The End of the Sugar Rush

Today is the twin Fries' 4th birthday.

I spent yesterday afternoon making sure I had everything to bake the cake.

It is, unsurprisingly, a 3-D rubber-duck cake.

I was up extremely late decorating it.  Or was that just up really early this morning, and then I took a nap?  I'm not sure.

At least it's recognizable as a duck.  Given that this was my first attempt at greater decorations than just a healthy smattering of chocolate chips on top of a cake, I think I did rather well. 

I confess to coming completely unhinged when, in the process of moving the plated cake from the table to the counter, it became clear that I was not as skilled as I thought I was, or that the duck was drunk on frosting or something, because it was clearly tipsy.

I called Hubby and told him the duck was falling, and promptly burst into tears.  He helped stabilize it after the duck itself came unglued, and between some toothpicks, three plastic knives, and the rest of my yellow frosting, we got him back together.  And then I cried some more and decided 2 a.m. was waaaaaaaaaay too late to be up, when I had to be up again in six hours.  Or less, depending on when the first kid decided to wake us up.

As it turned out, Large Fry held off coming into our room until just before 8:30 this morning.  I slapped the snooze button a couple of times, and then forced myself to get up.  The twins woke up (or, at the very least, finally opted to get out of bed) as I bumbled down the hall to shower, Large Fry on my heels.

You have not lived until you've had four- and five-year-old voyeurs, peering at you from between the shower curtains, and squealing, "Spway us, Auntie J!"  (Our cat Koa used to sit on the edge of the tub, between the curtains, and peek her head around to watch me shave, but she kept demanding her quarter back.  Or she got bored.  I'm not sure.)

Innyhoo.

I came downstairs to put on shoes and makeup and get ready to head out the door, and made a discovery that would have been heart-rending had I made said discovery six hours before.

My cats are addicted to sweets, so my biggest fear was that the little gluttons would OD on sugar and lick the frosting off the cake.  They know they're not supposed to be on the counter, but they're cats.  They ignore rules when the rules don't suit them.

The duck however, decided to molt in the night.

Well.

Not much could be done about it then; I had to be out the door in about two minutes for a doctor's appointment.

I sent Hubby a text from the doctor's office, as I waited in the exam room.  "The duck molted!"

By the time I got home, Hubby had patched up the molting as best he could.  I helped the Fries get dressed and then went upstairs to wrap presents.  Okay, well, I tried. Because....

There was much squealing and great delight as Gramma and Boppa arrived.  "Gramma!  Gramma! Gramma!"  (Poor Boppa doesn't get the same respect.)  "Auntie J made a ducky cake! Come see it!"

Dad confessed to the fact that they were horrible grandparents--both of them had forgotten their cameras.  "You can use mine," I said.  "I'll send you copies."  With that, I snagged the scissors, tape and wrapping paper, and finally went upstairs to wrap presents.

Dad apparently took me at my word.  He used my camera.

And used it.  And "helped" the grandchildren use it.

And they had a marvelous time, it seems.

I should really learn to be careful what I say to my father.

But it's probably not a bad thing, really, that they're using it under adult supervision.  (Sort of.)  Because I bought them a kid-proof digital camera for Christmas.  They might as well figure out what they're supposed to do.

Preferably without killing my $260 camera.

Then...let them eat cake!

But first, let them sing.  The twins sang each time to each other.  Or was that to themselves?  I'm really not sure.  It was cute, though.

And then...let them blow out candles!

Small Fry went first.  Apparently, she has a healthy set of lungs and a good idea of how to blow.  She blew the candle out on the first try!

Medium Fry?  Not so much.

She blew.

The candle stayed lit.


She giggled.

She blew again.

The candle stayed lit.

Boppa had to refrain from actually blowing with her, but didn't manage to stop his mouth from taking the proper form for candle-blowing.  (Sorry, Dad.)

Medium giggled again.

She blew again.

Hey!  Success!

Good job, Hubby.  We can see the smoke curling from the candle's wick.

Mom had a moment of panic when we cut open the cake, revealing that I'd used a Funfetti mix.  (She's very allergic to corn syrup, and it's in EVERYTHING.)  I assured her that I'd checked everything, from the ingredients on the cake mix to the stuff that went into the frosting, and I was quite sure she was able to safely eat it.

