Our morning started out with an unexpected guest…

And since no one can quite narrate such a scene as well as Jacqui… a video clip for your enjoyment…

These are literally the very first moments of our morning. I was yanked awake by a little girl shouting, “Mommmmmm!! Comere quickly!! Dair’s dis most ‘mazing super-ize in da backyard dat I’ve never seen before!” And then she shoved the camera in my hand while tugging me upright, “Here! You’ll probly need dis!”

As you can tell in the clip, Jacqui is a morning person. Me? Not so much. I was still waking up and not yet ready to meet her inevitable onslaught of chatter with the enthusiasm it deserved. And to be fair, possums are not exactly on my ‘Top Ten’ list of things to be excited about in the morning. Or even on my list of things to be excited about ever. Jacqui now claims she is no longer interested in having a hamster for a pet (as she had previously informed us yesterday). She states that “a possum would make a very more clebber pet, don’t you think?” Hmmmm… clever? Perhaps. Conceivable? No.

Note: You will not be able to see the video if you are viewing this post through a reader. It might take a few moments for the video to load and buffer after pressing the play button, so be patient.

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Look! Dair’s Bagheera! He’s a kinda wild kitty, huh?

Look! Look at dat basket! Know what’s innit? A baby! Idn’t dat silly?

Lissen what dat baby says… why’s he say “Ahhhhh?” Does he fink Bagheera’s a dentist?

What kinda kitty is Bagheera?

Is dat da kinda kitty dat sleeps all day and wakes up all night?

Dat means he’s nocky-turdle, huh? (nocturnal)

Why’d he bump dat baby basket and make da baby cry? He’s not posed to do dat, huh?

Dat’s da mommy wolf, huh?

Look! Look at doze little baby wolfs waggin’ dair tails? Aren’t dey so very precious?

Look! Look, Mom! Da wolfs are all growed up wif Mowgli now!

Dat sure was fast, huh?

Dey’re sclurpin’ Mowgli wif slobbery kisses! Idn’t dat silly?

Boy, dey’re reely not shy, aren’t dey?

Dis is too loud now. TOO LOUD!! Let’s turn it down! Dat’s bedder.

Wat’s a ‘man billage’ (village)

Do only mans lib dair, or do girls lib dair too?

Why is Mowgli wearin’ a orange diaper? He’s not a baby!

Wow, dey’re reely high up in dat tree, aren’t dey?

Look! Dair’s Kaa! He’s a slipperdy snake. Look at his loopidy eyes!

Look at my eyes… are dey loopidy too wen I do dis?

Kaa is noddy, right?

Why’s he squishin’ Mowgli?

Look! Look wat he’s doin’ wif his eyes!

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Look wat he’s goin’ ta do… Keep your eye on ‘im! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Wadn’t dat funny wif da knot in his tail? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why you not laughin’?

Jungle’s are dangerous, huh?

A jungle ‘venture is fraught wif danger! Dat’s wat Rabbit says on da Heffalump Movie.

Wat’s fraught mean?

Now. Ask me again why it is that we never go to the movies?

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Artist Unknown

First, Let me explain the reason for this post… and it’s going to be a long one, so hang on… or run the other way, whichever suits you…

For some reason that I fail to comprehend, I have been the recent recipient of a barrage of emails and comments that have basically attacked my integrity as a Christian for celebrating Easter. Yes, you heard that right… for celebrating Easter. The gist of the comments have basically been variations on a theme: That Easter was originally a pagan holiday that the Christians commandeered and I must be either ignorant, immoral or a flat out fraud if I choose to celebrate Easter. I have a number of problems with this assumption.

If you have been reading my blog for any length of time, you have probably become aware of the fact that I am a Christian. Before I continue any further, I would just like to acknowledge for a moment that many people who read this blog are not Christians. I want you to know that you are welcome here. That I respect and value you as readers and that this post is in no way intended to be a sermon or an attempt to force-feed anyone my theology. So, please do not feel in anyway obligated to read this post… or any of my posts for that matter (grin).

At my blog, I do not often delve deep into the hows and whys of Christianity. My posts that speak to topics of personal faith tend to be more reflective in nature… things I have learned about myself, about my own faith. I blog pretty much how I live my life. What I believe is just a part of who I am. It just naturally comes out here and there as I chatter away, but I’ve never been the sort of person who could put together a post, or an everyday conversation for that matter, for the express purpose of Christian instruction … or discipleship (one notable exception being discussions with members of my own family).

