The Battle on Burrito Hill

By Stefan via CC

By Stefan via CC

Late afternoons and early evenings on Sundays are fraught at best at our house.  We’ve all been together for 48 hours straight and are pretty darn tired of each other.  This Sunday was no different. Little Miss was Mega Cranky due to her failure to take a nap.  Rex was hyper from having spent a good hour and a half at our neighbor’s house playing with their different far cooler toys and three boys.  He was not pleased to be told that it was time to come home.

While I was giving Little Miss her nightcap bottle, Mr. X was finishing up dinner with Rex.  I heard the usual chatter and occasional falsetto singing that Rex swears is really him making the sound of a siren.  And then I heard the Whining Wail, unleashed by Rex in response to a fairly reasonable request that for whatever reason just rubs him the wrong way because he’s 3 1/2 and everything is drama.  I knew then that Daddy had drawn a line in the sand on the very hill that Rex had chosen to die on.  Turns out it was Burrito Hill.

I asked Little Miss what could have possibly caused the conflict. She had no opinion, she was busy sucking away on her bottle.  So, I took her with me into the kitchen and there was Rex in his booster seat, tears streaming down his adorable cheeks and Mr. X sitting across the table from him.  

Mr. X had made the very reasonable request that Rex finish his burrito before he could have his two requisite pieces of Halloween candy.  Rex, eyes solely on the prize, did not like the idea of having to eat any more of his burrito.  Given the limited logic skills of a 3 1/2 year old, he and Mr. X continued to have the same argument over and over again.

“I want my treaaaaaaaaaaaatts!” wailed Rex.

“You can have your treats after you finish your burrito. You have maybe 5 bites left.” said Mr. X.

“But, I want my treaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaats!” wailed Rex even louder.

“Like I said, you can have your treats after you finish your burrito.” said Mr. X.

And around and around the merry-go-round they went. We’ve lived with a 3 year old long enough now to know that it is completely normal for him to spend more time moaning, crying and wailing about doing something in order to get a treat instead of actually doing the thing. We also know that he is extremely stubborn and persistent in getting what he wants, despite the “obstacles” that we put up in his way.

I left them to their sparring knowing that I couldn’t help the situation and they had to work it out. Sure enough, Rex ate enough of his burrito that Mr. X gave him one piece of his candy. The Battle of Burrito Hill ended with a whimper and Snickers, not a bang.  

Crazy? Bring It.

I’m wondering if I’ve subconsciously decided that I need to have absolute crazy going on in my life which would explain why on top of rearing two children, working and husbanding along the husband, I am now involved in moving house. Again. In less than one year.

I would say that the arrival of Sweetpea showed us the glaring problems with our current living situation and spurred us on to move to the town that I currently work in and where Rex’s school is located.  Currently, Rex and I (and soon Sweetpea) travel 45 minutes in one direction door-to-door to get him to school and it is grating on us both.  While it means that Mr. X has a much longer commute, the kiddos and I will be minutes away from the places we all spend our days in.  Plus, we’ll be in arguably the best school district in the state from elementary all the way to high school.  Excellent free education is a definite necessity for us.

But, there is that little matter of packing, again. And moving, again. And unpacking, again. Plus, the house we’re buying is in great shape but has a really tragic front that will require some finessing to make it more palatable to our aesthetic snobbery.  So, while moving in will be a great leap forward, there will still be more drama down the line as we do some major renovation on the roof and outside.

Oh, and we’re of course going to be continuing to potty-train Rex and sleep-train Sweetpea (but not at the same time or in the same room, thank goodness).  And, we’ll continue to shepherd G through his golden years that have gradually included pooping accidents in the house.   I’m beginning to wonder what I will do with myself when there isn’t any drama going on.

All Linked Out

I’m a somewhat half-hearted member of Linkedin.  I say half-hearted because I have literally a dozen connections, two of which are with co-workers.  I haven’t used it to its full potential by any means.

Nan Palmero via Creative Commons

I recently got an invitation that I’m pretty certain will not help me realize LinkedIn’s full potential either.

It was from none other than Dr. Salsa.  My RE. The man whose face I gleefully peed in, who harvested my eggs twice, wanded me more than a TSA agent, and finally impregnated me.  That Dr. Salsa.

