things to not say to a grieving parent

I was thisclose to titling this entry "things I would be totally cool with never hearing again" but went with the less snarky route in an attempt to not trivialize my point. The thing is, I know people mean well. They do. When I first disappeared off social media at the news of Wylie's diagnosis and poor prognosis, I had many people trying to find out my whereabouts. I couldn't just turn my phone off, ignore the alerts and hide under my covers because we were waiting on test results and phone calls from specialists and I didn't want to miss anything. Eventually I had to delete all of the apps on my phone, which only slightly alleviated the issue because then the texts and phone calls started coming in -- which isn't a bad thing, because everyone was being nice and supportive, but I started to feel a bit guilty that I was just about ignoring everyone. Somehow the words "Wylie is really, really sick and she's not going to be okay" didn't get any easier to say, especially when we were just trying to digest the news ourselves. Over time, the "where are you?" texts morphed into "are you mad at me?" phone calls and I realized that I had to just let go of the guilt and pretend there was no world outside our family or the walls of whatever medical office or hospital we were sitting in that day because if I didn't, I would implode.

I say frequently that the hardest part of everything we went through wasn't her birth, but learning just how sick she was. If you can imagine the pain you feel when your child stubs their toe or skins their knee, then you can understand when I say that learning how sick my child was felt a little like my insides were slowly and painfully dying, one by one. I feel that setting foot back into the outside world was also an impossibly hard task, also harder than most people would think seeing as how well-meaning friends have been urging me to "just go out and you'll feel better." There were the friends who knew and then there were the acquaintances who had absolutely no idea. You know, the well-meaning sort-of strangers who think they're being thoughtful by asking how much longer you have to go or how you've been feeling since they saw you last, the ones who notice you're no longer pregnant and exclaim with excitement that you had the baby and demand to see photos -- the baristas at Starbucks, the cashiers at the grocery store. It's hard, it's awkward, it's uncomfortable for everyone and I semi-seriously thought about making a shirt that said "our baby passed away, please don't ask me about it in front of my son." I'm sort of passive-aggressive like that. I mean, my neighbors have no idea that Wylie is gone or I'm no longer pregnant because I have perfected the art of avoiding them completely, once even climbing out over the console and through the passenger door of my car just so they couldn't see me run into the garage. I wish I was kidding.

People mean well, they do. But sometimes the awkwardness can't be avoided. I can't stay out of the grocery store forever (believe me, I tried -- my poor child ate microwave popcorn for lunch way too many days in a row) or refuse to let Ethan leave the house when he wants to go play with his friends. Inevitably, it's going to come up. The bulk of the time, people are obviously thoughtful and compassionate, wanting to express sincere sympathy for our loss. They feel terrible for having asked, and then I feel terrible for having to tell them. Every once in a while, though, someone says something totally crazy and I become a ball of nerves looking for any emergency exit I can find, even if it's through the ceiling.

Everyone grieves differently. Everyone handles loss differently. What might affect someone negatively may roll off the back of someone else or even be a welcomed inquiry. All I know of loss is my own experience. All I can share are the things people have said that have made me want to melt into the floor:

1. "Well, it didn't work out this time but you can just try again!" Maybe there's a little confusion on what exactly I lost. Maybe people think I'm talking about a board game and I rolled the dice poorly and am hoping another turn will let me pass Go. But, people, I'm talking about a child. My child. The one I wanted and loved. Maybe after you walk out of the door of the funeral home where you had to make plans for your child's remains, you exclaim "well, tomorrow's another day! Let's try again!" But, yeah. I sincerely doubt it. Give me time to mourn the loss of my child and figure out the rest later, will you?

2. "How was your husband? Was he really sad, too?" Um, no, actually -- my husband was so thrilled that he did cartwheels after finding out that his daughter was really sick and would never come home with us awake. Is that a trick question? I'm never sure how to answer this one.

3. "What happened?" Everyone who knows us knows what happened. Everyone who reads this blog knows what happened. Even my favorite baristas at Starbucks know what happened because I wanted them to know. If I'm out to coffee with a friend who I haven't been able to sit down and talk with, this isn't such a weird question. If I'm in the grocery store check out line and the lady bagging groceries decides to ask like I really want to rehash this story with her after she asks if I had a baby and I spell out "she passed away" so that Ethan can't hear me -- well, it's not going to happen. Somehow the grocery store check out line with my three year old in tow doesn't seem like the sort of place I want to get into the most tragic weeks of our lives, especially not with a complete stranger who knows me solely as "lady with the cute little boy who she wears in a backpack" and whose name I don't even know.