So I was somewhat confused as to why people I didn’t even know, and had never spoken to or interacted with on any level, suddenly felt obligated to come here and share with me their opinion that I am an ignorant, immoral fraud. I haven’t until now even posted anything about Easter. And I’m not the sort who harasses other individuals over what they believe. If you’re an atheist or agnostic or member of a religion entirely different from mine, I’m not going to come hassle you about it. If you want to write on your blog that you believe the Easter bunny is an alien savior from another planet or that you prefer to dance around a maypole completely bereft of clothing by the light of the spring solstice moon, that is your prerogative. I’ll likely not be spending much time at your place if you fall into the latter two categories, but I’m not going to give you a hard time about it. And I expect the same courtesy here.

Lest I be misunderstood, by saying that people are free to do as they please, I am not intending to imply that I do not believe that some activities are morally bankrupt. I believe in standing up for what is right, and for living a life in harmony with what I say I believe. I just don’t believe it is my job to go and push the world’s face into the carpet and rub it’s nose in the mess it has made. I have messes of my own to attend to which keep me humble in my striving to live a Christ-like life. What I am saying is that those of us who call ourselves Christians, if we spent less time bickering amongst ourselves and pointing fingers and put half as much effort into living lives worthy of being called Christian, then perhaps more of the world would be inspired to do likewise.

So now, on to those pressing questions: Why do I celebrate Easter? Don’t I know Easter has it’s roots in a pagan holiday? Why don’t I celebrate Passover instead? Wouldn’t that make more sense? (I have paraphrased the questions for the sake of polite conversation) Here’s my answer… and it applies to any Christian holiday that I celebrate that may be believed to coincide with pagan festivities:

Why do I celebrate Easter?

I celebrate Easter because in my culture, it is the day we as Christians set aside to remember, give thanks, and celebrate the resurrection of Christ. I celebrate the resurrection of Christ because I believe Jesus is who he said he was: The son of God, who loved me so much that he died in my place, and that he was resurrected. He died so that I might live and because He now lives, He makes an eternity in heaven attainable for me through his grace. For me and for my family that is worth remembering, worth being thankful for, worth celebrating.

Don’t I know Easter has it’s roots in a pagan holiday?

I have heard this, yes. I have heard the same thing said about Christmas. In a recent conversation with my father-in-law on the topic, a pastor by the way, he made a very good point: Virtually any holy day that one could pick off the calendar is has likely been celebrated by some pagan group at some point in time. That for everything holy, there is a counterfeit. That while the word Easter does have pagan roots, that is true that “easter” is really “ishtar” one of the pagan gods and that tammuz her son is a resurrection figure, the celebration of the resurrection of Christ is most assuredly not a pagan practice. He went on to say, “I refuse to stop celebrating the resurrection of Christ simply because some pagan has counterfeited what God has done. I refuse to stop reveling over Christ’s resurrection because someone chooses to confuse ishtar with Christ. If we stop doing things because someone else has corrupted it or has counterfeited it then we might as well pack up and go into hiding.” A wise man, my father-in-law.

While I do have a problem with shifting the focus of Easter onto the Easter Bunny, I do not have any personal spiritual conflicts with the observance of Easter as the fulfilled promise of the resurrection of Christ, no matter where it falls on the calendar, and no matter what the pagans are celebrating at any point in time, past present or future.

“One man esteems one day above another: another esteems every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. He that regards the day, regards it unto the Lord; and he that regards not the day, to the Lord he does not regard it. He that eats, eats to the Lord, for he gives God thanks; and he that eats not, to the Lord he eats not, and gives God thanks” (Rom. 14:5-6)

I also teach my children about what the world believes. They know about the Easter Bunny, about Santa Claus. And they know they aren’t real. Around Easter time, they eat jellybeans and chocolate Easter bunnies, so long as they are gluten-free. And I don’t believe for a minute they are going to grow up and become converts to the worship of ishtar or any other pagan god or goddess because of it. They are jellybeans and chocolate nothing more. Do we really need to look for and see perversion in the innocent joys of childhood? At our house we don’t find it a necessity.

