Day 2

I'm still alive.

But never have I ever walked around with tighter/flabbier clenched buns.  The whole point of a worm infestation cleanse is to get rid of the worms.  And I'm walking around keeping them in like they're the greatest.  Or something special.

Petrified.  To release my anal sphincter.  I did it.  Twice so far.  I did find that having a stool under my feet (like the squatty potty) encouraged relaxation.

Poop 1
I got out of bed this morning feeling tired.  And wouldn't you know, I'm stumbling around trying to find dirty clothes on the floor to put on, and a hairbrush to brush my remaining 103 hairs on my head - those worms start knocking.  HELLO!  Let the girl put on some deodorant before she has to face the fangs.

I clenched real good till I was ready for the day aka the worms.  I even frushed my teeth.  I was completely ready.  Like, if the UPS man came - I was that ready.  And then I answered the call of the wild worms.

It doesn't do anybody any favors to whip their body around after every ker-plop.  It's a fine way to have to clean the bathroom a few times a day.  Patience is a virtue.  And a fine virtue to put into practice.

Alas, I saw nothing.  And was completely relieved.  And completely disappointed.

Poo 2
Every time my poo stalls, I imagine a long worm stuck, half in-half out, writhing wildly.  Guys, fangs are real.

  So, yup.  Moving on.

Anyway, I consorted to patience this time.  And when I was done I saw lots and lots of tiny, minuscule white line thingsies. Complete satisfaction knowing that something was dying.  Smug.  And pleased.

How I'm feeling:

Day 2 was when others started to feel gross from the toxins starting to multiply due to worm death.  I am pleased to say that I feel no different minus being slightly more tired and slightly nauseous.  Sounds like I'm pregnant.  Maybe I am! (with worms)  I've been following my tea and crumpet aka worm killer pills schedule like a kindygartner.  And once again feeling smug that I have managed to stay on track for 1 1/2 days.

Dinner?

Lets talk about last night first.  Chicken and beans are a common occurrence around here.  But throw in some rutabaga soup and literally, batten down the hatches, secure your valuables, life is no more as it once was.  Big D threw an entire chopped up jalapeno pepper in his small portion.  Murn ate hers for breakfast with much lamenting.  Ed cried and gagged his one required spoonful until daddy bribed him with a whole chicken leg if he finished his 1/8 of a cup serving. (Didn't you know that chicken legs are cool?  And worthy of gagging and choking down 4 spoonfuls?  They are.)  WW wasn't even offered any.  And I ate my bowl, pleased as punch, knowing that I was killing off candida.

Big D called me this morning (because we never see each other) to ask how I felt.  Awkward, and what is that supposed to mean . . . ? Well, somebody had a tummy ache and wasn't feeling very well and wanted to know if it was the soup.  *Why yes!  You figured out my life squelching secret - I was trying to poison you all with rutabaga soup*  2 things:  a) maybe your tummy doesn't like the entire pepper you crammed down your throat or b) maybe when I said you have too much yeast in your body, maybe I was right.   Those are my best two guesses.  All other guesses are not my best.

But dinner tonight?  It's going to be equally as awesome.  As dinner is, every night.

Creamy chicken soup

Sahwid with avocado green goddess dressing aka tear and gag-reflex inducing pig slop

Grain-free bread

Takeaways

1)  When naming a blog, be wise.  Never name it something you'll regret.  Like, "Whispers of Love" or "The Witherhalls's Happenings" or "Bluebirds Sing the Beauty of the Earth".  You're going to wake up someday and not want to talk about how love whispers anymore.  Or fun zoo trips.  Or how you gathered a whole bouquet of wildflowers on your evening walk.  Maybe you'll wake up some day with your mind a fizzled mess of slow fog, and the best you can do is talk about poop.

2)  Life is a continual of changing seasons.  Really really embrace each one.  I know that I won't be talking about poop forever.  Someday I'll have life altering epiphanies and wisdom words and life giving faith speaks.  But that's not today.  And I'm ok with that.  And you should be ok with the season that you're in too.

Mountains and Day 1 and Worms

Guys it's been so long that I totally forgot how to even find my blog, to write a new blog.

Anyway, I found it.

