Yawwwwn

I’d love to share some revelations with you. Some epiphanies are big and need a little explaining. Some are silly. All of them sunk into my psyche in a deep, meaningful way during my vacation and without judging, I had a way of being with this awareness in a completely new way, like being taken to a party where I didn’t know anyone. I had to feel my way around, ask questions, and above all else, I had to listen. So, let’s begin…

Holiday cards aren’t apologies. Years ago I adored rushing home from work and tearing into the holiday card envelopes searching for little treasures. Heartwarming pictures of smiling couples on the beach, children (whose faces you’d recognize but they seem to have sprouted overnight) huddled with their proud parents or sleeping newborns with squished little faces nestled in each envelope. Those were the days. Folks wrote a little something about their year and sent their love, it all felt so personal. So much love.

I was in on the game, too. I loved sending pictures of my beautiful children to all corners of the country and beyond. Like sharing a tiny bit of the joy I felt in my heart with each special person near and far. Then things changed. The year before Hope transitioned we sent our cards with a picture of the kids at their favorite play space; Will clad in a policeman’s costume and my oldest in a princess dress, complete with tiara. You’d think I shot the Pope. The reactions to my son wearing a “girl’s get up” were strong.

One could say it prepared me for what was to come, but it felt like someone had taken a special part of the holiday away from me. I know that sounds silly, but imagine if you had a special holiday feast with your family every single year and looked forward to it with such joy that you started meal planing two months ahead of time, and then someone tells you they’d rather eat at a fast food restaurant than eat at your house. Well, it sobered me right up. I began to see who was really accepting of us, and who wasn’t.

The year after, the kids’ father suggested no cards. And the year after that, and after that. Now my stream of holiday goodness no longer fills my mailbox. The cards just stopped coming. I get some here and there, and don’t get me wrong, I’m truly grateful, but it hasn’t been the same. Just like life, things change, and we shift accordingly.

Imagine my surprise when there on the dining table was a card I’d never expected in a million years given our relationship. My knee jerk reactions was to toss the unopened rectangle in the recycling and start dinner, but I stopped. Maybe she wrote an apology on the back of the card? Something like, “Seasons Greetings! I’m sorry we make gay jokes about your child. Happy 2012!” I ripped open the card with almost the same enthusiasm as I once did, only to find two teens mugging surrounded by a hideous cherry red & kelly green bonanza. Back of card, empty.

I watched myself as I ripped the picture in half, slowly severing those two heads, then turned sideways to keep ripping and ripping until the little chards sprinkled like snow, peacefully falling to the ground. Then I was happy. Little kaleidoscope flecks reflecting from the chandelier like holiday lights. Nope, I didn’t grab the glue gun and repurpose, I scooped it up and dumped it, dusting my hands over the bin, smiling like my Christmas wish came true.

My joy came from one place – truth. This is the first year I embraced my loss, my longing, my fear, my grief, my joy, my rage, my resentment, my inability to change things that will never be changed. They will always talk about us behind our backs. That’s okay. There are people like that everywhere. Doesn’t mean I need to like it, or dislike it. It is what is.

Earlier today someone mentioned that some people are like clouds, when they leave the room the sun begins to shine again. I like that. It’s not the person’s fault. It’s where and who they are, and I can’t change that. The only thing I can control is me, my feelings and my reactions. So my new holiday saying is, “When life gives you shitty holiday cards, make psychedelic snow!”

Every day I begin again. I’m not into New Year’s Eve. Never was. Just like most evenings, I’m in bed around 10, and happy. You don’t need a new year to roll around to have a clean slate each day; each moment offers you that same opportunity. It’s never too late. Buddhists believe that death is like changing your day clothes into pajamas, you simply shed the old and turn toward the new. I like that.

Instead of resolutions that come and go, I savor the intention of being present, and if I can do that, try residing in a place of love. Simple, yet harder than it looks.

Never underestimate the power of Krampus. This was our first year lightheartedly talking about Santas’s less popular sidekick. If you don’t know him, Google. While tucking my kids into bed I had to assure them that he lives in Switzerland, and doesn’t have a work visa.

Each past hurdle & heartache leads us to now, and I don’t want anything else. I’d never trade a moment, even when I’ve fallen to my knees in despair.