My father-in-law is quotable on this topic as well… “I can remember coloring eggs when I was a little boy. It happened at “Easter.” But not once did it ever provoke me to diminish my wonder over the resurrection of Christ. Call it compartmentalization, call it what you will, but to the pure all things are pure. To the impure of conscience everything is defiled. My counsel has been that if you can’t celebrate the wonder of Christ’s resurrection without these accouterments then you are in trouble spiritually. But I refuse to give up hot cross buns because some misguided soul equates them with some pagan ritual. They are flour, water, salt, and some other things that make them good to eat. And I can eat them freely without having one idolatrous thought.”

Amen, Dad.

Why don’t I celebrate Passover instead? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

Long story short, as a Christian I believe Easter (Or Resurrection Sunday, if you prefer) is a completion of the Passover ceremony. I have deep respect for the Jewish faith, for the Passover and all that it stands for. I have observed Passover with Jewish friends, and you will not find me saying a word against anyone observing Passover. However, as a Christian, I believe Jesus to be the fulfillment of the promise and prophecy contained within the Passover ceremony, and it is much more meaningful to me to celebrate the resurrection of Christ.

So. That is what I believe, and why I celebrate as I do. I hope this clears matters up for those of you drive-by types who have felt compelled to share your ‘wisdom’ with me.

Happy Easter!

Please Note: This was not written as an open invitation to debate this subject. It is a statement of what I believe personally and nothing more. You are welcome to leave comments on this post and to ask questions, and I will do my best to answer any questions of the reasonable and intelligent variety. However, I will be removing comments that are of inflammatory intent or seek to debate this topic. That is not the purpose of this post. There are plenty of other places on the internet to debate topic in the most detailed and heated manner you may choose. This is not one of them.

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Note to my readers: This is an introspective post, and will most likely be dreadfully dull. I am writing this for my own therapy and I have no idea how it is going to turn out. I’m not always Pollyanna smiles, puppies and rainbows… I have down days too. I know a lot of folks who read this blog are going through some very tough things in the form of medical and other challenges, and I just don’t want anyone to be misled by the perception that I always ‘have it together.’ I don’t. Just like anyone, I have days where I hit the limits of what I can endure with a grin. Today was one of them. If you are just not up for this sort of thing, then click on my ‘Laugh’ menu button, find something amusing to read, and pretend you never saw this. I promise this is a temporary funk and I will figure out how to pull myself out of it eventually, so don’t wander too far…

Ever have one of those days where you just know you’re walking a tightrope? You know… the kind where one itty bitty little thing, no matter how stupid, is going to just pitch you toppling through space. That was me. Today. And I know when it comes down to it I have much more to be grateful for than to whimper about, but today I whimpered. Ok, I bawled my head off. I was a lip-quivering sniffling mess — and not just in the privacy of my own home. Oh no. That would be too tidy. Nope, I crumbled to sand in our church nursery and there was nothing I could do about it.

Actually, sand is a bad analogy. Unless it was soggy sand. Silt maybe. Guess I didn’t really crumble either. I deliquesced. Deliquesced into silt. What? Don’t look at me like that… sounds better than ’shlumped into sludge’. Well, it does to me anyway. Eight years of extreme challenges in our life, and you would think I would have been able to hold it together until we got home, but no. Not today. Today I fell to pieces. In public.

And I felt that panic again… Like I was going to drown in dry air if I didn’t get away from the faces. Watching. Assessing. Wanting to help me but not knowing how. I couldn’t have told them how if they had asked. Because I couldn’t even help myself. Except by running. So I ran. Home. Kyle and I. We ran home and I cried.

This morning started so well… so full of potential. I had been planning since Friday. I ironed clothes, packed the diaper bag, found shoes. I made dinner ahead for Saturday evening since I would be working all day. I came home Saturday after a ten hour shift and fed and bathed children. Got them to bed on time, stories read, lullabies sung. I pretended like it would work. Told myself that if I just planned well enough, we would be fine. After five years, we would finally be able to go to Sunday school again. The first time since Jacqui had been born.

