so what’s new?

 

 

 

It’s always interesting for me, er, well, OK, difficult for me, when someone asks, “So what’s new with the girls?” or “What are they up to these days?” I can always run through the litany of their current activities – “Well, Darby is studying the human body in school and will happily tell you many of the 206 bones on the skeleton. She loves ice skating and art and sings in the children’s choir. Kendall is taking a swimming class through the autism alliance and proudly dunked her face last week. She is learning to draw more independently and she loves to sticker.”

 

Yes, ’sticker’ is a verb in my house. As in, “Where’s Kendall? Oh, she’s at the table stickering again.” She transfers endless rows of stickers from their packages to paper, creating what amount to sticker extravaganzas. Once complete, she takes the sticky frames off the sticker pages and adds them in all their 3-D glory to the top, making the pictures look like some kind of odd, colorful, architectural art installations.

 

But I’m more of a color commentary kind of mom, and the broad strokes never really seem sufficient. I always feel like I have some funny Darby story. The kid is an absolute riot and provides and endless stream of conversational fodder. Like the other night when we were reading the bible before bed and we came to the story of Noah and the ark. Despite the fact that we were reading the children’s bible, the story was dark and somewhat gruesome. There’s just no sanitizing the destruction (by drowning, no less) of the human race. I shook my head as I read and at one point I paused and said, “Wow, this was a pretty bad time, huh, Darb?” Without so much as a second’s pause she said, “Not for Noah.” After a couple more minutes of reading about the depth of the flood waters she said, “Oh and the fish. The fish did all right too I guess.”

 

Makes for great stories. And there are the moments when Darby just makes me so proud of her that I just have to share. Like on Mother’s Day when she made me the card that said (in crayon, no less), ‘Thanks for working so hard for us.” I mean, hullo? She’s 7! Are you kidding me? Or like last night when she was telling me about an exercise they did in her Sib Shop at school. (Sib Shop is a wonderful program  for children who have siblings with special needs, run by her school’s social worker. They meet once a week at lunch time to provide a safe space to talk and share their feelings. Darby loves it.) The exercise was a fill in the blanks where they said, “My brother or sister needs a helping hand with ____” and “My brother or sister is a superstar at ____”. I asked what she said Kendall was a superstar at and she said, “Singing ABCs and being full of love.” Kid just kills me.

 

And so, I brag about her. How would I not? I become one of the moms who no doubt induce eye rolls from friends. Oh geeze, here comes yet ANOTHER ‘how cool is my kid?’ story. Grrrreeeeeat.

 

But when it comes to Kendall, I get stuck. I am no less proud of her. In some ways, perhaps I am even more so. I am so proud of how hard she works in school and at all of her various therapies. I am proud when she finds words and uses them to avoid frustration. I am so proud of her when she asks for help. I’m proud of her when she climbs up or down the ladder on the play set without getting ‘stuck.’ I am proud of her when she asks me to move Darby’s huge stuffed dog into the middle of her floor and she jumps off Darb’s bed on top of it.  (When she first started OT a year and a half ago, she couldn’t jump from a 3 inch high mat to the floor!) I am proud of her when she says grace at the table with the family and I am proud of her when she says her prayers at night, exactly the same way each and every time. I am proud of her when she says, ‘We cuddle together’ so that I won’t leave her room.

 

But I don’t always know how to share that kind of pride in the context of the casual ‘what’s new?’ For instance, here are the HUGE moments in my house this week:

 

Kendall said, “I don’t know.” She has never had that phrase in her arsenal before and it seemingly came out of nowhere, though they must have been working on it at ABA. I was absolutely amazed to hear it come out of her mouth. This will be an incredibly useful tool for her.

 

Since it can be difficult to initiate typical dialogue with Kenz, I often find myself peppering her with questions to try to engage her. This can be frustrating and difficult for her, tiresome for all of us, and ultimately anxiety producing. She had learned the phrase ‘I wouldn’t answer’ a while back, but began to a) overuse and b) to shriek it rather than say it calmly. It became an automated response to questions when she was tired or cranky or the stars just weren’t aligned in a way to get an answer out of her. But this was calm and useful and socially appropriate. She just said ‘I don’t know.’ And I beamed with pride that my baby had a new phrase. I yelled like a lunatic to Matt in the kitchen, “Did you hear that??? Kendall said, ‘I don’t know!’”

