Gold Star Mom Day

I took my kids to noon mass and Confession.  Gold star mom day.  Only there was a little more to it than that.   I know this is going to read like an exaggeration but I promise that it's not.  All the events described herein really did happen to the degree in which they are described.  

This is how it went down. 

Rolled into noon mass a little late.  No biggie.  Jesus totally understood because I was busy trying to get my short story ready to submit and I lost track of time.  Fine.  We can take care of it in Confession.

Mass was normal.  Kids were good.  

After mass, heading toward the front to get in line for Confession, #2 boy child grabbed the front of his pants and started dancing.  Change in plans.  Bathroom break.   #1 boy got in line for Confession.  Boy #2 and #3 went with me ISO a bathroom.  My DD stayed in the church "to pray."  Rookie move.

Sons were warned not to leave the lobby area after finishing in the bathroom.  Of course, one of them did.  After an extensive search of the church bathroom, he was found wandering and whispering loudly praying with his twin in the church. 

I got into line, which was a sitting line or we never would have made it.  There were at least sixteen people in front of us and only one priest.  TWO HOURS later, it was my turn.  

During this time I had to hiss at one of my kids to remove his hand from his pants, break up several arguments, threaten to take away all screens for the rest of eternity and give a number of soul-chilling glares.  The twins nearly burned the church down - twice, were kindly reprimanded by an older woman (for nearly burning the church down), understood "proper church movement" to mean running in flip flops, repeatedly head-butted my stomach tried to fall asleep on me, "read" the Latin passages on the wall in loud whispers, killed my phone battery, and got into a fight with the newly sin-free #2 son while I was in the confessional.  I almost made #2 get back in line and was sorely tempted to do something that would require me to get back in line as well.  

Thankfully my grace held.  It held by a thread.

By this time I was so hungry that I was ready to eat a hymnal.  My #2 son was clutching his stomach and prophesying his own death from starvation.  My #3 boy was eyeing the candles with devious intent.  And my girl was draining the last bit of battery from my phone.  

I said my penance quickly because I knew God didn't want #2 son to die of hunger, grabbed my purse and turned to leave.  

But wait a minute.  I was missing one.

My growling, broody #1 son, the 13 year old, was still in the front pew.  His head was bowed in prayer?  I looked around.  My other three were literally running for the doors like a pack of rabid wolverines.  

But look.  I wanted to shout and point.  One of my kids was being good.  There was grace.  He's praying.  Did anyone else see that?  One of my kids was good!

He finished praying, stood, genuflected and turned.  Was that happiness radiating from his face?  

"Thanks, Mom."  

That's what he said to me as we caught up to each other.  I realized through my haze of frazzled nerves, nausea and hunger that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint during the entire ordeal.   Not only that, he was thanking me.  During the last two hours #2 brother had poked him, made quiet farting noises and whispered that he smelled stinky butt, kicked him, and did numerous inappropriate things that bored little boys do to engage older brothers.   

Plus my oldest was just as hungry as the rest of us, maybe even more so because he's been growing roughly one inch every three hours.

In spite of all this, my #1 was smiling and thanking me.

One of my kids is good.  Hooray!

HPT + - really!?! - Low HCG Success Story

I'm pregnant and it turns out that zombie body parts sometimes work.  My zombie uterus has been supporting life for 14 weeks so far.

It was touch and go for a while after the embryo adoption and transfer in May.

One day before my scheduled HCG blood test, I took an HPT.  It was negative.  I cried.  I knew, I just knew that there was no way I could be this far out from our transfer (11 days post transfer, 14 days past ovulation) and get a negative test.

The following day, I took my last HPT.  There was a ghost of a ghost of a line.  I mean, it was so light I stood in the bathroom for a very long time squinting at the stick.  Then I called my DH in.  He was skeptical and rightly so.  We both wanted this baby to live so much that it hurt.  It was easy to conclude the ghost line was more a product of an active imagination than the chemical presence of a miracle baby.

But I felt better.  A line is a line is a line.

So I went to my blood test feeling somewhat hopeful.  That would be the last hope I felt for about a month.

Later that afternoon my doctor called.  It was the doctor, not the nurse.  That's never a good sign.  He was calling to tell me my HCG result was 29.

