by Justin Wade
So here was our morning...
Alarm goes off at 7:15.
Me: "Wow he slept late again great! What a good boy. You want to wake him up?"
Saru, after coming back from a 2 day business trip, "sure!"
30 seconds pass...
Through the monitor and down the hall I hear, "Oh my god." Not in an alarming way, but more of a surprise.
Then 5 seconds later, "Oh my god."
[Pause]
"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." Again, all said more in a surprised way than alarming. I still wasn't sure at this point if something was wrong, or if maybe he had done something new, like he was doing a handstand on the back of the crib. (I'm just waking up here, so cut me some slack)
Me: "What?"
Saru: "Oh my god." (x6)
Reluctantly, I ask, "Need me to come in?"
Saru: "Oh my god." (x10)
I think....guess I better get in there because this is going nowhere.
I walk in and Saru is standing back from the crib just staring at Ryan who is quite happily standing with his little hands on the rail and peeking over the top.
I take a closer look, and realize there is poop.
"Where?" you may ask? And I would say, "Yes."
It was everywhere. An area on the sheets with about an 8" diameter was clearly 'ground zero'. From there he had rolled, stepped, and mashed his hands in it multiple times. It was all over the sheets, his book, 2 stuffed animals, a rattle, his feet, hands, face, back, shirt, pants, crib railings, mesh bumper, and probably several other places we will discover over the next week.
Nasty.
So, instead of our usual routine of feeding him, showering and setting off for work/day care, Ryan got a couple of baths, we did a load of laundry and I attacked the nursery reminiscent of Tony Soprano's crew after a murder scene clean up. 45 minutes later, Ryan was clean, the poop covered items finishing up in the washer, and the crib lavendar fresh and with new sheets. And I managed to get to work just 10-15 minutes late after dropping him off at day care - not bad. It's like it never happened, or so we wish to believe.
But it did. And will forever be remembered The Great Poop Incident of '08.
Lessons learned:
1. Use bigger/night time diapers, especially if over the last month he's had a smidge of poop sneek out once or twice.
2. Don't voluntarily come in until specifically asked, no matter how many "Oh my gods" you hear.
3. If your kid is quiet, it's not because he is behaving properly. If it's too quiet, its a clear indication that something is wrong.
Sorry, no pictures for this post! Though for a split second I did consider grabbing the camera.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Our Alien Overlord
by Steve Luke
Our magnificent, benevolent and omniscient alien overlord (all praise be unto him) is such a wonderful and wise ruler. We lowly slaves strive only to please his every whim (as is our duty and honor). For, it is only right for him to ask us to obey his every command. It is the natural structure of the universe (as we learned in our re-education). What difference does it make that we cannot understand his (assuredly superior) language? We are simply grateful when the overlord does not use his secret sonic weapon against us. In return for our efforts, his lordship will grant us periods of temporary tolerance, occasional bemusement and (when we are really lucky) ambivalence.
On a totally unrelated note, have I mentioned how much I used to hate sleeping in, going out to eat, and watching TV in a quiet room? Actually, this entire post is all a big [[REDACTED BY THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION SHARING]].
Our magnificent, benevolent and omniscient alien overlord (all praise be unto him) is such a wonderful and wise ruler. We lowly slaves strive only to please his every whim (as is our duty and honor). For, it is only right for him to ask us to obey his every command. It is the natural structure of the universe (as we learned in our re-education). What difference does it make that we cannot understand his (assuredly superior) language? We are simply grateful when the overlord does not use his secret sonic weapon against us. In return for our efforts, his lordship will grant us periods of temporary tolerance, occasional bemusement and (when we are really lucky) ambivalence.
On a totally unrelated note, have I mentioned how much I used to hate sleeping in, going out to eat, and watching TV in a quiet room? Actually, this entire post is all a big [[REDACTED BY THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION SHARING]].
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
2 Samuel 12:19
by Ashley W. Collins
I’m always thinking of the worst-case scenario like it’s the most likely outcome in any situation. I’m a chronic over-thinker, and never about all of the ways things could turn out great. So when I found out I was pregnant, I immediately began to fear two things. First, that our baby would die, and second, that if our baby didn’t die, then Squirt’s godless heathen of a mother would be ill equipped to prepare him (or her?) for anything more fulfilling than spiritual bankruptcy. I’m a mess like that—have been since eighth grade.
