Hey Dana Jane

Category: Motherhood

  • When Mom Chooses the Man: The Children Who Learn They Come Second

    There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t look like abandonment at first.

    Mom is still there.

    She still has a phone. She still posts pictures. She still says she loves her children. She may even insist that everything she does is for them.

    But somehow, there is always a man.

    And somehow, the children keep coming second.

    I have a hard time understanding the woman who can look at her child—the little person who depends on her for security, consistency and unconditional love—and repeatedly choose the attention, approval or companionship of a romantic partner instead.

    Not once.

    Not during a difficult season.

    But as a pattern.

    The boyfriend gets the late-night phone calls.
    The boyfriend gets the weekends.
    The boyfriend gets the emotional energy.
    The boyfriend gets defended when the children have legitimate complaints.
    The boyfriend gets priority.

    And the children learn, sometimes without anyone ever saying the words:

    Mom chooses him. Not me.

    That lesson can be devastating.

    Psychology has long recognized that children need reliable, responsive caregiving to develop healthy relationships and emotional security. And research suggests that the quality of adults’ romantic relationships can spill over into their parenting. A longitudinal study following multiple generations found that romantic relationship functioning was associated with later parenting quality, while another study found that warmth and positive communication from a romantic partner could actually protect against harsh parenting. (PubMed)

    So this isn’t simply about a woman “having a boyfriend.”

    Of course mothers are allowed to fall in love.
    Of course mothers deserve companionship.
    Of course parents are allowed to have lives outside their children.

    That’s not the issue.

    The issue is when the relationship begins consuming the space that belongs to the parent-child relationship.

    And sometimes, the behavior starts looking disturbingly self-centered.

    Everything revolves around what she wants.

    She wants to feel loved.
    She wants to feel desired.
    She wants someone to tell her she’s beautiful.
    She wants someone to rescue her.
    She wants the excitement.
    She wants the validation.

    And if the children complain?

    They’re “jealous.”

    If they feel neglected?

    They’re “ungrateful.”

    If they don’t like the boyfriend?

    They’re “trying to ruin her happiness.”

    Suddenly, the children aren’t children anymore.

    They’re obstacles.

    That is where I think the word narcissistic enters the conversation—not necessarily as a clinical diagnosis, but as a description of a pattern of behavior in which the adult’s emotional wants consistently eclipse the needs and feelings of everyone around her.

    And there is another person in this equation that we don’t talk about enough:

    The man.

    Because if a man knowingly dates a woman who is neglecting her children to be with him, what exactly is he doing?

    A decent man doesn’t need to compete with children.

    He doesn’t need to be the center of her universe.

    He doesn’t need her to cancel plans with her kids so she can spend the weekend with him.

    He doesn’t need to be prioritized over a child’s birthday, school event, emotional crisis or basic needs.

    And if he notices that she’s neglecting her children for him, the healthy response isn’t:

    “Great. More time for me.”

    It should be:

    “You need to be with your kids.”

    That’s why I struggle with the idea that these men are simply “lucky” to have found a woman who is so devoted to them.

    Maybe sometimes they’re not lucky.

    Maybe they’re weak.

    Not because they are men.

    Not because they have relationships with single mothers.

    But because accepting a position of importance that comes at the expense of children requires a certain willingness to look away.

    A strong man doesn’t need to win a competition against a woman’s children.

    He doesn’t want to.

    He understands that children aren’t rivals.

    He understands that being a good partner sometimes means saying, “Go be Mom. I’ll be here.”

    And there is actually evidence that romantic partners can play a constructive role in parenting. Research has found that supportive romantic partners can help interrupt patterns of harsh or abusive parenting. (PubMed Central (PMC))

    That’s the part that gets lost.

    A romantic partner doesn’t have to be the problem.

    He can be part of the solution.

    He can encourage her to show up for her children.

    He can respect their place in her life.

    He can refuse to participate in manipulation or parental alienation.

    He can understand that dating someone with children means entering a family system—not replacing the children inside it.

    Because children notice.

    They notice who gets Mom’s attention.

    They notice who gets defended.

    They notice who gets her patience.

    They notice who she drops everything for.

    And eventually, they stop asking.

    That’s perhaps the saddest part.

    A neglected child doesn’t always become louder.

    Sometimes they become quieter.

