Way Too Tiny For Surgery

I will be leaving for Phoenix at 3 a.m. Friday morning, just me and my little Luke. Off to the surgical center. So my tiny guy can get both his testicles where they need to be.

It's not supposed to be invasive, they say. They just make an incision, go in, find the testicle that's hiding in the abdomen, bring it down into the scrotum, close up the scrotum from the inside so it doesn't leave the sack, and sew him up in the outside. Piece of cake, right?

The surgeon/urologist says he does more than many of these, and that it's pretty standard. In and out.

But that doesn't mean I'm not stressing over having my smaller-than-average, almost-eight-month-old knocked out with anesthesia and cut open on an operating table.

In fact, I'm pretty sick about it. I can't even let myself think about it for too long or I feel my eyes start to burn. To say the least.

I wish my husband could go with me for support. Or that I had some form of support there at all.

But the kids need him here, and I don't want them there.

So it's just me and Luke.

I've done it before. After all, when Sam had his 2nd surgery at 13 months, it was the same thing. Drive down to Phoenix, just me and him. Be there when he comes to, thrashing and disoriented. Comfort him, hold him. Drive three hours home with him, praying he would sleep on the way, since I could do nothing to comfort him in the car.

They say it's pretty standard.

But I'm freaking out inside. Worried sick. Praying it's as standard as they say, that it goes smoothly, and that God will bless him with quick healing and good health, as well as steady hands on the surgeon.

I pray I'll be able to keep it together and that my baby won't be scared.

I pray it will go well and be over before we both know it.

That's all.

 

"Paging Doctor House"

I've lost faith in doctors over the years. The more I watch dramatized doctor or hospital TV shows, and the more I experience the doctors in real life, the more I realize how most of them actually couldn't care less about their patients. They make their money the moment we walk in the door, so why try? Move along so I can get to my next number patient who'll fork out the dough.

I'm not discounting anyone who's had great experiences with doctors, or who've been saved by a doctor. My husband was one of them. Nor am I trying to offend anyone who is a doctor or knows one personally. I just hope, for their patients' sake, they're good at it. That they care.

I'm just saying there needs to be more of the caring. A LOT more. The way it works is messed up. But it's always been this way. And it works for them because as mortal human beings, we need doctors. And we will always come back. Even though we are paying them.

I hear amazing stories from people who've had doctors find things wrong with them, or cure them, and it makes me grateful for modern medicine. I really am. And I'm glad for those miracles in people's lives. Like I said, my hubby was one of those people. Thanks to a doctor's "hunch"--a doctor who wasn't just mindlessly going along with the motions and actually cared--my husband's cancer as a teenager was caught early enough to eliminate it. I will forever be grateful for that.

So why does it seems near impossible to find a doctor that still goes by "hunches"? Is it too much to ask that a doctor actually take careful consideration of his patients' problems, instead of viewing them as just another number?

Again, we are paying them. So why does it feel like they are robbing us we are wasting their precious time?

It's absolutely maddening, and quite effed up.

Did they really go through the hell of medical school, just to blow off a patient's issues? Just to forget about them and their problem the moment that patient walks out the door, not even giving them another thought until the next time they walk in that door? And then, when they know the patient is miserable and desperate for an answer, not even call with certain test results?

"Hey, receptionist, let's mail the results instead, make him/her wait a little longer, and then when he/she calls to get more information, tell him/her I won't talk to him/her unless he/she makes an appointment to see me and pays me another $100...just so I can tell him/her I don't have a clue what's wrong!" Evil, evil laugh.

As exaggerated as that seems, I don't think it's too far from the truth.

Are there any doctors out there that still care about the patient, and that when the patient says he/she is going through hell, they actually believe them--even though it's a problem they've never heard of?

After so much evidence to the contrary, I say no. If there are ones who do, we've yet to find them. Just because they've "never seen that issue" in all their thirty years of experience doesn't mean it's not legit. Figure it out. Diagnose. Care, just a little.

Hell, I'd take Dr. House's horrible bedside manner any day if it meant having a doctor who would obsess over the problem until he figured it out actually try to solve the medical problem instead of forgetting about it just because it was something he didn't normally deal with.

YOU'RE A DOCTOR. DO YOUR EFFING JOB.

Not an easy thing, nursing.