So my child is gender diverse. She deals with extra challenges, encounters a world that doesn’t understand her, feels outside the loop on many occasions, and doesn’t understand exactly why this has happened to her. That’s all true, yet somehow you’d never know any of that from knowing her. She is the most brave person I’ve ever known. She stands in truth no matter the result. Her courage inspires the rest of us, like moths to a flame. Still, her greatest quality is her ability to love, and it’s taught me how to finally grow up and be the person I’ve always hoped I could be someday.

Well, today is someday. I’m living my dream. It might not look like it to anyone else. Our lives are messy, and complicated. Most people don’t get us so they stay their distance and judge us on what they think they know. That’s okay, because we are fine. We are loving and strong. We are living in our truth. And that means more than anything else in the world to me. It’s my greatest gift.

My heart swells with enormous gratitude, for the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve spent time with, and the for the mere fact that I can wake from a deep, deep sleep and begin again.

Of course, as these things go, I didn’t notice what I had done. I thought I was leisurely checking out site improvements, sampling the bells and whistles, perusing what was out there to make my site faster, easier… better.

When I found out what I’d done it was as if my cat ran out of the house and under the neighbor’s bent wheel. Like the shout that never really came out of your mouth, but it was right there nonetheless. I felt sick. Where were my words? Where was my heart?

As you sit in your (hopefully) cozy chair reading this you can tell it all worked out, but the exercise walked me through a necessary evil. The Universe presented a challenge to me and with diligent faith I reacted. During the whole endeavor it became painfully clear that this place is so special to me that I’d never want to let it go. Or take it for granted.

This space is me. It soothes me like a backrub. It stirs in me like an episode of American Horror Story, too scary to watch so you listen under the warmth of your sofa blanket. It’s not a blog, a thing to visit now and again… well, it may be for you. Not for me. Not at all.

It’s the light streaming from my crown chakra as if I’m being lifted right off the ground. It’s my darkness, memories of my childhood in the Dungeon with the rusty wet stains near the broken metal door missing the screen and the Devil between two locked doors. It’s my eyes as I watch the world around, as I follow my children running in front of me their laughter muffled in their coats and scarves. It’s every wish I ever hoped for. It’s every dream left unfulfilled. My secrets. My failures. My triumphs. My love.

It’s the reminder of what makes world worth living.

A wash of relief spread from the crown of my head and covered me like hot fudge melting down a cold scoop as I recalled the acceptance I felt as I talked about girls who feel like boys and boys who felt like girls. The supportive nods from teachers and the thoughtful questions produced by curious minds. But tell me again how we ended up laying down?

Ding! Ding! My head snapped around while no one seemed to notice. That’s a peculiar (and particularly delicate) school bell in my opinion. Ding! Ding! Maybe if I close my eyes I can determine where it’s coming from?? Ding! Ding!

Darkness registered first, and the crushing silence. Ding! Ding! Without thinking I reached out to find my bedside table only to find my pulsing iPhone indicating someone was texting me. Huh?! I’m in my room. It’s morning. And it was all a dream.

The glowing message told me I was uncharacteristically late so I threw off my fluffy comforter and scrambled to turn on the shower. Shoving the dripping toothbrush into my mouth I glanced at my weary face, sheet marks gracing the edges like I’d been scratched by cats all night. It was a dream. I can’t believe it still.

My first inclination was to tell myself, “It was too good to be true,” meaning the embrace I felt by the group, but that’s not exactly the truth. It is real. That dream signaled what I already know to be true and today I’m going to accept it.

Everything is as it should be. No matter what, we are safe. We are loved. We are accepted. That feeling didn’t come from the nods. It didn’t come from the school or the children. It didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me, and I know it as my own. No one takes it from me, and now I’m sure I’m not giving it away anymore. It’s mine, whenever and wherever I need it.

“Their child.” 

“But say the kid is grown up, not a child anymore?”

“Our children grow up and become adults, and yet our children will always be our children. Forever.” 

“I like that.” 

In our quiet moments I grab my youngest and cuddle him like I did when he was small as he squirms and squeals for me to let him go. While I shower him with loud smacking kisses on the top of his head he half laughs/ half screams for immediate release. Where did the time go? How did my plump little tot become even more willful and remarkably strong? My baby.

