Today has been one of those days where my heart aches.

It started out with horrible news stories about babies dying in freak accidents that I can’t seem to avoid because everyone on Facebook has to repost them with the comment of “So sad. I just can’t imagine.” Yes, I wouldn’t be able to imagine either except you stuck it in my timeline so now I can’t get this horrible image out of my head and all I did was read half the headline.

I literally had to watch videos of Ian playing with trains to try to scrub my brain of all that.

And then there was the update of Heather’s little girl having two seizures and being in the hospital overnight. My heart aches for her and her little Dizzle. Others were commenting about how hard it is to share a room in a children’s hospital because your roommate is usually miserable and both the child and parents are not on their best behavior because of stress.

I remember being 8 years old at Children’s Hospital of the King’s Daughters and having to sleep in this room by myself (barely having had my own room at home at that point) with this two year old in one of those cribs that looks like a monkey cage. That little girl screamed bloody murder and rattled the bars all night. That was probably the worst thing about becoming diabetic was that first night alone in the hospital. At least Heather is in the bed with Dizzle and all her tubes and wires. I would have given anything for my Mommy that night.

Shortly after that news, I left work to get my nails done. My nail tech Lee Ann asked me about Ian’s potty training and how it was going. She then mentioned that she just found out she’s a grandma on Sunday. But her grandson is not an embryo, but a three-year-old little boy that her stepson is “not doing right by” as Lee Ann said. I then find out the mother is 19 (!) and that she also has a one year old (!) and that the one year old has cancer (!). So she’s having a hard time finding someone reliable to help watch the 3 year old when she’s at the hospital with the one year old. Did I mention that she also works as a waitress?

Enter Lee Ann. So after only having met this girl for an hour, she offered to take in the little boy and watch him whenever she can. And then suddenly this little boy is going on vacation with Lee Ann and her husband because the mother has to take the baby for treatment this upcoming week. So Lee Ann was scrambling to gather up supplies for a three year old little boy. I started telling her about some things I have she can use and next thing I know, my nail tech is following me to my house to get a potty chair and undies and other necessities.

On the drive home, I thought about how hard things must be for this girl and how she’s doing all she can for her kids. She never knew who her father was until her mother gave her a list of possible men and she had to go door to door asking them if they would submit to a paternity test. Thankfully, on the fourth door the man who opened the door looked just like her and said he didn’t need a test to tell him she was his. But when you’re 19 with two kids and you’re more responsible than your own parents … man, that’s rough.

Lee Ann (and I) just want this little boy to have a good life. She said that if she could help the mother out then that would help her be a better mother herself and then help this little boy. She said, “I just want to love on him and hold him tight!” I love Lee Ann. (She also does amazing nails.)

On a little side street almost to my house, I passed a woman who was probably Lee Ann’s age pushing a stroller but holding the tiny baby in her arms versus in the seat. Even in the short block I passed her, I could tell the baby had been fussy but was settling down as they walked home. This lady was probably a young Grandma like Lee Ann is. And she’s probably just loving on this baby so that his parents can get a break. I slowed down as I passed them and gave her a big grin and she smiled back at me, nodding.

When it was time to walk home tonight from Mamaw and Pop’s, it was already dark. Ian was walking barefoot next to his tricycle as I pushed it down the middle of our street. When we got closer to the house, he heard cicadas and got scared. He ran back to me and said, “Mommy, the buggies spook me! Pick me up; I want to snuggle!” And so I held him close while I pushed his tricycle home.

We’re all just doing the best we can, trying to love on these little babies and hoping all the rest that we can’t control will turn out okay.

I remember crying the whole way home from the doctor’s office. Despite all my efforts, we had been sent home with an induction date. I remember sobbing to my OB telling her I felt like the only woman on the planet begging to *stay pregnant*! But as a Type 1 diabetic, I was considered “high risk” and the staff at the hospital were already concerned about letting me go past 40 weeks.

I texted my doula from the car as my husband drove us home, letting her know we had a deadline coming up. Amara was kind and supportive as always, even in 140 character increments. By the time we pulled in the driveway I was feeling better. We would get through this. I felt fine, my baby was healthy in my belly and we still had two days.