So remember when I had WW and stopped writing all together?  Yeah, he was kinda the straw that broke the camels back aka my body.  He didn't sleep for 22 months.  Which meant that I didn't sleep for 22 months and that mixed with life and lifestyle habits and stressors, and food that was poisonous to my body led me to a whopping case of hypothyroidism (possibly and most likely hashimotos) a delightful overgrowth of candida and a delicious batch of over aggressive parasites.  Not to sound like I'm cool and special or anything, like I'm the only one - 70% of the population has an overgrowth of candida and 90% of the population has awesome parasites.  Mine just all collided at once and started to attack my thyroid.

I went to the mds after a week of what felt like a hangover.  They took a lot of blood and clarified that my thyroid was dying and I was doomed to medication for the rest of my life.

I did some research and some talking, some webinar watching and more reading and decided that I wasn't going to take that as the final answer.  One person telling me that meds is the only way doesn't seem to fit my bill, and I decided to go see a Naturopathic dr.

(I should have been blogging this whole journey, because there are so many good stories to tell)(But I didn't - because I couldn't, because my body was a shell of a human)

Long story short - I'm on the Candida diet.  I cried much when this became a reality.  I literally went through a week of mourning food.  I mourned.  And was angry.  And cried, alot.  And I'm not a big food person.  I don't love food.  But I found out that I survived many mothering moments with food.  A glass of wine at night.  An ice cold vanilla coke mid afternoon.  Ridiculously creammmy mac and cheese for lunch (always homemade) The weekly Friday night take out dinner, mom doesn't have to cook meal.

All of that was taken from me with this new diet.  I needed to starve the overabundance of yeast in this old temple.  So, I'm allowed to eat non-starchy vegetables, chicken and beef, eggs, quinoa ..... yeah, that's about it.  A few things here and there:  some nuts, olive oil, avocado, Mmmmm and water.

So I'm doing that.  Yes, I've lost weight.  I had finally learned to love my extra, thank you WW, weight - and now it's gone.  So I'm back to learning to love my newold self.  The granny nips are hard to get over though ..

I'm taking a thousand supplements to boost and support and give strength to, and ease, and betterment, in Jesus name.

Anyway, now that my brain fog is S-L-O-W-L-Y lifting, (did I mention "slowly"?) I want to blog this mountain.

I said mountain because - In the very beginning, when it was so dark and bleak.  When I had no idea what was going on or what to do or who to see - I woke up one morning with the words, "greet the mountain with joy".  OBVIOUSLY I knew that it was God giving me these words.  But it really bothered me that he said "mountain".  Singular.  Why not mountainS?  Did I say "bothered"?  I meant pissed.

It took me a few weeks to realize that THIS, this awfulness that my body was giving, was the mountain.  God specifically told me to walk through the absolute worst part of my life thus far, with joy.

I would give myself a C-.

Oh, but the most important thing right now is that I'm on a parasitic cleanse.  I started today.  I am petrified of what is going to come out of my anus.  Somebody wrote about an inch long head with fangs that came out.  I am nervous.  Frightened.  Scared to death.  (say a prayer for me please)

Remember that time that I named my blog "Undignified Mutterings"?  Yup, I'm going to talk about poop for the next month.  And I can, because I already warned the world that I was going to say a bunch of undignified stuff.  Also, I can write my sentences anyway I want to.  In any which format punctuation order feels best.

It's kinda like that time that I was a kid growing up, and my mother made me put the clean silverware away perfectly perfect.  And she always said, "when you have your own house you can do it anyway you want to."  Well, every freaking time I have clean silverware to put away now, as a full grown 34 year old - I stick it to my mother and any other person who has to have neat silverware, and I throw, *ahem* dump the silverware into the drawer.  I can.  Because it's my own house.

On to day 1

I am a nervous wreck.  I feel tired, with a very low, light, slight, stomach ache. (Please be dying worms)  My poop was quite green in color.  No worms yet.

I'm nervous about getting the tea and the worm-killer pills all right at the proper time.  If I don't, severe nausea will ensue.  And the worms won't get the proper killer dosage.  And then I'm just wasting my time . . .

What's cooking for dinner you ask?
Rutabaga chipotle soup
Crockpot rotisserie chicken
Green beans

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Was this a mess of a first-back-at-it-post?
Yup.  I guess that pretty much sums me up right now.  An absolute mess.  Trying to do it with joy.

