Set Up For Failure (or at least, a Hard Time)

I began to write this several months ago, while we were still very much in a state of transition.  

Not just transition, but uncertainty, separation, and stress.  And sometimes, in the midst of the struggle, it is better to let one's thoughts and feelings mature and ripen in private, to allow for the work that perspective and time do.  So I didn't post it then.  

But now, while still in the end stages of transition, much of the stress and uncertainty have been worked through and things are not quite so raw, not quite so desperate feeling.

Goodness, anyone who reads this whole blog will probably think that I am a very dramatic, perpetually struggling, weak-willed mess of a woman!  Well, maybe I am.  I do tend to write more during and about my personal hard times.  I find it both cathartic and therapeutic, and I have found great relief and insight from reading about other's struggles, faith, and real lives, so I guess it doesn't matter how any reader might perceive me... If you know me, reading this blog might give you new insight into different facets of my character, and if you don't know me... I guess you can just draw your own conclusions. :) 

We had come to the conclusion that it was time to leave King Salmon, and went ahead with that move despite the fact that we, at that time, had no further employment.  I am so grateful to my dear husband for the way he listened to me and counselled with me and then had the faith and courage to jump, so to speak, out of a perfectly good airplane.  I mean, leave a paying job to move his family for their good, without another job already lined up.  He takes his role as our provider and protector very seriously, and does a very good job at it, and I know this period of time was a huge stress for him.  I was very excited to leave King Salmon, although it had come to be more of a blessing and less of a trial over the months.  In fact, our last months there were so good, so full of warmth and happiness, with so many new connections, that it was just starting to feel actually do-able.  I had a few fleeting thoughts that, perhaps, in seeking for something better, I would just be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, but for many reasons, it was the right time to leave.  

And so we did.  

I am so grateful for the generosity of my in-laws, in letting us come and stay at their house in Utah for several months.  It is not easy to add a whole other family to a household and maintain loving, peaceful order.  There were struggles all around, and I'm sorry for the added stress we brought to the house.  Nevertheless, it was a blessing to get to know Nate's side of the family better, to let them love our little ones and see our little ones learn to love them!  I was so disappointed that for much of the time we were there, Eden and Lucy were dealing with their first real colds, as well as the serious disruption of their previously very predictable lives and family, which meant that they were definitely not on their "best" behavior.  (As a parent, its almost sad sometimes how very much you want others to see the precious person that your child really is, how very easy it is to resent mis-judgment and long for mercy for your child's sake!)  

It really was such a blessing, on a very fundamental level, to have a safe place to come and be with our family and have their support while Nate was gone so very much.  I never thought I could find a harder schedule for families than that of a bush pilot, but - oh, my - I am SO glad that our time as a trucking family was limited! 

In the middle of it all, with Nate gone long and random hours (days, weeks!), trying to settle and balance two little girls whose world had turned topsy-turvy, our living compressed into one room and confined to the indoors due to continued temperatures below zero (even King Salmon was warmer!), not knowing where we were going next or when we were going there.... I came to a very important realization for me.

This was hard. 

There was no denying that.

But I had the power to make it infinitely harder on myself by thinking that it was harder than it should be. 

By expecting someone to help me with the house, the children, the state of my emotions. 

By thinking that my husband should always be available or around.

Such a very basic realization.  It almost seems silly to look at it written out. It made a huge difference in my life though! 

I don't remember what sparked my lightbulb moment. I do remember the illumination it brought!

This was not harder than it should be.

This is just the way it was.

With that conclusion, my ability to deal with it all increased greatly. 

So, to go back to the title of this post, I don't know who ever told me that life should be easy.  Or happy.  Or that it would go the way I wanted or expected.  In fact, I remember quite clearly learning the opposite! "For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things..."

So maybe I could blame it on our culture, this self-centered modern age, that wicked one, or Disney's happily ever after.  I think the actual culprit might just be immaturity (as in, just plain lack of experience and perspective). 

 But whoever is to blame, I think that we are set up for (or we set ourselves up for) a failure in life or, at the very least, a pretty hard time, by the attitude that life should be easier, more "fulfilling", more fun, more adventure, more enjoyable, more what we expected.  

Besides that, when we focus on all the things we think life SHOULD be, we miss life as it is - the ease, the fulfillment, the fun, the adventure, the enjoyment, and the blessing that we have right before us.

