luggage was packed long before the little bugger’s inceptions.  Kids don’t cause your dysfunctions and eccentricities, they just paint them bright colors and them set them on fire and point.

But just because my blogging ceased, the term Fail Mom and the actions that invoke it’s incarnation have not even hiccuped.  I continue to embody the title Fail Mom every day, which makes me think that, regardless of my aversion to destinations, one has chosen me.  And because I have transitioned from laughing at my meshuggah glory merely in retrospect to enjoying it’s comic upheaval as it unfolds, I figured perhaps others might too.  To follow will be preponderances of stories, inquisitions, and  postulations regarding parenthood:  What do you do when you have read all the parenting manuals and are prepared in your heart of hearts to be perfect, but end up acting human instead?

I have a “need” to be a better mom.  Whenever my kids tell me that they “NEEEEEEEED” something purchasable or yummy or oozing with cultural glitter, we review the basic human needs:  food, water, shelter, love.  Then we recite the definition of the word “want,” and if they are lucky I skip the part about children working in factories in China or starving while bombs drop all around them in Afghanistan.  So do I really “NEEEEEEED” to be a better mom?  Where does that need fall on the continuum between a mani/pedi and food?  I often ask myself if there is a ceiling at which I could achieve such a marvelous impeccable superb state of momhood that I would be irreproachable in the eyes of my inner martyr.  I’d like to say yes, but I believe my mission statement invoked a spirit of authenticity.

Even this blog has ironically already been a detriment to my “NEEEEEED.”  I have this ongoing but yet to be realized aspiration to wake up with the sunrise in the morning and set my intention for the day.  Go for a walk, write, do yoga… something that says ‘calm,’ ‘positive, ‘ ‘patient,’ and ‘nonreactive.’  Somewhere between incorrectly and astutely, I am convinced that this morning ritual is the keystone to my sanity and therefore to the well being of my children.  Not that it isn’t possible for their hopes and dreams to come true otherwise, but it would be nice if it didn’t happen in spite of me. But waking up with the sun requires that I get enough sleep so that by 5:30 or 6:00am, getting out of bed, although hard, isn’t akin to water boarding.  Yet at 1:30am this morning, I was still eating fudge and writing my introductory manifesto.  I am not being the change I want to see in the world… but mmmmmmm, fudge.

Two cherubic little beings, ages 4 1/2 and 8, call me “Mom.”  Wow… My life rocks… that is until my inner Incompetent Hero “Fail Mom,” puts on her cape of ignoramus, and I am left scrounging for spare change to put in their therapy jar for future use.

As a mother, whenever I do exactly the opposite of what I “should” have done (which is daily), the first words that pop into my head are “Fail Mom.” It’s funny… right?  I mean, other than being incredibly self-critical and unforgiving, it is also my attempt at adding humor and thus empathy to my short comings… sort of like the Yin and Yang of finding the farcicality in flogging myself… is that so wrong?

If you have never been to failblog.org or explored their videos on youtube, I encourage you to do so.  Besides being hysterical, they are the stripped down humanity in our collective attempt to strive for everything from pride in the shiniest leading edge of our egos, to just getting from point A to point B without provoking 15 minutes of unwanted fame.  Unfortunately or otherwise, in people’s attempts to evolve an impressive sense of self-worth or merely survive, they often end up with a nutritious dose of perspective instead.  Here’s some honesty:  It is liberating to joyfully participate in the recreational viewing of the humility of others, while knowing full well that the only difference between them and you is that your frailty has yet to be enjoyed by millions of strangers… not because you are irreproachable or unblemished, but because technology has not yet ensnared you.  None the less, who doesn’t embrace an opportunity to ennoble themselves while laughing both with and at someone other than themselves for a brief reprieve.  I am of course talking about minor train wrecks as opposed to tragedies for which I have nothing but grounded empathy.

“Fail Game,” “Fail News,” “Fail Drunk,” “Fail Door,” etc… I have done everything I have ever judged as a mother… I am “Fail Mom.”

Being a mother is unreasonably Herculean.  I have decided that I “should” authentically document my self-inflicted chaos.  I have no idea why.  So this is my mission statement:  Providing a forum for moms to participate in the divine American Dream:  Elevating thyself at the expense of others.  It’s sarcastic… but not really.  Go on… feel blessed…