On Tuesday morning at 5am, just 12 short hours after that tearful drive home, I felt my first contraction. It was just like they said it would feel, like a squeeze coming around me from the back. It was pleasant. Comforting. It meant we were getting somewhere and we were doing it on our own! All my little guy needed was a deadline and he would get his act together!

I continued to text Amara throughout the day, occasionally timing my contractions but mostly running errands. I got my nails done. I went to the grocery store. My husband Rich and I went for many many walks. I updated Facebook. I tweeted. And I didn’t call the hospital.

As the evening wore on, the contractions continued but we were doing okay. Rich played video games while I paced the room, happy to have him near me and chatting while not hovering (I highly recommend an Xbox being an integral part of early labor for dads). Rich is a worrier and in particular when it came to his wife and his unborn child, there was plenty to worry about. He just wanted everyone to be safe, and a hospital seemed like a safe place to him. I, on the other hand, wanted to find a cardboard box like a house cat and have nothing to do with the medical profession. Having a doula was our compromise.

By 3am on Wednesday, Amara had come to our house and we’d decided to head to the hospital. My water had broken a few hours before and while I wasn’t in pain, the worry was starting to creep in for Rich. I remember lying in the back of the car on my knees with a pillow, calling my mother and telling her we were headed to the hospital. She told me that she had classes that day and joked I shouldn’t have the baby until he was done with work. Little did we know.

We arrived at the hospital three hours before my scheduled induction check-in and confused everyone there by already being in labor. But it was their turn to confound us as my arrival at the hospital brought my contractions to a screeching halt. Where was my cardboard box?! Why do I have to have all these monitors? When I was admitted I was only 1cm dilated.

I had worried that my not going to the midwifery center or staying home I would be coerced into a situation I didn’t want. But the nurses were very supportive and the doctors were patient. We didn’t necessarily agree on what to do next, but I always felt like I was being heard. Amara and Rich were there the entire time, offering support and helping me make good decisions. Despite the annoyances of fetal monitors and IVs, I still felt mostly in control.

But the day wore on and on. We arrived at the hospital 23 hours after that first contraction and didn’t realize we had a long way yet to go. I continued to update on Facebook and Twitter. It was like all my friends were cheering me on from the Internet. My brother-in-law was re-posting updates like he was a one-man news room. Everyone was ready for this baby to make an appearance but it just wasn’t happening.

The interventions trickled in. First we started on Pitocin. I labored with that for about five hours to see if things could move along. All it did was exhaust me. I remember sitting in the hospital bed with Amara’s birth ball behind me swaying back and forth and moaning like that house cat just without the cardboard box. The contractions were coming one right after the other but I had only dilated to 4cm. I still had that ridiculous external monitor strapped to me. And I still had my old nemesis the blood pressure cuff. It would only go off it seemed in the middle of a contraction. So around 11pm that night, after having been in the hospital 19 hours (Amara by my side always except for when she had to pump milk for her own baby back home), I uttered the only curse word of my labor. I was mid-moan, that damn cuff started to squeeze my arm and I blurted out “AND F#$! YOU, blood pressure cuff, seriously?!”

Right at that moment I opened my eyes and there was this tiny little doctor smiling at me with an equally friendly nurse at her side. She said she wanted to talk to me about some options for our next steps. I was certainly receptive to some plan of action that would divorce me from this dreaded blood pressure cuff, if nothing else. So in 30 second bursts we discussed a plan of actions. We would talk for a half minute and I would moan for a minute and then we’d talk for a half minute and I’d moan again. The plan was to see if my contractions were strong enough via an internal monitor (another invasion I hadn’t planned on). If the contractions had enough power then it could be the baby’s position.

After some time we agreed to try an epidural (again with the interventions I didn’t want!). But the doctor said that my body was tensing up. She said the same thing happened in her labor and an epidural helped her deliver. We were getting close to the 24 hour mark since my water had broken and I knew that was going to be an issue. We agreed.

And just before midnight I went from 4cm to 9.5cm in 20 minutes after my epidural. My nurse came in to check me and I remember her face right next to my knee breaking out in this huge grin. It’s like she was proud of me. Go me! Then she got this sly look and said, “You’re doing great, but we’re gonna keep this on the down low for a bit because if I go out there and tell those doctors that you’re dilated they’re gonna come crashin’ in here and make you start pushing and I think you could use some rest. So let’s let the baby do his thing a little longer and then we’ll get this show started.”