 

The second was a massive step toward victory in a long and ongoing battle against ‘the cough’. Ah, the dreaded cough. Was it listed as one of the ten plagues of Passover? Frogs, Blood, Locusts, Murrain … Coughing? No, hmm. Should have been.

 

 In addition to errant coffee grinders, babies crying, smoke alarms beeping, and a stuffed cookie monster laughing (don’t ask), Kendall is terribly sensitive to Darby coughing. Sensitive may be the wrong word. She’s sensitive like a vampire is ‘sensitive’ to light or Superman is ‘sensitive’ to kryptonite. Her reaction to any of these sounds is awful. Her body tenses, she shakes, she unleashes a blood curdling scream and begins to cry, all at the same time. It is a visceral flight or fight reaction. She literally looks as though she has been attacked. By a cough.

 

To make a long story somewhat shorter (too late?), we have been through a lot with this. Darby has had persistent coughs at various points in her life, particularly over the last year. She has relatively severe seasonal allergies and the cough comes along for the ride as the pollen falls. Welcome to spring in New England. Our porch is literally covered in the yellow dust of the season.

 

And so it was that last week at dinner time, I sat in the kitchen at the family table with Kendall while Matt and Darby ate outside on the patio. Matt and I waved at each other through the window a couple of times as we did our best to muddle through our fractured family dinner. There was just no way to sit together as Darby hacked and Kendall screamed and shook and cried and dinner descended into chaos.

 

Over time, we have tried everything. We incentivized Darby not to cough when it looked as though she could avoid it (which broke a habitual cough that she had developed, but can and should obviously never be used when she has a physical cough.). We tried a reward system of gummy bears for Kendall (stay calm, get a bear). We tried covering ears, listening to an i-pod, humming. We wrote a social story  and Kendall’s wonderful teacher added board maker pictures  to it and laminated it for us so that Kenz could all but ‘read’ it by herself.. And every time we tried something, we ended up right where we started – with a shaking, crying, screaming child.

 

And then this weekend, something happened. It has been months since we’ve read the social story (quite frankly I’d all but given up on it) and suddenly, apparently relative to nothing (though I’m sure I just missed the trigger), Kendall said, slowly and precisely, ‘If I wait when Darby coughs, the noise will stop. Mommy and Daddy will be so proud of me when I stay calm when Darby coughs.’ She was reciting the lines right out of the story.

 

I had to find a way to leverage this new development. I ran upstairs to find my hidden stash of her favorite stickers. Some people keep jugs of water, duct tape and batteries for when the end of the world comes. Me? I’ve got a stash of sparkly star stickers. (I win.) I grabbed a piece of paper and feverishly drew a grid. On top of it I wrote ‘Kendall’s waiting for the noise to stop chart.’ Darby adorned it with some hearts (her favorite) and stars (Kendall’s favorite) in red marker (Kendall’s favorite color) and we were off and running. There were 24 boxes on the chart. I ran into the den to show it to Kendall and to explain my grand scheme.

 

I said it exactly the same way about 10 different times, never completely sure I was getting through. I explained that each time that Darby coughed and Kendall stayed nice and calm waiting for the noise to stop, she would get a sparkly star sticker in a box. When she filled up the whole sheet, she’d get a whole page of the stickers to play with by herself. Over and over again I explained the chart. I taped it to the wall in whatever room we were in so that she could always see it. It came to the bathroom, the den, the kitchen, her room, Darby’s room. The chart was on tour.

 

And hot damn, it worked! Over a year into this coughing mess and something finally broke. It wasn’t without back steps, but what is? Last night was rough again, but she was able to stay calm enough times to fill the chart by bedtime. She got her packet of stars and stickered happily away. We all celebrated the victory with her as though she had just hit a game saving home run. She had.

 

So, when people ask, “So what are the kids up to?” Do I say, “Oh my heavens, huge weekend at home  … Kendall didn’t freak out when Darby coughed! Well, maybe not the whole time, but a lot of times and it was huge and it may mean we’ve finally turned a corner and oh yeah, she also said, ‘I don’t know!’”

 

 Well, that’s what’s new and I’m incredibly proud, so roll your eyes if you must, but I’m gonna tell you how cool my girls are. Both of them.