Next time, I think we'll have chocolate duck, though.

Yes, Hubby insisted on braining the bird after Medium squealed that she wanted a piece of the head.

I guess I didn't need to worry about her coming unglued over eating a ducky cake the way Large Fry had about eating an Elmo cake (on her 3rd birthday).

This was too good not to share....

I love Facebook.  I'm able to keep in touch with family and friends all over the world.

And, occasionally, remind myself that I'm not alone in the insanity we call motherhood.  (Parenthood, if you must.  But this is MY blog.)

I about fell off my chair when I read my college roommate's current status:

My lunatic son (the redhead) decided to draw on himself instead of reading and settling down for bed.  He drew a Hitler moustache and also drew targets around his nipples and bellybutton. He isn't even embarressed?  What do I do with this child?!

I waved at Hubby, getting his attention.  I asked if he was my roomie's friend.  When he said he was, I told him that he just had to look at her current status.

I giggled and watched his face while he read it.

Then he pulled his laptop closer and commented:

STAND HIM AGAINST THE WALL AND BREAK OUT THE DARTS.

Yeah, that'll work!

Conversations Redux

For dinner tonight, I made mac and cheese from scratch.  No boxes.  No cheese sauces.  The real stuff.

It's been something of a struggle to get Large Fry to eat it when I make it.  If Gramma makes the Velveeta shells & cheese, she likes it just fine.  She'll eat that.  But the homemade kind?  Not so much.

Innyhoo.

It was a rough night for me to stand and cook in the kitchen, given the impending weather front that's going to be moving through and my poor ankle with four healed breaks and two titanium screws was griping about everything.

We sat down to dinner, and the kids dug in...to their green beans first, surprisingly.  After Hubby had cleared his plate, he set his fork down and looked at me.

Hubby: Auntie J, thank you for making this yummy dinner.  The mac and cheese is very good!

Me:   You're welcome.

Hubby [to Medium Fry]: Isn't it yummy?

Medium Fry [grinning like a goober]:  Yes.

Hubby:  You should tell Auntie J that.

Medium Fry: Fank you for da yummy dinnewr, Auntie J!

Small Fry:  Amen!

Hubby [chuckling]:  I guess that's a second!

Conversations

Medium Fry:  Auntie J, why does Popoki have black eyes in hewr gween eyes?

Me [glancing down at the object of discussion]:  Those are her pupils.  They help her see.


A few minutes later....

I'm in the bathroom, fixing my hair.

Medium Fry: Auntie J, I have to go potty.

Me:  Okay, honey.

Medium Fry:  If Popoki didn't have pyookuls...

Me [thinking]:  What?

Medium Fry:  Um.  Um.  Um.  Um.


[Yes, that gets annoying real fast.]

Medium:  Um.  Um.  Um.  Um.   If....

Me [putting brush and hair dryer away]

Medium:  If Popoki didn't have pyookuls, she wouldn't be able to see!

Me [comprehension dawning]:  You're right!  If Popoki didn't have pupils, she wouldn't be able to see.

The Art of the Con

It's toy clean-up time.  Undoubtedly, one of the most-hated times in our house.

Hubby:  Clean up faster!  [sigh]  I don't think you guys are getting baths tonight.

Fries: [Panting and breathing faster.]

Hubby:  I said clean up faster, not breathe faster!

Yeah, like that was going to show him that they were working faster.  Good try, kids.

*snicker*

I shouldn't laugh.

Small Fry just came back into the living room, from the potty, buck naked.

It's bedtime.

I pull her over to me so that I can put her diaper for the night on her while she's still standing up.  (Hubby can't do that, so the job falls to me.)  And, normally, this is when I would play "Squeezie Cheeks!"  But she hasn't been listening tonight.  So, no games at bedtime.

As I put the diaper between her legs and fastened the first tab, I remarked, "You're skinny!"  (From our trip to the doctor's office yesterday, I know that her twin outweighs her by almost five and a half pounds.)

"Yes!" she said.  "I have hair on my tuchus.  Little tiny hair."

I'm not sure how I managed to keep a straight face.  "That's not what I meant!"

Middle-of-the-Night Conversations

One of the perils (yes, it can occasionally be called that) of parenthood is that, at some point, you will share your nice, big, warm, comfortable bed with your small child...at which point, it becomes a cramped, crowded, too-small, uncomfortable bed as you contort yourself into positions not meant for being slept in, so that you won't disturb your blissfully sleeping, wind-milling child.