    They stop expecting Mom to come.

    They stop telling her things.

    They stop asking for help.

    They stop believing they’re important.

    And eventually, they may grow into adults who understand exactly what happened but struggle to put words to it:

    “My mother loved having a man more than she loved being my mother.”

    That’s a brutal sentence.

    And I don’t think we should casually throw around accusations of narcissism, because narcissistic personality disorder is a clinical diagnosis—not a synonym for “selfish woman.”

    But we also shouldn’t hide behind diagnoses when the behavior itself is obvious.

    If a mother consistently sacrifices her children’s emotional needs for romantic attention, the behavior deserves scrutiny regardless of what diagnosis—if any—might explain it.

    And if a man knowingly accepts that arrangement, he deserves scrutiny too.

    Because love isn’t supposed to require someone else’s abandonment.

    A healthy relationship shouldn’t demand that children disappear so two adults can feel important.

    A good mother doesn’t have to stop being a woman when she becomes a mother.

    And a good man doesn’t need her to stop being a mother in order to be his woman.

    Children shouldn’t have to compete with adults for a place in their parent’s heart.

    And any relationship worth having should be strong enough to understand that.

  • The Influencer Who Wants You to Know She’s One of the Good Ones

    You know the woman.

    She has 450,000 followers and a perfectly lit kitchen.

    She talks about the invisible labor women perform every day. She talks about the mental load. She talks about how mothers are expected to remember the dentist appointments, buy the birthday presents, schedule the physicals, pack the lunches, notice when the toilet paper is running low and somehow know that Tuesday is “wear red for spirit week.”

    And you know what?

    She’s often absolutely right.

    She says women shouldn’t have to carry everything.

    She says mothers deserve more support.

    She says women shouldn’t have to make themselves smaller to make everyone else comfortable.

    She talks about workplace inequality, the pressure placed on mothers, unrealistic expectations of female perfection and the absurdity of expecting women to simultaneously have successful careers, spotless homes, emotionally regulated children and immaculate eyebrows.

    And I’m nodding along.

    Yes. Exactly.

    And then she gets to politics.

    Suddenly, the woman who just spent ten minutes explaining that women are complex human beings becomes remarkably comfortable reducing roughly half the country to a caricature.

    Republicans are stupid.

    Conservatives are hateful.

    Trump voters are immoral.

    Anyone who disagrees with her worldview is either ignorant, selfish, bigoted, or apparently suffering from some mysterious deficiency of empathy.

    And there it is.

    The contradiction.

    Because apparently the lesson is:

    Don’t stereotype women. Unless they’re conservative.

    Don’t reduce people to political labels.

    Unless the political label is Republican.

    Don’t assume you know someone’s life.

    Unless you can infer their entire character from the candidate they voted for.

    Don’t judge people.

    Unless you’re judging the people who deserve it.

    And somehow, this is presented as compassion.

    The mental load apparently has a political party

    Here’s what fascinates me about this particular brand of influencer.

    She will tell you that women are exhausted because they’ve been conditioned to monitor everyone else’s emotions.

    Then she’ll spend three hours monitoring the moral failures of strangers on Facebook.

    She’ll tell you that women shouldn’t be expected to perform emotional labor for everyone.

    Then she’ll demand that everyone around her demonstrate the correct emotional response to every political event.

    She’ll tell you that women should be allowed to define themselves rather than being defined by other people.

    Then she’ll define millions of people she has never met as selfish, racist, hateful, stupid or dangerous based largely on their politics.

    She’ll criticize the patriarchy for creating rigid hierarchies of human worth.

    Then she’ll create her own hierarchy:

    People who think correctly.

    And everyone else.

    That isn’t feminism.

    That’s tribalism wearing feminist jewelry.

    And this is where the psychology gets interesting

    I’m not interested in diagnosing some random woman on Instagram with narcissistic personality disorder because she made a smug political reel.

    But there are legitimate psychological concepts that help explain this behavior.

    One is moral grandstanding: using moral language partly to establish status, prestige or social standing.

    Researchers studying moral grandstanding have found that status-seeking motivations are associated with greater political and moral conflict, and that prestige-motivated grandstanding is associated with ideological extremity and affective polarization.

    In other words, sometimes the point of a moral statement isn’t merely:

    “I believe this is right.”