Looking back this has been the wildest and most rewarding challenge of my life – parenting. Having never thought I’d have the opportunity to become a parent, I’m beyond honored for each experience, and the fact that I’ve been blessed with these two amazing little people I get to call my children. How did I ever get so lucky?

As I sit here in the cafe exploring my wonderment and gratitude a child yanks at a parent’s hand as they walk by which evokes a jerking response from the parent lifting the child off their feet. Both faces resemble each other, a look of disgust mixed with tardiness, like they want to be somewhere else, and quick.

The small child’s wild eyes meet mine and I knowingly smile. I was that caged animal, led along the path of what was expected of me, what was “right”. Living in a constant state of panic was just what I did consuming adrenaline for all three square meals and politely thanking my parents for each bite.

Long after my father passed away, I started to explore why I was still so nervous. It was as if he was still standing beside me judging every move, every thought, and he did not approve. Apparently old habits die hard when they are engrained in you, especially as a child. I did what I needed to do: explore, rebel, deny, medicate, forget, blame, reason, starve, react and then I began to cope with what I had and who I’d become.

I am my father’s child, forever. But I don’t have to let my old programming set up shop in my brain. Not now. Not when so many good things were happening and I’ve come so far. I had to evict these old tapes telling me what I should do and who I should become. I was doing just fine for myself.

During this slow process of revising my own internal dialogue I was fortunate enough to have children and as they grew their questions begged me to define my true thoughts about the world and dismiss the script of my past, tearing pages out and redacting the parts not meant for young eyes. I could begin again. I could make it different. I could love more than I thought was possible. And I did.

Each day is a second chance. Another opportunity to be who you are and live in your truth. Take it. Love it. Live it.

Before I knew it Will was consoling me as I choked back reluctant sobs. Just then Hope walked into the kitchen and stopped abruptly when she saw that I was crying.

“Why are you crying Mom?” she asked standing uncharacteristically still.

“I just saw a clip about Jason McElwain, a young student with autism,” I shared, “and I’m so happy for him.” I rambled a bit about how the student brought the players water and towels emphasizing the boy had never played with the team before this game, but that he was really passionate about the game. Without saying a word, Will kept his hand on my back listening intently to what I was saying like a wise old man.

“Mom, what’s autism?” Hope chimed in. Once she said it I realized although I was friends with a brilliant autism activist, I’d never really discussed autism with the kids, and I wasn’t sure I had the exact terminology straight in my head. Nevertheless, I jumped in leading with my heart.

“Kids with autism have brains that are wired in a unique way,” I wasn’t sure I was on the right track, but I continued, “their brain affects the way they experience the world and the way they express themselves.”

“Why couldn’t he play basketball with autism?” her questions although incredibly simple, cut to the complicated core.

“I’m not sure in this case Sweetheart, but sometimes someone with autism might not respond to an organized sport the way the rules of the game allows. I think some people with autism might not like the noise of the stadium or relate to the sequence of the game the same way as the other players. We could research it and figure it out, but that’s just from what little I know. It could be a lot of things. Not everyone can play sports for lots of reasons.”

“The boy with autism has a different brain,” she stated. And then it dawned on me.

“Yes, he does. Lots of people have different brains,” and this made her first look down at her feet, then catch my stare and smile. My daughter has a different brain, too. Her brain is wired as a girl’s brain and it is in conflict with her body. Maybe not the same way as autism, but it’s still a significant hurdle for a little person to deal with and embrace.

After watching the video I was inspired and conflicted. Obviously I was elated that Jason had the chance to play the sport he adores, and that he let his light shine out there scoring 20 points in the last 4 minutes. I loved the way he confirmed to the reporter that he was “hot as a pistol” out there on the court. My heart soared when everyone ran out on the court and cheered for him. That’s a moment everyone will remember. Everyone should have such a victory!

At the same time I felt this twinge when the reporter ended the segment saying, “he (Jason) was used to feeling different… but never this wonderful.” Jason didn’t have to score those points to be a hero. Let’s face it. He is a devoted member of that team, and that is enough right there. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that Jason had this opportunity was divinely right. Perhaps it was the only way for people to properly celebrate him in such a grand way. I guess what I’m trying to say is that he didn’t have to make the baskets, but that was beautiful icing on the cake.

