Perhaps He Needs Some Woolen Socks?

"Mom," said Caroline as we drove along -- truly, there's no place like the car for great discussions -- "I think the earth must really be shaped like a teardrop. Because Mt. Everest is so, so tall. It's, like, a spiky point, and the earth is a ball."

"Hmmm," said I. "You are quite right that Mt. Everest is very tall. But it's not quite tall enough to change the shape of the earth."

Pause.

"Ouchies for Jesus!" she burst out compassionately. "Those mountains are so big and sharp, they must hurt His feet when He rests them there. Ouchies! And so COLD!"

Motherhood means getting a front row seat to stuff like this on a near-daily basis. I still pinch myself sometimes, 'cause I'm pretty sure I got a golden ticket.

Bits and Pieces

Whew. Busy week. Planning, hosting, shopping, driving ... it all makes for a thin margin of time to write.

But, still plugging along with Project Life, I have been taking pictures! Here are a few bits and pieces of life this week:

1. The girls spent a couple hours one afternoon making an amusement park out of cardboard boxes for their dolls. Caroline's doll is all strapped in with a duct tape seatbelt and crash helmet here (which she definitely needed). Just one more reason to nominate the inventor of duct tape for a Nobel prize.

2. As you know, we love listening to audiobooks in the car. Our latest "read" is The Magician's Elephantwhich I frankly enjoyed much more as an audiobook (the narrator is faaaaabulous, dahling) than as a read-aloud. And I say that as a Kate DiCamillo fan. I just didn't love the book the way I have others of hers ... but the audiobook won me over.

3. We attended a wedding reception for our friends Joseph and Joanna (yup, Joe and Jo!) on Sunday afternoon. Caroline is always eager to be photographed with the bride. Maybe she's hoping the romantic aura will rub off on her? That girl seriously scares me sometimes with her eight boyfriends (all older and sweetly disinterested in her none-too-subtle designs on them). 

4. I've been purchasing books/curriculum and digging reusables out of boxes like a crazy woman. And, this week we attended orientation for our Classical Conversations group. I came away both exhilarated ... and overwhelmed. The mass of STUFF to organize, file, laminate, put in page protectors, review with the children, and remember each week is not for the faint of heart, my friends. And, my inner introvert wanted to curl up among the couch cushions and suck her thumb, as is typical when we're in large groups and the Inner Extrovert has to drive for a while. That said, I'm so impressed by the other mamas involved in this group. They're kind, reassuring, and apparently quite productive.

5. I'd promised Ashley, my 11-year-old niece, that I'd show her how to make a duct tape wallet way back in June. Well, with five days left before school starts for her, we got it done! Then she and her sister and cousins (my girls) had a duct tape crafting extravaganza. See point #1 concerning  the Nobel Prize.

Happy Weekending, everyone! 

P.S. Fellow Texans, this is the weekend to shop for school supplies tax-free. Even if you homeschool like us, you still need a few pencils and markers on hand, n'est-ce pas? 

Look Back at Me

Our one car was in the shop today. This meant that after weeks of nearly ceaseless activity, we had a day of going absolutely nowhere beyond the neighborhood pool. This was quite wonderful, really -- enforced, temporary withdrawal from the outside world. And two things happened as a result:

1. Ian -- almost eleven years old -- had to ride his bike to swim team practice. This involves a 1.5 mile ride each way, crossing a major street. Daddy practiced the route with him the night before, I escorted him to the intersection and saw him safely across on the journey out, and he called me on his cell phone when arriving at and leaving the pool. (Yes, he has a bare-bones cell phone. It became a necessity when we let our land line go.) 

He was apprehensive. So was I, although I didn't say so. But he did it. And tomorrow will be easier. In a summer of milestones, we've made another crossing. Hooray!

2. Walking home from the pool like little frying ants under the sun's determined glare, Caroline asked me to carry her. Now, she's five. A bit old to be toted like a baby, don't you think? A sardonic "You've got legs!" was on the tip of my tongue.

But I leaned down, scooped her up, and told her how far I could carry her. "Okay, Mama," she agreed. She wrapped her damp arms around my neck, laid her bleach-blonde head on my shoulder, and gently kissed it. And just for a moment, on the same day that one child took a leap forward, another one made time stand still.

