Balls and Rambo: how I became the greatest father ever

In case you didn’t pay attention to the title, this post was written by my husband, Brian. Although I approve of the general aspiration to be the greatest father ever, I don’t feel the need to acquire that accolade myself. Instead, I married the best prospect I could find and won the jackpot. Read on and take notes. 

What Ray looks like when Dad's in charge.

Ray is 20 months old… or something close to that. She is between one and two years old, but closer to two than one (this is one of those things that all mothers know by heart, but I break into a sweat and need a calculator, calendar, and birth certificate to figure out). At some point 3 or 4 months ago she began to look like a kid who should be talking, but she wasn’t. According to several reputable websites and a few less than reputable mom blogs that popped up on a Google search, she should be talking. Hannah and I weren’t really all that worried because even though she wasn’t talking she was communicating... a little too much sometimes. 

Through a series of grunts and pointing, she is usually able to help us understand what she wants to eat or what forbidden object she would like to play with. She is quite effective at expressing her emotions, usually in extreme forms, and she reads mine well too. "That face means I should run to mommy now."

With each passing day I was getting a little more concerned about her lack of words. I would try to get her to say ‘dog’ or ‘truck,’ the two most attention grabbing objects in the world for her. Instead she has her own utterance for each and laughs at me when I say ‘truck’. "No, Dad, that’s not a ‘truck’ it’s a ‘DOOOOOH’. Obviously."

Well it finally happened. On Friday while working in the office, Hannah called and said Ray finally uttered her first word. "What was it?" I asked wondering if it could be ‘fan’ (something she loves to point at and dance under in her own version of pagan worship), or ‘phone’ (one of her more favorite forbidden objects), or ‘llama’ (her favorite book character). 

"She said ball."

"...what? She doesn’t even like balls."

It’s true she doesn’t. She prefers her giant Lego’s or blocks or books to balls any day. I mean, she is a girl. 

So as soon as I came home for lunch I sat down with the book that she identified a ball in and asked her, "What’s this?" 

Her reply was a clear and unmistakable "BALL!" and she was quite pleased with herself. So there it is, my little girl’s first word is ‘ball’. 

We have friends who have a boy a little younger than Ray. He is also between one and two, but closer to one. So let’s say he is 16 months. He has been saying ball since before he was born. Any object that is vaguely round elicits a "Ball?" The little man can’t say the word without it being a question. What he is trying to say is, "That looks like a ball, can I play with it?"

"Well, yes, technically the sun, which you are pointing to now, is a ball. But no, you can’t play with it. For starters it’s really hot."

It feels right for a boy’s first word to be ‘ball’. It’s just proper. There is something in the Y chromosome that just drives us to balls. I’m pretty sure that if there was some kind of international study it would show that the word for ‘ball’ in whatever language is the first word for something like 85% of all boys. Now for a girl, it’s just a little weird. I can’t think of a word that should be a girl’s first word, but that’s just because women are complicated. Boys are easy, our fascination goes from balls to trucks to fire. Simple progression. 

Ray uttered her first word on Friday. On the following Sunday we went to church. After the service we were outside talking with people (international rule of church) and Ray was in the arms of a woman who lived near the church. Ray was transfixed by the handful of dogs running around. One of the dogs came trotting over to his master, the woman holding Ray. This got quite a few squeals of delight from Ray. The woman pointed to the dog and said, “His name is Rambo.” Rambo is a cultural icon in PNG. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me “How is Rambo doing?” we would be self-supported.

Ray’s next utterance cemented my place in the fatherhood hall of fame right next to that guy who shot the apple off his kid’s head (the criteria for admittance into the fatherhood hall of fame are quite distinct from those for the motherhood hall of fame... obviously). She pointed to the dog and said, "MmmmBooooh." That’s right my daughter’s second word was 'Rambo'. She then followed it up by pointing to another dog and loudly proclaiming, "MmmmmmBoooooh." My heart swelled with pride. 

That night I was catching up with a friend who lives in another part of the country. I told him about my daughter’s vocabulary. He looked at me and said, "I think you are winning at parenting. The only thing that would be more impressive is if her third word is ‘rocket propelled grenade’."

We’re going to try for RPG. It’s simpler.