 :)

Seasons of the Heart

Is a good marriage one where you gradually become more and more alike over the years? You know, the ones where people start to say you look alike, speak alike, and act alike?  Like two streams running together into one, where the joined currents cut the riverbed deeper and deeper until that path is the only one to take?  Or is it , rather, one where two separate individuals grow more and more into their unique identities, held together by promises and mutual vision, like two oxen yoked to one plow?

I suspect that a healthy marriage is really not so simple as either one or the other, but instead is a mix of the two.  Or perhaps both, just in different ways and a different times.  Its an odd balance though.

At times, all you want is each other. On the big things, you agree.  You flow together in that one riverbed with amazement at how well you complement one another, at the joy and bliss and incredibly fulfilling experience of being one in so many ways.

At other times, its a bit more complicated.  The oxen are yoked, but learning to pull together in one direction is a process. With that basic yet consuming need for one another resting in trust, there are other dreams, other ambitions, other parts of life and living that must be dealt with, and somehow it comes as a surprise that your beloved has different ideas about some of those things.  Sometimes its just as simple as a novel concept, a practice or course they had never considered.  Other times, its becomes more sensitive, when the desire, the dream, the hoped-for course, is something that your mate actively does not want, never wanted, and struggles with.

(I'm not talking about anything harmful or sinful here.  Just the many available options that, for many reasons, we want or don't want.)

Do you sacrifice your direction, your hopes, your desires, giving them up for the discomfort they would cause your spouse?  Do you sacrifice your comfort so that your spouse can pursue cherished aspirations and dreams?  Do you both cling to comfort and end up with a life of the lowest common denominator, a compromise in all things?  Do you both cling to desires and end up pursuing two separate lives under the same roof?

Its a process.  There is amazing growth, both personal and relational, to be had in going with your spouse on the adventures of their heart.  You become so much more than if you just sit in the comfort of your own ways of seeing, doing, being.  It is also a wonderful thing to be given the gift of your loved one's sacrifice in order that you might blossom in ways that are uniquely your own and so desired.

Maybe the truth is that by living together in that mutual pattern of giving and receiving, sacrificing, yet still able to fulfill dreams, you both become uniquely yourselves and yet the same in the most important of ways.

A little cryptic, perhaps.  Just things I've been pondering.

Just doing it!

I think about this blog at least once a week. Often several times in a day.
I really want to keep writing, updating, etc.
For some reason, uploading pictures is really complicated for me, and I have to get Nate's help each time, or I have to rediscover how to do it myself, which means that with both of us usually focused on other things, it doesn't happen.
And then I feel like I can't just put up another post of my thoughts, my musings, and basically just words because I haven't put up any pictures in who knows how long, even though I've been taking them and we have a whole file on the computer just for that.
So I brush the thought aside and keep on with my life, and the moment passes, and those thoughts fly onward, never to be exactly recovered (for good or for ill.)
But right now I decided to just write, and post, what I've been thinking.  My "readership" is probably next to nothing, thanks to the months of blog-neglect, but that's ok.  If someone reads these posts and enjoys them or thinks about them or gets anything good or interesting out of them, that's great.  If I'm pretty much just writing to myself, I'm fine with that too. :)  And if reading my blog irritates, offends, or gets under anyone's skin - they are welcome to move on.  No pressure to stick around!