4. "Breastfeeding is the best thing you can do for your baby." I've always found this sucks. It sucked when I had no choice but to formula feed Ethan, it sucked when I made the decision that we were going to formula feed Wylie and it sucks most of all when you have no baby to bring home. Next time you feel compelled to sprinkle some words of encouragement to the lady buying No More Milk tea at the store, take a few steps back and realize she doesn't want your encouragement because she doesn't know you and, just as much, you don't know her. "Thanks for telling me what's best for my baby when I don't even have a baby" is way too confrontational for me, so "choke back tears and run out of the store" was my back-up plan. It's not fun.

5. "You can't let one bad incident stop you from having more children." A fender bender is a "bad incident." Starbucks being out of venti cups is a "bad incident." The horror of everything that happened, well, is a life-altering tragedy. And something else I don't feel like explaining to every well-meaning stranger in the Starbucks line is there are risk numbers involved. We have a higher chance at a repeat. Maybe it doesn't seem high to you, but let's keep in mind we had a 1% chance for what happened to Wylie to have happened to Wylie. Sort of makes anything higher than 1% seem like playing with fire, which I get maybe you can't understand unless you've been in this position. And, you know, this decision essentially is between my husband, myself and the amazing team of doctors we now have on our side. Just go on and order your grande vanilla latte and shut up.

6. "I know what you're feeling." We have heard so many comparisons from people who "know what we're feeling." Everything from a miscarriage at eight weeks to the death of a cat (and, dude, I love my cats) to the passing of a 101 year old great-grandmother. I'm not denying any of these things are sad. If I were in any of these positions, I'd be a blubbering mess who probably wouldn't leave the house for weeks. But the truth is, no one knows what we're feeling. Everyone grieves differently. Everyone feels pain differently. Up until losing Wylie, the most painful moment of my life probably was losing our cat, Hadley, or losing my grandmother. However, there is no "pain ranking system" so there is no tier of "worst loss ever" for everyone to stand on and somehow be equal. It's not a competition, either, so the "my cousin lost her baby at 32 weeks, that's so much worse" comments also don't do much to help in the healing process. We've had several "I don't know how you're feeling, but when I had a miscarriage it was the greatest pain I ever experienced and if you need someone to talk to, I'm here" or "I've been in a similar position and am here to talk if you need someone who has been there before" and I've found these are worded so much better. I somehow lose the urge to bitterly scream "screw you, you don't know what I'm feeling!" in the face of a well-meaning friend or family member, so that's a plus. Ultimately, it's not about understanding what we're feeling, it's just about being there for moral support.

I should also point out that understanding in the face of loss people may be a little more preoccupied (or, well, an unbalanced pile of hormones and frazzled emotions) can help. I've given up trying to explain to friends that I'm not mad at them if it takes me forever to reply to their texts or e-mails (my e-mail inbox is pretty frightening right now -- it'll take me weeks to comb through all of the unread and missed e-mails!) and it's not that I'm trying to shut them out. I'm just trying to slowly weave my way back into the world, which is a scary thing. And it takes time.

nothing begs for a name, nothing wants to stay the same and nothing's broken

From the moment I learned Wylie was a girl, I sang her Woman King by Iron & Wine constantly. Ever since the release of the song shortly after I graduated high school, I had interpreted the lyrics as being about a woman who was so strong but the world kept trying to push her back down because they weren't ready for a woman of her strength. I wanted Wylie to know she was strong and this song sort of became hers. Before we realized her heart was broken, I was trying to come up with ideas for a tattoo for her that involved the song but I couldn't come up with anything solid. The day we lost her, the idea popped into my head. I wanted an anatomically correct heart to symbolize her heart now being whole and no longer broken. Of course, I wanted to include lyrics to the song that we listened to together constantly throughout my pregnancy. It will never not be her song and that always sort of brings me comfort, to be able to listen to it whenever I want to and think of her. She is the strongest girl I know.