I bit my lip and pinched the bridge of my nose to keep the tears at bay.  29 was very low.  It was ridiculously low.  I knew what it meant, even though the doctor was nothing but positive.  He said there we'd wait and see what the next numbers were.  But I knew that a 29 meant that this was probably not a viable pregnancy.

Two days later.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  I was at 62 and in agony.

I shut myself inside my bedroom and wept.  Sixty-freeking-two at 17 days post ovulation.  That's a failing pregnancy.  That's a dying baby.  Still, my doctor, who once again called me, said this baby had a 50-50 shot.

My mom and dad were visiting.  My mom went off for a walk when I told her, tears streaming down my face, that her fifth living grandchild was on its way to becoming her 12th miscarried grandchild.  We didn't tell the kids anything during this time.  We just held on and waited for the numbers to drop.  Or rather, that's what I did.

Every time I did an internet search of "low HCG" or "low HCG success stories" I got tale after sad tale of miscarriages and chemical pregnancies.  I found a total of five stories where the moms gave birth to a healthy baby.  There were tens, probably hundreds, of heartbreaking stories.  Babies lost a 4 weeks, 5 weeks, 6 weeks.  Babies lost after what seemed to be a perfect rise in HCG levels.  There was a depressing medical study quoted over and over by savvy net-moms that gave my baby a thirty percent chance of live birth.

DH, who is an eternal pessimist and is currently obsessed with Ebola, was calm and even peaceful while I was falling apart.  He said, "You're planning a funeral for a child who is alive.  You're acting like this pregnancy is already over.  Stop it.  You need to be happy for the gift we have right now.  You're pregnant."  He hugged me and a huge "proud papa" grin spread across his face.  "You're pregnant right now.  Enjoy it!"

He was so right but what a struggle it was to enjoy something I was convinced I was going to lose.  Every few days for two weeks, I went in for blood work.  The numbers slowly climbed but there was never the huge jump I had seen with my first two pregnancies. This baby, this pregnancy, was slow to rise but the rise was steady and doubling as it should.

Finally after two weeks, the doctor stopped the blood work and told me to schedule an ultrasound.  I thought I was 5 weeks and 6 days when I went in, which was just barely, barely far enough along to sometimes see a heartbeat.

It was the Feast of St. Anthony, finder of lost things.  Since he's so good at finding lost things and since me and St. Tony go way back, (for a while had quite a contentious relationship) I asked him to help us find the baby's heartbeat.

I desperately needed to see the heartbeat.

It was ridiculously early to expect that we'd see one.  And when they got the ultrasound on the baby, we realized that seeing a heartbeat was going to be even more difficult than we thought.  The baby measured 5 weeks 4 days.

Probable late implantation, smaller baby, it didn't look good.

But then it all came into focus.

The sonographer sounded awed when he said, "This is the earliest I've ever seen the heartbeat.  It's right there."  He pointed to a flicker on the screen.

DH counted the beats.  120 beats per minute.

The heart was strong.  The baby, the tiny, bitty, smaller than a sesame seed baby, was miraculously alive. A sesame seed, people!  We saw a heart beat inside a baby who was the size of a sesame seed.  God is completely amazing.  So was the guy who did the ultrasound.

Now, I'm 14 weeks.  The morning sickness is gradually getting better.  I'm still easily tired.  I have an inexplicable case of hives that come and go and get worse when my nausea is especially bad.  I crave cream cheese.  I can't tolerate sugar.  Mexican food, my usual stand-by when pregnant, makes me sick.

So yeah, I'm pregnant.  All bets are that it's a girl but we won't find out for sure for a few more weeks.

  

God's will and adopting again

I have mixed feelings about posting.  I know not many people read this blog.  I don't keep it up.  I like my privacy.  My husband likes his too.  But I want to post because I need an outlet and I think my husband's ears are worn out from the sound of my sighing.

We're adopting again.

We're adopting five years too late but we're doing it.  

Right after Dignitas Personae (DP) came out, a priest friend of ours came over to visit and asked us if we had heard the news.  He told us the way the document read, it seemed clear that the church had decided embryo adoption was not permissible.  Thousands of babies would have to exist in "an absurd state" of being frozen until they thawed and then died, forgotten like so many chicken breasts in my microwave.  