My ear is pressed to the wall; I’m listening to my sister deliver a baby. The plastic chairs in labor and delivery waiting rooms are less comfortable than other hospital chairs, and when you kneel on them, they bruise your knees. My sister, I’ve decided, is a huge wimp—things can’t hurt that much without killing you—she keeps screaming, she’s not dead. From watching The Miracle of Life in health class, I know that soon, she’ll stop howling and the baby will start. I pick at the skin around my left thumbnail, peel up a strip, and bite it off. I’ve been doing this since I was six, and my fingers are swollen, sometimes they’re bloody. There’s the silence I’ve been waiting for, but not the cat-in-heat cry that babies make. Where’s the noise?
I thought intensive care was for old people, smokers, queers with AIDS. I was thirteen in Texas. I was an idiot. In her neonatal intensive care unit, my niece had her own tiny bed with its own handwritten placard, ‘Baby Girl Jordan Bush’ written in bubbly handwriting with a heart where the ‘o’ should have been. I watched when the nurse toted her in there, a fat bundle of wriggling arms, legs, and stomach. Her skin was blue. They Life Flight-ed her to Texas Children’s Hospital, just an hour or two away. It took ten hours to get the helicopter to come pick her up, something about insurance that I didn’t understand. Now when I see Life Flights, I think that poor bastard is going to die.
Jordan was a piece of work. Chubby, pink-lipped, with the crinkly eyes you associate with Down Syndrome. I know this only from the pictures. I never saw her without a thick layer of glass between us. I was too young to visit her in the nick-you, too young to realize that meant NICU. They said she couldn’t breathe because her heart was nearly twice as big as it should have been, that it was crushing her lungs. This is something I had trouble picturing, but trying kept me up every night for nine days. We spent those days in the waiting room watching doctors and nurses emerge from surgery rooms with grim faces to deliver bad news to horrified parents. Every time, I said a silent prayer: Hey God, kill someone else’s kid, would you? Not Jordan. I wasn’t a big pray-er. I didn’t really know how.
Less than two weeks after I listened to my sister give birth, I sat wearing a white flowered dress in another uncomfortable chair, looking at a doll-sized white coffin, like if whoever made Cabbage Patch Kids sold a funeral play set. A single peach rose bloom sat on top; when I watched my mom cut it from the bush in the back yard that morning, I knew I’d always call them Jordan’s Roses.
Everyone we knew was there. Well, not many of my sister’s friends. But they were all young, twenty, and as I heard whispered behind me, “totally freaked out” by the situation. Row upon row of grief-stricken adults sat like wax figures, and I looked at all of them, in my eyes an unspoken challenge. Explain this to me, I thought. Give it your best fucking shot. I’d recently taken up swearing. It felt good. As if on queue, the Reverend stepped to the front of the congregation. There wasn’t a pulpit like you might think, and he didn’t need one. Hell, it would have interfered with his blustering.
My parents knew he’d be a stereotypical Bible thumper. When my sister and her husband wanted to get married, he refused to do the job because they’d been having premarital sex. But he was a friend of a friend, and he was preaching the funeral for free. With all those hospital bills, who passes up free?
He started with David and Bathsheba, which was a rotten thing to do, since it’s one of the Bible’s premier sin-and-pay-the-consequences stories. The gist is that David has sex out of wedlock with Bathsheba, she gets pregnant, delivers the child, God calls David out and, surprise surprise, kills the baby. “Why have you despised the commandment of the Lord, to do evil in his sight?” I looked around to see if anyone else was catching this shit. My sister was so wracked with grief she could barely sit, her husband sat next to her, staring at the ground. My mother was crying buckets watching my sister. My Dad, though—he was a sight to behold. He sat there staring the Reverend in the face with that gleam in his eye, the sure-fire sign that my father is about to rip you to shreds.
“We are all sinners,” the Reverend intoned. “And it is only through Jesus’ boundless love that we can be forgiven and admitted to the Kingdom of Heaven to rest with him for eternity.” He cleared his throat, “and though sometimes the Lord must reach us with difficult lessons, with obstacles that seem insurmountable, we know that with his divine love, he will return us to the path of righteousness.”
