I Can't Help It

     If you are in the vicinity of me at a playground, you will hear me before you even lay eyes on me. You will hear my voice over all the other background noise. Oh, it will come through loud and clear. For a second, you may even think that someone has knocked a needle off of a record ---why on Earth would a record player be at a playground? That's just silliness....Back on point! --- or that a song is on repeat. But no. No, no, no....it is just little ol' me. Yep, just me saying, "Be careful, okay, slow down, be careful, hold on tight, don't slip, be careful, okay, slow down, be careful...." You get the point. And you know what?

I can't help it.

     And don't worry, I can already see you smirking as you sit, reclined back on the bench, looking so relaxed, watching your child play. Good for you!  And I'll notice as you lean over to your mom friend and whisper, "Helicopter-Mom Alert."  And you both have a nice giggle. I'll politely smile at you, and promptly go back to reminding repeatedly, I mean, watching my children. Do you know what I'm thinking at that moment? I'm so jealous of them.  Jealous, you say?  Yes.  Jealous that you can relax. Jealous that you are reading a book, or playing a game on your phone, taking time for you. That is awesome and I applaud you! I would give anything for a single ounce of that. The way I am wired makes it so that I cannot physically or mentally relax. And you know why?

I can't help it.

     I actually despise the phrase, 'Helicopter Mom', if I'm to be completely honest.  I've been known to refer to myself as that, because I hear it so much. It used to just be called, 'Overprotective'. Simpler days I guess, when it was okay to be neurotic. Kidding! I'm ((kind of)) kidding....  Anyway.... 

Yes, I am an overprotective mother. I come from a long line of overprotective mothers and looking back on it, there is nothing wrong with it. Unless you're the innocent child, of course. My grandmother used to tell me that I couldn't ride my bike around the corner, "because I can't see you."  (She lived one house away from the corner.)  I'd roll my eyes, agree, and huff off on my bike, thinking the whole time just how unfair she was. (To my mother and grandmother, I wholeheartedly apologize. I get it, and I am one of you now.) I'd say to myself, "I'll never be that way with my kids." Whoops!  Sorry about that kids!  Miss G went riding her bike down our hill the other day, and the words, I kid you not, came out of my mouth: "Don't ride around the corner.  I can't see you."  Oh hell, it has happened, the metamorphosis  is complete.  My husband turned to me and said, "I told her she could go around the corner."  I swear he grew three heads by the way I was eyeing him. Anyway..... you see, some of this is just in our DNA, or the way we grew up. I try to be relaxed, I really do, but you know what?

I can't help it.

      Yes, some of us hover for fear that our babies will topple off of a slide, while others like to let their children explore and if they fall, they learn to pick themselves back up. Neither is wrong and neither is better. We are all our own types of parents and we're all doing our best. Whatever parenting style you do is by far the best one if your kids are happy and safe.  

I'm an Overprotective Mom, and if you could feel my anxiety, see all of the worst case scenarios race through my head any given day, you'd understand a little better why some moms (or dads) hover.  I have actually asked my husband, "Why am I this way?  Why does my mind automatically go the worst thing that could possibly happen?  I work myself up before the kids can even step foot out of the door."  And if my kids are running around with cousins or friends and I'm out of view talking with other adults, you better believe that one ear is perked up, listening for any crying, or worse, silence.  I do very well at seeming like I'm paying attention to someone talking, and for the most part I hear everything they say because that's rude not to pay attention, but one part of my mind will not shut down. It is supercharged and honed in. I just....

I can't help it.

     I've seen and heard far too much 'Mommy-Shaming' lately. I wanted to give you all a clearer insight into one type of mother, a small crash course if you will, since it is the only one I know how to be and know way too much about: Overprotective, Helicopter, Needs to Cut the Umbilical Cord, It Must Be Exhausting- type of mom. And yes, it is exhausting. I can't escape the thoughts in my head, and believe me, I'd love to.  I can't outrun the urge to put my arms up when my kids are climbing on playground equipment.  

Some days, I will let my kids run and climb the dome at our park. They try to climb so high, and I will sometimes force myself to stay where I am, at a distance, and just watch.  I will stop myself when I feel the need to yell, "Be careful!"  I cross my arms so that I do not run over to reach for a leg that has slipped through. It's baby steps for me. I've become a little more relaxed with Miss G, but Li'l B is still a baby to me, and it will take just a little more time. Hopefully he can learn patience....and I'm referring to with me. Someday, they may look back and I hope they realize that...