Today I don't want to pour my heart out about the economy falling apart, even though I fear for the future of my family. I don't even want to pour my heart out about Luke's upcoming surgery that we just scheduled for September 2, and how I'm dreading it every day that it gets closer.

Today I want to pour my heart out about something dear to me, that probably won't be to others. I want to rant about how my baby is becoming less and less of my baby. Every day.

Any avid followers of my blog probably know of the difficulties I have had with nursing my children (overactive letdown, etc.), but that I stick with it because I'm a huge breastfeeding supporter. However, I'm not the one who will stop you in the grocery store if you're giving your baby formula and try to give you a lesson on why that's so bad for your little one (yes, that actually happened to me with my first). I have been on both ends and don't judge anyone for how they decide to feed their baby, but for me, personally, nursing is all I wanted.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was determined, but I had no idea that anything could go wrong or that it would be such Hell. But it was. And I started making all the wrong decisions from hour one of his life, and it snowballed. I tried everything to make it happen. Everything. Everything that I knew, anyway. But I was naive, and even the experts I had helping me seemed to be, too. No one--not even the six lactation consultants--could figure out my problem. They said it was him, that he was just too stubborn. They said he had colic. They said nursing just wasn't for some babies.

I found out years later that they were wrong, about everything. But, in that time, I trusted them. After all, they were the experts. And I was just a first time mom. So we continued to try, trying every little gadget and technique in "the book," and the process was torturous.

By the age of six weeks, Sam gave up completely. No more staying up hours in the night trying to get him to suck while he screamed bloody murder. Because he just. wouldn't. do. it. Because he was too miserable--and so was I.

And because I didn't know I was the one with the problem, I didn't know how to help him. I felt helpless. I felt like a failure as a mother. And there was nothing (that I knew of at the time) I could do to change it. And when I knew I wouldn't get to nurse my baby like I'd always dreamed, I cried. For days, I sobbed. So I did the next best thing: pumped until he was six months old, so that even though we couldn't have the bonding that comes along with nursing, he could get the nutrients. (And, man, that was a pain in the ass.)

Then  I was pregnant with Josh, and the whole subject of nursing scared me because I was worried the same thing would happen with him that happened with Sam. I wanted to nurse him so badly, and I wanted it to actually be a good experience. Then a very dear friend of mine was an answer to my prayers. She revealed to me that she used to be a La Leche League leader, and when I told her the problems I'd had, I actually saw the light-bulb above her head turn on. Because she had had the same problem with both her kids. And so do thousands of other women, come to find out. Finally, I didn't feel alone! Finally, I knew it hadn't been colic that made Sam cry all the time.

She gave me information and a website so I could arm myself with knowledge and learn how to work around the issue. (If anyone wants it, let me know. It's literally a lifesaver. Whether you have nursing problems or just want to know more about nursing in general.)

And I spent hours and countless hours on that website, finding answers to every single question I ever had about nursing and why, no matter what I'd tried, it hadn't worked for me.

And I became an "expert" of sorts (quiz me, I dare you). And when I had Josh it was difficult, as I knew it would be (a woman with overactive letdown will have it with every child), but I was actually able to manage it. I worked around it, and it was a miracle. And I was able to live the dream I had of nursing my baby and sharing that special bond. He was a five-minute nurser, which made having a life difficult, especially since he ate that way until the time he was 13 months, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything. Because I was a mom, and my baby was my priority. Nursing him was my life.

Then I had Luke, and again I spent hours on the website, re-arming myself with knowledge. And just like with Josh, it was extremely difficult those first three months. He was miserable all the time, and just like Josh, he was a five-minute eater. Five minutes, with only an hour and a half between each feeding. Because that's all his poor, tiny tummy could handle.

But then he grew up and his tummy could handle more. And unlike Josh, it began to be insufficient. Five minutes wasn't enough. But because that's what my body was used to, that's all I would produce. I tried letting him eat on both sides then (usually, I'd only nurse on one side at a time, with both Luke and Josh), and that worked for a few months. He'd eat for five minutes on one side and five on the other.

Then by six months, that wasn't enough. And he would struggle and fight, and cry, cry, cry. But not in the same way he did as a newborn. This time there wasn't enough. And last month, the first time I realized this was a problem, I cried. I stayed up late at night in the rocker and cried with him--him because of hunger and me because of my failure to again provide for my baby.