I wanted so many things that day: A switchblade with which to dispatch the Reverend. Someone besides my Darwinist parents to tell me he didn’t know what he was taking about. A God who didn’t kill babies just because they were conceived in sin. My niece back.
A few weeks ago, I walked into a church for the first time in more than fifteen years. I’d had premarital sex, done drugs, and a million other things for which I’d theoretically be held accountable in the eyes of God. It took a long time for me to reach the altar, and I gawked in outright wonder at the stained glass, at the ceiling so high I could not quite make it out in the shadows. My heels echoed on the marble floor like the hooves of a plodding old horse, and the silence when I stood at the front of the room was striking by comparison. I gazed around, rubbing my belly absently. What if Squirt turns out like me? Confused, unsure, spiritually vacant? I saw artistry in the glass and paintings, I saw compassion in the collection box, I saw faith in the eyes of each worshiper uttering muted prayers. I did not see God. I worry that I never will.
I’m always thinking of the worst-case scenario like it’s the most likely outcome in any situation. I’m a chronic over-thinker, and never about all of the ways things could turn out great. So when I found out I was pregnant, I immediately began to fear two things. First, that our baby would die, and second, that if our baby didn’t die, then Squirt’s godless heathen of a mother would be ill equipped to prepare him (or her?) for anything more fulfilling than spiritual bankruptcy. I’m a mess like that—have been since eighth grade.
My ear is pressed to the wall; I’m listening to my sister deliver a baby. The plastic chairs in labor and delivery waiting rooms are less comfortable than other hospital chairs, and when you kneel on them, they bruise your knees. My sister, I’ve decided, is a huge wimp—things can’t hurt that much without killing you—she keeps screaming, she’s not dead. From watching The Miracle of Life in health class, I know that soon, she’ll stop howling and the baby will start. I pick at the skin around my left thumbnail, peel up a strip, and bite it off. I’ve been doing this since I was six, and my fingers are swollen, sometimes they’re bloody. There’s the silence I’ve been waiting for, but not the cat-in-heat cry that babies make. Where’s the noise?
I thought intensive care was for old people, smokers, queers with AIDS. I was thirteen in Texas. I was an idiot. In her neonatal intensive care unit, my niece had her own tiny bed with its own handwritten placard, ‘Baby Girl Jordan Bush’ written in bubbly handwriting with a heart where the ‘o’ should have been. I watched when the nurse toted her in there, a fat bundle of wriggling arms, legs, and stomach. Her skin was blue. They Life Flight-ed her to Texas Children’s Hospital, just an hour or two away. It took ten hours to get the helicopter to come pick her up, something about insurance that I didn’t understand. Now when I see Life Flights, I think that poor bastard is going to die.
Jordan was a piece of work. Chubby, pink-lipped, with the crinkly eyes you associate with Down Syndrome. I know this only from the pictures. I never saw her without a thick layer of glass between us. I was too young to visit her in the nick-you, too young to realize that meant NICU. They said she couldn’t breathe because her heart was nearly twice as big as it should have been, that it was crushing her lungs. This is something I had trouble picturing, but trying kept me up every night for nine days. We spent those days in the waiting room watching doctors and nurses emerge from surgery rooms with grim faces to deliver bad news to horrified parents. Every time, I said a silent prayer: Hey God, kill someone else’s kid, would you? Not Jordan. I wasn’t a big pray-er. I didn’t really know how.
Less than two weeks after I listened to my sister give birth, I sat wearing a white flowered dress in another uncomfortable chair, looking at a doll-sized white coffin, like if whoever made Cabbage Patch Kids sold a funeral play set. A single peach rose bloom sat on top; when I watched my mom cut it from the bush in the back yard that morning, I knew I’d always call them Jordan’s Roses.
Everyone we knew was there. Well, not many of my sister’s friends. But they were all young, twenty, and as I heard whispered behind me, “totally freaked out” by the situation. Row upon row of grief-stricken adults sat like wax figures, and I looked at all of them, in my eyes an unspoken challenge. Explain this to me, I thought. Give it your best fucking shot. I’d recently taken up swearing. It felt good. As if on queue, the Reverend stepped to the front of the congregation. There wasn’t a pulpit like you might think, and he didn’t need one. Hell, it would have interfered with his blustering.