When they lay still and sleep peacefully, it's fine.  I can deal with that.  It's when they can't lay still.  Or when it's more than one of them.

We should have bought a king-sized bed.  Seriously.  There's not enough room in there for Hubby and me, and three kids, who are now lots bigger than they were 2.5 years ago when they moved in with us.

Medium Fry has recently developed the habit of seeking out our bed in the middle of the night, more nights than not.  We're still trying to figure out how to curtail that.  It's not as though she's waking screaming from a nightmare--we know what that sounds like, and then fully expect company in bed.  No, this is more along the lines of a stealth invasion.  She wakes up in the middle of the night for no real reason, and decides she doesn't want to sleep alone, and so she and Duckie meander down the hall to our room, where she quietly climbs in our bed, nestles inbetween us, and goes right back to sleep.  And, an indeterminate time later, a foot or an elbow or a head in the back alerts us that we've been invaded.

I have no idea what time Medium joined us last night.  However, I do know that, at about 5 a.m., Small Fry also came to the party in our bed.  And woke up Medium (if she was asleep).  Or they came in together, which has happened before.  I have no idea when or how they arrived.  I just know they did, because they couldn't leave each other alone.  Feet in the face.  Feet in the back.  Laying on.  And that was just the twins, with each other, not counting the appendages that attacked me or Hubby.  I do know that I barely slept because of the in-fighting.  And that Hubby, who sleeps on his back due to his CPAP machine, had ordered them to settle down several times.

Which failed.  Miserably.

At 6:15 a.m., I'd had enough.  "Back to your own beds!" I ordered.

Medium whimpered, the kind that indicates a full-on crying jag is imminent.  "It's too scawwy!" she whined.  I squinted to see through the early-morning gloom.

What was scaring her?  My pair of jeans laid on top of a suitcase that hadn't made it up to the attic yet.

Sigh.

I sat up, fought off the mild vertigo that has been my friend since last summer's auto accident, and shoved my feet into my slippers.  Then I unceremoniously herded my little interlopers back to their own beds.

Small Fry started crying as she got into her bed and I turned on the radio, which is pre-tuned to a classical station.  I re-tucked-in Medium Fry, and then went to fix Small's blankets.

"Why are you crying?" I asked as I settled the fleece blankets over her.

She whimpered.  "I want to seep in youwr bed!"

"But you weren't sleeping in my bed!  No one was sleeping in my bed, because you and Medium were playing!"

She whimpered again.

"Go to sleep."

Thankfully, she settled down at that and I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep.

Which is a good thing, because I'm sure I would've lost a battle somehow if she'd tried out her nearly-four-year-old logic on me.

The Wonders of the Internet

Having watched three videos on www.samaritanspurse.org about Operation Christmas Child*...

...one of them being a Veggie Tales video where Larry accidentally ends up packed in an OCC shoebox...

Medium Fry happily put several of her toys in the shoebox that her new winter dress shoes came in, plopped the lid on, and gave her "present" to Popoki.

Popoki was, as usual, unimpressed.


*Pronounced by Medium as "Oddehwayshun Cwimmis Chile!"

We must be doing something right.

Yesterday we had an episode that could best be termed as a Discipline Moment.

Now, before anyone reads any further and gets their Hanes in a half-hitch, yes, we spank our kids.  It's reserved for only the most severe offenses, and we figure it's either that, or tasering.  Spanking gets us in less trouble.  Oh, I know all the arguments.  It teaches violence, it's unnecessary as a form of punishment, it squelches the personality.  Well, both Hubby and I had our personalities squelched in such a way as kids.  We turned out fine.  And we have plenty of personality.  Innyhoo....

Hubby was having the Fries clean up the toy room, because, well, it looked like the toy shelves, cubes and box had exploded.

He had left the room momentarily, only to be called back by an absolutely bloodcurdling scream.

This prompted a return to the toy room, and a subsequent demand for answers.

Small Fry wailed, "Medium spanked me!"

Apparently, Medium Fry had decided that her twin was not doing enough in the way of picking up toys like Unca D said to do, and took matters into her own hands (while simultaneously avoiding the edict to pick up toys).