My first inclination was ah, no. No, not even with a cherry on top.  The man has seen my private parts way too many times for me to be able to accept his invitation without blushing.  He saw me at my most vulnerable, on multiple occasions.  He literally has a map of my uterus.  How can I possibly be publicly linked to him?

It took me a few days to realize that a) it’s very unlikely that anyone who sees that we are linked would assume that the only reason was because he was my doctor; but b) even if these facts weren’t advertised on Linkedin, I would know. I would know everytime that I saw that we were in the same network that the only reason I know him was because he helped me to get pregnant.  I’m not embarrassed by this – I tell people all the time that we had trouble conceiving Rex.  I just want to be able to have that conversation – or NOT – at my choosing, not because a prospective client sees that I am linked to an RE.   Would they necessarily assume that’s the only connection? No. There are several other legitimate reasons why I might be networked to Dr. Salsa, but there would always be that question in their minds.

I’m all for being friends and sharing, but as Nancy Regan taught me, I think I will just say no this time.


My Day of Reckoning

I knew this day would come.  It was only a matter of time.  It was when, not if.  I knew that I would have my day of reckoning and I would have to face my worst fear.  That day arrived recently, later than I thought it would, but still earlier than I would have liked.

See, Rex had a virus thingy that Kept. Coming. Back. bringing with it a pesky low grade fever that did not appear to bother him in the slightest but bothered day care because sick babies don’t belong at day care.  It was never a scary illness, it was the Virus du Jour making its rounds of all the kids and he managed to catch it.

It was this illness that brought me face to face with my greatest fear: staying home with Rex all day. By myself.  The panic that I felt welling up inside me that Thursday night when I took his temperature, watching that damn thermometer go up like  Chris Farley’s blood pressure rating, was similar to the feeling when I realized that I had hit a bicyclist with my car back in law school.  It was the panic that I felt when I realized that our first baby had died.  In other words, it was gut-wrenching, breath-sucking panic.  It made my teeth hurt.

How is it possible that I have never spent an entire day at home with my baby by  myself?  Well, even during maternity leave, I had someone there at least part of the time, either my mom or my mother in law or my wonderful friend.  And then, and now, he is in day care.  And, Mr. X is home on the weekends, so poof, all seven days of the week accounted for.

The day for me to face the fear had come.  And, all I could see stretching before me was the endless day of me holding a constant one-sided conversation with Rex or worse, listening to him cry before succumbing to a nap and then waiting on pins and needles for him to wake up.   What if he should get it in his head to be cranky? There would be no one there I could say, can you just let me have 5 minutes? And for that matter, what would I do with him all day?  When we first brought him home, I kept asking myself this question. What does one do with a newborn all day? The obvious answer now is feed him, change him and get him to sleep by whatever means necessary.  But, at the time, I was clueless.

Even now, it’s not the most intuitive thing for me to be at home with him.  He’s on a schedule now for feeding and napping, but during the other time, I look at him quizzically and ask, what should we do? And he looks right back at me and drools.  He’s as clueless as I am.  We end up in a cycle of playyard, jumperoo, throne, quilt on the floor with toys, (me) reading books to him while he tries to eat the books, going outside, taking a walk, etc., etc.  It makes me exhausted just thinking about it.

In the end, though I managed. Frankly, I managed pretty darn well.  Mr. X came home at lunch to relieve me for a little bit so I could go out and get us lunch.  Rex decided that naps were the new black and took two ginormous ones, one in the morning and one the afternoon.  And, I wasn’t exhausted at the end as I had thought I would be.  I was tired, to be sure, but not physically and emotionally drained as I had felt on prior occasions when I was the sole caretaker for more than a few hours.

I know now that some of my panic was in the not knowing: not knowing if I would be able to do it, not knowing when it was going to happen.  Just the sheer act of doing it and getting through it relatively unscathed has given me a great deal of confidence.  It has also reinforced what I’ve suspected for a long time: I am not cut out for being a stay at home mom.  Oh, do I salute you ladies who do it and do it well, day in and day out.  Give me a contract to review or a nasty letter to respond to any day.