I didn't want to give up. I kept offering him the breast, but he didn't want to work for it. He didn't want to wait for that letdown that wasn't coming, even after five minutes of sucking--that same letdown that only four months ago came too forcefully and too frequently. I don't know how it happened, and why it didn't happen this way with Josh, but for some reason, I was losing my supply. Probably because he didn't want to keep working so hard for something that was so lacking.

So I gave in and gave him his first bottle of formula. (Because regardless of the opinion of some people, babies will not eventually get hungry enough to give in and nurse. Instead they will give up. Instead they will cry themselves to sleep and starve. I know this because this is what I experienced with my first, and what a good friend of mine (who is a nurse at a NICU) experiences at work on a regular basis. And my baby's health is more important than hanging onto the hope of nursing.)

And Luke loved it. He loved that it flowed so easily and never stopped coming unless he stopped sucking. And for the first time in weeks, he was actually satisfied, actually happy.

So over the last month I have had to supplement, mostly before bed at night (as well as give him solid food 3 times a day, because he loves to eat). And it's been hard for me, but I've dealt with it.

And then over the last week, it's become an every-feeding thing. I nurse him first, let him get all the breast milk he can, and then, since he'll only nurse for about 3 minutes before he gets too upset to finish, I'll give him formula. And it's been this way at every feeding for the last week, with the exception of the feeding in the middle of the night, every night. At least I still have that.

But now he is drinking way more formula than he is breast milk, and I know it won't be long before he won't be nursing at all. And I'll lose my milk completely.

He is only seven months, and I'm so not ready for this to be over. I feel like he is pulling away from his baby-hood. Way sooner than I'd like.

But this time is different than my first. Even though I mourn that connection to him, I'm also knowledgeable and experienced enough now to know I'm not a failure as a mother. That I can still have just as good a bond with him if I cradle him as he sucks on that bottle and his little blue eyes are looking into mine. I'm not going to go into a depression over it, or cry for days over it. I know that formula isn't evil (I never thought it was). I know that just because I don't breastfeed doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother. At all. I don't think anyone who decides not to nurse is a bad mother. At all.

I'm just saying that for me, it's all I wanted to do. And it's hard that I can't.

But I have tried my best, and either way, I know Luke's still my baby, and I'm still his mother. And even though the only thing that makes my bond with him different than the one with his daddy, or anyone else, will be taken from me, no one can take my place as his mother.

And I'll remember that at least I was blessed enough to have that special, precious bond with him for these first seven months, and with Josh for thirteen.

So for now, I'll hold onto those middle-of-the-night feedings with all my heart. And I will never complain about waking up to feed him in the night again.

Pour Your Heart Out, "Bad" Mommy

Sometimes I'm not a good mom. The secret's out. Actually, it's no secret. Unfortunately, I think anyone who watches me parent for longer than an hour can see it.

And I'm not talking about the little things. Like the fact that I sometimes act like I don't know they're getting into trouble just because I don't want to deal with it. Again. Because I've already wasted so much of my breath telling them that day NOT to do what they're doing.

Or that I sometimes give them stickers after they've begged for them, just because I want something to occupy their time. Even though I HATE that they put them on EVERYTHING.

Or that I call them by the wrong name ALL the time, sometimes going through all of their names before I figure out who it is I'm actually talking to. Yes, Mom, I've turned into you in that way. I'm sorry for giving you crap about that when I was younger.

Or that I don't give them baths every single day. And some days I even forget to brush their teeth. And make them wash their hands.

Sometimes I even go weeks without trimming their nails. Horrific, I know.

It's not even those things that brand me a "bad parent," in my mind. If you've read my blog, you've heard me mention more than a few times that I have the worst patience in the world.

In fact, I'm sure I don't have any left at all. Just ask my children and my husband. And the handful of customers at the gas station that heard/saw me blow up at Sam in the car while Dave was filling up. I yelled. Loudly. Even maybe screamed a little but.

And people stared. And Dave was embarrassed. He told me he'd never been so embarrassed as an adult.

Yep. Ouch. Talk about being put in your place.

But I deserve that, I really do. I've been working on it, hard. I've been trying really hard not to yell at my kids when they frustrate me and talk over me and try telling me what to do. Or scream in my face, "No!" repeatedly while I'm trying to instruct them.