Was it the last time I'll carry her like that -- even just for fifty yards? That's the bittersweetness of watching them grow and letting them go -- while some milestones arrive with great fanfare, many simply whisper their way in and out, so that we only know in retrospect that that moment -- photographed if we're lucky, but more likely not -- was a goodbye. And we wave at their disappearing smoke trail, knowing that their future looks too bright for them to ever think of looking back.

It's Been One Year

One year, that is, since our very close call. One full year since the curtain drew back a bit to show us just how thin is the line between life and death -- or a life completely changed -- that we unknowingly walk every day.

June 14, 2010:

June 14, 2011:

                                          (She's taught herself to do underwater somersaults.)

What have we learned in a year?

That the people who share intense moments of grief and hope and comfort with us are forever connected. They shared in our story, by chance or by choice, and that cannot change. Even now, there's something about those faces that were with us around the pool, in the waiting room, beside the hospital bed, that won't fade with time.

That life is unbearably fragile ... and yet resilient. How often have I rolled my eyes and sighed at childish behavior -- only to stop myself and thank God that I still have my child?

That bad things can happen even to vigilant parents, and that even in my heightened state of vigilance, I cannot keep my child cocooned from all possible harm. I cannot arrest her growth because of my fears. We rest in His mercy.

To celebrate a year of the life we received back again, our family passed out a hundred water-safety door packets with Colin's Hope, started by a family whose story ended more tragically than ours. It felt good and right -- to all of us, despite the heat -- to take some sort of action, to perhaps ward off someone else's close call. No cajoling required.

Parents, as you head to the pool this summer, please ...
                                      ... Make sure your child takes swim lessons, starting as young as possible.
                                      ... Always have an adult who's not chatting, texting, or the like but is focused on watching (or swimming with) the kids. If it's not you, know who it is and make sure they know too!
                                      ... Keep an eye out for little ones getting caught under rafts and under inflatables.
                                      ... Check out this important safety list for more tips.

Oh ... and hug your little ones today. Don't forget to say, "I love you."

A Royal Wedding Conversation

(No photos here, since all the Kate-William photos are copyrighted out the wazoo. Click here if you need a visual aid.)

This morning, I showed the girls a photo of Prince William and Kate Middleton. We will, of course, be watching the blessed event via the magic and mystery of DVR. How many times in a little girl's lifetime do fairytales come true? (And as for the happily-ever-after part, we can hope for the best.)

Caroline [rather disappointed tone]: He doesn't look like a real prince.

Me: You think so? Hmm. What about Kate? Does she look like a real princess?

Caroline: No.

Me: Why's that?

Caroline: A real princess would be wearing a poufy gown with sparkly things on it.

Maybe she'll change her mind when she sees the tiara?

(Free William and Kate paper dolls to print out here.)

How to Help: Her Version and Mine

Me to the kids: We should pray and think about how we can help with the disaster relief in Japan.

Caroline: I know! You could just have a hundred more babies!

Me: And exactly how would that help?

Caroline: When they're bigger, we can send them over to Japan to replace the people who got killed!

Um.

I think somebody needs to stop watching 101 Dalmatians. And that's all I have to say about that.

***********************************************

On a slightly less inventive, less obstetric note, here's another opportunity:  LivingSocial is matching all $5 donations to the American Red Cross, so that your $5 donation magically morphs into $10. Here's the link.

******************************************************************
Also. My friend Tsh and her husband Kyle are being called to full-time ministry, working for an organization that provides respite for folks who are serving God in foreign lands. I've never been a long-term missionary, but I can only imagine -- and stories I've heard allude to -- the many ways in which a family serving abroad might be attacked in the areas of health, finances, psychological wellbeing, marriage and family, spiritual supply, etc. The frontline soldiers surely need a robust rear guard. What a great idea to provide "oases" where workers and their families can retreat, regardless of ability to pay, to heal and recharge.

Selfishly, I'm a bit sad because we only recently met in person after she moved to my city, and now God has called them onward and upward again. But that is the life of the altar and the tent. (See: story of Abraham, Book of Genesis.)

You can visit their site to find out more, pray for them, and pray about whether you're led to support them financially.

I Get No Respect

Oh, look. How cute. My five year old started writing a story. What a budding genius. Remember, I taught her everything she knows. I found the first line on the floor last night. Let's take a closer look.

"Mom had gas."