I could have kissed her. We all took a much needed nap. Around 2:30am (having been in the hospital about 22 hours), my mother wandered in to check on me. She wasn’t going to miss this birth after all. Right as she arrived, all these other medical folks came in and said it was time to start pushing. Mom asked what was going on and I told her, “we’re gonna have a baby!” And just like that, my mother was part of the birthing team.

I hadn’t planned on my mom being there, as awesome as she is. I figured it would be crowded. But in retrospect it was the most amazing thing to have her there. Despite being fully dilated and ready to go, I still pushed for over three hours. I remember thinking after hour two “this is gonna take longer than Lord of the Rings!” My delivering doctor and nurse were nothing short of amazing. The hospital beds didn’t have a bar to hold onto so my nurse tied a bed sheet and acted as my belay during each contraction for over two hours. I remember the doctor offering me $20 to let go so she’d go ass over tea kettle into the cabinets.

But that doctor was also busy pushing around my perineum. She was determined I wasn’t going to need a cut. My mother said her arms were shaking from pushing for so long. They had turned off the epidural once we started pushing so that I could feel to know how to push. It worked out surprisingly well in that as the epidural wore off, my endorphins ramped up.

I was so thirsty! I just remember thinking “these ice chips are bull$#!+” and wondering if I would choke on my own dry tongue. I wheezed, “I’m running out of steam.” And Amara earned everything about her job in the next two minutes. She was holding my left leg and she calmly but firmly told me that I was going to do this, that it was what my body was supposed to do and that I was a strong woman. My mother, who had taken up a place next to my head to wipe the sweat off me, added, “she’s the strongest person I know.”

And at that moment I could have lifted a car! The doctor told me I needed to give her one more good push if I wanted to avoid an episiotomy and just like my son I just needed a deadline. I pushed him out and I remember my mother elatedly saying “oh here he comes here he comes!” At 6:14am, 49 hours after that first contraction, at 41 weeks and two days, our son was born.

He was perfect – 8lb 12oz, 22 inches long and *all head*. I’ve never been so elated in my life. The next hour or so was a blur. I remember making someone take a picture of the placenta because I couldn’t see it from where I was while they stitched me up (I tore a little but nothing like if I’d been cut first). I remember asking the doctor what was taking so long with the stitches and she said she could quit now and it would look like crap or I could wait and it would look nice (I waited. She was right; it looks nice.) I remember getting a tray of breakfast that materialized what seemed like moments after the birth.

And I remember all this hubbub sort of dying down and it just being me. With my consent, they had taken my son to the nursery for observation because of his long labor. We had made our way back to our postpartum room and my poor husband promptly unfolded the recliner and passed out for several hours. And I was still full of this high of having beaten the odds and slogged my way through the absolute opposite of what I had hoped for in my birth story to get my boy. No surgery, no decisions being made without me. Just a lot of “complications”.

And it struck me that all of these courses we’d taken and books we’d read had worked hard to prepare us for all that we’d just gone through. But nothing really prepared us for the moments after birth. From that moment on, we were parents and things were going to remain “complicated” for a long time.

The lactation consultant was overbooked that day and my son was in the “special needs nursery” on oxygen for the first two days. I learned to breastfeed in a rolling office chair, surrounded by supportive NICU nurses who happened to be moms as well. I was discharged from the hospital but my son was still being kept one more day for observation so we booked a “guest room” in the hospital for $35 that looked like something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. I had my first postpartum bowel movement in the Panera Bread downtown as we squeezed in a quick lunch between feedings. I set my iPhone alarm in three hour increments to get up, change my gigantic maxi pad and waddle down to the nursery to eek out a few ounces of colostrum.

When we were finally approved to take our son home (Ian Jacob – we took two days to name him!), we were just so happy to get out of there, we packed him up in the NICU onesie and took off. No “going home” outfit for any of us.

I didn’t get the mystical, perfect four hour labor that one might hope for. But my husband was there the whole time, I felt validated and listened to despite any stupid hospital annoyances, I had a doula there to guide me and give me a kick in the pants when I needed it most, I got this magical moment with my own mother who had never managed to witness her own births due to the practices back then and I got a beautiful, healthy, happy baby boy. I got my non-surgical birth. I got to feel like I did this versus it was done to me.