Traveling by myself does that to me. Without the pressure of organizing others, mainly the kids, I settle into my Quiet Observer mode, and I like it. People argue at the airport, about lines and regulations. Their words swirl around my peaceful brain like a flock of unhappy migrating birds swooping and dropping, and then they’re gone. I find myself simply smiling and figure I must look lobotomized amidst the chaos, and I don’t care when I’m alone. Everything is going to be alright is my mantra in my silence, like Bob Marley gently whispering in my ear 24/7. Now that’s a good life right there.

So as the sun laid to rest while I was still driving to P-Town I let my anxiety keep napping. Black waves lapping up at me from the side of the road and I resist the urge to ditch the car and jump into the cold darkness. The moon as bright as a floodlight I find my way and then settle into the sweetest room. Alas, I’m alone on this trip, and it makes me wish someone else could see it, enjoy it.

Even eating alone is a treat. Some of my friends detest this quality of mine that can head straight into a lavish four star restaurant all by myself and feast without a care. If I look past the hefty tabs I create, I actually love this about me. I take it all in, luxury in slow motion. Afterwards as I journey back to my tiny palace I meet a group of gals who were sensational and without a single twist of my arm I am back at dinner again, talking, laughing and learning. This WAS a special trip indeed. Effortless. Fluid. Meaningful.

The next morning was filled with adventuring around the town searching for an almond chai latte and the perfect angle for quick Instagram pics. Successful in my search (thanks to Wired Puppy) I floated through the rest of my day including my keynote speech and the following discussion about gender diversity in children’s literature. It was divinely right, each step.

As the Quiet Observer I’m able to let go and live. I give myself permission to craft my moments as I please so why do I give that up when I step back into my life at home? Tension flares. My old stress patterns return. The Quiet Observer is bound and gagged as the adrenaline machine churns more and more, streaming fear into my veins like a fitful transfusion. I’m ready to break this pattern.

That’s a first for me. Not the angry part. No, like everyone else on the planet I’ve been fuming lots of times. The new adventure is writing when I’m still stuck in that ticked off space. Usually when I sit in my (unusually uncomfortable) writing chair I’m coping with something that made me joyful, proud, fearful, sad or confused. Sometimes I’ve been mad and I’ve worked it out before coming to write so the post speaks of resolution. Never have I been so fired up that it’s taken me a whole week just to sit and strangle the words out of my throat and pour them on the page. I’m even coughing when I chant lately so you just know I’m keeping something in there that is itching to come out.

Let me jump back and set the scene… It all started a few weeks ago when I took a Forrest Yoga workshop. It was like a tiny firecracker that started me diving head first into an emotional undercurrent. Incredibly sore and newly aware of what I was hiding in my practice, I needed more.

Step 2: my teacher intuitively gave me Ana Forrest’s book Fierce Medicine and I devoured it. The way Ana spoke of her early life, it was so much like mine that it was uncanny, and it spoke to me. Actually, it shouted. And for the first time I was really listening to what was swirling around me like I had taken off my Bose block-out headphones to hear everything loud and clear.

Step 3: The lights went on upstairs during my sweat lodge with a gifted and loving Native American Elder. Fearing someone was hurt during the sweat, I opened my eyes to see why they turned the lights on only to find it was still absolutely dark. Close my eyes and the ceiling was lit. Open them and it was pitch black. Like a cosmic light bulb went on. I quickly caught on that the Universe was joking with me and yet, very serious about connecting. Now my eyes are open.

Step 4: Butterflies show up on the scene as I tell a friend about the caterpillar transformation described in my Wounded Healers workshop. Unlikely, seeing as though they were fluttering at a two-story window that faces the garages, but okay, I’m still listening and watching.

Step 5: While I share the gorgeous sequence of events with my teacher as we wait for our fellow yogis to meet up, even down to the fact that Ana Forrest and I had equestrian life in common, two cops on horses show up behind me. On the beach no less. Signals. Flashing traffic signs. Stop. Yield. Go. I’m paying attention.

So where is this leading? I thought you are pissed Jen? You sound pretty blissed out? And yes, I am. The crazy part is while I was taking this awakening of my senses, this spiritual hiatus I was getting flooded with emails… and they all had two similar themes. As I started to reply I noticed I was basically emailing the same two messages over and over. I’m not a fan of cutting and pasting my personal communications so that was out of the question and yet, I couldn’t help but notice the similarity to my responses.