I couldn't help it.

     Maybe the next time you see a mom out who seems to be a little nervous, running here and there, repeating herself, arms outstretched, just give her a smile. If you see her race to her child who has tripped and stumbled, just give her a nod. She's not purposefully trying to 'baby' her child, she's merely doing what her mind and instincts are willing her to do. Rather than laugh at or tear each down for our different parenting styles, let's embrace and lift each other up. And if it's me you see at the park, well, Heaven help you, you may need to go to another park before I drive you insane.  No, I'm ((kind of)) kidding. Just please know that deep down, I'm trying to relax. In so many more ways than you can even realize. I'm trying to step away.  I'm not trying to hover over my kids.  But also remember - 

I can't help it. 

After The Hardest Goodbye

     

It has been a year since my dad passed. 

 

     It is still so foreign to think this, to realize this, to say it out loud. I will admit that, surprisingly, this has been the quickest year of my life. Maybe it rushed by because this was our year of 'firsts', so every first holiday or birthday without him seemed to loom ahead, which made it arrive that much quicker.  It wasn't that I dreaded the occasions, but it was the fact that someone who was always there, suddenly wasn't going to be.  No walking in to see his smiling face, hugging him tightly, inhaling his cologne.  No more hugs.  No more smiles.  Gone.  

     As time passes, I feel that people think grief should subside, as if there is a time table and, miraculously, the wound should heal, leaving you whole again. Losing a loved one, to me, is truly like losing a piece of yourself.  You will never regain it, but you will learn and adapt to how to live without it.  And it never for a second means you do not miss it.  That doesn't mean it gets easier, just different.  Life is change, is it not? Between you and me though, sometimes change really sucks.  

     On my first birthday after dad, my mom called and played me The Beatles' 'Birthday Song'.  Dad did this every year when I lived at home.  He would crank it up and we would all dance and sing in the living room together.  I started doing it for Miss G and Li'l B on their birthdays.  They love it as I did.  And this year, when I would play it for them, I would close my eyes and dance with dad.  

     

     For ALS Awareness Month, I posted a picture everyday promoting a movement which I had created in honor of dad called, Moving Out ALS.  It didn't really catch on the way I had hoped, but I put myself out there.  Dad was worth it.  I think he would've been proud of my effort.  

     My brother Chris, his family, mom, and our family of four went to the beach for a little vacation this summer.  It was Miss G's and Li'l B's first time ever seeing the ocean.  As they ran towards the surf, arms spread out as if they were flying, giggling at the wonder of the vast waves, I watched them through blurry eyes.  All I could think was how dad would've absolutely loved to see their reactions. Dad was in awe of the sea.
     We went out one night, divided up dad's ashes in sea shells, and laid them in a hole that we had dug in the sand.  We all stood there and watched as the ocean made its way in, sank into the hole with its watery fingers turning up the ashes, and withdrew back out.  We all said goodbye as dad left us one last time.  

     One occasion in particular was extremely tough because dad really was the reason for it - Our ALS walk.  Our captain was not among us, and the feel of the walk was completely changed. Something as simple as checking a box to indicate why you're walking was enough to bring on tears. In Honor to In Memory.  I think a lot of us never thought we'd be checking that box.  Now everything is In Memory.  During that day and throughout the whole walk, when I felt like breaking down, when the void became overwhelming, I smiled. In Memory. 

 

       We created a new tradition.  Every year, around dad's birthday, we go to a Browns' game together.  The stadium felt electric.  We cheered loudly, we clapped until our hands hurt, and we missed the reason we are all Browns' fans. Sundays are not the same when watching our Brownies play.  But dad's love for the Browns taught us about loyalty, picking yourself back up when you've been knocked down, to never give up on anything, and that Brown is Beautiful.   

     Another tradition that the kids and I started is celebrating Day of the Dead.  Gabby in particular has had a hard time with her Pop-pop's passing.  She knocks the breath out of me a lot with her questions and observations.  We decided to print out pictures, collect all of Pop-pop's (and other family members who have passed) favorite foods, mementos, and decorations, and say what we love and miss about them.  Gabby missed everything. She stole my answer.  