Just last week that beautiful happy boy ran face-first into our door frame and busted his forehead wide open. No one has an “ER visit plan” that they write up and bring to the hospital. We ended up at two different ERs that night and it was a very long ordeal, but everyone listened to our concerns, Rich and I made the best decisions we could, Ian was an absolute trooper and we all made it home with some stitches and Lightning McQueen stickers. In parenthood, I think that’s the best you can hope for.

This was written for my wonderful doula Amara as a birth story to share with her potential clients and others in the community.

My plan this afternoon was to pick up my mother and take her with me and Ian to Trader Joe’s. She was curious about it since she had so thoroughly enjoyed the cookies I had bought from there recently. Ian went down for his nap right on time and woke up a little early from it so we had plenty of time for this adventure.

As Ian and I pulled up to my parents, my dad (AKA Pop according to Ian) was heading over to the neighbor’s house to “help with some leaves.” Ian kept asking as we went inside, “where Pop go?” and when I told him he was outside helping with leaves he got down from the kitchen table where my mom (Mamaw) and I were sitting, grabbed his coat and headed for the front door saying, “I wanna see leaves.” Um, ok.

So I carried him two houses down to Paul’s house and not seeing any leaves in the front yard, moseyed into the backyard. There I found Paul and my dad and Paul’s daughter raking a bunch of leaves out of my father’s truck into a pile. It looked like they were almost done so I thought we might make it back inside where it’s warm. Then Daddy said, “oh I brought that chain for you.” Apparently they were going to pull over a tree in Paul’s front yard too. And apparently Ian needed to witness that.

So Daddy and Paul wrapped this huge tractor chain around the tree and Daddy used his pickup to pull the tree over. Now we should be able to go in where it’s warm! Ah, but then the discussion went to how the tree was going to get out of the giant hole it was in. Daddy was trying to explain that the direction the chain was wrapped mattered because they were trying to roll it out of the hole. It took about three different tries of pulling the tree in various directions, but eventually Daddy pulled this big tree up out of the hole and onto the lawn. As soon as it stopped moving, Ian yelled out, “Pop did it! Pop did it!!”

Paul said, “I don’t know how you got so lucky to get that tree out, George.” and I told him, “it’s not luck; it’s experience.”

Then the tree was blocking the sidewalk, so Daddy had to go get his chainsaw to cut it up. Ian of course had to stick around for that too. It wasn’t until the tree was all cut up and they were just stacking wood that he relented that he was cold and wanted to go inside and see Mamaw.

After another 30 minutes we were finally ready to go to Trader Joe’s. Daddy sheepishly asked how long we would be gone because he might want to go to (“I don’t know what else I’d do while you’re gone so I might as well come along.”). So we all piled in the car on a field trip. I was not so sure about my father going to Trader Joe’s because things there are not cheap and my father won’t eat name brand Beanie Weanies because they’re too expensive but he managed to have a good time.

We roamed around the various aisles and Daddy was wooed by the free samples of coffee and entrees. I discovered my father had never heard of yogurt covered raisins because he pointed to them and said, “wow they will combine anything!” I then had to put a container of them in the cart because one of Ian’s favorite foods is yogurt covered raisins and we had gone there specifically for them. My two-year-old is more worldly than the 70-year-old in some ways. Daddy also had never seen a checkout display that showed the items as they were ringing up, so it’s probably good he went on this field trip just to get a little more experience.

Ian was getting punchy and super tired and the 1/2 mile between Trader Joe’s and Chick-fil-a was a screaming cry-fest. Only waffle fries could placate him. My father said, “you never did anything like this when you were his age” but a little later in the car he added, “then again we never really went anywhere with you kids when you were little.” I reminded him that most kids are good but only do annoying things when they’re in bad situations and out of reserves. They’re over-tired, over-stimulated and over-extended, just like Ian was tonight. Thank God for waffle fries.

Mom says she wants to go back to Trader Joe’s with me again and leave Daddy at home so we have more time to browse and look for things to buy without him. But at least Daddy now understands that Trader Joe’s is a grocery store and not a military surplus store, like he did when he agreed to go on this field trip with us tonight.

For all his experience with tractor chains and tree stumps, Daddy still has things to learn and the two-year-old is helping teach him.

“Mommy, I got boogers in my nose.”