A picture of church

Ray walked into church Sunday morning smelling like the beach. She wore a flowery halter top sundress that barely covered her deep green cloth diaper and her shoulders still glistened from where we had applied the sunscreen. Every day she comes closer to appreciating nature, and since nature is inside church each Sunday she is coming closer to appreciating church. The pews are narrow wooden planks, varying in size and stability. The floor is gravel and dirt and the bamboo walls only reach my waist. When it rains outside, it rains inside too. Often I'll find myself staring at the ceiling beams watching large, brilliantly colored lizards lazily wander from one side of the church to the other. Dogs occasionally run up the aisle and out a hole in the wall at the front followed closely by some person or other hissing at them (these are Ray's favorite distractions). There is no velvety, maroon carpet with matching cushions on the ornate pews. There is no projector or choir loft or stage or microphones. Well, occasionally there are microphones attached to an old speaker, but those are ear-piercing-I-rather-wish-I'd-stayed-at-home days. The baptistry is the small creek gurgling by outside. The musical instruments are one or two or three guitars played by whoever happened to bring a guitar that day; I've learned that harmony, and sometimes playing the same song, is a cultural construct. Service has no start or end time, and the heat can become unbearable during the final announcements that seem interminable. 

Ray meandered alone up the aisle to our designated pew, shaking hands with anyone she passed as she went. That is one similarity between her church experience and my own: people have pews. It's an unspoken, universal rule of church. As I settled onto the narrow wooden plank, trying to position myself with the least amount of pressure on my legs, Ray began exploring. In front of us sat an older mother with her young child. Ray cautiously approached the child and they had one of those stand-offs where they stare at each other with no hint of civility. Suddenly Ray spun on her heel and came back to me smiling. Maybe she won their secret game, I'm not sure. For the next hour of the service, she went back and forth between climbing on top of the wooden plank to sit next to me where she could swing her feet for a few seconds and popping back down to stare at our neighbor. Only once did she topple off the back, and I was prepared for that eventuality.

Her feet have toughened over the weeks. The dirt and gravel floor used to irritate her soft skin to the point where she refused to stand on the ground without shoes, and as a general rule dirt of all manner is offensive to her (she is my child). But on Sunday she barely noticed the prickly rocks or the fine dust collecting on her feet as she played in front of me. Somehow, I'm still not sure how, a piece of cheap mint chocolate was passed to her from somewhere behind me. Rejecting all new food as something to be eaten, she played with the chocolate until it was a gross, hot blob in her grubby hand. It matched the rest of the dark splotches on her legs and arms where dirt and sweat mixed in streaks. 

This is not our church, but it's similar. This church is found in the Lower Ramu area.

When I was growing up and daydreaming about the future, this is not the image I conjured up of my own family going to church. Regardless, I love that this is Ray's experience of church, Ray's home church. She is learning to worship here even before she starts to remember lessons about God. She watches all the men and women intently and is starting to behave accordingly. What I did imagine in those daydreams was a child that knew God. And she does. I watched her clap in time to the singing and raise her hands as she mimicked the lady worshipping in front of us. She danced next to me, in her jerky swaying manner, and looked around for the affirmation toddlers often look for when they are trying to emanate the adults around them. I don't know what goes on between God and a child's heart, but I know she is being surrounded by people who have a deep love for Him and that they will be part of the "village" raising her to know Him. It gives me overwhelming peace to know that these are the adults she's trying desperately to be. She is certainly a dirtier, less polished version of what she would be if she were heading to church in the States, but she still shines in His presence and in the fellowship around her. And, really, I'm fairly certain our animal loving girl wouldn't trade the opportunity to see dogs flying up the aisle with a temperature controlled room for all the sweat-free Sundays in the world!

Accidentally landing in a (minor) tribal war

Brian and his teammates arrived in Nemnem, a village found in the Bosmun language area, ready to work. The community leaders were already present and a large group of men were buzzing about excitedly in the haus boi, a structure that in many areas of PNG is built to house single men. In this area the haus boi serves a higher function as the “men’s house” where major community and religious events occur with men only. Women are punished severely for entering these types of structures. The first thing the team did in Nemnem was sit down with the leaders to figure out a good time to come together for the presentation on PBT’s new translation project their community was being invited to join. This discussion was interrupted when someone yelled from the bush and all the men ran off intent on a fight. Brian and his teammates were left alone with one community leader who quietly stated it would be safer for them to find another village to sleep in that night.