     Christmas was last on our list in our year of firsts.  I know all of us were not looking forward to it as dad loved Christmas.  I made mom her traditional 'Grandma's Brag Book', and dedicated the last page to dad.  The book was one of the hardest things to create.  Mom mentioned that this was the last book that he would be in, and she began to cry.  Gabby also cried.  She had asked me why God couldn't just let Pop-pop come down for Christmas so we could give him hugs and presents.  I had no answer for her.  It was becoming my usual response to her questions because I, too, have many questions with no answers.  Most times, that's what death brings us.  But we all celebrated and smiled and laughed at Christmas, because that's what dad would have wanted, for us to celebrate.   

     I had someone who had just lost a parent ask me if it got easier as time passed.  "No," I answered without hesitation, "it just becomes different."  I still think I hear him clearing his throat, smell his cologne, or hear his voice when I'm visiting mom.  Then the harsh realization swoops in, and I have to remember that he's gone. I've learned that a heart can break over and over again, and we survive it.  I dream of him, but in those dreams, I know he's not supposed to be there, and I find myself crying.  And when I wake, I have two opposing feelings jockeying to be dominant; joy, because I just got to see dad again, and sadness, because I know it wasn't real.  Sadness always wins.  Stupid sadness.

     The year after our hardest goodbye has been rough.  I'm not going to sugarcoat it.  Many times I've wanted to tell dad about things going on, have him reassure me about a decision, or laugh at our latest debacle. It's true that our favorite moments ultimately become memories.  But that's also one great thing I've come to realize this year; we have a ton of wonderful, special memories to share with each other and with our children.  I find myself telling Miss G and Li'l B lots of stories about their Pop-pop, to which I am welcomed with squeals of delight and, "Tell it again, mommy, tell it again!"  And I do.  As long as we keep dad in our present, he will forever live with us.  In Memory.  







      

 

  

"Death smiles at us all; all we can do, is smile back."

The Hardest Goodbye

     When we lose someone to death, we believe we know where they go.  We hope we know where they go.  It's unspoken; a community of people with their own beliefs, but ultimately, we know that we will never see this person again in our lifetimes.  Aside from an Afterlife (for those who believe in one), in this life, they are wiped away, left only as memories.  Now imagine trying to explain this to a little one, when sometimes you're not even sure of what you believe, or as you yourself are trying to come to grips with it.

Miss G and her Pop-pop.

     My dad died.  Wow....it still seems unreal to type or say.  Although we knew it was coming, (I mean, no one gets better from ALS, and believe me, a small part of me hoped), it still did not make it any easier knowing I would never speak to him or hug him again.  His smile is no longer present, but is now seen in pictures and in my mind.  There are moments when I am at peace with this because I know he is at peace now, but there is also another side of me that is so lost that it scares me.  On top of this, we had to explain it to our daughter, being that she is 5 and would notice Pop-pop not being around.  Li'l B is 3, so we knew he wouldn't understand.  I had tried so hard to shield her from death and would make up super nice stories of people "going to the Ball" and dancing, but she was 3 then and it was just magical to her, and no other explanation was needed.  I knew my dad passing would be different.  Plus she saw me constantly crying or wiping at my eyes, so she knew something wasn't right.

Li'l B and his Pop-pop.

     My husband did the honors, because frankly, I just couldn't without breaking down.  He sat Miss G and Li'l B on his lap and told them how Pop-pop went to this place called Heaven, where he can walk, run, bike, and swim like he used to.  Miss G squealed with delight.  It was heartbreaking.  Then my husband looked at her and said, "But where he is, he can never come back.  He can watch over us, but we cannot see him anymore, but he is all better there, but sadly he has to stay there."  She smiled and said, "Okay, daddy," and Li'l B asked to play with his ball.  Go figure.  I told her as I patted my chest, "He is in here now and we can take him wherever we go.  He is a part of us always."  She smiled and went back to playing.  So, I guess this story was magical to her as well, but from time to time, either as we are traveling in the car or playing Uno, she'll look at me and say, "Mommy, I'm really sad that I can't see Pop-pop anymore, but I'm happy that he isn't in his wheelchair."  I can only choke out that she's sweet and that her Pop-pop loved her very much.