Takeaways:
1) ...blah ... there's so many, but I guess I'll give you this one:  try a new vegetable this week and say a prayer for me while you choke it down :)

I Put My Back Into It

Every once in awhile, every great, great while, I do something that I like to call:  GNO.  Girls night out.  Generally we eat dinner, have a drink or two, throw our heads back and laugh, and talk about sex.

Last night it was something new.  We tried that Painting with a Twist thing.  You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .

38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room.  The music was dance club, obscenely loud.  And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . .  nowhere.  The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.

There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing.  Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger.  The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face.  Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on:  not-so-fine master piece. 

The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do.  And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . .  Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green.  And green is never appropriate for snow.  Except for my painting.

Minus the anger, it was fun.  It wasn't great.  It wasn't awful.  It was just fun.

And then, the highlight of all highlights happened.  *shudder*

It was time to go.  I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation.  (I will also preface this with:  my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight)  I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds.  I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket.  (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.

I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance.  I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance.  Or, what I thought was the wall.  Or, where the wall used to be.  Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding.  I felt this odd sensation on my buns.  Something that didn't quite feel like a wall.  And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it".  I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still  bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore.  And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards.  When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.

And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance.  Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him.  There were no mysteries left to the imagination.  ALL was experienced.  We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)

And then I left in a complete horrified stupor.  And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting.  My green snow painting.

Take Aways
1)  If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.

Homskul iz Grat

These are the days that I love, love homeschooling.  These.  This.  It happens once every 5 million years - but in these very rare instances, when all the stars align in the most glorious way.  When I can breath for two seconds.  And love, grateful for most.  I love homeschooling.

First it starts with the weather.  And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather.  But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall.  Dark.  Miserably dark.  Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark.  Misty and sometimes rainy.  Leaves still on the trees.  But half on the ground.  And cold.  It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.

I have one lamp on in the house.  I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.

The kids:  One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.

Me?:  Yes, yes.  Still looking like Miss Hannigan

This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery.  Take a break from the brow beating.  We've worked for 11 weeks without a break.  So, well deserved for all.  But mostly me. 

I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle.  He won't stop talking.  And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP".  But I don't.  I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come.  And what if I squashed it, and then it never came?  So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence.  And 99 out of 100 times it's something like:  "mom, do you think this piece goes here?"  But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it.  "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"

Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother.  So much imagination in the corner.

And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great.  Always together.  Naked or not.  Imagination growing and working.  We can move slow, or we can move fast.  I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.

Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom.  It will still be there tomorrow.  I will drink another cup of tea.  I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over.  And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch.  I will strive to make dinner.  And if not, we'll have toast.  With lucky butter.  And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing.  Fall is for sewing.  And re-vamping.  And freshing-up and re-decorating.

Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic.  The middle of the blade snapped.  My birthday knife is no more.

Take Aways
1)  Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2)  Eat chips only more than not
3)  Be naked more than not
4)  Stay away from garlic more than not
5)  Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever

Sex, Apparently

Sex.  I am fully aware that sex is not the highlight of a marriage.  But right now, it seems like it is.  It's there, the holy grail of full fledged adulthood.  I can see it peaking at me from dusty corners and poopy toilet lids.  It hides in the grease film that engulfs my head and the toe hairs that feel the need to party. It taunts me playing catch-me-if-you-can.  And because it's so close and so unachievable, I think about it ALL. DAY. LONG.

I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN.  With lady bits.  Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.

And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is.  And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat.  (At least he used to.  It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)

We do all the right things.  Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home.  We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words.  And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed.  We smile at each other nicely.  We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout".  We talk about it all.  With smiles of course.

But here's the problem.

WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME

For real.  I have another baby.  And all of that ^^^^^ is true.  Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.

And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child.  *sigh* *giggle* that was fun.  A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional.  And overrated.  And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home.  And sometimes I like to show him that I love him.  And homeschooling.  And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet.  Laundry.   And enzyming the poop stains away.  And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist.  Especially when you don't go grocery shopping.  You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled.  Not an ounce.  Not.  One.  Bloody.  Ounce.  It's stuck.  And boy, do I feel like a woman.  Well, surfacely.  My thighs not only touch each other.  They smoosh and smack and dimple.  And when I walk they do their own dance.  Actually, everything does its own dance.  Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money.  Because apparently I stress spend money.  And amazon prime is secretly my lover.  And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it.  Too tired to yell at me.  And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.