Animosity has existed between two Bosmun villages, Nemnem and Dongan, for a very long time. On this particular day an incident occurred at the primary school in Dongan where several children were hurt by an out of control young man from Dongan. Just two days before the two communities had come together and found peace about this individual. Dongan promised Nemnem they would control this boy and that no more violent episodes would occur. Nemnem promised to wait for Dongan to deal with the issue without getting involved themselves. When Nemnem was told about the beatings at the school, they felt Dongan had betrayed their promises to take care of the problem and chose to respond in the only way they knew how; by sending a raiding party to Dongan to destroy the property of this boy’s father. It was now Dongan’s turn to feel betrayed after the peace talks and to respond in kind. Apparently they chose to do so right when Brian’s team arrived. The team quickly left the area and spent the night with a family PBT knows well in a neighboring language area.

This seems like a dramatic event to us coming from cultures where retaliation and revenge are not so violently enacted by whole communities. For the people of Nemnem and Dongan this incident was one of many and perfectly normal. Everything was progressing by the book. The next morning a community leader from Dongan called Brian and asked the team to come back to the area. Both Nemnem and Dongan had agreed to call off the fight until after the team completed their work in both villages. So in one day they presented in both villages, spent the night in Dongan, and left the area the following morning where presumably hostilities resumed.

Some of the Nemnem men after the presentation.

In order to be part of this new translation project, the Lower Ramu Project, each language group invited is required to create a board of leaders that includes representatives from each village, dialect, church, and school. Though PBT is involved in the training side of this project, the weight of responsibility is on each language group to organize and direct the project. The Bosmun people are desperate to have God’s word in their language, and despite being encouraged by their willingness to step away from their anger for one day in order to hear how they might get God’s word in their language, it is just one day and one small fight. It will take the work of the Holy Spirit to truly bring them into the cooperative relationship required for this project.

Please be praying with us for our branch as they seek to reach four language communities in a new way with various complications within each group (not all quite as severe as tribal war). Pray specifically for these two Bosmun communities, that they would find love and peace where there is now anger and hurt. Pray that God would open their hearts to His ways of peacemaking through the practice of translating portions of Mark into their language.

Rewiring my brain

I'm 17 weeks pregnant. That's just three short weeks away from the halfway point. I've had three check-ups and each time we've "seen" the baby. First it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me. Then it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me, but included one pulsating splotch that our doctor said was the heart. I believed him. Finally, we saw the clear form of a baby, and even though he or she looked a bit like a creepy alien, I felt overwhelmed with fuzzy emotions.  

Despite all the baby sightings, this next appointment will be my first real appointment. So far I've been seeing the doctor under "confirmation of pregnancy" appointments. Really?? We're still confirming it after seeing splotches that tell you there's a baby forming (they didn't tell me... it's just my nauseous body confirming it), after seeing a heartbeat, and after seeing the little alien baby outline?!? But, indeed, my first real appointment is in three weeks when I will be halfway done.

The first time we visited Dr. Bolnga I had no idea what to expect. We turned into a small compound protected, like everything else in Madang, with a steel fence and barbwire. The guard opened the gate for us and pointed down the gravel road to the back building. It reminded me of medical offices in the States, in that there are no obvious signs to help guide and direct. There's just the building, which looks unfortunately like all the other buildings nearby, and it's up to your resourcefulness to find the right glass doors. Only there are no glass doors to Dr. Bolnga's building or office. We parked and walked around to the back of the building which faces an empty field and the Astrolabe Bay. After figuring out that the bottom offices belong to World Wildlife Fund, we made our way up the concrete steps decorated with various potted, tropical plants and found the door marked "Hope Specialist Health Care Limited." We added our shoes to the pile at the door and made our way down the poorly lit hallway to the cramped waiting room. It was already full of women and, despite the small air conditioning unit, it was hot. There are no set appointment times, it's simply first come, first serve. So we waited and waited, again not unlike our stateside prenatal visits. For that first appointment we had Ray with us and smack in the middle of the room was yet another leafy potted plant with an oh-so-enticing-to-a-toddler-if-they-could-read sign that said "Do Not Touch." Of course she wanted to touch. She just knew it was forbidden with her toddler radar. While we waited we intermittently kept Ray away from the plant and watched her get cozy with our fellow patients in the waiting room. The exam room was small, like most. Unlike most it didn't feel like an exam room. It just felt like an office with a bed in it. No stark white walls or paper sheets on the bed. No scale. No obvious medical paraphernalia or anatomy class pictures on the walls. Just a desk, a bed with regular sheets, an ultrasound machine that looks like a 1980s computer, and some chairs. In my cultural framework, that doesn't inspire confidence. I'm trained to equate knowledgeable medical practitioners with pristine facilities and paraphernalia. And labelled pictures of the muscular system. 