I'll never forget it.  Never, as long as I live.  I was standing in my kitchen with a baby (an adopted embryo) in a sling on my left hip and a black plastic spoon in my right hand, dripping Pasta e Fagoli soup back into the pot.  I fought so hard to hold back the tears because I am strong and I don't cry in front of people if I can help it.  

No more babies, I thought as my heart wrung out.  The baby on my hip had two more siblings we had promised to go back for.  We had intended to do it even though we "had our hands full" - until we read DP.

I was heartbroken at the thought of abandoning those babies.

I was heartbroken at the thought that my husband and I had done something that could give scandal. 

The situation was grave.  How to explain this to our children?  How to explain this to others?  How to erase the media we had done promoting embryo adoption?  (It wasn't much but still....)  Until this point I had been cautiously encouraging other Catholic couples to look into embryo adoption.  How did I undo that?

After DP was released in December 2008, my lips were sealed on the issue of embryo adoption.  I wouldn't give scandal and I was ashamed that perhaps I already had.  Three of our adoptions, three of our children, were ill gotten gain.  I was devastated.  

Months passed and comments trickled out.  Janet Smith said embryo adoption wasn't off the table.  Others began to pick up the drumbeat again.  How can those children be left to die?  How can they be consigned to an "absurd fate"?  The USCCB confirmed that DP did NOT close the debate over embryo adoption.  

So for us, the debate began anew but this time, I followed it less intently. I had decided that we were done.  Even if the debate wasn't over, the writing was on the wall.  It was clear from DP that the Church didn't take a kind view of embryo adoption.  The thought that I might do something that could possibly be a mortal sin, give scandal, put my marriage in jeopardy, no, there would be no more embryo adoptions for us.

Walking up the stairs to church three years later, I counted my children.  Four.  Where was the other one?  I looked around.  Four?  I felt like I had simultaneously slammed into a brick wall and had a lobotomy.  Duh!  I only have four children.  Four living children.  What a stupid mistake.  Who does that?  I've heard of forgetting children but not adding to the count.  

For whatever reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that we should have had more children with us that morning.   I wondered why that thought should strike me right as we walked up the stairs into mass.  Odd or maybe providential.  I don't take much stock in "God feelings" but sometimes He does speak that way to us... to me.  Not often, but sometimes.  

My hands trembled when I got home and gave serious thought to another embryo adoption.  The stress was overwhelming.  How could God possibly be calling us to embryo adoption?  But if He was, I knew I needed to listen.    Slowly, I started to test the water.  My husband and I discussed it.  He was all like, "Let's go for it!  Whoo hoo."  Which was completely uncharacteristic of him.  I was all like, "No, not yet."  

I talked to priests, good Catholics that I knew.  I talked to my mom.  I decided again, no.  The risk was too high.  I didn't want to do anything that wouldn't be in line with Church teaching.  I used to feel all high and mighty and proud that I had a Master's in theology but after DP, I was humbled.  I felt like I had gotten it wrong, that I hadn't discerned properly.  It was a stunning blow - as in, I was stunned - not so much that I made an error, I do that all the time.  But that it was so utterly nebulous and yet grave at the same time.  Maybe I was going to hell, maybe I was a hero.  How does one go about discerning something like that?!

Then, out of the blue, we received a phone call from a moral theologian who teaches at a well respected Catholic seminary.  He wanted to talk to us about embryo adoption.  I was dumbfounded.  We chatted for a while and then he casually asked us if we planned to adopt again.  My husband looked at me hopefully.  I cleared my throat and said, "No.  We don't plan to go back."

There was silence on the other end.

Then the man spoke up, his voice tinged with anger.  "It isn't because of DP is it?  Because let me tell you something...." And then he went on to explain the politics behind the document.  He explained that under no uncertain terms had the church ruled on embryo adoption.  He said that the document, as far as embryo adoption was concerned, had done the opposite of what documents are supposed to do.  Rather than clarifying the issue, it muddied it.

I know it sounds cheesy but I honestly felt like I had just talked on the phone with Jesus.  I hate myself for even writing that because it's so gaahhh, stupid sounding.  But it's true.  I felt like I had just talked to Jesus.  

When I got off the phone I wept.  I still cry to this day thinking about it (but only in private).  My babies.  My two precious babies!  It would be okay to go back for them.  I was convinced.  We would go back.  