Breathe, I tell myself, even now, because just thinking about it speeds my heart and heats my core.

And if I don't gain some measure of control over it, I fear I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35. Either that or a whole head of gray hair (IF I have any left by then). Sometimes I just don't feel cut out for the parenting thing.

Because I know it's not my kids who need to change. It's me, 100%. They're just being kids. It's the name of the game. I'm the one who's acting up.

And I know, I know. Every mom feels that way at some point. And I know everyone's kids drive them crazy, and every mom loses it. But I do feel a little more out of control than most, a little less tolerant.

Okay, a lot less tolerant.

And I don't get it. I don't get why I can't handle things in the same way other people can, or how I can be filled with so much rage or frustration, when at the same time I'm filled with so much love for the little people that drive me to insanity. Because really, my favorite thing in this entire world, no matter my mood, is hugs and kisses from my kids.

So how do I calm myself, how do I feel normal inside, so I can actually feel like a decent mom? I know I've made posts similar to this before, but it is PYHO Wednesday. So I'm taking advantage. Again.

I don't like being this way. I don't like that every little thing gets under my skin and I react before I can stop it. I hate it, and I want to change. And I'm trying. But some days, I just don't feel I can measure up.

Some days, I just want to cry.

Idaho Love

Though I missed the blogging community while we were on vacation for a week (and then some), I have to say that the break, from life in general, was like a breath of fresh air.

And though my kids and I missed lots of sleep and woke up with back aches most mornings, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

And though  I hurt my back and bruised my ribs from leaning over the car seat while trying to nurse Luke on the drive so we didn't have to stop countless hours in the car with small children was unnerving, the time with family was priceless.

It was a busy nine days, every day packed full of fun things, people to visit, and family to love on, and I wouldn't have had it any other way!

So I decided, in keeping with the Wordful Wednesday tradition, I'd post some pictures of my favorite highlights of the vacation to beautiful Idaho.

It's too bad we can't capture the real highlights on camera, though: the feelings and the love for the people most important to us. Because that was the best part of the trip. Seeing family and friends we hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and swathing ourselves in family love--something we so frequently miss out on here in Arizona, so far away from everyone we call family.

So I guess you can also consider this, in part, a Pour Your Heart Out post, too. I miss family so much. I miss that feeling of sense and belonging. I miss the feeling of fulfillment, that gets so abruptly interrupted when we have to journey back to Arizona.

Dave and I were talking about "home," and we realized that Arizona has never felt like home, and it's because, no matter the place, home is where the ones you love reside. And the ones we love reside in Colorado, Idaho, and Utah.

Besides, the desert stinks. Sorry to all you desert-lovers out there. The pines, the mountains, the cooler summer air, the green...that's my scene. And being around that again was such a refreshing break from life.

So to all you family who put up with us last week...we love and miss you so much, and valued every minute we got to spend with you!

Our trip started in Rexburg and Rigby, where we stayed with Grandma Mary (our permanent residence while Dave was in college the first four years of our marriage) and visited The Barton Family. There was a baptism (which was also the day Josh had the flu and threw up four times), a Fourth of July festival, fireworks (which Sam and Josh were both deathly afraid of), a movie night in the Barton "theater" (Country Strong: sad movie with a strong message), and many other great things between.

Dave and Mom on the 4th. And no, they didn't plan this!

Luke strapped to me at the 4th of July festival. Gotta love the "moby" wrap...even if he does get crooked after a while.

I also got to spend an hour with my best friend, Chloe, though I wish so badly we had longer. We hadn't seen each other in almost four years, but as it goes with us, we were able to pick up where we left off and it felt as natural as though I'd just seen her the day before. I love Chloe so much, and I love that God brought me to her as a freshmen in high school--my only kindred spirit on this earth.

Plus, it was a wicked wake-up call to how old we're getting so much fun to watch our kids play together for the first time.

Then we spent almost three days up in Salmon. Actually, it was in Carmen, at the base of the mountains around Salmon. Dave's aunt and uncle own a ranch up there that has been in the family for years, and is usually the gathering place for reunions, escape, etc.