I got the tattoo for her late Saturday night and already shared it on Instagram and my personal Facebook, but I couldn't not share it here, too. It came out more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. I'm in what feels like the minority, but I'm not a spiritual person. I put way more stock into the physical body and while I do agree Wylie will always be in our hearts, there was a nice sense of peace to know she's finally with me forever. Just knowing there is now a piece of her with me that will remain with me until I'm no longer here, it just sort of brings a little clarity.

The only thing keeping me from staring at it all day long is the fact it's on the back of my shoulder so that's a little hard, but it's still tempting to do so. It's more beautiful than I could ever have imagined -- a beautiful tribute to our beautiful daughter who I now can carry with me for the rest of my life.

(And huge thanks to Ted Mendoza at No Hard Feelings in Coral Springs for being the best tattoo artist ever and being super patient because I'm willing to guess I'm the worst person on the planet to tattoo.)

got a feeling inside me, i'm falling like rain

I've always been a really big believer in the powers of the subconscious. That probably sounds a little crazy but, if you know me, you know I sort of fly my freak flag proudly. I don't believe in much, but I have always tended to believe in psychics or mediums, people who can see what we cannot or who can sort of glimpse into the future. I mean, I couldn't tell you exactly why I've always believed in such things but I can tell you that I've never really been a skeptic. For me, that's a big deal. I'm basically a skeptic about everything else. I guess I've always felt that we all have a little power to see into the future, some sort of weird ability to tap into our subconscious from time to time. I can't tell you how many times I've been out and randomly begin to think of someone I haven't seen in years only to run into them or see them in passing. Things like this happen all of the time to everyone and I just think some people are more in tune with their subconscious mind than others. If that makes sense.

I think back to when we made the decision to try for another baby. In my mind, I pictured Ethan with a little brother. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ethan posed in matching Christmas pajamas with a little boy or I saw Ethan helping me push a stroller containing a little boy. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew we were having a girl. I wasn't even questioning that the baby was a girl -- I just knew -- but when I closed my eyes, I still saw Ethan having a little brother. These were simply thoughts that didn't make sense at the time, thoughts that left me frustrated because, well, we were having a girl. Of course, I wanted our daughter more than anything in the world. I loved her from the moment I found out she was coming, when she was only two pink lines on a stick I had to pee on.

I read a book once, a memoir, about a mother who learned that the little boy she had given birth to had a terminal illness and wouldn't survive infancy. She wrote about the same feelings, being frustrated with herself before she learned her son had any sort of illness because no matter what she did she couldn't picture him growing up. She couldn't picture him as a teenager or as an adult, couldn't picture him even a year from then -- she just kept picturing a little girl despite the fact her child was here and he was a boy. Once he passed on, she recognized these feelings as maybe some sort of glimpse into her subconscious mind, some sort of premonition about what was to come without her understanding it at the time. She went on to have a girl, as she had imagined. Looking back, I've started to wonder the same. Maybe this was why I felt so unnatural combing through the racks of girl clothing, trying to pick outfits out for Wylie. Maybe this was why I was so touchy about what everyone said when they learned that we were having a girl. The thing is, I can close my eyes and imagine what Ethan will be like at every phase of his life. I'm not saying I'll be right, of course, but I can just see him as a teenager or even an adult. I can imagine what he will be like, look like. I felt the same when I was pregnant with him, somehow knowing he would be a gentle lug of a boy just like his father. But when I was pregnant with Wylie, I couldn't picture her even as a newborn. My mind wouldn't even imagine what she would look like. My mom and I both pictured Ethan with bright blue eyes and everyone would laugh because they thought he would have brown eyes like my husband -- but, no, he has blue eyes. We knew somehow, we just knew him. With Wylie, I couldn't imagine what she looked like. I couldn't picture her as a toddler, a small child, a teenager, an adult. I tried. I tried so often and shrugged it off to just being used to being a boy mom. Looking back, I truly believe I somehow knew. Somewhere, in the deepest, darkest depths of my soul, I knew.