One group of emails was from parents asking for advice about their kids who do not identify with their assigned gender at birth. Their requests covered the gamut from how to handle dance recitals and school to what to do when the child asks to present outside the home. The similar theme was that the parents needed reassurance on how to move forward. It sounded like they needed someone outside their support system to talk with, and most of them wanted the type of answers that I admit I don’t have. Answers about what is happening, what to call it, how to talk about it, what to plan for, what it looks like. If you boil it down, they all want to know what’s going to happen and what are they going to do about it.

If you know me, you know that my philosophy is being who you are, so much so it’s the title of my book. I was talking with a friend today about it. That message is not just for the kids, but for the parents as well. It’s for all of us. Kids need to express themselves freely in a safe and healthy environment. Well guess that? So do we. The questions are all good. They need to be asked and still there aren’t any easy answers. I will always share my story, but everyone will have their own journey. Everyone lives life differently. No road maps. No quick fixes.

As I pondered these questions in my inbox, I dusted off a manuscript and got to editing. I’ve had a project in the works for years that walks through our story from a parent’s perspective and now it’s time I get the baby ready to go and published. Parents want resources. They want to hear about how other families are handling situations. They don’t need to follow anyone else’s path. Parents don’t have to base their choices on anyone else, but by hearing other stories they vicariously get to walk in their shoes, at least for a while. And then we learn we are not alone in any of this. That’s huge.

The second group of emails was from young people, teenage to young twenties, who asked me to give them advice on helping their parents understand their gender expression. “What can I say to help them understand?” was the recurring request and their honest, respectful desperation quickly drove me to tears. Reading stories of parents who refuse to speak to or even look at their own children. Parents who have demanded that their flesh and blood leave the safe haven of their home because the child dresses in a way that reflects who they know themselves to be. Parents who crush these intelligent minds, these loving souls, these tender young spirits with their spiteful words and ignorant fists.

These parents have no idea that their children are reaching out to me, a stranger. Reaching out even after the parent has turned their back on the child. Their children are continually grasping at straws trying to find some way to communicate with their parents, to get them to understand just a little bit of what they are going through so they don’t lose the only anchors they have in this world since birth. A parent’s love is powerful. We forget that.

Throw acceptance to the side for a minute. Of course, we all want unconditional understanding, but we might not always get it, at least not in the timeframe we want. Doesn’t mean that the person has to stop loving us in the meantime. It doesn’t mean that parents have to draw a line in the sand and release their child into the world alone, physically and emotionally. This is where I go from absolutely weeping to getting downright fiery and pissed.

What makes a parent turn their back on their child? Someone explain that to me.

Here I have these two groups emailing, parents looking for answers and kids searching for the “right words” and the reality is as hard as I try I can’t really help either group. No simple emailed reply can cover the expansive nature of coming to terms with your life not turning out the way you thought it would. And that’s one of the reasons why a lot of people have a hang up with gender diversity. It’s a big change in their eyes.

If only they could turn the situation around and see how their child is pressured to change every day to fit the demands made by our culture. The constant turmoil. The agony of simple things like getting dressed up, going to school or having a birthday party. Enjoyable moments the rest of us take for granted. Rather than think about how the child’s gender diversity affects them as their parents, why can’t they, just for a split second, walk in the child’s shoes and experience that primal disconnect? Are we so hell-bent on looking like “the typical American family” that we can’t just be who we are – loving parents who protect the safety and well-being of our children?

I know one more book in the world doesn’t make a significant difference. I’m not saying that I’m the person who will (or could) write a book to help parents come to terms, even thought that’s exactly what I will try to do. I’m saying that all of us, all the parents who have gender diverse kids and the people that love us, have that story in us that society needs to hear. We don’t need to write it if that’s not our thing. Maybe you draw and someone else sings. Maybe we advocate for our child in a gentle way that educates others. Maybe we answer the next person’s inquiry about our child’s expression with pride and pure love instead of apology and fear. Maybe we share our story with a friend or at a play group. Maybe we ask our child what it feels like to wish for different body parts. Maybe we finally tell Great Grandpa why Billy is wearing a dress… whatever it is. We can all make very large or very small steps towards demystifying gender identity and expression. And if not now, when?