Oh. Never mind.

************************

Last night as I tucked the girls in, Caroline asked, "Mom, where does the word 'strawberry' come from?"

Me: "I don't know. It's kind of a funny word, isn't it, since there's no straw in the berries. Maybe we can find out by looking it up in the dictionary."

Caroline: "No, I think we can just ask God."

*************************

Caroline, with utter certainty: Mom, Pongo [our puppy] is a Christian.

Me: Oh, really? How do you know that?

Caroline: Because he has a cross on his belly!

*********************************

I found the following text messages on my phone this morning.
Me [or should I say, a message originating from my phone]: I love pizza.
Tim: Hi Ian.
"Me": Ian?
Tim: Oh you mean this isn't Ian? I'm sorry. I thought he had your phone. He's pretty tricky that way. Do you want me to order pizzas tonight?
"Me": Yes that would be nice.
Tim: OK. Please call me to discuss raising allowances for the kids.

What can I say? I  married a man who wasn't born yesterday.
********************************

Multitude Monday VII

Wow, this was so not the weekend I had planned. Visions of family photos, church outing, neighborhood holiday party, Children's Meeting service, errands ... they all went up in smoke as I lay in bed, a slothful victim of something acting like the flu. So here we go -- thankful for ...

54. Enforced rest -- perhaps I needed it?

55. The knowledge that nothing, even inconvenient illness, happens by accident.

56. A functioning immune system.

57. Kleenex -- for the Weddell Sea of mucus that's still pouring from my sinuses. (Like the geographical reference? Like the mental image, which you'll try to erase from your memory next time you see me? Huh? Do ya?)

58. A husband who turns on the heating pad five minutes before I slide between the sheets at night.

59. The whispered words across the pillow -- and y'all, as God is my witness, I am not making this up -- "Mommy, you are mine and I am yours. Your banner over me is pure love." Garnished with a kiss. I am undone.

60. Running water, so easy from the faucet. I'm battling constant feelings of dehydration and yet, so aware that I don't have to walk a mile or more to the nearest well.

61. Books that carry a sickbed far, far away. (I read In the Company of Others in its entirety, and finished The Happiness Project)

62. Holiday cards arriving in the mail, alight with beautiful faces.

63. Pandora radio, for allowing me to listen to the transporting "O Holy Night" and "In the Bleak Midwinter" without having to put up with the barf-o-rific "Santa Baby" and its syrupy cousins.

64. Comforting soup delivered by Vanessa.

65.  A new read-aloud sent by my mom: The Fledgling.

66. Friends who share my love for books -- and like my book recommendations :-).

67. That mountain of laundry waiting to be folded and -- ah, herculean task! -- PUT AWAY. It means we have clothes, threads aplenty, to wear. Clean ones, even. Smooth, wrinkle-free ... wait a minute. Now THERE I'm getting carried away

Embellish the Day

Y'all may laugh. I may seem extravagant. I know Vanessa thought so when I consulted with her ... but she came over to my way of thinking pretty fast. My logic is like that. It wins people over sooner or later.

So Caroline wanted a princess party for her 5th, but I must have used up all my party-planning oomph back in August, and I tend to break out in hives when faced with the prospect of organizing the Perfect Birthday Party. So here's what we did instead. We had the cake and presents with the family on The Actual Day. Then, a few days later, I took her, along with her sister and three neighbor girls, to Embellish Salon to get their nails done.

Why was Embellish the perfect place for such feminine tomfoolery? Reason One: The walls are pink. Reason Two: Glittery stuff everywhere. Reason Three: Heated, scented neck wraps. Reason Four: They played Eloise: The Movie in the background. Reason Five: Mom gets to sit in an comfy chair and read the holiday issue of Martha Stewart Living.

Dear future husbands of these five girls: I'm sorry. Very, very sorry.

Dear future wife of the boy who had to tag along until he was rescued by my neighbor Jesse, who had done the Thanksgiving shopping for both of us: You're welcome. Very, very welcome.

I think they had a good time!

But lest you think I spoiled these girls irrevocably, that they're now proceeding precipitously down the slippery slope of Legally Blonde-hood ... here's what happened when we got home.

1. They whacked a homemade pinata to pieces.
2. We went to the park, and they rolled down mounds of dirt.
3. They set up their own spa in my kitchen, complete with mixing bowls full of bubble bath and magazines for the "customers" to read, and gave each other pedicures. I even rated a foot massage. With lotion.