Well.

Hubby stares down Medium Fry.  "Did you spank your sister?"

Medium nods.

Hubby turns around and goes into the kitchen to fetch the spanking paddle, a silicon spatula.  (We're so mean.)

He returns to the toy room, where the twins are hovering in the doorway.  "Medium," he says, "you know you aren't allowed to spank your sister."  He turns his attention to Small Fry and hands her the spatula.  "Small, you have a choice.  You can either forgive your sister, or you can spank her back."

Small Fry kinda looks at Hubby in something akin to awe, and then faces Medium.  "I forgive you," she said.

And handed the spatula back to Hubby without another word.

We were so proud.

Daffynitions

Small Fry:  Unca D, she's sitting in Medium's chaiwr!

Hubby:  You don't need to worry about what she's doing.  You need to get in your chair.

Small Fry:  But she's getting in Medium Fwy's chaiwr!

Hubby:  Are you tattling?  Are you trying to get her in trouble?

Medium Fry:  No.

Small Fry [happily]:  Yes!

Hubby:  Trying to get someone in trouble when they're not doing something to you is tattling, and that's not nice.

Lunchtime Grace

The twin Fries are having lunch.  Grilled cheese today, if you were wondering.  And so, they offer the usual grace-before-meals:

God is great, God is good, and we thank him for our food.  Amen.

Medium Fry decides she needs to take it further, and first blesses God (still trying to figure out how that works), then thanks him for Shamu, Shamu's water in the glass so he can swim, then for Auntie J and Unca D (awwww), and all three Fries, including herself.  She announces "Amen!" with a flourish.

Not to be outdone, Small Fry starts praying.  What is she thanking God for?  I'm so glad you asked.  Pull-Ups.  Nighttime Pull-Ups.  Small Fry's Pull-Ups.  Small Fry's panties (she's wearing real undies today for the first time).

As it's clear the list could go on and on and on and Small would never start eating, Hubby says firmly, "Amen!"

"I'm not done yet!" she shouted, indignantly.  After mumbling a few more things she was thanking God for, she decisively and happily said, "Amen!"

It reminds me very much of the prayers a year and a half ago, following my abdominal surgery, where Auntie J's big boo-boo got blessed at every meal and bedtime.  At least once, if not twice.

Can they be this cute forever?

Transplanted Buckeyes

We spent well over the first decade of our married life in Columbus, OH, home of the OSU Buckeyes.  Hubby became a fan pretty quickly.  I sorta got sucked in, too.  I was happy to proclaim myself a fan during the six months that my brother lived with us eight years ago, mostly because he was such a diehard Michigan fan.

We now live in Penn State territory.

It makes life interesting.

And because I am a good sister, we've chosen to raise the Fries as Buckeye fans.

Innyhoo...I scoured the web, looking for decently-priced little kids' Buckeyes shirts.  They all know how to say "Go Bucks!"

I found some.

Today, as Hubby was getting Large Fry ready for school, he decided that she could wear her "Go Bucks!" shirt as long as she had a long-sleeved tee underneath it, since it was going to be almost 60 today.  And, of course, because OSU plays Penn State this weekend.

He's been teaching her the appropriate things, naturally:

"Say 'Go Buckeyes!'"

"Go Buckeyes!"

"Do we like Penn State?"

"No, I like the Buckeyes!"

"What's wrong with Penn State?"

"Joe Pa's too old!"

Heart exploding in 3...2...1...

Every now and then, I have these moments.  Moments when, like the Grinch's heart, mine swells three sizes.  Not that I think I have a small heart like the Grinch started out with, but you get the idea.  My heart just feels so full that I think it's a medical wonder that it hasn't exploded out my chest wall yet.

Today I had one of those as we came home from church.  We go to the 11a service, and then Hubby talks shop with the worship team after service gets out about 12:15ish (heavy on the ish some weeks), so we often don't get out of there until 12:45p.  And that's on a good week.

Given that our morning started out with the twin Fries deliberately not getting up to go potty and peeing through their diaper/nighttime Pull-up, jammies and bed sheets, the morning hadn't exactly gone well.  In retrospect, it makes the heart-explosion moment even more powerful.

Hubby chose Wendy's for lunch this Sunday, and we zipped through the drive-through and then came home.

The moment happened as we pulled into the driveway.