 

 

thank you. (pass it on)

 

 

Out in the yard on Sunday, Darby had a typical 7 year old moment. She and Kendall were playing with a parachute and Darby had wrapped herself in it, shutting Kendall out. When Kenz tried to work her way in, albeit none too gracefully, Darby grabbed it away from her and shouted at her in a huff, ‘Well now you’ve gone and ruined it all, Kendall.’ I looked over and said, quite calmly, ‘We don’t speak that way to each other in this house. You’re done with the parachute.’

 

She almost immediately began to cry. I called her over to tell her that I understood her frustration but I explained that the lack of respect that she had shown sister was unacceptable. I asked if she was crying because she was no longer allowed to play with the parachute. “No, Mama,” she said.  “I’m crying cause I just feel really sorry. I didn’t do the right thing at all and I feel so sorry now and I don’t know what to do.”

 

My smile confused her. I had to explain that I was smiling because feeling that way meant that she is a good person who made a regrettable choice. It also meant that she was learning something. I told her that feeling like she didn’t do the right thing meant she had the chance to a) apologize for it b) make it right and c) figure out what the right thing would have been so that she could make sure to do it next time. Thankfully, although she may not get a do-over, life will likely give her lots of other chances to do what she now knows is right.

 

When I was a little girl, my dad was the principal of a small town middle school in southern Connecticut. I loved going with my dad to his school. As the principal’s daughter I was something of a curiosity to the kids, and I was always treated very well by his staff. There was one person, though, who stands out in my memory of those years. His name was Al Primrose and he was the school custodian.

 

Whenever I would visit, we would make a special trip to see Mr. Primrose in the cluttered utility room off the cafeteria that served as his office. In my child’s mind, he was an old man, though heaven knows he was probably only in his 50s. Remember when people in their early 20s were really grown up and anyone over 30 was OLD? I’ll never forget his neatly pressed dusty green uniform or his worn shoes, but it was his relationship with my dad that I will always remember most. They had tremendous respect for one another and it showed.  Each time that my dad would take me to see him he would tell me, as though it were the first time he’d said it, ‘Al is the one who really keeps this place running, Jessie.’ Mr. Primrose would smile and it lit up his whole face when he did. We’d all chuckle a bit and go on our way. 

 

Every Christmas from the time I could remember, Mr. Primrose would send me a hand written card and enclose a $20 bill. My dad would explain just how much that meant coming from him and I think I did understand that, even then. I was very grateful for his affection.

 

One year when I was around nine, Mr. Primrose’s wife became ill and passed away. My dad told me that he planned to go to the funeral to honor her and to show his support for Al. He asked me if I felt that I would like to join him. I remember wondering why I would go to the funeral of a woman that I wasn’t even sure that I had ever met. I asked my dad to come into my room in the morning before he left and I would decide then. When he did, I chose the warmth of my bed over the prospect of sitting in a room full of grieving relatives of someone I didn’t know. 

 

When my father came back at the end of the day, he told me that three people had been at the funeral. Three. I was stunned. And hurt. And sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry. The better part of 20 years later – ok, fine, 30 –  I have not been able to completely forgive that nine year old girl for being so selfish. My presence at Dorothy Primrose’s funeral would have meant 1/3 more people in attendance and that will always haunt me. 

 

But I learned something incredibly valuable that day. If someone makes a difference in your life (or your child’s), tell them. If someone has been there for you, show them. If someone who matters to you is being honored, be there to wink at them from the cheap seats.  

 

Tonight, I went to a party to honor someone very special in the lives of all of our children. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the energy. But I made it and I found it, because she always did.

 

As a parent in general, and a parent of a child with special needs in particular, there are so many people that have an impact on my children’s lives, in ways both big and small, direct and indirect. There are those who advocate, those who teach, those who dedicate their lives to finding the missing piece of the puzzle, those who provide specialized therapies. There are those who show us how to reach Kendall when we’re at our wit’s end and those who give up their nights to show us how to get by in a world not made for her.

 

There are occupational therapists and physical therapists, behaviorists and all the other ‘ists. There are inclusion facilitators and administrators. There are the compassionate doctors who refer to children with autism as ‘our kids’ (Dr. Castro, you know who you are!)