     At night, I do a 'Dream Bubble' for both of the kids, as they believe it protects them from bad dreams.  I have started asking them what a great dream may be to have, basically to get their minds off of anything scary.  The other night I said to Miss G, "Let's think of some nice dreams we could have tonight.  What would you dream about?"  She thought for a moment and then smiled at me.  "I want to dream about Pop-pop," she said.  "He'll walk up and open his arms and I will run and jump up and he will hug me." 
               "That sounds like the most wonderful dream," I smiled at her, my eyes burning, "I hope to have that dream tonight too." 

     Like others who have lost someone, I will never go a day without thinking of and missing my dad.  I will always speak about him to the kids and show them many pictures.  I will share stories from long ago and those that they may remember.  We will keep his fight going and will never give up.  We may have had to say our hardest goodbye, but that does not mean that he does not live on in each of us.  Although he is no longer physically with us, it does not mean he will ever fade away.  His zest and spirit are just too strong for that. 



    
    
    

Can't Never Could

     "I just want to become a child's favorite story," I told my husband.  "I'm not doing this to make millions of dollars or for fame. Sure, I'd love for it to pay some bills, but just the act of telling a story and having a child request my book to be read over and over, it blankets me in a feeling I can't describe.  It's a passion, a calling."
      His response, "Then do it."



     My husband.  I truly have never met anyone like him.  Knowing that I've always wanted to be a writer, (which is why I received a B.A. in English that no one asks for) he says to me, "Just think, when the kids start school, you can stay home and write. There'll be peace and quiet, and you'll really be able to concentrate, research, and write."  I laughed, thinking he was joking.  Nope.  He was serious.  I said, "Wouldn't you rather me get a job, preferably one that consistently pays?" 
     He replied, "If writing is what you want to do, then you should do it."
     Nobody needs to tell me how lucky I am, I've realized it on multiple occasions. 

     When I thought of being a writer, novels were the first things to come to mind.  Children's books were not even in the picture.  I told my husband this and he said, "Your priorities changed.  You write your children's books now, and when you have more time, you focus on those novels." 
     "What if I stay home, write my books, and nothing ever comes of it?" I challenged back.
       He looked me right in the eye and said, "Well it won't if you go into it thinking that way."  He had a point.  Where else had I heard that similar phrase?  Oh yeah, my parents. 

     That's the scary thing though for people who are putting themselves out into the world in a very raw way; you're setting yourself up for ridicule, judgment, the crushing of dreams, and very real failure.  But first, you have to muster up the strength and courage and put yourself out there.

   I received my first rejection via email today from an agent.  I'll admit, it stung, and they were actually pleasant about it.  It's like someone saying, "Your kid's just not good enough."  Because that's what an edited manuscript feels like; your baby.  But something else occurred to me.  How many of The Greats were turned down by agents?  It's not going to happen overnight.  I am excited for this work to be in the hands of children; the cover and pages being worn and torn from repeated readings. "Just once more, mommy, pllleeeease!"  This book being taken on road trips, shoved under the arm of a child, right along with their favorite blanket.  Knowing that there are squeals of laughter at all the funny parts.  That's the vision I need to keep with me, not the rejections or possible failure.  You only truly fail if you never try. 

 I keep hearing my dad's voice saying, "Can't never could."  And it used to drive me mad when he would say it.  But he was and is still right.  And I'm not "Can't".

 I just want to become a favorite story.



    

White Flag Flying

    

     Oh, you know those days.  We've all been there so don't even think about lying.  Take your hand away from your chest and wipe the "Me?" look off of your doe-eyed face. You know the ones. Those days when you think to yourself, "If I have to raise my voice one more time, I'm absolutely going to lose my freaking mind!"  Those days when you have absolutely convinced yourself that your darling little angels have become possessed by Satan himself.  (Okay, maybe too far.  We'll say demons.)  And if you're a stay-at-home mom like myself, those days when you have threatened, dare I say daycare on your kids and are already pulling up CareerBuilder and slamming down the Search button.  Well, let me tell you my friends, we have had a lot of those days lately here in our homestead.  I'm pretty shocked that:
                a. I haven't lost my voice yet
                b. I still have most of my hair. 
                Oh, and c. That I haven't run screaming from our house.
The white flag has been waving proudly! 