Dr. Bolnga's office building

We met Dr. Bolnga back in 2011 when I spent a couple of nights in the Madang Hospital for dysfunctional ovarian cysts. He was good then and he's good now. In fact, Dr. Bolnga is one of the best in the South Pacific. He trained in Australia and received the highest score (they call it the gold medal) of everyone that took their final test in the South Pacific Commonwealth nations that year. That means he beat students from places like Australia and New Zealand, and this test is apparently quite difficult. He's good. And though I know this about him, our appointments have felt haphazard and not at all what I grew to expect from my doctor's appointments during Ray's internment in my belly. So they feel wrong even though they aren't wrong. They're just different.

I walk away from each appointment less disconcerted than the last. I'm slowly becoming more accustomed to the vast cultural differences in how Americans treat pregnancy and how Papua New Guineans treat pregnancy as manifested through my highly competent but completely laid back PNG doctor. My brain is rewiring itself to accept this new kind of medical care as "good" even though it looks totally different from what I culturally define as "good" medical care. In the end, I would have no qualms staying here for Baby Garbo's birth if I knew that Dr. Bolnga would be the attending doctor and if the medical facilities he had to work with at the hospital were better equipped for complications. Neither of those is true, so we'll head to Australia with his blessing and thank God that in the meantime Baby Garbo is in unfamiliar, but excellent hands.    

Our little joey

This coming January we'll be heading south to Cairns, Australia (pronounced "cans") to welcome our beautiful second born into the world! I'm feeling all the same emotions I felt when we found out about Ray, just muted a bit. I stay mentally and physically tapped out keeping Ray alive, so it's not until the end of the day that I turn my thoughts (and anxieties) fully to Baby Garbo.

Which brings me to our nickname. Almost all pregnant women know about the online sites that send you a weekly update saying, "Your blessing of life is now the size of a kumquat!" to which you inevitably reply, "What the heck is a kumquat?!?" I'm not sure why they don't pick blueberries or apples or lima beans, but every email we got during Ray's months inside involved a quick trip to Google images to see exactly what foreign produce they were comparing my offspring to. When we added Baby #2 to our chosen website, we received the first of the emails. To our great relief they compared our tiny one to a garbanzo bean. Hey! I know what that is and have actually eaten it. Multiple times! So Brian started referring to Baby as Garbo. It's growing on me. Slowly.

Ray's completely rational reaction to the news.

Our child's citizenship has been the most common follow-up question to our news. Although we would love to give Ray fodder in future fights - something along the lines of "you're not even the same nationality as the rest of us" - it doesn't work that way. Just because Baby Garbo will be born in Australia does not automatically make him... or her... an Australian citizen. Just like giving him... or her... the gift of Australian citizenship wouldn't automatically give him... or her... a coveted Australian accent. So if we can't ultimately give our child the gift of an Australian accent, why have the baby in Australia instead of near family in America? Lots of reasons.

1) Getting to Cairns involves two flights. A one hour flight to Port Moresby followed by another one hour flight to Cairns. Done and done. Getting to the States involves at least four flights, one of them being as long as 16 hours. 34 weeks pregnant with a toddler? I don't think so. 

2) The expense of the flights is night and day. We'll be paying a tenth of the almost $10,000 it would take to get the whole family to the States and back again. No brainer.

3) The medical care in Australia is excellent. It's also significantly less expensive than comparable care in the States. We'll be paying thousands of dollars less to bring Baby Garbo into the world by choosing Australia.

4) We have two different insurance rates: overseas and stateside. If we go home our monthly premium will double. If we stay on this side of the world we get to keep our lower overseas rate.