Even though we had a good day together when he was home with me, the time that we have when he comes home from day care is that much more special.  I kiss his big cheeks within an inch of his life and he squeals in delight.  We’ve both had a good day, then.

photo: Vandelizer

The Root of My Evil

Dear Pfizer:

I am the poster child for better living through chemistry.  My OCD is controlled with Prozac, my child was conceived with the use of multiple injectible drugs, my pregnancy with him was made easier with Zantac and Flonase and he was delivered quite comfortably once I had a fabulous epidural.  So, I obviously have no problem with drugs.

What I do have a problem with, however, is your drug, Zoloft, which I went on because I was breastfeeding. Only now, after finishing up my course of it and switching back to my beloved Prozac do I realize just what a wretched drug Zoloft is for me.  Let me tell you what happened.

Four weeks post-partum, I began having stomach issues.  Constant, uncomfortable and rather embarrassing stomach issues.  They didn’t go away.

My head was surrounded by a giant fog that refused to lift. I’d sit down to read a book and wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

Also starting around the four week mark, there was not a day that went by that I didn’t think about suicide.  I envied dead people. I would think about what a release from the grind of it all it would be.  I would be able to sleep.  Finally and consistently sleep.  I wouldn’t have the anxiety and uncertainty of anticipating the needs of a newborn.  I fought it, though. I fought it hard. I reminded myself that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  I would look at my son and will myself to hold on for another day on the promise that it would get better.  I reminded myself what a terrible impact it would have on him. I thought about how Mr. X would be alone and how much I would miss him.  I thought about how angry everyone would be with me for being selfish and taking the easy way out.  But, the thoughts were still there.

I finished the pills a week and a half ago.  Within days, the stomach issues improved, the thoughts began to go away and the fog lifted.  I began to feel like myself again.

The only conclusion that I can reach is that your drug screwed up my digestive system, put me in a fog and made me want to kill myself. Way to go.


Mrs. X.

image: K’vitsh

Same As It Never Was

Ah, the joys of the postpartum body.

While I was pregnant, I didn’t give one rat’s ass of thought about what my body might be like after growing a little human and then evicting him, at the whopping size of 8lbs 5oz and over a foot and a half long through the in-door.  I knew that the tummy area might be a little jiggly for a while and I figured it would take some time for the weight that I had so thoughtfully and doggedly put on to support the little human to come off.  So it’s no surprise that the tummy is not it’s former flat self or that the hips and booty are a little more generous making my favorite jeans rather explicit when wrestled on.

I was still surprised when I surveyed my landscape, though, to notice that my boobs, not the largest to start with, had actually shrunk.  Yes, shrunk.  They have been inflated and deflated so many times through pregnancy and nursing that it’s a wonder they are still on the top half of my body, but it was still a shock to put on a bra from my previous life and see how much room there was.  Mr. X doesn’t seem to mind, but still.  I still also have those tattoos of pregnancy; my linea nigra hasn’t disappeared nor have some freckles on the mid-section that cannot thank the sunshine for their existence.

The biggest shocks however have come from the inside.  I don’t care that my OB advised that Mr. X and I could resume nookie six weeks post-partum.  We waited until 8 weeks and it hurt like a mofo for the first half and then I didn’t feel much of anything for the second half.  Common sense dictates that if you stretch something to the size of a cantaloupe, you should expect that it might take it a long time to get back to its normal size.  Common sense and I parted ways at about week 30 in my pregnancy and we have not made up since.  So, genuine shock and dismay followed. It’s getting better, at least on the tightening front, but it still hurts. A lot.

And then there is the weird problem: to put it simply, there’s trouble in my alimentary canal.  About four weeks postpartum, I started having bad digestive problems.  I’ve always had a sensitive stomach so I figured it was just something I ate. But, the problems didn’t go away.  They have been so persistent (going on six weeks now) that I have earned myself the Old People’s Test – a colonoscopy! If you ask me nicely, I might even post pictures.

To recap, the boobs are smaller, the tummy is lumpier, the sex is painful and I get to have a camera placed in the other location where the sun doesn’t shine because of continuing troubles down below.  But, Rex is almost on the verge of laughing and can put himself back to sleep in the middle of the night.  I think that’s a fair trade.

Certainly Uncertain

You would think that after five years of infertility I would be used to uncertainty.  In fact, I was used to uncertainty – uncertainty about whether or not we would have a child.  Once that was resolved, it didn’t occur to me that uncertainty would most certainly once again be part of my life.  Silly girl!