I began planning Ethan's birthday party early this year. Really early. I apologized to vendors or people helping, trying to explain how I had a rough pregnancy with Ethan and I just didn't know what would be hitting me this go 'round. Each doctor visit, my OB would remind me that I had virtually no risk for preeclampsia this time around and my vitals were great. Still, each doctor visit, I couldn't shake the fear of something going terribly wrong. Maybe I knew. Maybe, somehow, I knew. Ethan's party is only happening at the extent it is solely because I began planning early, solely because somehow I prepped everything up until the moment the other shoe fell and we had lost our daughter. Originally our plans were to throw a huge rock and roll, New Found Glory themed birthday party for Ethan but one day in the beginning of my pregnancy I decided that I just couldn't do that this year, that it would have to wait. Looking back, I wonder if this is why. "Don't make yourself crazy," everyone tells me, but I'm not. I'm just sort of assembling the pieces that life has left scattered for me. I think back to how when Ethan was a newborn, I told people that we would probably try for a second child once Ethan was four. I don't know why that age popped into our head, it just felt right for whatever reason. It's the first thing I thought of when we decided to try for another child earlier than planned, like we were taking some sort of risk for going against our original plan. I believe these thoughts all came from somewhere, somehow. That the pieces are fitting together finally. That there is good reason I would insist to my husband that we would have three children when he said there's no way we could have more than two. I agreed, I saw us having two children here in our little home, but I still was insistent that we would have three.

The thing is, I love Wylie more than anything, in the way a parent loves their child. I don't believe her life was in vain. I don't believe she lived for such a short period of time for no reason at all. She mattered and she matters still, to more than just us as her parents. Maybe I don't have all of the answers right now but I know one day the pieces will fall into place and I'll know for certain. People have asked us if we will ever try to have another child and while we're not ready yet, I didn't even know what to say -- what kind of callous question was that, anyway? The whirlwind of Wylie's diagnosis and our loss was followed by another whirlwind of risk numbers and percentages and other things that just made my head spin and realize how much I don't like to take risks about anything. But then I remembered the little boy who I always pictured with Ethan in my mind. The baby brother whose name came to us before we were even considering having a second child. I think of him and I believe that he is in our future, that he is reachable, that one day I will hold him and get to bring him home with me awake.

Prior to learning of Wylie's diagnosis, I began to think of my aunt Rina often. She passed away when I was a young teenager, the first time I really ever understood the pain of loss, the first time I realized that tragedies can happen and we can lose people who aren't grandparents. I began thinking of her frequently, began dreaming of her often. I kept telling my mom that I kept thinking and dreaming of aunt Rina, that I thought her energy was going to be there when Wylie was born like I believe my great grandfather's was there for Ethan. "She always wanted to have a girl next," my mom would say each time I brought this up. The day we learned of Wylie's heart abnormality, still unsure of the details or severity, I dreamed of my aunt Rina more in depth than I ever had before. I woke up and I knew. "Stay optimistic," everyone would tell me -- but I knew. I don't believe in much, like I keep saying, but somehow I want to believe that my aunt Rina's energy is able to care for my baby girl.

Each day still feels like a new struggle. I'm realizing that people typically expect two things of you after a loss: you to bounce back quickly and hightail it into social outing mode or for you to retreat into a dark corner and wallow in misery. Let's be frank: the second option would be my coping mechanism of choice, save for the fact that I have Ethan. He keeps me balanced. He keeps me at the perfect pace to tiptoe back into the world without it feeling like I'm alone or smothered. I think of Wylie at nighttime once Ethan is asleep, like this is my time with her somehow, and some nights are better than others. Some nights I can cope and think of her beauty and smile knowing she will always be my daughter. Other nights are harder and I end them soaked in my own tears. I know that Wylie means the world to me, to my husband, to our family; I know that Wylie matters to us. I'm just waiting to figure out the mark she made on this world, the message that she needed us to spread for her, the reason that she couldn't stay with us. Nothing is going to justify that for me right now -- nothing is going to seem good enough to take her from me with the grief fresh in our hearts. Maybe that's why I don't know all of the answers just yet. Maybe that's why I have to wait for them to fall into place.

here you'll find me in between heaven and hell my dear

My sweet little one, you are almost three. I can't recall a time when you weren't at the forefront of my mind and taking over my every thought but, at the same time, it hardly feels like you're able to already be three in just a matter of days. We have stopped calling them "days," but instead simply "adventures." You see, every day with you has been a constant and new adventure, every moment some kind of learning experience -- the latter of which is mostly for me. As for you, well, there is nothing you don't know and hold in the palm of your hand. There is nothing you don't wish to share with me at all times as if the magic of all things in this world is as vibrant and fresh for me as it is for you, as if your zest for life and the world around you are things I have missed for the twenty five years I was alive before you. I don't thank you enough for that, for wiping the jaded bits and remnants from my soul and helping to revive me when I feel like the world has nothing left to show me. Every day, every hour, you show me so much.