I couldn't help thinking about the Betsy-Tacy books I still love so much, partly because Betsy and Tacy have the childhood that I wish every kid could have. In Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill, the girls celebrate their tenth birthdays, and their lives are fraught with the tension between their desire to feel and be grown up, and the fact that they so clearly -- and endearingly -- are still children. So much of that freedom to explore, to spend hours picnicking in the hills and playing in the streets, is a bygone dream for my daughters' generation. Now they have chaperoned park outings and a more constant adult presence. Yet that same force of imagination endures, making life at the same time simpler and more exhilarating.

Of course, it's not their nails or even their imaginations that make these girls so lovely. They care for each other -- there's no meanness in their play. I may even be so bold as to say they love each other. Which makes them, with or without embellishments, truly beautiful.

Multitude Monday IV

32. My daughter Caroline, who turned FIVE on Saturday. It's official, y'all: my baby is no longer a baby. She's a girl who's growing up fast -- too fast, sometimes. She wishes I'd buy her a bikini, can't wait to get her ears pierced, and can't decide which of three "boyfriends" she's going to marry someday (but she's praying about it). Lordhelpme. 

Of course, as we gathered with the family on Saturday, the adults of us felt an extra measure of gratitude squeezing our hearts. This day so easily could have been one of painful memories and bitter tears. I still think about how we almost lost her, still relive moments from that day, every single day. Does that sound excessive? If you've lived through something like this, you understand -- how the twin stamps of grief and gratitude leave you never quite the same. 

But here she is! She may embarrass me at times with her feistiness (yet I know she'll never be taken advantage of), but I wouldn't trade her craft-loving, mood-swinging, phonetic-spelling, night-snuggling, beauty-adoring, lovenote-writing, self for all the tea in China. 

This is a stand-alone item today, friends. It just feels weird to add anything else on. May your blessings be abundant this Thanksgiving!

What to do ...

... when you want to have a tea party with your friend and your  mother has -- disappointingly, annoyingly, frustratingly -- failed to provide you with fine china teacups adorned with painted flowers. You know, the kind your grandmother brings out for tea parties at HER house.

I mean, hello? How can a girl possibly be satisfied with pedestrian white teacups? 

Bring on the Scotch tape!

Mini Heartbreak

Every morning, Caroline used to emerge from her bed and in her sleep-frowzled state, warm-skinned and bed-headed, come barreling at me, arms open wide. She'd jump into my arms and I'd scoop her up, where she'd lay her head on my shoulder for the first thirty seconds of her busy, busy day. Sweetness. 

Then I noticed that some mornings, she'd head for the couch instead, like her siblings. Maybe I'd be exercising, or maybe she ... dare I say it? ... was starting to outgrow the habit. 

This morning I realized it had been days and days since my last morning jump-snuggle. Like many of my babies' "lasts," I didn't recognize the "last" until it was too late to mourn, except in retrospect. 

You know all those grandmas who stop you in the parking lot when your kids are yielding to a meltdown and you look as frazzled and worn as you feel, and say to you, "Enjoy it while they're young -- they grow so fast?" As if it's the most original thought known to man? 

They're totally right. 

A Tale of Butterflies

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved beautiful things.

She longed to have a monarch butterfly of her very own, although her mother explained to her that such a pet would not live in captivity.

She asked her mother to please, please, please, help her plant some milkweed so that monarch caterpillars would come, eat, hibernate, and metamorphose. Her mother took her that very day to the local  nursery where they selected one milkweed plant for the front garden.

Six months later, they caught daily glimpses of a monarch or two, making its fall home before heading south to Mexico. They also saw a couple butterflies that looked like monarchs ... but a little bit different.

They consulted their beloved Stokes Butterfly Book and found that they had both a Monarch and a Queen, the two members of the milkweed butterfly family.

Her mother also discovered, in the resources section of the Stokes book, a volume written by one Dave Winter and his wife. Many many years ago, the mother's father had taken the family to visit the home of Dave Winter, his colleague in pediatrics, who had an enormous collection of butterflies.

In fact, according to the Resources section, there is a Lepidopterists Society based in the mother's hometown.

Very little else of scientific renown is based in the mother's hometown.