5) "Our home" is now Madang. Just like most of my mom peers in the States, my nesting instinct is fully functional. Unlike most of my mom peers in the States, I can't leave my home when I go into labor, have the beautiful bundle in the hospital, and come back to my home a day or two later where I settle my two children into a comfortable routine. Instead we'll be living in a beautiful, but very unfamiliar city out of our suitcases. I'm going to want to get my family back to Madang and our home as soon as possible. We can mitigate how much time we spend away from our home by going to Australia where we know no one. However, if we spent the money to go all the way back to the States we would stay longer to reconnect with people. In order to stay healthy as a family, our plan is to be in and out in 3 months (mostly limited by the length of our medical visas).

6) Along those same lines, Brian will be working remotely while we're Down Under. He'll be more than ready to get back to PNG where executing his work will be easier.

7) Ray gets to see koalas.

8) Ray gets to see kangaroos.

9) Ray gets to see wombats.

10) Brian and I get to eat Bikkie Magnum Bars, the most amazing ice cream bar created. And it's only sold in Australia.

Many, many, many American missionaries living in PNG have gone before us to have children in Cairns. We're already connected to a doctor that will handle the birth and he's highly experienced in helping missionaries in PNG through this process. My parents are coming to Cairns to visit around the due date (hopefully it will be timed well), blessing us with family time. Then we look forward to seeing Brian's parents later next year in PNG. Though it's devastating to us that we can't share this with our loved ones, going to Australia for this momentous event is the right thing for our little family.

Swallowed by a fish

What was it like to be in the belly of a fish? I've wondered that ever since I was old enough to comprehend the story of Jonah, and I still wonder. The reality of it is simply gross. There must have been slime and stench. And what did he live on for those days? Did he sleep in the middle of the organ where gushes of stomach juice were churning around him? Or was his back propped against belly muscle? Did he even sleep at all? What about food and water? Going to the bathroom? Despite my many questions (and there's more) I have no trouble believing this story actually happened; I don't believe it's just a parable or tale. There are many major and minor stories in the Bible I have not the slightest ability to explain scientifically, but I'm not the type of person that cares so much. I'm okay not knowing and simply trusting that He did it. Somehow.

We read Bible stories to Ray each night out of a book that has wonderfully disproportionate pictures and one of the stories is about Jonah. Along with long toes and tiny eyes, the people in these books are colored oddly and are sometimes faceless. Sometimes toeless too. As he's reading, Brian never fails to add adjectives to the narrative where he deems appropriate. "And Jesus laid his hands on the orange children" or "the previously five-fingered but now four-fingered man got off his donkey" or (my personal favorite) "the permed angel from the 1980s came to Mary." I grew up on these books and never noticed the uniqueness of the pictures until Brian started adding their weirdness to the storyline. They are strange.

Some of the creative artistry in Ray's books. This is the story of blind Bartimaeus.

So in these books Jonah is swallowed by a prototypical cartoon whale. Not a whale that actually exists in real life, but the kind of whale always used to depict the benevolent monster that swallowed Jonah. This nonexistent creature looks to be a mix between a blue whale, a humpback, and a sperm: giant square head, blue body, striped white belly. It's just the thing for swallowing men whole, but it doesn't actually exist. So what swallowed Jonah and what in the world was it like to live that? 

Whenever I dwell on the story I put myself in Jonah's place. I'm fairly certain I would have perished inside the fish the first day, nevermind being stuck in there for three days. But Jonah didn't. He made other mistakes, and many of them, but he didn't doubt God's presence when he was lounging in digestive liquid. I habitually doubt that the circumstances I find myself in are actually strange solutions provided by God, rather than another notch in the "things going wrong" belt. In Ray's book they end each story with a lesson. For Jonah's story, the wrap-up lesson is that God knew just what Jonah needed and provided it. Really? He needed to get swallowed by a huge fish?? But in looking at the small glimpse we're given of Jonah and his personality I think, "If ever there was a guy that needed to be swallowed by a fish, it's Jonah!" God is consistently giving us what we need, but I often miss it for what I think is a justifiable pity party in the face of "bad" circumstances.