"It's our home!" Large Fry squealed with excitement.  "It's our home!"

I will never tire of hearing any of them say those words.

It's our home.

Facepalm Moment

We're talking with my mom on Skype.  She's recovering from a nasty asthma attack and sounds like a frog with a sore throat (sorry, Mom).

Small Fry is in the bathroom, having gone potty.  I heard the water turn on, so I knew she was almost done.  Then it turned off.  Then it turned back on.

"Small Fry!  Turn the water off!" I shouted.

Small Fry turned the water off while I continued talking with Mom.

Then she's standing next to me.  "Auntie J, my pants are wet becauwse I threw them in Popoki's water dish."

"Why did you throw your pants in the cat's water dish?!"  Mom covers her mouth to muffle a very hoarse chuckle.  "I think I'd better go.  Talking is not good now," she says.

Just as we hang up, Hubby says in exasperation, "Small Fry!  Where is your Pull-Up?"  That's when I notice that Small is naked from the waist down.

"I threw it in da twash, 'cause it wasn't wet."

"Did you go pee-pee in it?"

"Yesh."

Sigh.

Maybe she'll get this potty-training thing.  Eventually.

Meanwhile, she's running around, wearing her shirt, her new Pull-Up, and socks.  It's close enough to bedtime that I no longer care about finding a clean pair of pants.

Conversation

Hubby and the Fries are heading out for Wednesday night stuff at church.

Medium Fry:  Unca D, is God in my heawrt of love?

Hubby (smiling):  Yes, God is in your heart of love.

Medium Fry (thoughtfully): I don't want to squish Him!

Hubby (trying to contain laughter):  Don't worry.  You can't squish Him.

One of THOSE days....

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

I'm not talking about yesterday's memory fiasco, when I finally realized that parent/teacher conferences were next week, not this week, and had to confess that to the babysitter who was waiting to hear which night we wanted to go out on a much-needed date.

We'd hoped, after the court's decision back in August, that we'd have to put up with a lot less crap than we'd been dealing with over the previous two-plus years.  And, to a certain extent, we don't get nearly as much...but then, that's because we have a piece of paper that says (although not in so many words) we don't have to.

We don't have to spend four nights a week waiting, putting everything on hold, to see SIL not call her kids on Skype.  We don't have to bend over backwards to make sure we don't offend either her or Bro.  We don't have to suck it up and deal if she shows up unexpectedly and demands to take the kids for the day.

The court order insists on proper warning to us before expecting us to make drastic changes to our schedules.  SIL and Bro have to be as respectful of our time and schedules as we've had to be of theirs.

And while we all share legal custody of the Fries, Hubby and I have primary physical custody.  They live with us.  This is now--legally--their real home.

But it doesn't stop the stupidity that landed all of us in this situation in the first place.

To be honest, it was easy to see why SIL and Bro's marriage unraveled.  Neither was willing to share the position of most importance.  They both wanted the world to revolve around them.  And only in science fiction does a solar system with two suns actually work...and even then, one sun is usually lesser.  Both of them wanting to be the most important led to cataclysmic effects on their marriage.

In short, neither of them wanted to sacrifice dignity and position to serve the other.  They operated under the theory that marriage is a 50/50 deal, and if each spouse gave 50%, then they'd have a 100% marriage.  Only problem with that is that each one's perspective on how much their 50% was supposed to be was different.  Their 50%s didn't add up.

Granted, my marriage is by no means perfect.  But at least we understand that we've both gotta give 100% to the marriage and let God sort out the details.  And that keeps it stable when the inevitable bickering comes up.

And so we're just now waiting on the final divorce decree to declare that Bro and SIL's marriage is good and truly over.  In so many ways, the marriage ended long ago.  All that held it "together" was the legalities.

And we're still dealing with two people who are more concerned about themselves than they are about any one else.  Their needs and wants are of utmost importance to them.  Their kids are a distant second if they're lucky, the estranged spouse even further down the scale.

Case in point: we got an email today from SIL, who has deployed to Afghanistan.  She's irritated with us.

Oh, there's a shock.  (Not nearly as shocking as her calling us "wonderful" in court.)