The little girl and her mother will make a pilgrimage there at their earliest convenience.

The End.

Happy Monday!

My littlest gal is sportin' some fancy new footwear.

Mothers of girls, please tell me I'm not simply the victim of a psychiatric illness. Exhibit A: I love buying  clothes for my girls. With great difficulty, I restrain myself -- and buy most items secondhand. Exhibit B: I hate buying them shoes. Summer shoes are fine; we do very little that can't be accomplished in a pair of cute flip flops or tennis shoes. But fall/winter footwear? This eats my lunch. Kicks my hiney. Because unlike boys, girls cannot simply have a single pair of high-quality shoes that covers 95% of their life situations. And I feel like having at least one pair of shoes that offers arch support and decent longevity PLUS cuteness in is important. (And yes, I'm aware that having this dilemma in the first place is a luxury denied to millions of mothers worldwide.)

So we breezed into the local shoe store intent on finding a pretty yet practical shoe for the fall, one that would go with dresses and jeans if they would ever consent to wear them, and Caroline sees this pair on the shelf. Instantly, that pair is THE PAIR OF CHOICE. No other pair even received more than a passing glance. She assured me that yes, she would wear these with everything and yes, she would tie them herself with no complaints. Apparently, these are to shoes what Truman is to boys. End of story.

I envy her that decisiveness. Her sister is more like me, the decision ever eluding her, the possibility of some other, better, choice out there constantly plaguing her. "Whatever you think, Mom," she told me after we ran our eyeballs over every single pair in the store and proceeded to leave, unsatisfied.

They're like that with their newest project, too. Caroline was bound and determined to learn to knit, and her God-bless-the-man-for-his-abiding-patience daddy finally sat down and taught her. Five days later, she had this:

Notice the quantity. Notice the expanding rows of stitches. Notice the holes -- but remember she's four.

Eliza, not to be outdone, asked for a lesson. Her work now looks like this:

One works slowly and carefully. One's fast and loose. The yin and the yang. They complement one another to perfection.

How to Kill a Mockingbird

This is what happens when you get a bunch of award-winning popcorn-selling Cub Scouts together for a Caveman Dinner at the park. They use no utensils, spaghetti & meatballs are served along with jello, pudding, and whipped cream, and an all-out food fight quickly ensues. It's pure, unadulterated mayhem. 

That's Ian with his pal Sawyer, by the way. And normally I don't share other kids' full names in cyberspace, but I simply have to tell you that Sawyer has a baby sister named ... Scout Evangeline Stone. How cool is that?! Scout Stone. I can see her name in lights one day.

It tickles me when Sawyer explains her name as, "You know, like in How to Kill a Mockingbird." There's something about that "how" that just cracks me up. Like it's an instruction manual (Step One: Load Pellet Gun, etc.) rather than a Great American Novel.

When we discussed this at dinner last night, I explained to the children that To Kill a Mockingbird is a book about a black man being unjustly accused of a crime, and that they would read it some day. The Professor noted that he read it when he was twelve.

At which point Martha StewartCaroline's face lit up with an idea. "Hey!" she told her Daddy, "For your next birthday, the theme could be To Kill a Mockingbird!"

I think Harper Lee just rolled over in her grave. Birthday Express, start your engines.

Why I Have Gray Hairs

This note made its way into my hands when I returned from an errand yesterday:

So sweet, no? Then I opened it up:

(Dear Mom, I love Truman. Could I marry Truman when I'm 16?)

Practically anyone who's spent any time with our family knows that my four year old has a mad crush on her older brother's best friend. And friends, this is not a passing fancy. Truman has been the apple of this girl's eye for the past nine months or so, which, when you're four, represents a significant percentage of your lifespan.

I'm not exactly sure whence the charm. The boy is sweet, pleasantly goofy, and good-natured -- indeed, tolerates her declarations of affection with patience and an occasional head-pat -- but not exactly tall, dark and handsome. Not to mention hunky and mysterious. However, he does play in a band. (Guess who made an electric guitar out of tinfoil recently?) And has lately taken to wearing a fedora.

She writes him love notes, and mails them once in a while, sometimes with a piece of candy tucked inside. She draws pictures of their wedding. She makes declarations like this one: "Mom, I found out there's another girl who loves Truman. But I will WIN HIM."