Last night the power went out. This is always frustrating, no matter what time of day or night. When it happens at night, we know as soon as it goes out that if it doesn't come back on within 30 minutes Ray will wake up screaming. Then she fights going back to sleep once the power does finally return. It's a long, sleep-depriving process that doesn't go over well at 3 in the morning. A few months ago I switched the kind of malaria prophylaxis I take. The new pill brings with it lots of vivid, unpleasant dreams. Last night I had a series of about five dreams that were disturbing enough to keep me from getting quality sleep. The power went out three different times; each time allowed me an opportunity to escape the dreams and collect myself. Ray only woke up once, just to cry out briefly; a small baby curse to the electric company's powers that be and then back to sleep. I'm still tired today, but who knows how many other disturbing dreams I would have endured had my sleep not been interrupted by the still darkness? Normally I would choose to place both of those events, the power outages and the dreams, into the same bad category and simply say it was a bad night. Jonah must have thought that both the storm and the fish were equally unfortunate at some point in his experience. But eventually he chose to see them as God's provision for his true needs. I hate power outages, but perhaps last night they were just the fish to swallow me.

Clouds

I've been hoping to avoid the inevitable forever. Hoping I would be special enough or strong enough or happy enough to never feel it. The pull of America. The distaste for PNG. The general discontent that eventually happens to people living away from their home country. My discontent exploded on me when I wasn't aware it was lurking and wasn't prepared to ward it off. It came in the form of a loving mother and grandmother. She brought with her the essence of America and all it means to me right now. Comfortable homes, delightful summer trips, yummy food, and family connections. All the devil had to do was put one little seed in my heart. One little tug and my whole happy world unravelled. 

I started asking hard questions about why we're here and coming up with flimsy answers. Not because the ironclad answers don't exist, but because my flaky heart can't see them right now. As I wallowed in my dark cloud of "why is my life here and not there" Brian encouraged me to take these moments to write out the things I love about PNG. To remind myself of our happy reality, partially as a practical exercise and partially to derail my thoughts from obsessing about a fake life in the US. If I'm thinking hard about the good things of this home I can't think about the longed for things of that home. Here's my list so far:

1.   The imported New Zealand cheese here is infinitely better than comparable cheese in the States.

2.   The pineapple is sweet, juicy, and readily available for anywhere from $1-$3. Economical yum.

3.   I love kaukau (perfect mix of potato and sweet potato) in various forms and have zero access to it in the US.

4.   I have a home here.

5.   I have work here.

6.   Ray will grow up knowing that the world around her isn't always physically comfortable. And she'll just deal. 

7.   Ray will grow up knowing more than one language.

8.   Ray will grow up knowing that in order to eat chicken and pig, you must first kill the said chicken or pig. She'll be tougher for it.

9.   We hear outside noises 24/7 since the house is never closed.

10. We smell outside smells 24/7 since the house is never closed.

11. I'm inside God's will and residence.

You'll notice that many of the items on the list are pretty shallow. It's the best I can do right now, and I'm trying to be patient with myself because I know that this inevitability, the disenchantment with exotic PNG, will be followed by another inevitability: true acceptance of my life here. God will bring me there.

As I struggle through this phase, He's already sent assurance of His watchfulness on my heart. I've been reading through a book by David Crowder called Praise Habit, which has not directly spoken to anything occurring in my life until last night. In his rumination of Psalm 84 (the psalm that includes the well known "better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere") he says:

We have not been promised palatial housing, but we have been promised His presence. We often find ourselves in spaces that seem the last spot on earth we would have picked to insert ourselves, engaged in things we never imagined ourselves having to do, but we can know this comfort: that wherever we are, we are in the very residence of God and this is sweeter and greater than anywhere without Him. We carry His residence into these spaces. Perhaps we're on our hands and knees with sponge and soap because someone has just made a mess of things or maybe we've just noticed that most places we inhabit are in need of cleaning. Living praise often leads us close to the ground. To dirt. It often leads to industry that is unglamorous and unromantic. It often leads to sweat and toil and lonesome valleys. But around the bend are cool springs. These moments are holy because we know that wherever we find ourselves we are in the very house of God. And there is space and comfort here exceeding anything offered elsewhere. Even if it leads us to dark places on our hands and knees, it is sweeter than lying on a beach in Greece because the sunshine of our Maker's presence is brighter and stronger than a thousand stars, and it reaches to wherever we are.

It was just the reminder I needed to help pull my thoughts out of the swirling clouds of discontent. And I added number 11 to my list.