Of course, Rex is a constant source of uncertainty for me.  Each “wwwwwwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” raises the usual questions.  Is he tired? Hungry? Cold? Hot? Bored?  Not one to make it easy, he of course provides few to no clues as to the source of his angst and instead ramps up the crying as if to say, “Schnell, woman! My needs, they must be met! Now!”  If I’m really missing the clues and not responding correctly to his desires, he shrieks.  I seriously question sometimes the wisdom of evolution in making infants the most annoying at the time that they are most dependent upon their caregivers.

Then there are the questions about whether he eats too much, sleeps too little and gets enough tummy time, interaction, fresh air, SAT preparation, and Mozart (kidding on those last two, but not really).  I wonder when I should start trying to get him on a sleep schedule and whether it is a pipe dream to even hope that he might sleep for six hour stretches at night by the time he’s three months old.

Unfortunately, Rex does not corner the market on uncertainty in our lives right now.  Mr. X’s employer has seen to that.  The day after Mr. X went back to work after Rex was born, Big Company informed him that it was going to transfer him (and by extension, us) to a small city about four hours from here.  Away from family and Big Company’s fabulously awesome daycare center and our friends and a decent airport, etc.   I was shocked, but not surprised – we knew that this day would come and the location could have been a lot, lot worse (think town with a population of 2,000 people).  I came to terms with it and we started talking about when we would have to put the house on the market.

Then, they mixed it up – now the assignment was temporary to permanent meaning we couldn’t even sell our current house or buy a new house – we’d be in limbo for six months.  Hopefully, we can push back on this particular part of it because what’s the point of making it temporary to permanent if you know that it’s going to be permanent?! Just make it permanent from the outset and we’ll all be a lot happier.

As with all drama we’ve had in our lives in the past, we’ll get through this too.  But, that doesn’t mean I won’t complain till the cows come home about it.

No Swining

I don’t think I have ever had the flu, at least not in adulthood.  I get maybe two colds a year, both corresponding to sudden changes in temperature and that’s about it.  There was that nasty sinus infection on a five-flight bender back from Australia, but I blame recirculated cabin air on that one.  Even so, stories of raging flu viruses hunting like vampire bats for new victims just didn’t really impress me.  I figured that if I did manage to catch something I would be out for the count for a few days and then rejoin the living.

swine-flu-bacon-revengeAnd then I got pregnant just in time for the most exciting panic-inducing flu season in decades.  My timing as usual is perfection.

Almost immediately, I was told by various and assorted organizations with impressive sounding names that I had to get the H1N1 vaccine as soon as it was available.  Just because they said so, though, didn’t exactly make up my mind since I’m no longer just deciding for myself.  Someone else is going to be directly affected by my decision.  On the one hand, you have the stories of pregnant ladies dying at rates higher than their representation in the population from H1N1 or having severe complications including miscarriage.  On the other hand, you have the nagging little voice in your head arguing against introducing anything in your body other than what is already been obsessively thought through and approved.  Even my OB was initially skeptical about whether or not to get the vaccine.

But, this was back in September before the vaccine was even ready, so I figured I have some time to think about it.  Right around the time that the vaccine was supposed to become available, I decided that I was more worried about what swine flu could do to me or to Little B than I was about what the vaccine could do.  I decided to get the vaccine.

That was the hard part, right? Um, no. What turned out to be the hardest step was actually finding the damn vaccine.

Naive little me, though, I first called my maternal fetal medicine specialist and innocently asked if they had some H1N1 vaccine.  The answer: no.  Do you know when you’ll be getting some? No. Do you know who does have it? No.  Ok, I thought, I’ll just call the health department and see if they have any information.  I ended up speaking with the most clueless man ever, more no’s and not a few ‘um’s thrown in for good measure and I still had no answers.  I was beginning to get really annoyed now.  I’m in the highest priority group. I have the CDC and every major news outlet telling me that I. Must. Be. Vaccinated. NOW.  and yet, I was hitting the worst roadblock of them all – no one had the vaccine.

I asked my OB’s office if they knew where I could score and they were just as frustrated as I was.  I left with promises to let them know if I was able to get my hands on it and asked that they return the favor if need be.  I called my general practitioner. No dice.  I called the private run emergency clinics all around town and managed to get on a list of those waiting to be vaccinated with some vague promise of the future.