These are the moments when I would dearly love a child psychiatrist on speed-dial. Do I even need to tell you that neither of her older siblings has EVER expressed interest in ANYONE of the opposite sex?

But instead, I draw a deep breath and remind myself to keep the big picture in mind here, which of course, is my relationship with the small being in my household who knows her own mind, brims with unabashed feeling, and trusts me to hold her heart in my hands.

It's small stuff. And I won't sweat it. But I reserve the right to roll my eyes and throw my hands desperately in the air when the occasion demands it.

Moo

Scene: Craft-o-line has spent her Quiet Time making, among other things, imitation cowhide from pink and brown construction paper. Now, after suggesting that the cow may be sunburned, I'm helping cut out spots for her to staple on.

"Mom, in our next house, can we have cows? Two reasons: Number One, I want to slaughter one so I have a real cowhide nightgown. Number Two, fresh milk."

And she calls herself an animal lover. Impostor!

Why it's Easy to Homeschool A Preschooler

In the car, Caroline (4.5) and I are discussing the water cycle, at her prompting. Here's how the discussion ended.

C: Wait, so you mean the rain that comes down goes back up to the clouds and sort of gets recycled?

Me: Yes, that's pretty much it.

C, with genuine zeal: AWESOME! So the clouds are just like giant recycling bins!

Help for the Chronically Distracted

So every morning, my kids have this Morning List they're supposed to work through. You know -- the brushing of the teeth, the clearing of the dishes, the putting away of pajamas, etc. Basic life skills.

And still, after all these years, my Girl gets, more often than not, completely off track. It drives me wonko-wonko, as a close relative would say.

Today I tried a different approach, when I caught her lollygagging yet again.

"Darling Child. Let's imagine that the steps of your Morning List are stepping stones in a straight path across a river. On the other side is a river bank, where you can run and skip and climb trees if you desire. In other words, free time. Now, you can take two hours to cross the river and and have no time on the river bank, because we have to leave the house at a certain time. Or, you can step right off those stones and land in the river. Or, you can put one foot right in front of the other and hop, skip and jump right across that river. Whaddya think?"

Oh, my friends. It was like MAGIC. We were so, so focused on stepping over those stones to that river bank. We even stepped on the Putting-away-the-Silverware stone, and the Help Mama Dust stone. Lollygagging? The word simply vanished from our lexicon.

Now let's just see if it works tomorrow.

Oh, and by the way? My mother-in-law and I took the five cousins out to Terra Burger for lunch today, since they have a sprinkler area on their playscape.

Here's a picture I took, just so you know what I'm up against. You figure it out.

Please send psychiatric help. Thank you. 

What She's Up To

Attention Imelda Marcos wannabes! Is your shoe collection losing its sizzle? Is your closet lacking that certain something, that perfect pair that will make your fashionista friends gape in envy?

Forget about Zappos and DSW. Friends, I have the solution for your footwear needs right here in my own home. Caroline has been busy, busy, busy with her favorite crafting material, the roll of aluminum foil. Last week she went whole hog on making spoons with bright red duct tape handles. This week it's all about the SHOES.

We have foil slippers. Foil boots. Foil elf shoes with pointy, curled-up toes. Foil "rocket shoes." Foil sandals adorned with sequins. Foil moccasins. No foil stilettos yet, but hang in there. They're surely just on back order.

So today we got back in the pool for the first time since The Accident. At first, Caroline demurred.

"You know what happened last time I got in a pool," she said darkly.

I immediately countered with, "Oh, but honey, we need to get back in the pool so that you don't feel afraid of pools. Just because something bad happened one time doesn't mean it's going to happen again. I will be RIGHT WITH YOU the entire time."

By the time we got to the neighborhood pool, she was ready to slip into her suit with no further comment. I think it helped that we went with our neighbors, who could provide both moral support and distractions in the form of playmates for my older two children. This particular pool complex has a HUGE, shaded toddler pool with a maximum depth of two feet.

I suspect I was a bit of a helicopter parent, but Caroline jumped right in and proceeded to tear up that pool like she was a contestant on Wipeout. We had somersaults. We had torpedo dives. We had choppy attempts at the backstroke.

"This is what I call the tuna can opener!" she explained, executing a maneuver that resembled a crawl stroke with full body twist.

Hello, normalcy, my old friend.