That’s what I woke up to at 6:26am on Christmas Eve. Ian had sat up in the sidecar crib next to me and looked at me with melancholy. I looked over and saw that Rich was gone. The first thought I had was “oh, good grief, Ian had sprawled so much in the bed last night we literally pushed Rich onto the floor. His love of co-sleeping is growing thin, I’m sure.”

Then I realized he had left for his hockey pickup at 5:45 that morning. The alarm was set for 6:30 so Ian and I just turned it off and rallied for the day. We picked out some warm pants and a cute t-shirt and his special hockey sweatshirt (with a bear and a PUCK! and SKATES! and a HOCKEY STICK! and a HELMET!). Things were looking good for us to get to the rink just in time to catch the second half of ice time.

But as Ian sat on the dog bed in the living room and I was getting my bag packed, he coughed so hard that he threw up all over his warm pants. Thankfully the sweatshirt was saved, but we had to do a quick wardrobe change before we could get going. Undeterred, we headed to the rink to watch Daddy play hockey.

Rich had said several times that it would mean a lot to him if Ian and I came out to watch him play goal. When he turned around and saw us on the other side of the boards, the look on his face was priceless. He actually said I could wrap that up and make that one of his Christmas presents.

Hockey went well, Hardee’s went well, last minute groceries and Food Lion went well and even an emergency trip to Super Cuts to de-mullet our son’s hair went well. It wasn’t until we had left all that and Ian was working on his “good haircut lollipop” that he started coughing again and proceeded to vomit all over himself and his car seat (the hockey sweatshirt was definitely not savable this time). Rich was literally two cars behind us and I was frantically trying to turn into the gas station and flag him down at the same time. I waved in a panic to him but he just cheerfully waved back and kept on driving.

So I texted hurriedly “vomit everywhere”. I had considered using Siri to send something but worried it would get garbled into “comet underwear” and Rich would just think “Me-ow! I’ll be shooting stars come nap time if she’s already sending me naughty text messages!” as he motored home.

Ian and I pulled into the parking lot and I pulled out the emergency bag I had packed after vomit #1 that contained a complete change of clothes (including socks). Mom of the year! After mopping up part of the mess, I checked my phone and saw Rich’s reply. “Oh no. Need help?”

Need help? What part of “vomit everywhere” sounds like “you just go on ahead home, honey. I know you’re smelly from your 90 minutes of hockey pickup and could use a shower. I’ll stay here in the Wawa parking lot and scoop up regurgitated seaweed salad out of the car seat.” But instead I just texted back, “Yes.”

Rich eventually met us there and could transfer the filth to the dumpster while I changed Ian’s clothes. We were on our way home with plans for nap time. Ian had a yogurt and we eventually headed upstairs for some Mama milk to prep for a nap. Rich and his dad had gone to the local sub shop to pick up lunch for us all and his mom was downstairs. After a few minutes of Mama milk, Ian started coughing again and making the “thrup” sound. I had just patted myself on the back for catching his vomit in his blanket versus our bed sheets when he tried to roll away from the gross blankie and thew up again while on his back. Dear God, it was awful. He got snotty vomit up his nose and in his eyes! I grabbed him and sprinted to the bathroom as I just kept saying over and over “oh, Buddy, I’m so sorry. Hang in there, I’m so sorry.”

And I texted “vomit again” to Rich. This time he came rushing upstairs as soon as he was home and helped the poor little guy get to sleep while I stripped the bed and cleaned the bathroom. A collective sigh of relief rang out around the house as Ian went down for a nap and we started some laundry.

But just over an hour later, Ian started coughing again and as we came up to check on him I could hear Rich say, “oh, Buddy, I’m so sorry.” Yeah, I know what that means. Time to strip the comforter off the bed and try again.

As the laundry line continued, Ian was in fine spirits. I think it was just the snot triggering a gag reflex when he coughed too much. He probably didn’t need yogurt since it coats your throat, but it was the only thing he was interested in eating. I insisted that both Ian and I have a bath before bed because despite rinsing off before I was convinced I smelled faint hints of vomit and wanted to eliminate the possibility it was one of us. We managed to get him settled for bed around 9pm and just kept the baby monitor close by to listen for tell-tale signs.