And, I finally resigned myself to waiting.  Waiting to either get the damn vaccine or get the damn flu.  I started avoiding anyone who coughed, especially children, and considered foregoing certain events that would have large groups of people. I made Mr. X paranoid enough that he was going to give it to me that he’s becoming a handwashing savant.  I should buy stock in hand sanitizer because I now have containers in my office, the kitchen, the car and my purse.

Then, this morning, a call.  The clinic where I had my name on the waiting list for the vaccine didn’t have it but one of their sister clinics (which was actually nearer to me) did.  I could have kissed that man through the phone.  I gathered myself and the belly and headed in search for my own little piece of vaccine.  I brought a book because I was expecting the Soviet-style line for precious commodities.  But, I arrived to a relatively empty parking lot and an even more empty waiting room.  I’m here for the H1N1 vaccine I said, and was told about the priority groups at which point I uncovered my secret weapon: the Belly! I had to fill out the requisite paperwork and swiftly was ushered back into a waiting room.  And, there it was – the Holy Grail I had been seeking for all these many weeks. After so much drama, it all came down to this tiny little room with a nurse who obviously did not appreciate the lengths I have gone to get this because she was rather unimpressed with the task that she had been given. 10 minutes from door to needle and I was done.

In the end, the denoument to my quest was anticlimactic, but I can now move on to the next worry.  I would now like to ask all major media outlets and government agencies to stop telling me that I need to get the vaccine. Been there, done that, got the sore arm.

Between Heaven and Hell

When we went for our nuchal translucency test a few weeks ago, the maternal fetal medicine specialist gave us several options for the blood test portion of the screening. We chose the sequential integrated test which would require blood work a few weeks after the initial scan to be able to get a more accurate result.  I went for that bloodwork on a Monday when I was 15w4d and was advised that we would have results by the end of that week.  The next day, we left for our long-planned vacation in the northeast.

Mira (on the wall)I wasn’t particularly concerned about the screening results.  The nuchal measurement was above the median, but still well below the 95th percentile and the initial bloodwork came back ‘normal’, although they didn’t give me a discussion of what normal meant.  I wasn’t going to press for it either since it was normal.

So, we enjoyed a few days in the Big Apple, seeing the sights, doing Broadway, and just being on vacation.  That Friday, we headed to the next portion of our trip – a cruise through New England.  We were giddy as newlyweds to get on the boat and enjoy the cruise.  First, of course, was the life boat drill that involved lovely dayglo orange life preservers and a demonstration of how to jump into the water if required.  We got back to our cabin and my cell phone was ringing.  It was the MFM with the results of our screening.  That’s where the nightmare began.

Our screening for Down Syndrome, aka Trisomy 21 was 1:20, meaning that there was a 5% chance of Downs, with all other results normal.  Unfortunately, it took several tries for me to understand what he was saying as the cell reception on a ship with tons of steel is not exactly ideal.  What was worse was that I had to go on the balcony to get any reception at all and so I was attempting to disguise the topic of conversation while also taking in what he was telling me.  Mr. X began to swear which frightened me more than what the doctor was telling me since he rarely ever swears out of anger.  He rarely gets angry period.

I was surprisingly calm as the doctor was doing his spiel.   I understood that it was not a final answer and I felt pretty certain that it would turn out just fine.  It was until he started throwing out the terms ‘terminate’ and ‘special needs’ that I began to really get worried.  It’s one thing to be told that you have a 5% chance that your unborn child has a chromosomal abnormality that could mean profound disability and quite another to be told that you can terminate the pregnancy you have worked for four years to bring to fruition or have a child who is labeled from birth as ‘special needs’.  In hindsight, I would have preferred him to simply leave it to what our options were for further testing rather than bringing up what to do in the event that the 5% chance came true.  That particular bell, however, could not be unrung.

So, there we are at the beginning of the cruise that we had been looking forward to as the ultimate escape and we are brought back to reality with one five minute phone call.  The first thing to do was to decide what further testing we wanted.  We both agreed at the time that we were not willing to undergo an amnio because the ultimate worst case scenario has always been having a perfectly normal baby that is miscarried due to a botched amnio.  The other options were an enhanced scan or do nothing.  We chose the enhanced scan which I called for and scheduled for a few days after our return.