I've been reading some really interesting books.  One is called "Nickel and Dimed," written by a journalist who did a life experiment of moving to several random places and trying to make all her ends meet as a minimum wage, entry level worker.  She tried it in Key West, some beach town in Maine, and the Twin Cities area in Minnesota, working as a waitress, in hotel housekeeping, with a maid service, as a "dietary aide" in an Alzheimer's ward of a nursing home, and at Walmart.  The first four jobs, she worked two at a time. Basically, it didn't work out.  After giving each situation a try for several weeks, she ended up concluding that it was almost impossible to make ends meet for the basics of housing, food, and transportation, not to mention even thinking about providing for an emergency, even working two minimum wage jobs at once.  And that was beside the way she felt looked down on, manipulated, abused, and totally dead-ended.  She narrates her experiences, bringing to life the people that surround her, people that are not going to go back to a different life with the ease that a little (or a lot!) more money and education might afford them, people for whom these jobs are real life.  I found myself strongly reminded of working in a daycare in Florida...
I must admit, this book left me a little depressed.  But it did get me thinking about the ways that I am privileged!  The privilege it gave me to have parents who emphasized the importance of education, and who provided for me and looked after me so that I could do things like finish high-school and go into college, and then get scholarships to go away and finish college.  The privilege and blessing it is to have a strong support network literally anywhere I go, whether it be family I can call on, or the local ward.  It is so easy to take for granted, even if we never use it, the help that is available just from calling our bishop, our Relief Society President, our Elders Quorum president, or even just visiting or home teachers.  And then there is the privilege of being able to stay home with my children and to be a full-time homemaker for my family.  I'm SO thankful that Nate can provide for us so that I can do this, and so thankful that he agrees with me that this is the best and most important thing I can do for our family.  And I'm privileged and blessed to be able to pass that privilege and blessing on to my children, as I love and teach and care for and set an example for them, one on one, here in our home.
Its an interesting read.  Its definitely not one of those "don't miss it" books, but if you have time and you find it, it's worth it.  Just remember, even if you don't read it, be thankful for the privileges that are yours.

I am not so different...

I've heard about how parents are, surprisingly, not uncommonly the ones to introduce their children to smoking, drinking, and illegal drugs. 

I've wondered, "How could they do that?"

Even if you, yourself, were addicted or used those substances, isn't it obvious (not to mention extremely well publicized) that they are BAD FOR YOU!!??  What parent, in their right mind, gives their child things that are bad for them?  Knowing the love I feel for my girls and the desires I have for them, and imagining that it is nothing out of the ordinary - don't all parents feel that way toward their precious children? - I have often marveled at how this could happen.

But, you know....

I just realized, I am not so very different.  

No, my substance is in no way illegal, nor is it particularly harmful (though there are some that would say it is.:) 

No Bake Cookies.  Globs of peanut buttery, chocolately, oatey deliciousness.  Some even have tender little marshmallows hidden inside.  Oh, my.  

I'm having a very hard time resisting them.  We made a double batch to share, on Sunday, and though we did share some, there are far too many still sitting on my kitchen counter.  Maybe the oats make me feel like they are healthier than regular cookies, but I highly doubt the truth of that conclusion.  Whatever it is, I have been eating WAY too many.  A quick fix to hunger, soothing distraction to frustration, loneliness, whatever the emotion of the moment, and generally just fun to consume.

Eden came up to me as I stood there eating my fourth (shame!) and wanted some.  And though I knew she really didn't need one, wouldn't be better off for having one, I gave her some.  Because I was enjoying it.  

(Ok, I do realize there is a big difference between cookies and drugs.  And I am one of those moms who lets her kids have cookies, cake, ice cream, dessert, etc, when we have it.  I certainly don't adhere to the school of no treats or no sugar. I think its good to share good things in moderation!)  

But in that moment, I felt a sudden epiphany burst upon me.  Here I am, doing what I know I should not be, and including my daughter.  Its fun.  Its tasty.  It feels good in the moment.  

A sudden insight into a pocket of unconscious pride.  

I am not so very different.

Good inspiration to be who I should be more consistently.

Lucy's Birth

Our little Lucy is seven weeks, and not longer so little! Her knees and elbows have little dimples, her little biceps and thighs have fat creases, and she looks like a perfect little dolly!  I look back on her birth and can hardly believe that it was such a short time ago!  So here is the story…

            Short, uncomplicated version – Lucy was born, two days after her due date, at my parents house at 10:20 pm on Monday, Jan. 21^st, after two and a half hours of labor.  We were attended by Nate and, at the last second, my mother, and the midwives arrived 15 and 20 minutes later.  I did go to the hospital for some sutures, which is worse than giving birth, but as far as the labor and birth went, it couldn’t have been better.

            And now for the long, detailed version – We had hoped to meet this baby significantly earlier than January 21^st.  Nate had only a certain amount of vacation before he had to go back to Alaska, and more than anything, I wanted him to be with me for the birth.  I didn’t care who else was there, but Nate HAD to be there.  And we hoped he’d even have a little time with us postpartum to get acquainted and help us transition as a family.  Eden was born at 38 weeks, so I thought it was reasonable to expect this one around the same time.  Besides, I’d been having episodes of significant contractions every time I got stressed and over-exerted myself since 34 weeks pregnant.  Well, so much for all that.