    It can also communicate:

    “Look at what kind of person I am for believing this.”

    And social media is practically engineered for this.

    Post something nuanced about the difficulty of balancing motherhood and a career?

    You might get 200 likes.

    Post something about how your political opponents are horrible human beings?

    Now you’re getting comments, shares, applause, outrage and people tagging their friends.

    Research on social media and morality suggests exactly this kind of dynamic: morally and emotionally evocative content is especially good at capturing attention, while social media can amplify outrage, status-seeking and conflict between groups.

    So the platform gradually teaches people something.

    Nuance gets polite applause.
    Outrage gets engagement.

    And engagement feels an awful lot like validation.

    The hero complex

    Then there is the temptation to become the hero of your own content.

    Every story needs a villain.

    The exhausted mother needs an oppressive husband.

    The enlightened woman needs the ignorant woman.

    The feminist needs the misogynist.

    The compassionate person needs the hateful person.

    And the politically enlightened influencer needs the Republican.

    It creates a wonderfully simple story:

    I am fighting injustice.

    And if I’m fighting injustice, then anyone opposing me isn’t simply disagreeing with me.

    They’re part of the injustice.

    That is an extraordinarily comfortable psychological position.

    Because once you have cast yourself as the hero, you don’t have to examine yourself nearly as closely.

    Your anger becomes righteous.

    Your contempt becomes courage.

    Your certainty becomes intelligence.

    Your inability to tolerate disagreement becomes “having boundaries.”

    And your political tribalism becomes “knowing where I stand.”

    But here’s the hypocrisy I can’t get past

    If your feminism teaches that women deserve to be seen as individuals rather than stereotypes, then apply that principle universally.

    If motherhood has taught you that people’s lives are complicated, assume other people’s lives are complicated too.

    If you believe women deserve grace for imperfect choices, perhaps extend some grace to the woman who voted differently than you.

    If you believe people should be judged by their actions rather than assumptions about their identity, don’t assume you know the character of millions of strangers because of their political affiliation.

    And if you genuinely believe empathy is important, don’t make empathy something you reserve exclusively for people who already agree with you.

    Otherwise, what you’re practicing isn’t empathy.

    It’s affiliation.

    And conservatives do this too

    Before anyone starts congratulating themselves, let’s be clear:

    Conservatives have their own version of this.

    The Christian who constantly talks about loving thy neighbor while treating political opponents as enemies.

    The “family values” guy who thinks every liberal mother is destroying America.

    The person who talks endlessly about personal responsibility while making excuses for his own side.

    The person who demands free speech until someone says something he doesn’t like.

    The difference isn’t that one political tribe is uniquely hypocritical.

    The difference is that we are exceptionally good at noticing hypocrisy in our opponents and exceptionally creative at explaining it away in ourselves.

    That’s the real problem.

    Maybe the question isn’t “Are you a good person?”

    Maybe the better question is:

    What do you need other people to believe about you?

    Do you need to be the smartest person in the room?

    The most compassionate?

    The most enlightened?

    The most oppressed?

    The person who “gets it”?

    The person brave enough to say what everyone else is afraid to say?

    The person on the right side of history?

    Because social media gives us an unprecedented opportunity to construct a public version of ourselves and then invite strangers to applaud it.

    And once your politics becomes part of your identity as a good person, changing your mind becomes much harder.

    You’re no longer defending an opinion.

    You’re defending yourself.

    That’s why political disagreement can feel so personal.

    If I say your policy is wrong, that’s an argument.

    If you have convinced yourself that your political beliefs are evidence of your compassion, intelligence and moral character, then disagreement can feel like an attack on your identity.

    And suddenly, the person who disagrees with you isn’t merely wrong.

    They’re bad.

    Research on online moral discourse suggests that people routinely overestimate how much outrage and hostility exists between opposing groups, which can make the political world look even more divided and hostile than it actually is.

    So maybe we should be suspicious of anyone—left or right—who seems to require a villain in order to establish their own virtue.

    Especially when that villain is always someone else.

    Because there’s a peculiar kind of arrogance in saying:

    “I don’t judge people.”

    while spending half your feed explaining why the people on the other side are terrible.

    And perhaps the most uncomfortable possibility is this:

    Maybe some of the people shouting loudest about being good aren’t actually trying to make the world better.