We were five minutes late. No matter what I do, how I plan, set the clocks… we’re always five minutes late. It drives me crazy, because before children, I was the sort who was always ten minutes early. But being late wasn’t what did it. I was still OK. I took Jacqui to her class… she was so excited! And I verified that no snacks would be served… so far so good. Then we went to drop Kyle off in the nursery. Something I have avoided for a host of reasons. Most of them ones I never talk about. Because if I don’t talk about them, I can pretend they aren’t real. If I don’t name them, they don’t exist. Nothingness. A wind in the door.

But ‘Let’s Pretend’ doesn’t always work in public. And today it didn’t. Not a bit.

I set Kyle down and put the diaper bag on the shelf. Kyle sat down to play as I signed him in and checked out a pager. I started to sign out the number… 13. I’m really not superstitious, but I switched it for one numbered 18. Just because. Kyle noticed I was leaving and started to howl. “He’ll be fine,” I tried to tell myself, “Just fine”. But my stomach knotted, telling me a different story… whispering to me words of sanity, “Yes, but maybe he won’t…” So I went back in and distracted him with a toy before slipping out again. At least chances were better now. I hesitated a moment… wondering if I should turn back and launch into a warning with it’s accompanying explanation. Would it be making too big of a deal of it? Or would it be best just to let it go? Say nothing… no one ever really believed it unless they saw it anyway. I stood there a few more moments, waffling with indecision and then quietly left.

I met up with Ken in the adult class. There were two seats left. Up front. As I slid back into my metal folding chair, I felt it. The buzz of my pager. I felt ill. I rushed back down the stairs to the nursery… and there it was. The answer to five years of the question, “But, why not?”. There stood my precious screaming son and the dear lady staffing the nursery, our friend. Covered in puke. Literally covered. Both of them. Head to toe. I’ve seen five years of it, and I still can’t comprehend how that much puke can come out of such a teeny little person. Kyle’s vest, shirt, and pants were drenched. They dripped as I pulled them off, answering my friend’s query as to whether I had a change of clothes for him in the negative.

You’re shocked that I forgot a change of clothes? Well don’t be. I didn’t forget. I left them at home. Deliberately. Willing it not to happen. Knowing if it did, that I would long for a reason to flee to the sanctuary of home.

I cleaned him up as I apologized. I hadn’t thought about him throwing up on her. I guess because Ken and I have become so adept at dodging, that we rarely get caught in the line of fire. And now I felt awful. Not just for my child, but for her — kindly and calmly assuring me that she was just fine as she stood there coated in my child’s puke. I offered to staff the nursery while she went home and changed. She was so gracious, said that her husband could come down and watch the children for her, that it was no big deal. Maybe Kyle just had the flu she suggested. Oh, if only. I asked her if he had been eating anything, had he gagged? No. Had he been crying hard? Well, yes… but he had already calmed down by the time he had thrown up. I could see it puzzled her, but it didn’t puzzle me. It was classic Jacqui and Kyle. Work yourself up crying, then the minute you’ve calmed down, puke till your shoes come up. In Kyle’s defense, he’s tame compared to Jacqui’s infant puke prowess… she was ten times worse. At a minimum.

My friend continued to express concern that Kyle was sick, that it wasn’t just a normal spit-up. And she was right it wasn’t. Not normal, but at our house, commonplace. And so I explained. Just a little. And with the explanation came the tears. The ones I stuff down. The ones I shove into that black space of vacuity somewhere within myself where I shove such things. Things which daily threaten to deprive me of my last shreds of sanity. Out came those tears in a threatening trickle. Nails dug deep into damp palms. A tourniquet to the torrent.

And then came the sympathetic hug. I loved her for it, but it was my undoing. I liquefied as I rushed to stuff the diaper bag full of sodden clothes and Kyle into borrowed ones. And then I ran. Cradled my darling, rancid baby in my arms and ran. Pulled into our driveway, stepped out onto the walk in my black, budget-buy heels and ran. Locked the door, shedding diaper bag and shoes, pointed my body up the stairwell and ran. Turned the corner, holding Kyle tightly as tears began falling in great, weighty drops, faced down the hall and ran.