The past few weeks have been hard but I am existing. This is because of you. This is because when I drag myself out of bed after three hours of sleep you smile at me and give me a casual "oh hi, mommy" and I realize all I have to live for. I have everything to live for because you, my sweet boy, are everything. You keep me busy with your chatter and ideas, with your imagination that is so big I want to climb inside of it and move in forever. For the most part, I do that. I think that's my secret for making it through each day, your imagination. It's like you've invited me to step inside this incredible world that you've dreamed up where everything is still so right and incredible, everything is so vast and surreal. It is hard to feel the broken pieces of my heart trying to learn how to fit together again, shifting like shards of glass among my insides, with you grabbing my hand and asking me to chase invisible pirates with you down an empty hallway. I like the world you've created. I mean that both metaphorically and quite literally, as the world you've created for our family is one I could no longer imagine living without.

I feel like you're more intuitive than people give you credit for, as a toddler. I feel like you sense the pieces of my pain and can put together the puzzle pieces that I try to hide out of your reach but instead of grappling for them you just try to heal me. You remind me to eat, to drink water so that I "grow up healthy and strong." You are the backbone to this family, to my life; you are the only thing that makes sense when I feel like I cannot steady myself against the spin of the world. I tell you that I love you every minute of every day, something that maybe could be seen as a little bit (a very little bit) of an exaggeration up until the past couple of weeks when I want to begin every sentence as a declaration of my love because life? Life is so unpredictable and cold and scary. What I don't tell you enough -- and I still tell this to you at least once a day -- is how proud I am of you. Proud of the person you are, at not even three years old, and proud of the person that I am watching you become. Whenever I feel sad about the bits of your babyhood that you leave behind, I instead choose to redirect my feelings to the sheer pride of watching you grow into the most amazing human being that I have ever met. Somehow I don't feel worthy for you to be my son, my child, but I instead choose to just breathe you in. The smell of your hair, your skin, sweat and strawberries and plum, and I feel life breathed back into my bones.

I watch the way you play and interact with other children and, even at not-yet-three, I see so much of myself in you. You are more comfortable among the adults, more interested in adult conversation than roughhouse play, more content to just sit quietly and build, organize, imagine up scenarios and ideas that cause the other children to stare at you with a side eye that is all too familiar to me. We all joke that you are destined to be another generation of misfit, another era of Hot Topic-clad, mix tape making walking emotion and as much as that scares me because, well, I remember what school was like -- I am proud of you. It's as if you already know -- and remind me -- that the most important thing is being true to yourself. Your true colors are my favorite colors. I am supposed to be the parent, the one who guides you with strength and unwavering certainty but the funny thing is, that's what you give to me. You give me the confidence to hold my head up and do all of the things that I was never brave enough to do because you love me, because I am proud of who you are. Your heart is so unbelievably beautiful. When the nights come and I am left in the company of the pain throbbing inside my own heart, I just try to remember how beautiful your heart is. I realize that, over the last few weeks, you may have felt pushed to the side or as if we wouldn't allow you to fit into our preoccupied minds but I want you to know that couldn't be farther from the truth. You are what we have been clinging to. You have been what we have been reaching towards. You are the best medicine.

I am ready to kick off your birthday month. I am ready to celebrate you and the mark that you leave on the hearts of everyone who knows you. I want you to know how special you are. I want you to know that more important than the blood that courses through my veins, it is you who keeps me going. When my nights feel a little cold and my mind refuses to settle, it is you that brings me back and lets me find some sort of peace. You are my best friend. You are the love of my life. You, my sweet little boy, are the reason we breathe and the strength we have to keep going. It is an honor to know you and it is an honor to go through this life as your mother. You're the only thing that ever makes sense.