 

There are those who run foundations and those who create them. There are the teachers who cherish and value my babies and who work tirelessly to find ways to include Kendall even when it seems impossible. There are those who go out of their way to be there for Darby and to make sure that she knows that she is not alone.

 

There are the strangers in restaurants who do not judge us when Kendall is melting down because she is overwhelmed. There are the other moms and dads who ‘get it’ and the others who take the time to try and get it. There are those who walk to raise money and those who walk to raise awareness and those who just walk to be there for all of us.

 

There are the parents who teach their kids to be sensitive and tolerant and the dear friends who quietly ask their sons and daughters to keep an eye out for Kendall on the playground. There are those who accept awards and those whose names we’ll never know.

 

There are the members of our extended family, who embody love and support. There is my quietly heroic husband, who does more for me and for our children than I can possibly ever tell him. There is you, who care enough to read what I write and to learn about our experience. You all have an impact on my life and my family’s life. I am so thankful and so blessed. 

 

I’ve decided to start my campaign of thanks with Bob and Suzanne Wright. Then it can be your turn.

 

Just 3 years ago, the Wrights’ grandson, Christian was diagnosed with Autism. Rather than wallow in their sadness or retreat into their grief, they rolled up their sleeves, took out their rolodexes and went to work. They created a formidable organization called Autism Speaks that today can be called no less than miraculous.

 

 In 2007, Autism Speaks committed an unprecedented $30 million in new research funding. They were the driving force behind passage of the Combating Autism Act, through which congress approved the appropriation of $162 million for programs at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and Health Resources and Services Administration (HRSA). They have facilitated previously unfathomable strides in research.

 

They have fostered awareness, through the creation of World Autism Day and Autism Awareness Month as well as a Public Service Announcement campaign that garnered over $80 million in donated media. 2008’s numbers will far, far exceed those of 2007.

 

I could literally go on for days detailing all of the amazing programs that Autism Speaks has made available for families like ours, and those that are just being diagnosed. They have created and implemented far too many invaluable resources to try to list here.

 

I am in awe of what the Wrights have accomplished in so little time and I am grateful beyond expression for their efforts. Below is my best attempt to tell them that.

 

 

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

 

 

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wright,

 

I wish I had the words to thank you for all that you have done.

 

Through Autism Speaks you have turned helplessness into hope, ignorance into awareness and fear into action. You have transformed sadness and grief and isolation into community and that community into comfort, information, validation and power.

 

You have turned apathy into passion and harnessed that passion to create an unstoppable movement toward a better life for our children. You have inspired people to teach, to learn, to seek answers. You have taught us all how to move mountains. You have literally changed our lives as you’ve changed the world for our wonderful children.

 

I am grateful for and humbled by all that you have done, all that you continue to do, and all that you inspire others to do. You prove every day that our will and our work can change the world. For all this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

 

Sincerely,

 

Jess Wilson

 

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

 

Ok, it’s your turn. Pass it on.

 

mother’s day

 

 

Because you are strong

Even when you’re not

Because you are always there

Especially when you can’t be

Because when people say, ‘How do you do it?’ you wonder, ‘How would I not?’

Because you can make everything better with a band-aid and a kiss

And because it nearly destroys you when you can’t

Because you laugh at knock-knock jokes that make no sense

Because you cry at the drop of a hat

Because you are terrified to let them go

And because you do

Because you haven’t eaten a hot meal in years

And because you’ve barely noticed

Because you know all the words to ‘hush little baby’

Or because you make them up

Because you’ve read the same bedtime story so many times

That you could do it in your sleep

And because sometimes you do

Because your kiss to a hot forehead is no less accurate than a thermometer

Because you know the power of ice cream

And the power of withholding it

Because you have eyes in the back of your head

Or at least they think you do

Because you know there is no finer art than what’s on your fridge

Because there is no limit to your love

But there are limits and rules and expectations in your home

Because in your eyes, everyone is another mother’s child

Because there is literally nothing you wouldn’t do to protect your babies

Because your babies may be 35, but they’re still your babies

Because they make you the best version of yourself

Especially when you feel like the worst

Because the phrase ‘full time mom’ seems absurd

Because you can’t imagine what it would mean to be a ’part-time mom’