And then I sat. Crushing him to me at the foot of the crib where countless tears had already been shed, I cried some more. For so many reasons. For confusion amidst my tumultuous thoughts. For frustration with myself over not being able to keep it together. For panic over being caught emotionally vulnerable. For disgust at my weakness, or perhaps my vanity, causing me to even care about such trivial nonsense. For the teeniest bit of resentment that so much of my life revolves around the management of puke and poo. For guilt over that sliver of resentment. For longing for my children to be healthy. For injustices of all that they have had to endure. For my fears for Kyle as I run out of time that I can rationally agree with physicians that his problem will resolve on it’s own. For disillusionment of my admittedly ridiculous determination to parent Kyle completely through childhood and adolescence medically unscathed. For despair of the equally ridiculous hope that I will one day be able to enter a room without smelling like rancid dairy products. For exhaustion. For emptiness. For defeat. For feelings of failure. Failure as a parent, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. For failing to be able to be there for anybody except my family. For the times I’ve failed at even that. For failing to live up to my full potential. Failing to allow those in my care to reach theirs because I haven’t lived up to mine. For the feeling that somehow, this morning happened because I miscalculated somewhere… missed something. Failed.

I had my cry and I chose to not be defeated by panic and fear. I cleaned Kyle up, re-fed him, and put him in a new set of his own clean clothes. I accepted reality and stuffed a spare set into the diaper bag. I washed my face and re-touched my make-up, despairing at my reddened nose and watery eyes. I folded the loaned set of clothes, picked them up and then walked Kyle back to the car and drove my escape route in reverse. I walked back into church. Walked back to the nursery and returned the loaned clothes. Walked back up the stairs to the balcony listening to the sounds of the service that had already started. Walked with my family to the back row of the balcony, where we always sit out of necessity and spent a few fleeting moments together before Kyle started to fuss. Then I walked with Kyle to the Cry Room, a room designed to allow mothers to listen to the service while wrangling fussy infants, and we sat. And I laughed. I laughed as I cried. A pathetic, watery laugh over the irony that here we were in the infant Cry Room, and I was the one crying. Silly, I know.

And now we’re home again. The washing machine faithfully keeping up it’s five year vigil. So now what? Well, I guess now I’m going to piece this mess I have made of myself back together so I can do it all again tomorrow. Hopefully with a better attitude. Might as well give that a try since I’m beginning to annoy myself with this whole crying gig. Takes to much energy anyway. Energy that I really don’t have to waste on such nonsense.

I have the kids in bed for the night and I sent Ken out to watch a movie so he could have some recuperative alone time instead of having to sit here watching me unravel and then knit myself back together. Doesn’t do either one of us any good. I can always see the relief in his face (an expression that always makes me chuckle) when I openly acknowledge that I am non compos mentis and then send him on a mission to stay out of my path until I can claw my way back to a more rational level of existence. So he has gratefully vacated the premises. And I have ordered my thoughts. I believe that a nice hot bath is now in order as I hear the heavy whispers of sleepy breaths over the kiddo’s monitors. And after that… a well worn volume penned by L.M. Montgomery has been awaiting my undivided attention. It’s been ages since my last visit she is an old friend who never fails to disappoint. I am determined to end the day on a positive note and I know she’s a guarantee.

Update: Five chapters into The Blue Castle, Ken returned with a dozen red roses and whispered in my ear that I’m not failing, I’m fabulous. I love that man. Even though I’m quite certain he said it primarily because I didn’t block the emergency exits during my ‘Mommy Meltdown’…

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While Christmas shopping at the mall, Jacqui saw Santa sitting in his big velvet chair, chatting with children about Christmas wishes. We don’t make a big deal of Santa at our house, so I was a little surprised when Jacqui stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, “Mommmmmmmm! I muss go see Santa! I needta tell him somefing very ‘portant!”

“Are you sure?” I asked, eying the length of the line.

She placed a hand on a hip and crinkled her eyebrows, “Course I’m sure! I woon’ta said anyfing if I wasn’t!”

Well OK then. Off to the end of the line we went. As we waited, Jacqui wiggled about in anticipation like a Christmas puppy. “Is he da reely reel Santa?”

“What do you think?” I had answered variations of this question many times, but for some reason, Jacqui just loves to ask questions that she already knows the answer to. I’ve tried to interest her in other hobbies, but no. This one suits her just fine, thank you.

“I fink he’s jess preten an’ da reely reel Santa was Santy Nickles and was very nice to little boys an’ girls a reely long time ago. He’s probly in hebben now.”

“Why do you want to talk to a pretend Santa then?”