Unfortunately, that was all that we could do at that point.  It was either stew or put it aside and go on with our cruise.  I am a stewer by nature and I was in fine stewing form after this.  Dinner was a blur as was conversation with our table mates. I could barely eat and wanted nothing more than to go back to our cabin and stare at a wall or Google.  I did neither, and had a terrible night’s sleep.  Everytime I fell asleep, I would wake up in terror at the thought of terminating if it came to that.

It wasn’t until the next night that matters came to a head and I was finally able to process all of the feelings that I had regarding the information we had not twenty-four hours earlier.  Mr. X and I were on our bed as we sailed away from our first port and I just started bawling.  I let it all out – my fears, my anxieties – and we talked it through.  We came to the conclusion that we needed to know and that there would be an end to this particular nightmare, even if it was not meant to be at that particular moment.  We talked about all of our options and what we would do if we had to make a decision.  Most of all, we talked about the 95% chance that everything was fine and that we would not let this ruin our vacation.  From that moment on, it did not.

We had a lovely trip and I was able to really enjoy myself.  For that, I am so proud and thankful and that is enough for me for now.

image: Mira (on the wall)

I Would Not Have Chosen Kenny G For This Moment

Ode to Joy, would have been more like it.  But, I’m getting ahead of myself.


This morning was pretty quiet on the southern front – just some brown, as I had been having from the day before.  I got to my desk and called BossMan (since I work from home) and informed him that I was planning to have a relatively normal day work wise and that was it. Silly girl.

Mr. X came home from work around 11:45 and we headed out for lunch.  We noshed, talked memories – specifically when I moved in with him after we were engaged – and headed home.  He dropped me off, I got the mail and went inside.

And then, I went to the bathroom. 

So, there was blood. Again. I was not as surprised since Dr. Salsa had informed us yesterday that this bleeding could last some time.  Then, I felt something literally fall out of me and I heard a giant plop.  I looked down and it was a huge bloody mass (think round, globular, like an egg yolk except about 5 times as big).  I was pretty convinced that I had just passed my baby. 

I will not begin to try to describe the emotions that I felt.  Suffice it to say, I was numb and shocked and everything else all at once.  You would think having gone through this twice would have prepared me, but no such luck. 

I did at least have the presence of mind to run to the kitchen, get a baggie and a spoon and fish  out the ‘specimen’.  When I got to it to the freezer, I had the Sophie’s choice of where to put it – on the ice cream? on the Omaha steaks? If I had been in any other situation, I probably would have found this hysterical.  But, not this time.

I called Dr. Salsa’s office and told them what I thought had happened.  I then called Mr. X and had him turn right around from driving to work and come home.  Dr. Salsa called back and told us to meet him at the office at 2.  We had an hour to wait to see him.  I cried with Mr. X – I mean I bawled.  I sent an email to my parents.  I needed all the support I could get.  And, I cycled through all of the plans that would likely need to be made.

Finally, we left to see Dr. Salsa with our precious cargo in a little white styrofoam container.  We didn’t speak on the 10 minute drive over. We had already said what needed to be said. Thankfully, there were no patients at the office and we were able to get into the room immediately.  I placed the styrofoam container on the desk and got undressed.  And, we waited.  For some unknown and frankly unfathomable reason, they had Kenny G piping through the speakers.


Dr. Salsa peeked at the specimen and said it actually looked like a clot. Funny, the thing was ginormous – easily the size of my fist – and I could have sworn I saw a little baby in it, but I thought I’ll let the man have his delusion. I know

In went the dildo cam and I mentally prepared myself to see a vacant uterus.  What I wasn’t prepared for was what we actually saw:

The Little Bugger.  Still there, still going strong, heart still beating.  OMFG, I bawled right there – do you know how uncomfortable it is to cry big heaving sobs with a wand up your snatch? I don’t recommend it. But, I was just so relieved that I just started crying.  Heart rate was 177, and we saw the unbilical cord complete with the blood flow looking like a giant highway with cars going back and forth on it.

Turns out what I passed was just a clot – in fact it was the clot that had started the original bleeding before.  This would explain the absolute lack of cramping and pain in the passing. 

And, once I had settled down and realized that all was, in fact, still well, I could not help but think that any music other than Kenny G would have been far more appropriate for this moment. This moment of the utter joy of relief.