    Maybe they’re trying to make themselves feel better about who they are.

    And those aren’t always the same thing.

  • Cold Weather Logic: A Teenager’s Guide to Freezing on Principle

    Ah, teenagers. The fascinating species that walks among us, simultaneously believing they are invincible and victims of the cruelest injustices. Case in point: my son. The other morning, he requested a ride to the bus stop because, and I quote, “It’s freezing outside.” Logical, right? I mean, who wouldn’t want to avoid hypothermia?

    Except there was one glaring issue: he refused to wear a proper coat, hat, or gloves.

    Let me paint the scene: It’s January. In Wisconsin, a.k.a The Frozen Tundra. The kind of cold that freezes your nostrils shut and makes your car sound like it’s crying when you start it. I looked at him, standing there in a lightweight hoodie (unzipped, naturally), sweatpants, and sneakers. No gloves. No hat. And the pièce de résistance? His insistence that “a coat is too bulky.”

    So, here I am, torn between sympathy for his chattering teeth and sheer disbelief. My motherly instincts kicked in, but not in the way you’d expect. “Why,” I asked, “would I drive you when you won’t even make the basic effort to protect yourself from the elements?”

    Cue the sigh. The teenager sigh. You know the one—the dramatic exhale that suggests I have personally ruined his life.

    Now, I’ve been around teenagers long enough to understand their logic—or lack thereof. Somehow, dressing appropriately for the weather is an affront to their entire identity. Hats? Uncool (and would mess up his perfectly styled hair). Gloves? A social death sentence. And a proper coat? Apparently, that’s only for grandpas and people without Wi-Fi.

    But here’s the kicker: he didn’t argue that he wasn’t cold. Oh no, he fully admitted that the Arctic blast outside was a problem. He just didn’t want to wear the solution. And this, my friends, is where my grasp of teenage logic fails.

    If you’re cold, dress warmly. This is not rocket science. In fact, this is the sort of wisdom I thought I had passed down to my offspring along with basic survival skills, like brushing teeth and not licking frozen flagpoles. But alas, he is a teenager, and they operate on a different plane of reasoning—one that adults are not invited to understand.

    So, I gave him my final word: “No coat, no ride. Your choice.” And off he went, shivering all the way to the bus stop like a martyr in a Netflix drama, no doubt imagining how he would recount this tale of hardship to his friends.

    Parenting a teenager is a lot like negotiating with a toddler, except the toddler thinks they’re smarter than you. The good news? This phase will pass. The bad news? It might take a while—and several frostbitten walks to the bus stop.

    In the meantime, I’m just going to keep shaking my head, sipping my tea, and reminding myself that one day, he’ll have kids of his own. And when they refuse to wear a coat in the middle of winter, I hope he hears my voice in the back of his head saying, “Told you so.”

  • Default Parent Chronicles: When Do I Get to Retire?

    I’ve officially hit the stage of parenting where I’m wondering when my retirement plan kicks in. You know, the elusive phase where the kids magically figure out life on their own and your spouse suddenly becomes the go-to for all the snacks, emotional crises, and life-or-death decisions (like which socks match with those shoes). Spoiler alert: It doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

    Let me set the stage: I’m the proud mom of three boys—ages 20, 15, and 9. The eldest? He’s on autopilot. I’ve essentially been promoted from full-time caretaker to occasional consultant in his life. If he needs advice on college, a ride to the airport, or tips on how to budget (he won’t take them, but he’ll ask), I’m there. But the younger two? Oh, they are still very much tethered to me, like I’m some sort of Swiss Army knife of parenting.

    Here’s the thing: I love my kids deeply, but why am I always the default? Stubbed a toe? “Mom!” Can’t find the remote? “Mom!” Need a snack? “Mom!” Their dad could be sitting right next to them—arms open, ready to help—and they’ll still make the trek across the house to find me, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. I’ve tested this theory. I’ve sat silently, pretending not to hear. But they have radar. They know I’m there.

    Why Don’t They Go to Dad?
    Good question. Their dad is fully capable, funny, and sometimes more patient than I am. And yet, somehow, I’m the chosen one. I’ve asked him about this, and his response? “Well, they know you’re better at it.” Better at what? Googling “how to stop a nosebleed”? Guess who has two thumbs and a Wi-Fi connection, too? This guy.