My parents knew he’d be a stereotypical Bible thumper. When my sister and her husband wanted to get married, he refused to do the job because they’d been having premarital sex. But he was a friend of a friend, and he was preaching the funeral for free. With all those hospital bills, who passes up free?
He started with David and Bathsheba, which was a rotten thing to do, since it’s one of the Bible’s premier sin-and-pay-the-consequences stories. The gist is that David has sex out of wedlock with Bathsheba, she gets pregnant, delivers the child, God calls David out and, surprise surprise, kills the baby. “Why have you despised the commandment of the Lord, to do evil in his sight?” I looked around to see if anyone else was catching this shit. My sister was so wracked with grief she could barely sit, her husband sat next to her, staring at the ground. My mother was crying buckets watching my sister. My Dad, though—he was a sight to behold. He sat there staring the Reverend in the face with that gleam in his eye, the sure-fire sign that my father is about to rip you to shreds.
“We are all sinners,” the Reverend intoned. “And it is only through Jesus’ boundless love that we can be forgiven and admitted to the Kingdom of Heaven to rest with him for eternity.” He cleared his throat, “and though sometimes the Lord must reach us with difficult lessons, with obstacles that seem insurmountable, we know that with his divine love, he will return us to the path of righteousness.”
I wanted so many things that day: A switchblade with which to dispatch the Reverend. Someone besides my Darwinist parents to tell me he didn’t know what he was taking about. A God who didn’t kill babies just because they were conceived in sin. My niece back.
A few weeks ago, I walked into a church for the first time in more than fifteen years. I’d had premarital sex, done drugs, and a million other things for which I’d theoretically be held accountable in the eyes of God. It took a long time for me to reach the altar, and I gawked in outright wonder at the stained glass, at the ceiling so high I could not quite make it out in the shadows. My heels echoed on the marble floor like the hooves of a plodding old horse, and the silence when I stood at the front of the room was striking by comparison. I gazed around, rubbing my belly absently. What if Squirt turns out like me? Confused, unsure, spiritually vacant? I saw artistry in the glass and paintings, I saw compassion in the collection box, I saw faith in the eyes of each worshiper uttering muted prayers. I did not see God. I worry that I never will.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Submissions
Brainparent welcomes previously published and unpublished work.
Permission must be obtained, by the writer, from the original publication. Simultaneous submissions okay.
Currently accepting articles, essays, poetry, and reviews that are
parenting related. Writers must be self-proclaimed nerds, and
overthinking is a must!
Submit work to brainparent77@gmail.com
Permission must be obtained, by the writer, from the original publication. Simultaneous submissions okay.
Currently accepting articles, essays, poetry, and reviews that are
parenting related. Writers must be self-proclaimed nerds, and
overthinking is a must!
Submit work to brainparent77@gmail.com
Homemade Baby Food...is it really worth it?
by Catherine Milliken
I decided to be domestic and make baby food. My son Luke likes sweet potatoes, so I started with that. Now, I know that making homemade baby food has its advantages: you know what's going into it, it's cheaper, better for the environment...But after trying it myself, I'm not sure it's worth it.
It can be pretty time consuming. I boiled the sweet potatoes in water and let simmer for twenty minutes. Then I let cool for another twenty minutes and plopped in the blender. I pureed, but that didn't really work too well, so I ended up just taking them out and trying my best to puree them in a bowl with a spoon. Then I used an ice cream scoop to transfer to storage trays. It wasn't hard, but it left a mess that took another ten minutes or so to clean up. So all in all, about an hour of work for 20 servings of sweet potatoes.
In a nutshell, homemade baby food: $5 for 5 organic sweet potatoes equals 20 servings, one hour of work, and carbon footprint? Hard to say how much water used in cleaning up.
Store bought baby food? $10 for 20 servings, one minute of work, 20 plastic containers to recycle.
Luke didn't seem to prefer one over the other.
I suppose it's kind of like cooking...there is something satisfying in creating something from scratch. It's likely I'll make Luke his food when the mood strikes. But when time is short, and energy is low, I'll stick to the old stand-by, Gerber.
I decided to be domestic and make baby food. My son Luke likes sweet potatoes, so I started with that. Now, I know that making homemade baby food has its advantages: you know what's going into it, it's cheaper, better for the environment...But after trying it myself, I'm not sure it's worth it.