Because you are patient

Even when you’re not

Because you could watch your child sleep for hours

Because you see miracles in the smallest victories

And opportunities in every defeat

Because you would take all their pain if you could

And because you don’t

Because you can’t imagine life without them

Because you know and do and are so much more than you give yourself credit for

Because today is your day

 

Happy Mother’s Day

mother of the year

 

So the upshot to mornings like this one is that I know, without a doubt, that I won’t have to worry about who to thank first when I get that Mother of the year award. Yup, it looks like I’m pretty well out of the running again this year. Why? Well, how’s this for a morning with the Wilsons …

As I type, I’m sitting here at the William Chase Ice Arena in Natick, Mass, about 25 minutes from my house. It’s Sunday morning at 8 am and I’m freezing my tush off on the bleachers. I’m looking out over the rink where Darby is following her skating instructor around the ice.

There she is in the middle of all the other skaters. They are a resplendent sea of pink fleece, sparkly skirts and tights, and shiny white skates. And then there’s Darby. She’s the one in the black Hot Wheels helmet with flames along the sides that we found on the bench. It is at least one size too big, maybe two. You can’t miss the boy’s black hockey skates that she’s wearing either. I pilfered them from the rental rack. They can’t be too comfortable with my tennis socks underneath them. Yes, the same ones that I was wearing under my sneakers on the way here. You also can’t help but notice her bright red gloves. The nice man who runs the shop was kind enough to sell them to me (when I tracked him down), despite the fact that the shop is decidedly NOT open at 8am on Sundays. Lucy got some splainin to do!

Let’s start with yesterday. Yesterday was one of those days for Kendall when it just feels like every bit of progress we’ve made in the past two years has gone to the birds. It was a HARD day. Not a hard day, but a HARD day. It was a day where every single thing we did was fraught with frustration. It was a day where language was inaccessible and tears were inescapable. Nothing was working. Nothing was right. Nothing was easy. We found ourselves trying to de-code everything again, trying to piece together what the triggers were, trying to figure out what was setting her off. She just didn’t have the words to tell us.

She needed a LOT of attention. She couldn’t be alone. She was anxious and fearful at every turn. She cried. A lot. It was just one of those days. Over and over again I asked what was bothering her. What could I do to make it better for her? Each and every time she said, “Everything.” It was heartbreaking.

And through it all, Darby was a rock star. She was independent. She was helpful. She was sweet and solicitous. She was incredibly patient and mature. She was so much more than one could (or should) ever expect from a 7 year old little girl.

The day ended on an upswing, with a very successful visit from dear friends and their adorable 2 1/2 year old little girl. The evening only worked as well as it did because Darby was a superstar. She marched the little girls through the house in a make- shift parade. She found ‘instruments’ for each of them and then led the cacophonous trio merrily up and down the stairs. She orchestrated a ‘dance show’ with our little guest on a miniature piano (which she moved for the ‘show’) and she and Kendall um, well, ‘dancing’ to the ‘music’.

She helped the littler girls dress up as princesses. She actually somehow managed to convince Kendall that it would be great fun to pretend that the Barbie costume that she COULD find was indeed the Sleeping Beauty costume that she COULDN’T find. “Mama,” she told me later, “You would have been so proud of Kendall; she stayed really calm when I helped her dress up. She only freaked out a little, even when we had to make the switcheroo!” She even read them a story at bedtime. The child was (is) an angel.

And so, I wanted to make sure that I spent some real time with her today to help make up for some of our lost time yesterday. She was so excited when I told her last night that I would take her to her ice skating lesson this morning. She absolutely loves to skate. One invitation to an ice skating birthday party a couple of years ago and the rest is history.

Darby is not a kid who gets particularly jazzed about sports. She’s my crafty kid, my poet, my artist, my singer / songwriter. Give the kid some glue, markers, and the inside of a paper towel roll and she turns into MacGyver. Next thing you know, she’ll have made you a bird bath. But sports? Not so much. She decided she’d had enough of ballet this year. She could care less about the intramural sports at school, and when presented with the option of girls’ soccer this spring she politely declined. Two years was apparently more than enough soccer for her. Perhaps it was her experience as a goalie that turned her off.