     As a mom (or any type of caregiver, really) I am always dubious about how well I am actually doing.  All. The. Time.  "Could I have handled that situation better?  Did I necessarily have to yell about what just happened?"  And that's another thing I've discovered about myself; I am not a yeller. I actually despise yelling!  Yeah!  And amazingly enough, it feels like it's what I do for 70% of the day when these two transform into their monster counterparts.  I swear I open my mouth to tell them to pick up toys or put their coats on and their little "Mommy Radar" beeps in their head to shut down the ears.  I'm not actually yelling because they're misbehaving, I am yelling just to be acknowledged.  My throat actually hurt today from trying to get Li'l B's attention.  *Enter a growl here because frankly, I physically can't scream*  Then I start to think, "Maybe they're doing this on purpose. Clever little devils."  And the veteran moms out there just say, "They're testing you.  Trying to see how far they can get."  Well.  I can tell you, I feel like I'm about to fail this "test" and as far as they're going to get is to their rooms. 

     I never wanted to be that mom who yelled all the time; I'd always been this laid-back, calm person so naturally I was under the impression that it would flow over into motherhood.  When I envisioned motherhood, it was me standing in a meadow, sunbeams cascading down over my shoulders, my hair blowing gently in the breeze, my arms outstretched towards my children as they ran laughing and smiling into my embrace, all of us falling over as one big giggling mess.  *slap*  Yes, that was reality slapping me right across the face.  My eyes are watering a tad.  Reality is...we yell just to be heard, we silently scream in our heads, we wonder if anyone is ever listening, and we talk to ourselves because we're the only ones who'll listen to ourselves.  (Did that make sense?  My brain feels fried, apologies.)

     Just as I'm waving my white flag high above my head yelling, "Uncle! Uncle," my little man comes up, wraps his arms around my legs and says, "I love you, mommy."  Then his sister takes the hint and hugs me, telling me how pretty I am.  The little devils drive me to the brink of insanity and the little angels bring me right back.

     Guess they don't want to go to daycare.  *wink*



    

Life Is Good

     So, a short while ago,  I went to the craft store to find some things for the wall I'm decorating behind our couch (it's only taken me 6 years, yes years, to do this; News Flash, I am no Martha Stewart) and found this script that reads, "Life Is Good".  I stared at it for a bit, envisioning how it would look where I thought it would go, but then realized that my mind had wandered (as it does a lot) to how our lives certainly are good.  I guess my mind figured, "Why put this saying up if it isn't true?"  Yeah, I'm weird like that.  You'll come to understand the madness.  Just give it time.

     I bought the script and as I ran other errands, I got to thinking about life; the good of it, the bad of it, how we got to where we are, the paths and roads we chose that got us to this point, how things could've been different had we chosen different options.  No one in this world is without worry.  I don't care who you are, there is something that matters to someone, everyone.  We do not know what others go through or are currently going through in their lives.  We wish for bigger houses, more money, better jobs, shiny cars, love, babies, the list is endless.  Do we ever just stop, look around and say to ourselves, "Look at all I have that makes my life good,"?  I did just that today, because I am guilty of wanting just a little more out of life or worrying about what may happen in the future, and not taking the time to look around at what I've already got, and truly appreciating it all.

 

     As I thought of everything that I have that I should rejoice about, being able to stay home with my kiddies topped the list.  And don't get me wrong, I loved working, and yes, still long to feel like a professional, but how many times while I was at work did I think, "God, I'd just love to be home right now, playing with my kids or discovering with them,"?  Too many times to count.  Now, I make our schedules (or am run by the kids' schedules), I get to go outside on warm days and have picnics in our backyard, create masterpieces on the front porch in chalk, become a monster that makes the kids join forces to defeat (during playtime, well, same may go for when mommy's having a bad day), full-time on-call boo-boo kisser, Play-Doh sculptor extraordinaire, and the best giver of hugs, all day long.  Sure, I don't get to punch out and call it a day or take off when I'm sick, and my income contribution is zero, but the good days far outweigh the bad and no amount of money could replace the memories being made.  And on those before mentioned "mommy bad days" when the kids are driving me to the very brink of insanity, I step back and think, there are people out there in the world who would just love to be able to have the kids to drive them crazy.  It's all about perspective. 