(Actually, it probably was accomplishing a lot of the early dilation very gradually.)

Anyway, we met with the midwives and thankfully, there was a good connection there.  They warned us that second labors often go in half the time of first labors, so to expect about 2.5-3 hours total. (How right they were!)  However, the days came and went, and little baby stayed securely inside.  We walked.  We danced.  We did…all sorts of things…in an effort to help this little one make an entrance (or exit? J) Nothing extreme, being well aware that she wasn’t even quite due yet, but I was about at the end of my rope.  Never again will I judge anyone for getting tired of being pregnant, especially at the end!  Being pregnant is a miracle, one that I love and give thanks for and will accept as many times as it comes to me, but for heavens sake! All good things must come to an end, and I prayed for the end of this one!  I was so ready to move on to the next stage!  I didn’t know how much more one’s body could stretch in those last two weeks, how long the nights became when interrupted regularly by urgent (like suddenly realizing I’m going to explode!) potty trips, shooting pains down hips and calves, trying to stay on one’s left side to help baby get into a good position, and how all my clothes would just run out of room.  I went to bed each night, thinking, “Maybe this will be the night!” and woke up each morning grumpy and out of sorts because I was still very, very pregnant. 

            I finally got over my bad attitude, telling myself that I was just going to be pregnant forever, and just focused on taking each day as it came.  And really they were lovely days – soft California winter of clear skies and bright sun, shared with my sweetheart and our daughter, enjoying time with family, going for walks, just soaking up the togetherness of the time. 

            I thought I’d lost my mucous plug on Saturday, Lucy’s due date, but I didn’t want to tell anyone because I’d been pointing out every sign as it came along and so far none of them had led to anything exciting.  They just sort of petered out.  Talk about deflating the excitement!  So I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t call the midwives, just noticed and let it go.  Sure enough, nothing happened.  I had to go to church another Sunday, elephantine in my maternity.  Monday night, I was actually googling how long after losing the mucous plug one usually goes into labor, when I felt a sudden warm gush.  My first thought was to ascertain that I hadn’t wet myself, as that can be an unexpected side effect of being so pregnant.  No, I had not.  In fact, when I shifted in my seat, more warm fluid gushed out.  I asked my dad to get me a towel, and sat waiting, thinking, “Finally!  I’m so glad to be in labor!”  Not five minutes later, the first contraction/pressure wave hit, and the second came within five minutes of the first.  They took off from there.  Within probably 15 minutes I could feel sweat drip off of me as I breathed through a contraction, and I remember thinking, “Oh, right.  This is labor.  This is the work, the effort, the intensity of bringing a child into this world.  I am glad it’s finally happening, but this is HARD.” 

            I had called the senior midwife shortly after my water broke, and sent her a text as well.  She didn’t respond, and I left a message, but thought nothing of it – I had several times left messages, only to receive a return call not very long after.  Truthfully, once those first messages were sent, my mind was very caught up in other things and I didn’t even think of it again until they walked in the door.  It turns out that her phone had suddenly and unexpectedly died.  It was charged up, nothing was wrong with it – it just died and she didn’t know it until it turned itself on again.  Then, of course, they came as fast as they could, but it wasn’t as fast as Lucy!

            We took a shower, and when we got out the kitchen had been transformed into a peaceful, darkened birthing room.  Dinner’s dishes had magically disappeared. The dining room table and benches were carefully stowed out of the way.  A neatly made bed awaited me in the middle of the clean linoleum floor, and strings of white twinkle lights around the edge of the ceiling lit the room with a soft glow.  Everyone was quietly and inconspicuously holed up in their own rooms.  I went directly from the bathroom to the bed and immediately lay down on my left side.  Nate knelt near me and I rather forcefully directed him to push on my lower back, which he did for the next hour and a half, I guess.  (I wasn’t paying attention to the time!)  Every time he’d move in the least, I let him know he needed to stay right where he was, and as long as he did, I could manage.  The Hypnobabies “Easy First Stage” track was playing on my phone, and it was all I could do to focus and relax.  I began to vocalize, moaning as low and deep as I could.  (My mom later said it sounded kind of like mooing.  Oh well.)  At some point I was trying so hard to relax and my muscles were trying so hard to do whatever they were doing that my tummy literally began to jump and spasm.  I could feel it, and Nate could see it, and it was very strange!