And that's exactly what it was for me. There's something about that place: the remoteness, the beauty, the stillness. It's just the peaceful break needed from a busy, monotonous life. The scenery lets you breathe, lets your mind actually open up and think. And it's refreshing to know that places like that still exist in this world.

The green in the distance, at the base of the mountains, are the ranch fields.

Sunset!

Part of the view

We played, some worked (the child-less cousins changed pipe daily), visited, went to William's Lake, went to the hot springs, had a camp fire and roasted marshmallows, and even watched a movie on the trampoline under the stars one night, with a projector and a white sheet (Beastly: cute, alluring idea, but horrible execution and even more horrible acting).

Luke at William's Lake, protected from the sun in Grandma Julie's (Mom) t-shirt

Campfire songs, all accompanied by Jenni's guitar (and most sung by her, too)

And thanks to Mom and Jenni at William's Lake (they watched Luke, Josh, and Sam), I got to swim out to the little island with Dave and some other cousins, and cliff jump.

The dreaded cliff. It looks a lot less threatening from this angle.

And by cliff jump, I mean twenty minutes of mental preparation to jump off of a ten-foot drop. I'm just not as cool as my husband and his cousins, who can jump from 20+ feet, multiple times. A ten-foot drop, twice, is enough for me, thank-you-very-much.

And because of my deathly fear of heights, by the end I was weak and shaky from all that the fear took out of me.

Pathetic, I know.

And then to top it off, Dave and I thought we would take the short cut and save our energy (it was a good swim back to the dock) by instead swimming to the shore closest to us and hiking our way around back to the dock. After all, it was a straight shot.

Wrong. Instead we ended up hiking up and around the long way, through trees, bushes, dirt, and rocks...barefoot.

I sorta felt cool for a minute, like Cody from Dual Survival...

Even with the gashes on the bottom of my big toe. And the fact that I had no sense of balance from my earlier adrenaline rush.

One of my favorite parts of the trip was when Dave took me on the dirt bike up Davis Creek (in the mountains that the ranch backs into), and it was just us and the pines.

On our way up to Davis. The bike stalled...a couple of times.

Me and the hubs

The trip ended in Utah, where we stayed at the Bartons' (a different Barton family) in Ogden so we could attend the Sessions family reunion at Cherry Hills the next day. It was a long, hot, tiring day, but it was a blast. The kids were cranky (and so was I for a bit), but the water park helped, even if the storm cut it short.

Sam even went on the rapids ride and because he's so light, his tube flipped and Dave had to catch him. He didn't like that too much. Actually, he hated it.

But we got in some playing before a storm rolled in, and Josh even fell asleep snuggling Grandma Julie afterwards.

We also visited Sam's grave at the cemetery in Utah (Dave's older brother, and our little Sammy's namesake), and every time someone said something like, "I love you, Sam," as they placed a dime on the headstone, our little Sam thought they were speaking to him and he'd always reply, "I love you, too." Too cute.

The trip was long and tiring, but as usual, went way too fast and ended way too quickly. And we look forward to the next one!

Family pictures Jessica took for us in Rexburg. Yes, I know Sam's making a funny face. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this until looking at them after. And yes...I know my belly is hanging over my waistband. Ugh.

The best boys ever

Jess and the boys

Me and my Jess

This was on the first day at the ranch. We walked up the fields in search of two baby deer that were spotted earlier in the day, and instead of finding them, we took some pretty great pictures. Well, I should say Dave took them.

This was our last morning there. Goodbye ranch. We miss you.

I just might lose it.

I've never taken part in Shell's PYHO (Pour Your Heart Out) Wednesdays, but I figured I should today. Before I explode. And this will be my last post for a short time, since we are leaving for Idaho tomorrow! Woo-hoo! If I get the chance, I might blog from there, but I'm not counting on it.

It's just been one of those days. You know, the kind where you've procrastinated things all week and decide that you'd do it all in one day--one day before you leave on a ten-day vacation? Or the kind where your kids are unbearably cranky, extra whiny, extra bratty, and cry at the drop of a hat? Those kinds of days suck on their own, but to have them both on the same day is just downright annoying.

I admit that the procrastinating is my fault. I've always been really good at that. I always think I'll have plenty of time in the future to get certain things done, and I'm wrong. Every. Time.