But opposition persisted because not everyone gets to talk to experts on this issue, not everyone follows the embryo adoption debate very closely, not everyone gets phone calls from Jesus.  

For my part, I was so excited about this news, about the fact that we could go back, that I wanted to shout from the rooftops.  So, I told a few people I was getting to know in our new town.  They were experienced mothers with large families and had been a source of support since I had met them.  Both had read DP.  Both were horrified by our decision to adopt embryos.  I told my mom.  She was worried for us.  They all assumed that we were making an emotional, rebellious decision.  Nothing I could say would convince my two local friends.  My mom was only convinced after she called a priest at the National Catholic Bioethics Center and spoke to him.  

God bless them for caring.  They meant well.  I truly mean that.  But I can't tell you how much I was hurt.  Judgment, a little scorn, pushing to meet with more priests, not accepting or understanding that we now had put over six years of research into this.  And I was vulnerable to it, extremely vulnerable, because, at the corners of my mind I still doubt my ability to discern God's will.    

Time marched on and still, I dragged my heels.  The embryo adoption process is physically exhausting and the ups and downs of discerning what we should do, defending our decision to misinformed friends, had left me emotionally drained. 

Life just kept barreling forward at full speed.  At that time, I had four children, a little farm, was homeschooling and trying to start a school.  Then the school actually started and I was even busier.  And then, suddenly, at the beginning of this school year, I just collapsed under the weight of it all.  

Broken and confused and feeling every ounce of my own fallenness, I knelt for prayer one night and I gave it all to God.  "If this is your will, make it happen.  If it is not, shut it down.  I want to do what is right and only what it right."  And with that the baby steps began.

Our home study was completed.  During my physical, I had a routine mammogram.  It was abnormal.  I might have breast cancer.  My medication had to be stopped until the biopsy results.  I gave it over to God.  The results were negative for cancer.  I resumed the medication.  

When I went in to see the embryo adoption doctor, he discovered that I was post-menopausal.  Okay, maybe this would be the stopping point.  I gave it over to God.  Within two months, I was back on track.  

The mediations to prepare my body for the embryo transfer caused a severe panic attack (thanks to my friends who were on my SOS text that night - sorry for scaring you), weight loss, nausea, migraines, and general anxiety.  I nearly went off of them and quit.  But I gave it over to God and He helped me through.  (So did my husband - props to him!)  

Five years after we had planned to go back for our babies, we are now in the home stretch.  We have completed the adoption process and the babies are part of our family on paper.  Our transfer is scheduled for mid-May.  I will be pregnant one last time.  It's up to God how long that pregnancy will last, but I will get to hold them at least for a little while.  I love them already and I love them so much.

When I look into the blue eyes of their brother, prayers come quickly, for their safety, for their survival, for my own health and ability to carry them to term.  When I look into the brown eyes of their sister, I wonder if they will look like her.  Then I find myself wishing I could have fifty more of them, laughing, joking, fighting, climbing trees, stomping in puddles.   

But just as quickly, sobering thoughts come.  They have been waiting so long.  Their chances are so poor statistically.  We've already been so very, very blessed with four amazing, miraculous children.  Can I dare hope to heaven that God will save these last two?  

Yes.  I hope with all of my heart and soul and very fiber of my being. 

If you find yourself reading this, pray for my babies and the doctor and his staff.  And for me.

Dear God, your will be done.  Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Mary, Joseph, Scholastica, Benedict, Ambrose, and Athanasius - Pray for us.

Little House by the Mountains

I've got 75 Freedom Ranger chickens coming in from PA in two weeks.

Yes, November is a strange time to try to raise free range chickens.... However, since we know how to butcher chickens, it seems a shame to buy them in the grocery store. Plus, even if they end up being more "feed fed" birds, they've still been raised right here on my land and I know they'll be healthy.

I found my aged copy of Little House in the Big Woods and flipped it open. Couldn't put it down. Then I checked out all the Little House books I could find at the library. I'm reading Little Town on the Prairie now. That Nellie Olsen is just as mean in the book as she is in the television show.