            Suddenly I couldn’t stay down any longer and with no conscious effort on my part I was up on hands and knees, pushing.  Nate got ready to catch, and my mom, hearing the change in the noises I was making, came out of her bedroom to help, knowing that no one had yet arrived.  Lucy was born very quickly!  They caught her, I flipped over, and my wet, pink, new little daughter was on my chest, wide-eyed and ready to latch on.  We were not surprised that she was a girl; we’d sort of expected that from the time we knew she was coming.

            Suddenly, it seemed, the midwives were there, assessing, discussing, checking us all out.  I was totally exhausted – all I wanted was to curl up with my precious babe and SLEEP!  But no, it turned out I had torn and needed sutures, so I got up and we tried it out on the kitchen table.  It would have been fine – the midwife knew what she was doing – but it turned out to be more extensive than we had thought, so after consuming an egg and some toast my mom thoughtfully, and hastily, prepared, we trundled off to the hospital.  Ugh. 

(A word about tearing – it was totally my biggest fear about giving birth the first time.  Then, as this time, I did end up tearing and realized that it’s no big deal.  I didn’t feel a thing.  In fact, when the midwife asked me if I thought I tore, I answered, “No!” with no hesitation.  The sutures, however, are a totally different story.  I’d rather give birth all over again than be stitched up!!  But that's not really an option, unfortunately…)

So we had our little hospital adventure, and they were really very nice to us all.  The midwives came with us – they were great, and I wished they could have been there for the birth.  It was wonderful.  If I could do it all over again just like that, without the hospital trip, that's the way I’d go every time.  Each birth is different and every woman is different – I think that home birth is only one of many good options.  For me, for us, this time, it was absolutely the best.

Good Books and Good Toys and a little Rant on the side

 A while ago, I was asked what I think makes a good book.  I have been thinking about it, and I have to say, being a voracious reader of many genre, it is hard to come up with a definitive rubric for qualifying a good book.  (Again, as I have said before, this is not to judge anyone else's choices, only to write about mine.)  I find that a good book, first of all, makes me think.  It may be a little piece of paperback juvenile fiction or a tome of hardcore non-fiction research.  It may be a biography or a self-help book.  Whatever it is, it touches some part of my mind and finds connection in my life, in my dreams, in my consideration of the world and its happenings.  A good book is beautiful.  I'm sorry to say so, but I absolutely detest what seem to be deliberately ugly or crudely done books, particularly children's books.  There is a place in life for ugliness, it is a part of life, but to dwell on it, to roll in it and smear it around, as it were, is something I can't stand.  I find that even the darkest, ugliest parts of life can be treated bravely, honestly, clearly, and come out worth reading about.  A good book is (usually) well written.  Call me a nerd, or whatever you want, but poor grammar, repeated typos, flat characters, and cliched scenes totally turn me off.  It doesn't have to be grandiose - just well-edited and well-written.  That's all I have for now.  I'm an truly an omnivore when it comes to books, but I do end up gravitating more towards non-fiction, autobiography, historical fiction, and the classics.  You never know what you'll find on the shelves, though, so I like to at least walk up and down the aisles, reading titles and occasionally browsing a page or two from random openings.  Choosing books to read is kind of like dating, for me - I almost always knew from the very first date whether there was any potential there.  If not, for the most part, I wasn't too interested in going on more dates, or reading further.  If so... well, let's check it out and see where it all goes!
  And being that its almost Christmas, I've been thinking along similar lines as it pertains to toys.  There are so many toys out there!  I'm afraid I see many of them as mostly trash - cheap plastic, garish noisemakers, and just over all stuff to clutter the floor and hide behind the couch and under the bed.  Before you think I'm a total humbug, I fondly remember the many and varied toys I played with as a child (mostly an enormous collection of very random stuffed animals!) and how every one of them had a name, a back story, and a reason why we absolutely couldn't get rid of it.  I now look back with admiration at my parents forbearance with all our toys.  However, when it comes to "good" toys, I have to say, I do have my opinions.  Mostly I find more and more attractive the simpler, more versatile toys.  Kids make their own fun, use their imaginations, and become very creative with basic, simple things. Stuffed animals - yes.  They become whatever character a child imbues them with, and are mostly harmless and easy to stuff into a box or sack.  Dolls - it depends.  We had some Barbies, and we LOVED the Barbies at Grandma's house, but they always end up with their clothes off and their hair standing up on end.  I loved soft bodied baby dolls though. :)
  So I'm thinking that toys I now like include things like Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys, (limited) Legos or Duplos, balls, blocks, beanbags, and yes, some dolls and stuffed animals.  I feel considerably less excited about anything that makes noise, flashes lights, or requires batteries.  I do realize the irony of the fact that while I have my opinions, Eden likes almost anything and finds creative ways to play with everything from the most complicated, technologically advanced toy to a cardboard box.