Lonely alley at sundown, just me and my thoughts, until I saw this little snippet of wisdom shared on the side of a building. Yes. It’s all what we make it. Minute to minute, day to day. What are we really searching for?

Busy-ness by creating a double booked schedule to keep us from standing still and feeling what’s left when all the i’s are dotted and t’s crossed?

Acceptance from others so we start to believe that we are good enough?

Money so that we can measure our wealth by our bank account and not by our heart?

Love from anyone or anything that fills the void?

Sedation so that we don’t feel anything at all?

Or do we seek Enlightenment? Truth? Self? The Divine? Whatever you want to call it… do we search internally for fulfillment or externally? Where is our happiness found?

Did you see this line-up? It’s astounding how much we can learn in 3 short days, but I’m doing it all… including the yoga and meditation. I’m in. All in.

It’s funny, my daughter told someone recently that I was going to a conference and that I wrote a book. I was surprised because she prefers that we live relatively (almost completely) stealth so I probably produced a more than inquisitive look at her proud declaration. (Still working on my poker face truth be told…) Later I asked about it and she simply replied that she was happy that I was “helping people be better parents.” Whoa!!!!?? 

I wish that I could assume such a glorious job title, but alas I felt more comfortable clarifying that I ask questions and talk about things that might help parents along their journey. Simple. A take-it-or-leave-it type of thing. No pressure. But in her eyes, when she sees the cover of my book she’s constantly reminded of our talks about the parents who may not understand their child’s gender identity, or as she prefers to it as “how people feel inside”. She may ponder what life would be like if we didn’t listen to her or forced her to be someone she isn’t. That breaks my heart.

Even my son brought on the water works today. Bright and early, before 6am he chose to absolve me of my parental duties by telling me that he “forgives me for missing his graduation” and gave me an enormous hug that made me wish that this was my wake up call every morning. Mind you, he is graduating from preschool, which is huge for him and totally important. I get that. Still.

I start to tear up when I think of connecting with others this weekend. Why? Maybe because I feel the emotional weight of families who struggle with issues surrounding gender expression. I was there just a few years ago, not knowing where to turn or how to help. Life looked condensed in a way, with fear closing all the doors I wish were open. That was then.

Today we are free. Not completely transparent, but living and standing in our truth day in and day out. And I have so many people to thank for that. You know who you are – you beautiful, courageous, loving, loyal, open and supportive friends who have stood by me even when my brave disguise had worn thin. You’ve lifted me, carried me, soothed me and inspired me to do more for all of the families, like ours, that want to live genuinely, no matter what that looks like. I’m eternally grateful. And blessed.

After discussing the latest Exit Stage Left, my dinner companion commented that this person had a problem with showing up. And it dawned on me. That’s why I was so annoyed with the situation. It wasn’t because my feelings were hurt, it was overwhelming confusion mixed with frustration. And disappointment.

Since it struck such a chord with me I had to go deeper, investigate if this was something I seriously feared in myself. Lo and behold, it was. First stop – my reiki master for clarity (and boy did I get it!) then I sat in meditation for quite some time contemplating me, my life and my actions. Here’s what I know… I show up.

It might seem like a simple concept, but for me it’s beyond just sticking to your word or being loyal. It’s really being there, being present even when that’s not the easiest thing to do. I’m not saying that I’m perfect at it, but it’s my guiding light, my truest life lesson.

How do I show up every day for my children? Not just pass the time or dart from activity to activity mindlessly wasting the minutes and moments, but really show up for them emotionally, even spiritually? How do I show up for my family and friends? Better yet, how do I show up for me, my work, and the things I hold most near and dear to my heart? Am I actively participating in my life or am I taking the virtual ski lift to watch everyone else living? I’m showing up.

Granted, it’s not the easiest. There are days when I wish I could take the backseat, let anyone else shoulder the burden. Walk away. Step aside and allow whatever insurmountable hurdle to pass by without me having to dig in and do the dirty work.  But what happens then? If I don’t handle my problems now they’ll just be my problems later. Now or later, my choice.

I’m grateful for these little moments that shine a light on my default thoughts and actions. Slowly but surely I’m even changing some of my inner dialogue, the endless tape of messages played non-stop before I actively quiet my mind. Today I’m interrupting the barrage of “shoulds” that flood my consciousness and inserting my affirmation – I’m showing up. I’m open. I’m ready. And I’m here.