So instead of getting things ready for our trip this week, I've been using my few minutes of free time here and there to rewrite my first manuscript (the one I don't really consider a manuscript at all because of how absolutely horrible it is). I've always loved the characters, but felt a little ashamed of the story, and even more ashamed of the writing. So, I thought, why not rewrite it all, start from scratch?

It's something I just started doing for fun, because of the fact that I'd written it off a long time ago, but now that I'm back into it, and I'm seeing that it actually has some promise with the way I'm rewriting it, it's been hard to step away. It's been hard to find that balance, as it usually is when I'm into something I'm writing.

So that little thing I decided to do for fun has now turned into a passion that fills nearly every moment of my free time, which isn't much. And between that and a screaming baby (which I explain below), I have been a procrastinating whore.

It's a problem. And the first step is admitting it, right?

Anyway, I'm suffering from the consequence today. Here I am, with a massive to-do list and three kids that are driving me BONKERS.

It took me an hour just to fold laundry. Yes, an hour. Because my two-year-old's favorite thing to do is laugh when I pull my hair out and scream destroy a good ol' pile of freshly folded laundry. Twice.

And cleaning up the toys in the family room and their bedroom? Well, that was a two-hour job. After gathering all the puzzle pieces and having the kids put them together again, Josh also decided it would be fun to act like the spawn on Satan throw them all in random directions when I wasn't looking, including, but not limited to, behind the couch, behind the TV, on the shelf, and in the laundry (which was still destroyed at this point).

He also got a kick out of the fact that when I finally got their room clean an hour later (it was absolutely horrific, I tell you) and I put him in timeout, he locked himself in and destroyed everything I just cleaned while I begged from the other side of the door for him to unlock it. (After that episode, I messed around so much with the lock that I accidentally broke it disabled the lock on their door to prevent future episodes.)

And perhaps the most horrifying of all is that I have an almost-six-month-old who is the most high-maintenance individual I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. And people, I promise I'm not over-exaggerating this one. I am literally at my wit's end. If there is anyone out there who has a baby like this, any pointers will be helpful!

The constant soundtrack to my day (unless I am holding him) is a high-pitched scream that makes my head hurt. He cries ALL. THE. TIME. And I don't know why. I love the baby to death--really. He is so cute and fun and when I'm holding him, he is pleasant and happy and oh-so-kissable.

But I put him down and it's like I'm dealing with a starving, neglected, raging demon. (Those of you who are judging me for my word choice, come to my house for an hour and you will share the same opinion, I promise you.)

There is something about that screaming that not only hurts my head, but makes me grumpy, on edge, and triples the stress in the air. It makes me not want to do anything during the day (which is why I procrastinate in the first place) because listening to that in the background is torture. It's in the background to everything I do. EVERYTHING.

Doing the dishes: screaming. Sweeping/mopping the floor: screaming. Bathing the two older boys: screaming (and of course the crying from my older kids because they hate water). Giving my older kids lunch: screaming.  Disciplining my older kids: screaming. Dealing with an unruly, whiny child: screaming. Trying to unlock the children's door while pleading and nearly crying myself on the other end: screaming.

And it's not just the screaming that's getting to me, but the nursing, too. I've never enjoyed nursing with Luke. Never. And that is really sad to me. He's a miserable nurser. He squirms and fidgets the whole time, not to mention claws. I have scratches and abrasions all over my boobs, ribs, and chest because he doesn't know how to lay calmly when he eats. I have to use one hand to hold the boob in place (it comes out if I don't, thanks to the pulling, the squirming, etc.) and the other to try and keep his hands down.

And part of his behavior is out of habit, I think, since in the first few months of his life he suffered with my over-active letdown problem. But now it's just irritating. And it saddens me to say that I can't wait until he's older, when I'm ready to wean him.

So, you may be asking to yourself, why is she blogging if she has so much to get done?

And the answer is because I want to. Simple as that. I needed a break, the baby is asleep, and it's quiet.

Ah, that quiet.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of a fussy, needy baby, and I just want him to be happy. So there's my venting for the week.

And I just want to add that as I type, I can hear Josh throwing all the toys out of the drawers in his room again. For the third time. After the two hours his mom has spent cleaning it. He is supposed to be asleep.

And I'm just too tired to care now. It's why I don't clean on a usual basis.

Did I mention I'm tired?