It can be pretty time consuming. I boiled the sweet potatoes in water and let simmer for twenty minutes. Then I let cool for another twenty minutes and plopped in the blender. I pureed, but that didn't really work too well, so I ended up just taking them out and trying my best to puree them in a bowl with a spoon. Then I used an ice cream scoop to transfer to storage trays. It wasn't hard, but it left a mess that took another ten minutes or so to clean up. So all in all, about an hour of work for 20 servings of sweet potatoes.
In a nutshell, homemade baby food: $5 for 5 organic sweet potatoes equals 20 servings, one hour of work, and carbon footprint? Hard to say how much water used in cleaning up.
Store bought baby food? $10 for 20 servings, one minute of work, 20 plastic containers to recycle.
Luke didn't seem to prefer one over the other.
I suppose it's kind of like cooking...there is something satisfying in creating something from scratch. It's likely I'll make Luke his food when the mood strikes. But when time is short, and energy is low, I'll stick to the old stand-by, Gerber.
Why Natural Birth?
by Cheryl DeLancey
My desire for a natural childbirth comes partially from my philosophy that being pregnant and birthing aren't medical events in most cases. In fact, in many countries with similar infant mortality rates as the US, there are far fewer medical interventions. This tells me that there's either something wrong with American women that makes us ill-adapted for childbearing, or we're doing an awful lot of unnecessary interventions. Plus, genetically speaking, women tend to follow their maternal line, which bodes very well for my ability to have a vaginal, unmedicated birth.
I'll summarize what I've learned from research studies and books on birthing. And keep in mind that this is for information, I'm not judging anyone's past, present, or future choices in these areas. I'm simply sharing what is playing a role in our decision to go for it naturally.
Anaesthesia - both IV and epidural anesthesia (opiate and narcotic types) do reach the baby and can lead to fetal distress, a need for oxygen or intubation at birth, and can impede the normal progression of the baby through the birth canal, affecting how the baby's head and shoulders present (they don't do the normal twist in some cases). Also, these drugs can slow labor and reduce the effectiveness of the mother's ability to push, which lead to greater rates of cesearean and forceps or vacuum delivery due to failure to progress. AND a lot of the drugs that MD's choose for laboring women are drugs that have warnings AGAINST use in pregnancy, breastfeeding, and childbirth (Nubain and Demerole are examples of drugs with this warning). So we're dedicated to avoiding the drugs because there's no such thing as a completely safe one and I want to embrace the experience of childbirth, no matter how much pain is involved - after all - it's pain with a purpose.
Episiotomies - can actually lead to women tearing clear through to the anus, which occurs almost never in women without episiotomies. Plus they lead to longer recovery times and rarely lead to getting a baby out any faster (which is a justification sometimes given for slicing and dicing the woman's perineum).
Also, interventions like pitocin induction and forceps/vacuum delivery and c-sections are often the tools of an impatient provider. Failure to progress is a subjective call which due to the natural variations in time from early labor to birth, is nearly impossible to diagnose as a problem, and thus is rarely a reason in itself to use intervention. Basically, unless the mother or baby are in distress, there is absolutely no medical reason to use any of these. I don't think that these tools are useless - some babies and mothers are saved by them. However, there is research suggesting that they're overused and that many practitioners jump the gun on using them when a less invasive option can resolve issues that typically lead to them. For example, fetal distress often resolves with a simple change of position, which can resolve the issue quicker and with less risk than a c-section.
So we're choosing to go with a natural approach, and our CNM is in agreement that natural interventions be tried prior to medical interventions, as long as there is ample time, should a complication arise. We've based that decision on the research and on the philosophy that in a low-risk situation, nature knows best.
I guess we'll all have to wait and see how it goes, but right now, we're all-systems-go on Natural Childbirth.
My desire for a natural childbirth comes partially from my philosophy that being pregnant and birthing aren't medical events in most cases. In fact, in many countries with similar infant mortality rates as the US, there are far fewer medical interventions. This tells me that there's either something wrong with American women that makes us ill-adapted for childbearing, or we're doing an awful lot of unnecessary interventions. Plus, genetically speaking, women tend to follow their maternal line, which bodes very well for my ability to have a vaginal, unmedicated birth.