I love you more than anything.

l-i-v-i-n'

Just tonight I read a quote by Harvey Milk: "Hope will never be silent." It resonated with me. In addition to losing my daughter, I felt that I had also lost my hope. Despite the hopelessness, despite the despair, my urge to talk about it always prevailed. I wanted to talk about her even when friends, family, even my husband couldn't handle hearing about her or the situation at hand for another moment. I think I finally realized tonight that the desire to talk about it, the desire to make her life matter, the need for her to always be my daughter despite the fact we cannot physically be together -- all of it, every bit of it -- is hope. It is the hope that I thought I lost screaming to be heard, acknowledged, accepted. I hear it. I acknowledge it. I accept it. I'm never going to be quiet about it, I'm never going to have my mourning be confused with shame as it so often is for so many others.

I want to talk about Wylie. Perhaps the hard part is, I am adamant about no one mentioning her in front of Ethan. It is one of those painful burdens I must bear for the sake of my son, for the sake of his life being normal while he needs it to at his age. One day he and I can talk about her. One day he and I can talk about how it's almost as if we feel her with us when we cannot see her on all of our daily adventures. However, that time is not at age two. At age two, I want everyone to focus on him and not bring up our loss, his loss, in front of him and let the naivety of his innocent mind keep him safe from hurt. But when he isn't around, when he's out of ear shot, I want to talk about her. I want to remember everything about her so vividly that every detail remains fresh always. I want people to realize that mourning isn't shameful, that while nothing can cancel out the hurt of losing my daughter, the acknowledgement that she is and always will be my daughter can help.

I wanted to talk about her name, Wylie Meadow. I had penned an entry about Ethan's name back when he was tiny, an admission that he was named after Ethan Embry who was my dreamboat of choice back when I was knee deep in the '90's grunge scene. At the time, I hadn't heard of another Ethan besides him and the name always felt right to us despite the fact our Ethan's conception came a whole lot later than Ethan Embry's time in the (sort of) spotlight. It only makes sense that Wylie's name was also inspired by the '90's cult film scene. We had been watching Dazed & Confused when I remembered how much I loved Mitch Kramer -- or, in real life, Wiley Wiggins -- and there it was. Wiley. Ethan was a newborn when I decided that for a future daughter the name felt right, the perfect mix of obscure and sexually ambiguous that I had wanted. It was coincidence that a few days later in the Starbucks line I met the mother of a teenage girl named Wylie who so happened to be in my sister's class, a face in the yearbook for me to identify and realize how right it felt. Wylie. And so it was. Meadow came to us on a night when I was yelling out every earthy suggestion that my mind could churn out only for my husband to shoot them down. Until I said Meadow. Until it just felt right.

I want to be able to smile or even laugh upon the realization that both of my children are named after '90's cult film actors who no one likely remembers on a regular basis other than myself. Because it's funny. Because my thirteen year old self would be beaming with pride that I have two children -- one named after Ethan Embry and another named after Mitch Kramer. I want to remember the way her skin felt when we kissed her goodbye. I want to remember her curls, just like her father's. I want to remember the shape of her face that was identical to Ethan's. I want to remember how perfect she was, how perfect she is, how her heart is no longer broken. I want to think of the way I would sneak out each morning and inhale a bowl of Captain Crunch -- contraband that I would never allow in our house regularly -- before Ethan could see me. It was a guilty pleasure that Wylie and I both enjoyed together in the early mornings before the chaos of the day began. I want to remember it all. I didn't have much time with her, but I always want to remember the time that I did have.

I'm not entirely sure if anyone other than myself remembers Friends With Money but in the film, Frances McDormand's character copes by refusing to wash her hair. Years ago when the movie came out I had smiled because that's always been how I've grieved: by refusing to wash my hair. I hadn't washed my hair since May 12th, the day we found out Wylie was sick. I struggled with my hope. I lost it, I found it, I watched it fall again out of reach -- and I stopped washing my hair. Tonight, I washed my hair for the first time since May 12th.

Maybe it was the realization that my hope isn't gone forever, that it's here as much as the memory of my daughter always will be. That it's okay to smile sometimes, to laugh, to think of our time with Wylie however short it was because it mattered. Because I would want her to know I wouldn't take our time together back for the world, no matter how much the outcome has broken pieces of my own heart forever. Because I would want her and Ethan to know one thing: never lose hope and, at some point, I need to realize it's okay to try to pick up the pieces and find my own hope. For her sake. For Ethan's sake. Because it takes hope to keep Wylie's memory alive and while nothing in the past has made me run away and hide my head in the sand quite like a challenge, this is one I'm willing to take.