A couple of springs ago, Darby was in kindergarten soccer and she kept complaining that she was tired. As in, “Coooooach Scott, I’m sooooooo tiiiiiiiiiired.” Much to her dad’s dismay, the child just didn’t want to run. She wanted to sit in the grass and chat with her friends. She wanted to pick dandelions. But she didn’t want to run. And so it was that Coach Scott came up with the following stroke of brilliance.

There are typically no goalies in kindergarten soccer. Let’s be honest, the kids have enough trouble finding the goal without anyone guarding it. However, Coach Scott thought that perhaps Darby could go stand in the goal. You know, skip all that unpleasant running and moving and stay in one place, but still be a part of the game. It was genius.

She was thrilled. She happily took up her post and then looked over at me and shouted, “What does a goalie do?”  I explained from the sidelines that it was her job to make sure that no one got the ball in the goal. Seems pretty simple and straight-forward, no?

Not 2 minutes later some little ringer from the other team (where the heck did mini Pele come from when most of these kids can’t find their feet?) came barreling down the field toward the goal. I found myself yelling like a crazed Manchester fan, “C’mon Darb. It’s all you! Don’t let him get by you!”

What happened next was all Darby. I watched it unfold in slow motion. She scrunched her little shoulders down and backed her body into the goal. She then straightened up just enough to lift it off the ground.  Then she shuttled herself (and the goal) about 2 feet to the right. Mini Pele kicks, he misses, by oh, let’s say 2 feet. And she looks at me grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I did it Mama! I did it!”

Hmmm, well, doesn’t that just make a mother proud? Anyway, point is I’m not raising Mia Hamm.

But skating? That’s a whole different ball game. She comes alive on the ice. She’s confident and exhilarated and full of energy and joy. She just loves it. And so, when the only lesson we could manage to arrange was at 8 am on Sunday mornings, we signed on. And when she got all excited last night, I set the alarm with a 6 handle (ouch) so that we could start the scramble that is our Sunday morning. And a scramble it was, but we made it out the door only 5 minutes behind schedule, which in my world counts as early.

I was thrilled when we got to the rink on time (plus or minus 5 minutes) and I found a parking spot out front. I turned off the car and unbuckled my seat belt. As I turned to Darby, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I heard myself saying, “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Mama messed up. Remember the pile of stuff right by the car in the garage? The one with your skates, socks, helmet and gloves in it? Yes, love, that pile. The one that is still sitting in the garage. The one that Mama somehow walked RIGHT by without putting in the car. Yes, sweetheart, the one that you can’t have this skating lesson without. Yes, that’s the one.”

And I’m thinking, “Wow, now I won’t even get to say, ‘It’s an honor just to be nominated.’” Dang!

But then I got lucky. I ran inside and when the rink manager saw my face she took pity on me. She helped me scramble and the day was saved. I ran back out to tell Darby and found her little lip trembling as she valiantly tried not to cry. With a knife (skate blade?) in my heart I ran her in and fitted her with a pair of boy’s hockey skates off the rental rack (ripping off my own socks first to stick them underneath) and, well, you know the rest.

We ran back into the car after the lesson and I took a deep breath as we headed off to try to make it to children’s choir practice on time (her other love).  Darby sat happily in the back of the car, her cheeks flushed, munching on the bag of Cheerios that I’d brought in lieu of a nutritious breakfast  -another nail in the coffin of my mother of the year award. In between handfuls of Cheerios she nonchalantly said, “Well THAT was a yard sale!” I laughed so hard I actually had to sit at a stop sign to catch my breath.

As we made our way to the highway, she asked, as she nearly always does, if we could play a driving game. We launched into geography -

America.

Austin.

Neptune. What kid throws in planets? “Well, it’s a place, Mama!”

Edgartown.

Newton!

New York. 

Kennebunk “Now you say, “Kennebunkport, Mama!”

OK, Kennebunkport.

Tennessee.

Edinburgh.

Happiest place on earth, which ends in ‘P’.

Huh?

“Mama’s lap!”

Oh my goodness. What could be more touching and beautiful and sweet? She loves me! She really loves me! Maybe DSS won’t be knocking on my door after all! Maybe I’m not the worst Mom EVER! Heck, maybe I’ll have to write that speech after all! “I’d like to thank ..”

And just as I’m turning into a puddle of Mama mush, she says with a smirk, “But, Mama? Next time, could you please remember not to forget everything?”

Oh well, it really is an honor just to be nominated.