    But let’s be real—he’s also a master deflector. Got a kid asking about their science project? “Ask your mom.” Wondering why the dog is barking? “Ask your mom.” Need help figuring out why your sibling is being annoying? “Ask your mom.” It’s like a game of Hot Potato, and I’m always the potato.

    Here’s where I’m at: I thought that as the kids got older, my parenting workload would decrease. HA. Rookie mistake. Sure, I’m not waking up for midnight feedings or spending hours chasing toddlers around, but the mental load? Still there. There’s homework to supervise, sports schedules to coordinate, teenage drama to referee, and existential questions from my 9-year-old to answer. (“Mom, if animals could talk, what would our dog say about me?” Probably that you don’t share your snacks.)

    Now, before anyone accuses me of being ungrateful, let me make this clear: I adore my children. I’d move mountains for them (and I have, metaphorically speaking). But sometimes, I fantasize about what it would be like to be the “fun parent.” You know, the one who swoops in for the movie nights, the weekend getaways, and the pizza parties—without being bogged down by the day-to-day monotony of parenting logistics.

    So, what’s the answer? I don’t know. Maybe I need a sabbatical. A momcation. A week (heck, even a weekend) where I disappear, and my husband takes on the full brunt of “default parent” duties. I’ll leave detailed notes:

    • “The 9-year-old likes his grilled cheese cut diagonally but only on Tuesdays.”
    • “The 15-year-old will lock himself in his room, but check his Spotify playlist. If it’s all sad songs, bring snacks.”

    Maybe then, when I come back, they’ll realize just how magical I truly am. Or maybe they’ll just keep yelling “Mom!” anyway.

    Until then, I’ll be here—armed with snacks, wisdom, and a small glimmer of hope that someday, my retirement will come. Probably around the time I’m pushing 90.

  • “Dear Children, Please Go to Bed”

    By 8 p.m., I’m done. Like, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The kind of done where your body feels like it’s been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day, and your brain has the processing power of a potato. You’d think after working all day, shuttling kids to practices, making meals, and answering 1,276 “Mom?” questions, I’d deserve some peace. But no. My children treat 8 p.m. as the perfect time to turn into caffeinated circus performers.

    Why, oh why, do they seem most alive when I am most dead inside?

    Maybe it’s the thrill of bedtime rebellion, or maybe they’ve somehow tapped into my last nerve and decided to bounce on it like a trampoline. Whatever the reason, come 8 p.m., they’re buzzing around, inventing entirely new ways to delay bedtime, test my patience, and provoke existential crises.

    “Mom, I need cold lunch for tomorrow!”
    “Mom, my sock feels weird!”
    “Mom, can you help me find my stuffed llama that I haven’t thought about in three years but now I suddenly can’t live without?”

    Meanwhile, I’m standing there, dead-eyed, muttering something like, “Go. To. Bed.”

    The thing is, I need them to go to sleep—not just for their sake (yes, I love you and want you rested and healthy, blah blah blah)—but for mine. I need that sweet, quiet alone time to unwind, stare blankly at Netflix, and maybe, if I’m feeling ambitious, fold half a basket of laundry before passing out. And here’s the kicker: if you don’t go to bed, neither can I.

    But my kids? They don’t care about my exhaustion. They’ll happily argue about the injustices of bedtime while doing gymnastics on the couch. They’ll ask deep, philosophical questions about life just as I’m trying to turn off the lights. They’ll suddenly need to talk about the thing that happened at school three weeks ago, and if I don’t listen right now, they’ll be emotionally scarred forever.

    So here I am, at the end of my rope, begging the universe for mercy while simultaneously Googling “why are kids insane at night.”

    To be clear, I love my children. They’re wonderful little humans full of curiosity, energy, and spirit. But after 8 p.m.? They’re too much. They become wild, uncontainable forces of nature, and all I want is for them to brush their teeth and close their eyes.

    Every night, I try to be zen about it. I promise myself I’ll stay calm. But by 8:30, my inner monologue is screaming: “I CANNOT WITH THESE PEOPLE. GO TO BED BEFORE I SELL ALL YOUR TOYS AND YOUR VIDEO GAMES.” And at that point, I’m not even pretending to be patient. I’m ushering them to their rooms like a cranky flight attendant shoving passengers down the aisle.