“Moooooommmm!! Dats more fun ’bout it! It’s jess fun to play preten, Mom. You telled me dat it’s good to maj-inate fings, ‘member?”

“Yes, so I did.”

Ken and I really struggled with what to do with the whole Santa thing. We basically decided to not make an issue of it and keep the focus of Christmas on Jesus where we believe it should be. Jacqui, however, is not easily put off by such things. She likes to ask question after question in ever increasing detail and somehow we just couldn’t bring ourselves to answer her inquisitiveness with “Why of course he’s real!” Instead, we told her the real story of St. Nicholas and explained why people like to remember the kind things that he did. It seemed to satisfy her curiosity and she deftly categorized the whole ‘Santa bringing presents’ issue as a fun and elaborate game of make-believe. I have no idea if we did the right thing here, because honestly, we are just making up most of this parenting stuff as we go along!

The line crept along and Jacqui became exponentially more excited until at last it was her turn and she bounded up into the unsuspecting mall Santa’s lap.

“What do you want for Christmas, little girl”

“Wot’s my name?”

“Ho, Ho, Ho! Why don’t you tell it to me?”

“If you’re da reely reel Santa you should know my name.”

Poor Santa didn’t look so good.

Jacqui arched an eyebrow and looked suspiciously at his whiskers. Fortunately for him we had already discussed that the pretend Santa’s beard was very real and she should not bother him about it, nor should she under any circumstances tug on it to see if it would come off. I prayed like crazy for the moment to pass without a major incident. Jacqui tilted her head back the other direction as she evaluated him. Finally she said, “My name’s Jacqui. You know how to spell it?”

Santa sat there looking like a stun-gun victim.

“J-A-C-Q-U-I. Dat’s howya spell Jacqui. Dat’s me.”

Santa coughed. “Well Jacqui, what would you like for Christmas?”

“Jacqui clapped her hands and giggled. She then began chattering at 120 miles an hour… “For Christmas I would like allotta fings! A Dizz-inny Princess Talkin’ Vannerty (vanity), A pink Fur-Berry, Da Fur-Real Pony, Dizz-inny Princess Dress-Up stuff, and A Real Lovin’ Baby… Are you writin’ dis down?? You’re jess a preten Santa so you shood mebbe write fings down so you don’t fergit dem. You do hab very nice white gloves though, I like ‘em a lot! Mommy an’ Daddy need toys for Christmas too an’ I will help dem play wif ‘em, OK? And don’t bring me a purple yo-yo. Dat’s Daddy’s job, not you. Now I needta tell you what Kyle wants for Christmas ’cause he’s too little to tell ‘ya…”

The poor pretend Santa sat there valiantly fighting off the impending migraine while contemplating the meagerness of his paycheck. Finally, Jacqui released her velvet and ermine-clad captive and bounced down from his much-relieved lap while calling over her shoulder, “Don’t fergit… No purple yo-yo’s! Dat’s Daddy’s job.”

The pretend Santa smiled and waved and motioned to one of his elves. Probably to schedule a pretend Santa break from all things pertaining to the North Pole.

I looked down at Jacqui and she was grinning ear to ear and skipping along with one hand in mine.

“Did you tell him the very important thing that you needed to?”

“Oh, yes! I telled him! Dat was fun Mommy! He’s not so very good at pretenning as me.”

Huh. I was completely stumped as to what had just happened and why. “So what did you tell him that was so important?”

She looked up at me with sparkles in her eyes and laughed, “Oh, I jess needed to tell him not to bring me a purple yo-yo for Christmas in case he was still pretennen’ to be Santa on Christmas cause it would hurt Daddy’s feelin’s if da preten Santa brought me Daddy’s present. Daddy said he would get me a yo-yo for Christmas an’ teeched me to do da yo-yo tricks!”

“So then why did you tell him all the other stuff if you knew he was just a pretend Santa?”

“Moooommm!! I all-reddy telled you! It’s jess fun to play preten an’ I’m a very good maj-inator. Dat’s more fun about it if you maj-inate fings.” And she grinned and gave another skip as she dove towards Ken through the crowd. “Dad! Don’t worry! I telled dat Santa not to bring me a purple yo-yo!”

Ten minutes later when we walked by Santa’s chair once more, he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he went to go write things down… like maybe a list of phone numbers from the Help Wanted ads…

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