It's dreadful.  I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it.  Did you know that almonds are amazing?  As in superfood amazing.  And they make really good milk for WW.  Because apparently my super power right now is making milk.  But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw.  At least in the US.  They have to be pasteurized.  And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away.  Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath.  And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds.  With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds.  How incredibly stupid is that.  I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND!  Straight from the tree.  Pick the damn almond and hand it over.  Apparently, it can't be done.  Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.

So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags.  But I do want to tell you some good news.  We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting.  It actually happened.

Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage.  No pun intended.  For real.)  The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment.  Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.

Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?

And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means.  It's not too difficult.  But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was.  (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)

I'll end with this:  there is always hope.  That's my take away.  And my two cents.  And my best advice.  And the coolest thing I could come up with to say.  And what I really believe.

Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again.  To be and do my absolute best.  And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.

Heart-Lead with No Guilt

So . . . . ice bucket gallore . . . .filling up my newsfeed.  (AHEM!!!!!) I am a desperate SAHM who needs to be entertained a tad more than to watch everybody (literally) and their brother, father, sister, and mother . . .  .AND NOW CHILDREN????!!!!!!! dump semi icy water over their head.  In the name of bringing awareness to a disease.

I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions.  So be it.

1)  I am aware of ALS
2)  It is a horrible disease and way to die
3)  I watched a family friend fade
4)  I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5)  I am not passionate about this disease
6)  I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7)  And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way

I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".

In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world.  Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin.  So much illness and disease.  So much death, in horrible ways.  So much struggle just to survive.  And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally.  Where does he want us to quietly give.  Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)

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Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted.  All this outrage over ALS.  But what about so many other things.  Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion?  Or the ISIS crisis?  Or sex trafficking?  Or child pornography? Or orphans?  Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world.  Are those things too big?  Or too far away from OUR world?  We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.

I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why?  Why ALS?  And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do? 

And who's sending the money?  If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS.  Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there?  And is the money being sent, guilt money?  Who wants guilt money?

The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head.  Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart.  Donating anyway.  Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.

But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .

I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to.  And that being - love our neighbor as our self.  If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing?  The whole world would be touched in someway.  Because we all are different.  With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions.  Our hearts are all pulled differently. 

Why can't we be heart-lead?  Instead of facebook lead.

And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 6

  I woke up the next morning.  Ned was a memory.  He was completely gone.

I'm a light sleeper.  The bathroom is inches from my bedroom.  Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.

I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me.  He took him home.  And left me to heal.  To feel.  To believe in goodness and hurt and grace.  He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me.  What will you do with this, for me?"

You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness.  Perfectness.  Great life - if we choose to love him.  No, instead he promises to never leave our side.  To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness.  Strength, when we feel we can't.  A second more.  And grace.  Oh, so much grace.

I hid from the world.  And told no one of my empty hole.  Business as usual, for what needed to be done.  Work, etc.

I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice.  We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique.  I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit.  My mental state was so raw.  And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill.  The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door.  And Murnice asks why there is blood.

That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.


I hid for months.  And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house.  Looking into their scar-free lives.  Feeling every moment.  Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through.  Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt.  I did not give myself a timeline.  Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond.  I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.

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The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order.  But in my mind, they happened close in time.

Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .

There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself.  He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that.  We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness.  One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies.  And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one."  And then he ran away.

(update:   within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife.  And that whole conversation came up.  He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier.  I told him the power those words held.  So much hope.)

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I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"

HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.

And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words.  The first time that I was real with myself and with God.  Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire.  Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were. 

You see, for 3 years we prayed like this:  Dear Jesus,  we are so grateful for Murnice.  Healthy, wonderful Murnice.  But we would love to have another baby if it's your will.  Because we want your will.  And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us.  And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies.  Above all, we want what you want.

Which is fine and great.  But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him.  To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details.  Nitty-grits.  Just because he loves us that much.  He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance.  Just as any lover would desire to do.  He wants to know us intimately.  And intimacy comes with details.

So we changed our prayer.  We asked for a baby.  Send us a baby.  Not, "if it's your will".  Or, "if you deem it appropriate".  Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.

The end.