    So, dear children, please understand this: I love you endlessly, but my capacity for nonsense expires promptly at 8 p.m. If you see me after that time, I’m not your mom anymore—I’m just a tired shell of a person trying to survive until tomorrow.

    Now go to sleep before I lose whatever shred of sanity I have left. Please and thank you.

  • Shopping Adventures with Owen and Gannon: Life Lessons on Marriage and Money

    Saturday morning started on a high note—house cleaning! I know, I know, thrilling stuff. But with the promise of a trip to Dollar Tree as a reward, Owen and Gannon were surprisingly helpful. What can I say? The allure of $1.25 treasures is powerful.

    Once the house sparkled (or at least looked less like a tornado hit it), we headed out to Dollar Tree, where they gleefully loaded up on candy, stickers, and whatever else their hearts desired. Mission accomplished, right? Not quite.

    Lunch was the next stop, and we hit up Mi Pueblo Mexican restaurant for chips, salsa, and some much-needed tacos. But the story doesn’t end there. Conveniently located next to Mi Pueblo is Ulta Beauty—an irresistible beacon of temptation for those of us with a weakness for skincare and makeup.

    That’s when Owen, my 15-year-old, surprised me. “Can we go to Ulta?” he asked, completely serious. Turns out, my teen son is all about checking out the latest colognes. I know, right? Who is this GQ gentleman-in-the-making?

    “I don’t know, Owen,” I said, trying to resist the trap. “Your dad will get mad if I spend money there. I don’t want to get a lecture as if he’s my dad.”

    Cue Gannon, my ever-spirited backseat commentator: “You’re a grown woman! You can do what you want!”

    While I appreciated his confidence in me, I had to set the record straight. “Yes, I CAN do what I want, but that doesn’t mean I SHOULD. Big difference, buddy.”

    Owen, however, wasn’t ready to let the conversation go. “When I get married, I’m going to give my wife lots of money so she can spend it however she wants. You make more money than Dad. Doesn’t that make you the boss?”

    And there it was—the jackpot comment. Naturally, I couldn’t let it slide. “Owen, when you get married, I’m going to share this conversation with your wife.”

    Before I could relish the thought, Gannon jumped in, determined to top his brother. “When I get married, my wife AND kids get to buy stuff when they want!”

    At that point, we were all laughing so hard we could barely breathe. But as funny as it was, it hit me—this was the perfect teachable moment. My boys are already plotting how to handle marital money, so maybe it’s time for a crash course in finances and relationships. After all, managing money will be very difficult if they are buying things whenever they wish!

    So, we skipped Ulta this time (you’re welcome, Huz), but the day wasn’t a loss. Between tacos and treasures, we walked away with some solid laughs and maybe—just maybe—a few life lessons about money, marriage, and the fine art of knowing when to say no to temptation.

    Parenting: where every shopping trip is an adventure and every conversation is future blackmail material.

  • Back to School, Back to Reality

    Yesterday marked the boys’ first day back to school after 12 days of Christmas break, and I’m still wrapping my head around it. The entire day I thought it was Monday—something about the holiday haze and lack of structure messes with my internal clock. But here we are, back in action, and while I’m relieved to return to some semblance of routine, I am utterly exhausted.

    Christmas break was a whirlwind. The boys were full of energy, bouncing between being overstimulated by holiday festivities and moments of sheer boredom. There were days when it felt like they were ready to climb the walls, and others when they were glued to their new toys or screens. Keeping them occupied was like juggling flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle—exhilarating but completely draining.

    Now that they’re back in school, the house is quieter, and I’m back at work, trying to plan for a new sales year. It’s a little calmer on my end, which is perfect for strategizing and finding my footing for what’s ahead. January always feels like a blank slate in some ways, and I’m ready to make the most of it.

    On the home front, I’m determined to keep this house clean and organized. We all know how quickly things spiral when routines fall apart, and I’m not about to let the chaos of break seep into the new year. If the dishes are done and the laundry isn’t threatening to overthrow the house, I’m calling that a win.

    So here’s to getting back into the groove, finding balance amidst the madness, and embracing the slower, quieter moments when they come. January may not have the sparkle of Christmas, but it’s a chance to reset—and I’ll take that any day.