-*-*-

And here is the Rant....

 I have never watched the new Pixar film, "Brave," but I have heard a few things about it, mostly to the tune of how wonderful it is to have a feature animated kids film with a strong female lead character that doesn't focus on the stereotypical "girly" things.  However, after hearing one of my little girls quote it and discussing with her what she learned from it, I can honestly say I have no desire to watch it or to ever let my daughter do so.
   The little girls were playing together in the living room, H. being Merida and D. being Sleeping Beauty, while I made cornbread around the corner in the kitchen.  I could hear their childish voices, "And then pretend.... And I was wearing.... and then this happened..."  It was cute and funny to overhear, and very much reminded me of pretending with my sisters as a little girl, until suddenly H. quite forcefully said something that struck me right between the eyes.  Quoting the movie, "Brave", she said, "But Mother, I don't want to be like you!!" or maybe it was "I'm not going to be like you!"  Whatever the exact wording was, my immediate feeling was shock.  What a sad and really damaging sentiment for a little girl to catch hold of and internalize!  Perhaps I grew up in an idyllic bubble, but I always wanted to be like my mother, and my grandmother, and the women in my family.  Not exactly like them, of course, but I looked up to them, and saw them as strong, capable, and living out their own adventures, while simultaneously feminine, real, and giving service and love.  I was glad to be a woman, and was excited not only to live my dreams and adventures, but also to fill the roles I saw them fill - wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother chief among them.
    I got the cornbread in the oven, and came out of the kitchen to sit on the living room floor near the girls.  They were having a little spat about which character (Merida or Sleeping Beauty) was better, and asked my opinion.  I managed to placate them with a diplomatic response and then asked H. why Merida didn't want to be like her mother.  She replied that her mother just wanted her to get married and was trying to make her get married, and she didn't want to.  I asked H, "But do you want to get married someday?"  Without delay, and with great emphasis, she told me that she did not want to ever get married, EVER.  Um....what do you say to that?  I just said something like, "Oh, that's too bad.  I think being married is great," and let it go.
  Ok, so she's only four.  And thoughts about marriage, etc. do change over time.  But, again, I just thought it was so sad that she has that idea planted in her head - marriage is horrible, it curbs all your dreams, you become someone you didn't want to be, and its something to be avoided at all costs.  I don't think that its healthy to be obsessed with getting married at that age either, but for heaven's sake! its no wonder we have a generational problem with commitment with these kinds of subliminal (and even overt) messages being relayed into children's heads from the time they are tiny!
  So there's my rant.  Its not that I think that older movies are good just because they are older.  I have noticed, however, a common theme.  In older movies, the good is beautiful, bad is ugly. (Some people see it the other way around, and take offense at the perceived message that beautiful is good and ugly is bad.  I never saw it that way, probably due to my mother's voice in my head, saying "Pretty is as pretty does.")  Goodness, kindness, gentleness, etc. is rewarded by life itself, after passing through trials.  Your attitude is as important as your actions.  In more recent films, I see a distinct swing towards mixing up the moral message.  Beauty may be good or bad, scoundrels may be the hero, actually, and what you get from life, you have to wrest away by your own smarts and chutzpah because life is just going to hand you a raw deal if you don't make things happen your way.  There is some truth in these things.  I just wonder what it does to children's innocence and the development of a moral compass to confront some of these messages at such early ages.

(And here is my disclaimer - I only find snatches of time to write on Sunday afternoons or after Eden's in bed, so I have to type fast.  My ability to make sense and be coherent may thus suffer...)