Around 11pm I heard him fuss and cough a little. When I went up to check on him he was having a hard time breathing, so I propped him up on my stomach as a pillow. He snuggled down and seemed to be able to sleep. I took a picture and sent it to Rich downstairs. I was worried he would start coughing more so I wanted to keep an eye on him a bit. As I said as much to Rich via text, Ian started coughing very hard. I sat up and held him in my arms, blanket at the ready and his head on my chest, hoping that sitting up would help. After a particularly hard cough, Ian threw up his entire dinner right down my nursing tank shirt. And that’s when I texted “vomit 911″ to Rich.

But the first thing I thought was “his clothes are clean, the blanket is clean, and thank everything the comforter is clean! It’s a Christmas miracle!” So Rich sprinted upstairs and got Ian back to sleep propped up on a pillow while I headed once more into the shower after shaking my shirt out into the toilet. As I later told my parents, I was working on every puke-related parenting merit badge all in one day.

I’m pleased to report that this fifth and final vomit was all we had to deal with and he did much better on Christmas day. But Rich and I have also learned the subtle nuances of texting when puke is involved. I hate how the iPhone has a text “shortcut” that converts “omw” into “On my way!” but I may have found a new use for the shortcut feature.

I’m going to change it so that whenever I type vomit, it converts it to OMG VOMIT! YES I NEED HELP!!!

P.S. Rich got my “vomit again” text while he was almost back to the house from the sub shop with his dad. He asked his dad if he should type back “need help” and his father wisely said, “if you do, just drop me off and don’t even bother coming home cause you won’t be welcome there for a while.”

I made you all a mixtape! I had that same head cold everyone had these last few months. While it didn’t kill me, it did mess up my throat so that I couldn’t do much singing. It wasn’t until my cold finally cleared that I realized how much I missed it. Something cheesy came on the radio and I just sang my heart out in my minivan without repercussions.

And that led to my digging up a few of my favorite guilty pleasure tunes for your enjoyment. I’ll list them here with descriptions and links to YouTube videos, but you can also listen to them all on online. As a warning a few have naughty words so slap on the headphones if you’re at work. And when you get home, crank it up and shake your butt.

Open Tape – Guilty Pleasures (auto plays)

OneRepublic – Good Life
This band is probably what I was crooning in the car. I just can’t get enough of this song. I particularly love when they say “hopelessly” because it reminds me of will.i.am’s “Yes We Can” song.

Neil Diamond – America
This one is for you, Becca. I dare you all to not yell out TODAY! along with him. (And wow, the YouTube comments for this video.)

Heavy D and the Boyz – Now That We Found Love
This is me dipping my toe into the world of hip hop. I know, I’m pretty lame, but I love Heavy’s voice. Rest in Peace, Mr. D.

Britney Spears – Piece of Me
While I am no Chris Crocker (and holy crap, 48 million views on that video!), I do hate to see folks make fun of Britney Spears when she’s a pop icon and a mom. I would love to have her dance moves (the recent ones, not the Baby One More Time ones). So sing it, girl. Address your haters.

Cece Peniston – Finally
This is from the Priscilla Queen of the Desert soundtrack, which I highly recommend. I should that movie out and watch it again. This song had me a “brown cocoa skin”.

Maroon 5 – Moves Like Jagger
I know, I know. Everyone wants to bitch about this song, but I LOVE IT. I actually would like more songs like this in my life. I told Rich I wanted to find songs with this much bass but not electronica songs that were 9 minutes long. And the video is very cool. And hey, shirtless Adam Levine.

Patty Loveless – Blame It On Your Heart
I took a hard turn into the land of country music for this one but it’s worth it. Patty Loveless is very fun and you have to sing along by the end of it or you have no soul.

Tina Turner – Proud Mary
I love the two paces of this song. Tina Turner is wonderful, regardless of her taste in men. And I just learned she is 72 years old. Go Tina!

Kanye West – Gold Digger
Mr. West is a little bit insane, but this song is awesomely irreverent. (And he is pretty handsome too.)

Alicia Keys – No One
I wouldn’t have included this song, were it not for this video that cracks me up every damn time. The oh uh oh OH ohs alone are worth it. Rich calls any song that sounds like this my “addressing your haters song”.

OneRepulic – Secrets
I couldn’t decide which OneRepublic song to include so dammit, you’re getting both of them. The cello intro in this song makes me so happy and it is my latest “addressing your haters” love.

So let yourself go!