When I was little, maybe seven or eight, I used to make believe I was Laura at recess. The other girls were playing kissing tag. I was the solitary fat-girl in the corner nearest the tan brick church who looked like she had lost her mind. Pantomiming everything from pushing the plow, sewing the seed, detasseling (hey, I'm from the Midwest, I know how it works!), to harvesting the corn. Sometimes another strange little girl who wore her hair in a long brown braid would join me. But most of the time, I played farm alone. Most of the time, my eccentricities were ignored by my good-natured, modern classmates. But when I pulled up an invisible stool and squatted down to milk the cow, I noticed more puzzled looks than usual.

 My point is that while some kids played school or house or superheroes (which I also did from time to time) my preference was, from a very young age, to play farm. Now that I'm all grown up and have a "farmette" of my own, I feel like I'm living a dream.

 Rediscovering the Little House books has piqued my interest in how they did it back then, homesteading and living off the land. For the first time in my life, I can sort of homestead too. Now, I can't do EVERYTHING - 10 acres isn't enough land to grow feed and a garden and raise livestock. But I know I could do more with it... the question is, how to I convince my husband that he wants to be more like Almanzo?

Midlife Crisis Here

It's not a joke. I thought it was a joke. It is very unfortunately not a joke. People really have midlife crisises. I'm having one.

To manage the midlife crisis, I'm doing what everyone who has a midlife crisis does. I'm going out to achieve my long-time, never-realized goal.

Which is?

Writing a book. A chapter book.

My kids are funny. I was working on it at lunch the other day and we were talking about possible plot ideas. Will, my oldest, is sort of going along with it, sort of detached and thinking about Legos when all of a sudden I see the light go on. He leans toward my notebook searching it for meaning and says, "You mean YOU'RE writing a real book? Like Lord of the Rings!" Don't you just love the way kids can make you feel so good and yet so absolutely stupid.

As if I could write Lord of the Rings.

But I can write. So I'm off for a while to listen to Pink while I try to think of my cool story line to help cure me of my mid-life crisis. My villain is AWESOME. I've never in my whole life been able to write a villain. Woo-stinkin-hoo baby.

Legend of Cowboy Chicken and Dumplings

Yes, I was at Costco today and I fully intended to buy something pre-made to reheat. But I was feeling sick and tired and nothing I saw sounded really good. Then I saw Chicken and Dumplings and I thought, why spend the extra money? I'll just whip that up at home.

And I did.

It took about 35 minutes.

When it was done it looked UGLY. The four kids took one look at it and complaints started to roll. "I'm not hungry." "I'm not eating that." (and my favorite) "Do I like this mom?"

I served them in bowls and sat for a few minutes watching them watch their bowls of slop. Hoping for candy, my dearies?

The inspiration came, as it usually does, like a shaft of light out of the depths of frustration and necessity.

You all know the story of Chicken and Dumplings, don't you? Cowboys used to ride long days on the range. They had to eat cold lunches and worked very long hours. By twilight, their tummies were growling like a cornered mountain lion. The poor camp cook knew those men had ridden hard all day and were looking for a meal that would stick to their ribs but the cook only had one great big kettle. He didn't have an oven or even a second campfire. So he took a great big pot and hung it over a roaring blaze. He filled the heavy iron kettle with chicken, corn, carrots, peas, and a little bit of other yummy goodness.

(At this point, I had to stop and serve second helpings to my three sons and tell my daughter that yes, there were sometimes cowgirls too and they also ate Chicken and Dumplings).

After the chicken had done a little cooking, the camp cook added heaping spoonfulls of corn bread dough to the bubbling chicken mixture. (Mine looks a lot like Chicken Pot Pie filling). He did this because he knew the cowboys needed bread but he didn't have any other way to cook it. So into the pot went the dough.

When the cowboys came in from the range, they had to do their night chores like putting up saddles and watering horses. Then they washed their hands and faces. (My kids eyes bugged out of their heads - AND FACES!) The cook always checked and if there was dirt behind the ears or under the fingernails, the cowboys were sent back to wash up again. And no one wanted to get sent back because that meant you would be last in line for chow (which, I explained, means dinner).

Well, Chicken and Dumplings were so popular with the cowboys that they asked the cook to make it for them every single Wednesday.

The end

FWIW, that's not really the origin of Chicken and Dumplings. The point of the story was to get my kids to eat dinner. My three year old, who is like Mikey from the Life commercials ("He never eats anything.") ate three bowls. My other "Mikey," who is even worse, ate two helpings. My biggest boy, Will, had two large helpings and a big smile. My husband (who came late and heard the legend retold by my 5 year old) asked if there were leftovers he could take with him for lunch tomorrow.