I'll summarize what I've learned from research studies and books on birthing. And keep in mind that this is for information, I'm not judging anyone's past, present, or future choices in these areas. I'm simply sharing what is playing a role in our decision to go for it naturally.
Anaesthesia - both IV and epidural anesthesia (opiate and narcotic types) do reach the baby and can lead to fetal distress, a need for oxygen or intubation at birth, and can impede the normal progression of the baby through the birth canal, affecting how the baby's head and shoulders present (they don't do the normal twist in some cases). Also, these drugs can slow labor and reduce the effectiveness of the mother's ability to push, which lead to greater rates of cesearean and forceps or vacuum delivery due to failure to progress. AND a lot of the drugs that MD's choose for laboring women are drugs that have warnings AGAINST use in pregnancy, breastfeeding, and childbirth (Nubain and Demerole are examples of drugs with this warning). So we're dedicated to avoiding the drugs because there's no such thing as a completely safe one and I want to embrace the experience of childbirth, no matter how much pain is involved - after all - it's pain with a purpose.
Episiotomies - can actually lead to women tearing clear through to the anus, which occurs almost never in women without episiotomies. Plus they lead to longer recovery times and rarely lead to getting a baby out any faster (which is a justification sometimes given for slicing and dicing the woman's perineum).
Also, interventions like pitocin induction and forceps/vacuum delivery and c-sections are often the tools of an impatient provider. Failure to progress is a subjective call which due to the natural variations in time from early labor to birth, is nearly impossible to diagnose as a problem, and thus is rarely a reason in itself to use intervention. Basically, unless the mother or baby are in distress, there is absolutely no medical reason to use any of these. I don't think that these tools are useless - some babies and mothers are saved by them. However, there is research suggesting that they're overused and that many practitioners jump the gun on using them when a less invasive option can resolve issues that typically lead to them. For example, fetal distress often resolves with a simple change of position, which can resolve the issue quicker and with less risk than a c-section.
So we're choosing to go with a natural approach, and our CNM is in agreement that natural interventions be tried prior to medical interventions, as long as there is ample time, should a complication arise. We've based that decision on the research and on the philosophy that in a low-risk situation, nature knows best.
I guess we'll all have to wait and see how it goes, but right now, we're all-systems-go on Natural Childbirth.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
How do we protect our money from the government?
by Michael Hehir
Sunday morning, my daughter Anna turned on the TV to watch Curious George, but instead found Ed Slott. The program was called Stay Rich Forever & Ever, and was basically an infomercial for his upcoming book. After watching this guy go on about pensions and 401(k)s for about twenty minutes, Anna turned to her mother and asked, "How do we protect our money from the government?"
Now, this is not the first time she has expressed concern about paying taxes. A few weeks ago, I was grumbling about paying $93.50 to register our two cars. (I didn't realize it yet, but Anna was about to have a major breakdown.) She said that I should "send them to jail for trying to take our money." After I told her that it doesn't work that way, she burst into tears, sobbing that we wouldn't be able to buy her any more toys or clothes for Kindergarten. She was genuinely frantic about it.
Somehow, I managed to calm her down while giving what I hope was an age-appropriate dissertation on two tricky concepts: money and government.
Having successfully weathered that storm — but not desiring a repeat performance — when the school tax bill arrived yesterday, I decided not to mention it to Anna.
Sunday morning, my daughter Anna turned on the TV to watch Curious George, but instead found Ed Slott. The program was called Stay Rich Forever & Ever, and was basically an infomercial for his upcoming book. After watching this guy go on about pensions and 401(k)s for about twenty minutes, Anna turned to her mother and asked, "How do we protect our money from the government?"
Now, this is not the first time she has expressed concern about paying taxes. A few weeks ago, I was grumbling about paying $93.50 to register our two cars. (I didn't realize it yet, but Anna was about to have a major breakdown.) She said that I should "send them to jail for trying to take our money." After I told her that it doesn't work that way, she burst into tears, sobbing that we wouldn't be able to buy her any more toys or clothes for Kindergarten. She was genuinely frantic about it.
Somehow, I managed to calm her down while giving what I hope was an age-appropriate dissertation on two tricky concepts: money and government.
Having successfully weathered that storm — but not desiring a repeat performance — when the school tax bill arrived yesterday, I decided not to mention it to Anna.
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