Why?  Because we apparently don't know what a kind, giving, loving, wonderful person she is.  We don't really know her.  She'd never sue us for her failure (although she didn't say it that way) to give us the court-required 72 hours' notice before coming to town and wanting to see the girls.  We could have been nice and let her see the girls before she deployed.  And regardless of all the drama we started, she still loves us dearly.

Let's see.  We emailed her back, when she requested to see the girls, to be sure that's what she really wanted.  Asked her if she wanted us to ignore the stipulations in the court order.  And....

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And never got an email response.  Or a phone call.  Or a text message.

We made arrangements anyway, just in case, for her to be able to see the girls.  If she got in touch with us.  It's not our responsibility, after all, to make sure she confirms and/or responds.

Her farewell emails, which I somehow received (still don't know quite how), mentioned how much she would miss her mom and her brothers and her friends.

Her kids?  Not.  One.  Word.  In either email.

It frustrates both Hubby and I immensely.  We'd love to be able to tell her how we really feel.  We'd love to be able to get her to open her eyes and see reality.  We're tired of dealing with a 26-year-old woman who insists on acting half her age.  (I have the same gripe about my 29-year-old brother.)

She is, however, right about one thing.  We didn't really know her before.  We do now.  We don't like what we know.

So now, we have to set aside our roiling and seething emotions and respond to her.  Like a two-year-old's temper tantrum, we have to ignore hers and deal solely with the facts.  Ignore the fact that she hasn't been as wonderful to us as she says, that we SURE didn't start this, and that we are purveyors of all drama.  And state the facts:

We emailed, and we requested a response.  We didn't get one.  We made arrangements for a time for a visit anyway, and monitored both of our email accounts all weekend long to see if she'd responded.  And we didn't get a personal email from her until after she arrived in Afghanistan.

And, hopefully, in time, our emotions (and blood pressures) will settle down.  We know what she's doing; she's making herself look better in her own eyes, and she hasn't been in Afghanistan long enough to make new friends, so she has lots of time to think.

And, sadly, we realize that a good friend of ours was right when he said, "She will never grow up."

Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.

Medium Fry has come unglued.

Why?

Because she had to go upstairs to use the potty, since Unca D was using the potty downstairs.  But that's not really the reason why she's unglued.  No, the reason is that she could not reach the soap to wash her hands.

Now, we have to hide the liquid soap dispensers, or we'll go through it faster than milk.  So, all those little bars of soap that we've accumulated from hotel stays have been classified as Fry Soap, and we keep them out for the girls.  It also cuts down on the amount of bubbles they create with the soap, and thus the sheer amount of time they spend washing their hands.

And I know that there's still remnants of one of those soaps upstairs on the sink counter.

That soap is what caused Medium to come unglued.

She refused to use it, instead saying she couldn't reach it.  (She could.)  No, she couldn't use it because it was down to a sliver of the bar left, and it had broken in half during one of Large Fry's previous hand-washings.

And because it was broken, it couldn't be used.  It would no longer work.

We only discovered that this was the problem when we had to insistently order Medium Fry downstairs and we were then able to investigate the reason for her crying jag.

Hubby insisted that broken bar soap was not a reason to cry.  Medium said she just wanted to go back upstairs and cry some more.  We both said no.  She insisted that she needed to go back upstairs so she could cry some more.

Hubby regarded Medium thoughtfully.  "You didn't nap today, did you?"

Medium nodded sadly.

"Come here."  He pulled her onto his lap.  And that's when we found out that soap apparently loses all its cleansing properties when it's broken.  (Much like I believe calories vacate broken cookies, but that's another story.)  Hubby tried to explain that the soap would still work; being broken doesn't mean it won't work.  Soap is special that way.

Medium disagreed.  Stringently, as it turned out.  In somewhat garbled sentence structure, she explained that it was broken because it broke, and so it wouldn't work.  Hubby listened intently.

About then, I came back into the living room from the kitchen, where I'd been working on supper and heard the end of this conversation.  Medium finished up her explanation, and Hubby looked over at me.  "What does the Man in Black say?"

I gave him a slightly confused look; I knew which movie he was referencing, but I needed more context.

"When he's talking to Vizzini.  What does he say?"

Ah-ha.  "Truly, you have a dizzying intellect," I quote, with the precise accent of the Man in Black.

"Exactly," Hubby says on a laugh as he looks at Medium.

Yeah, Medium has one of those that would rival Vizzini.