This is my very own recipe (and legend) for Cowboy Chicken and Dumplings.
2 large chicken breasts (about 1 pound)
1/2 cup chopped onions
1/2 cup milk
1/2 shredded cheddar cheese
1 cup frozen peas and carrots
1 can sweet corn
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon thyme (dried)
2 teaspoons arrowroot

1 box of Jiffy corn bread mix
1/3 cup milk
1 egg

Cook the chicken up in a big stock pot with a tablespoon of oil added to it so the chicken doesn't create a horrible mess for you to have to chip off the bottom of the pan later. I like to cut the chicken with my kitchen scissors as I hold it with tongs over the pan. I don't like cutting raw chicken on a cutting board.

Use a stove top if you must. There would be lots more drama and dare I say, eating, if you cook this over a campfire, which you can seriously do.

When the chicken is fully cooked (not pink on the inside) add the onions. (I like to use sweet onions because they don't make me cry). Sautee until the onions are browned around the edges (or translucent if you prefer your onions to blend in).

Add milk, chicken stock, cheese, peas n carrots, corn and thyme. Stir. When mixture is hot spoon a little of the liquid out into that measuring cup you used for the milk (why make more dirty dishes). Add 2 teaspoons of the arrowroot to the hot liquid. Stir. When the liquid is dissolved (it takes 3 seconds) pour it into the pot. Stir it all up. When the liquid begins to thicken add the corn bread topping.

In a seperate bowl mix up the corn bread mix according to the instructions on the box. Drop big ugly glops of it over the chicken mixture. Cover tightly with a lid.

The steam in the pot will cook the cornbread. Why do it this way? My dear husband and several kids don't like the texture of cornbread. It's too dry, they tell me. Steaming the bread creates a wonderfully moist texture.

I left the pot on the stove for about 20 minutes and in that time, the bread soaked up all the yummy gravy. The mixture didn't have any pot pie-type sauce/ gravy left. Again, for my gravy suspicious family, this was good but if you want a creamier Chicken and Dumplings, experiment - try more milk, try leaving the stock pot on for a shorter period of time, try cooking it in the oven (though this will increase cooking time).

Four of four stars for easy.
Four of four stars for inexpensive.
Four of four stars for eaten and enjoyed by everyone in the family.
One of four stars for looks but that's cowboy food for you.

Another New Year, Another Random Post

Several things of note as I wait for Sims 3 to load on my computer. (It's like waiting for Jumpman to load on a Commodore 64. I can go make a grill cheese, come back and the game isn't finished loading yet).

1. Regarding diets and detoxes for this year. I'm wavering between detoxing and dismissing the detox as junk science. I started to "detox" a week ago in an attempt to stop my back jiggle from getting worse. A virus derailed all progress, which, I have to say, wasn't remarkable. So I have soured on the detox mostly because I didn't like the side effects of irritability and hunger. I'll lose the weight. I always do. Probably by way of the Coffee Diet or the Wine Diet.

2. Presidential debates are producing vivid dreams wherein I attend church, receive Communion, and am harangued by Ann Coulter not to vote for "Eye of" Newt Gingrich. Dreams are probable side effect of the detox.

3. I can finally, truthfully, post the following bumper sticker on my car: "Proud parent of a child who jammed a Lego up his nose." Lego was removed thanks to a solid coaching session of nose blowing by my DH.

4. If I hear one more child ask me where Darth Vader's head is, I am going to explode. My unvoiced rant, "Look here you little destructo-bot, when I was little I didn't bite the head off of my action figures. Yes, I may have cut my Barbie's hair, ONE TIME. And yes, I drew a goatee on one with a ball point pen because my mom wouldn't let me have a Ken. But biting the head off of Darth Vader is too Ozzy. It needs to stop. Do you want people to think you're a psychopath? Do you want to choke on it? Don't roll your eyes at me. Choking hazards are very real. I almost died choking on a penny when I was four. So there you go. Keep this up and you've got less than a year to live because if I can choke, so can you. And while I'm at it, keep the friggin couch cushions on the couch. We don't live in a tent in the middle of the Arabian desert. Until then, pillows don't go on the floor."

5. Game is finally loaded. You'll have to find another diversion.