     Another thing I am grateful about is the fact that we have a roof over our heads and food on our plates.  Do we live in a huge house?  No.  (Plus, I shudder at the thought of cleaning a house that size.)  Do we go out to eat every night at fancy-schmancy restaurants?  Nope.  I make our meals, and due to the picky eaters, I sometimes even do special orders.  But we're very fortunate that we have these things and we know it.  We watch our finances and don't have all the cool, hip new gadgets out there, and that's fine. We are rich beyond measure in our own eyes. We know life can change on the turn of a dime. 



     What if for one whole day, we all thought, "Life is good"?  Really looked at the things we are blessed with in our lives and for one moment forgot about the negatives.  Friends, family, significant others, children, jobs, food, health, happiness, whatever matters to you, actually think about it and appreciate it.  Big things, small things, whatever matters most. Some people won't have what others do, but what means something to one person may not mean the same thing to another.  Take in the little things like watching the sunrise, hearing a bird call, smelling the fragrance of a Fall day, embracing someone in a hug, making someone smile with your kindness.  So many times people say, "I wish I could go back to when life was better, things were easier," etc.  Well, embrace these days, and let this time be the time and moments you'd like to go back to.  Because Life Is Good, you just have to step back and notice it.





    

Just a Swingin'

     I personally find myself always feeling like I'm in a rush, so in turn, I rush my kids.  No matter what they are doing, I find myself uttering, "Hurry up, will ya?"  Now, sometimes, the rush is warranted, like if we are running behind getting to preschool, dance, or a play date and one (if not both) kiddies decide that they want to try and strap themselves into their car seats.  (I literally picture my hair graying and the wrinkles forming as they take their sweet time trying to figure out the contraptions.)  On many occasions I've had to basically tell myself to slow down.  Why am I in such a hurry anyway?  Where's the fire?  (As if I could put it out.) We could have all the time in the world and yet for some reason I feel like we have to go a million miles an hour.  I blame society really for all the hustle and bustle just to actually get nowhere.  *wink*  Today however, I had a slow down moment.  And it was glorious.  I shall do it again soon.

     One of the memaws took Li'l B to storytime (which was a trial run that surprisingly went great, I think he's growing up!), so that left Miss G and me to ourselves.  She loves the park near our house but I am apprehensive to take both kids there as it is tailored more towards bigger kids, i.e. Miss G's age and older, and long falls for Li'l B. (The last time we went there, daddy was with us and had no fear about B climbing all over these skyscraper-height playlands and all I could picture was him tumbling through an opening....*shudder*.)  Okay, so maybe they're not "skyscraper" height, but to a mother, they are monstrous. So, I told her that we would go to the "Big Park", which brought on numerous squeals.

     We get to the park and G wants to climb up the dome, hang, drop down, climb again, hang, drop down, climb again, well, you get the gist.  So, I stand there, watching her, looking around, thinking of what I need to accomplish this afternoon.  While marking off "things to do" in my head, I hear G saying, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Let's go swing!"  And off she runs.  I walk towards her and decide to sit on the swing beside her.  She starts kicking her legs out and in, slowly getting higher and higher exclaiming, "This is FUN!"  I decide to partake.  As I get going higher and higher, I lay back so that I'm looking at everything behind me upside down. I started to feel like a kid again.  Free, no worries, just fun and giggles.  Miss G screams, "Mommy!  That looks like fun!"  I say to her, "It is!!"  The higher I go, the freer I feel.  Swinging isn't getting chores done around the house, it isn't getting us anywhere except for back and forth.  But the sun was shining down, we were both laughing, and I just relaxed and let the sunlight and warmth bask over me.  Right in the moment, lists disappeared from my mind, worries dissipated, I only concentrated on going higher, feeling the breeze on my face and through my hair.  I closed my eyes, seeing the red of the sun and gave all of it to flitter away in the wind.  I smiled. 

    Something as simple as swinging got me to thinking, we are so used to rushing around in this world: to the store, to doctor's appointments, to work, home, running errands, that we may unintentionally be rushing our children's childhoods too.  When they are trying to buckle their seat belts, we immediately rush in to do it for them instead of standing back and letting them learn.  Or when they are trying to tie their shoes, we want to swoop in as to save time.  When they are outside playing we may find ourselves bored because we feel it is not productive.  But it is.  Maybe if we followed a child's example, we'd all learn to slow down a bit, let go, and jump on the swings. 



     Miss G and me on our first swing together, 4.10.10.