A Sobering Thanksgiving

No wisecracks this week. If you're looking for curmudgeonly mom, check back in next week. This week I have too much to ponder.

Most of my friends in my 'burb were made through a new mom's group. Some of the moms became my closest friends. Others I simply nod at and smile to when I see them at the playground. And a few fell into the middle ground. They weren't the ones I invited to Doodles's birthday parties or called to tell about Sweetie Pie from the hospital. I haven't been to their houses and they haven't been to mine. But they are friends nonetheless, women I make playdates with at the park, women I look forward to seeing and chatting with. I know volumes about their lives here and now, but little outside of relatively confined world of mommyhood.

It's been like that with G. (not even her real initial, but I don't feel comfortable using the real details). I'm incredibly fond of G. She and her family are originally from Europe, but her husband's job brought them here. Her son, H., is five days older than Doodles. I know she runs, she's incredibly fit; that it took her ten years to conceive her very much wanted son and that she would be happy to have another; that she breastfed H. for over a year as he never took a bottle; that she looks fabulous in a bikini and loves spending time near water; that she isn't much of a meat eater; that she's hoping to move back some day to her home country; that she put an amber necklace around her son's neck when he was very young, one that he still wears, to ward off evil; that she's not sure if she's going to return to her work or not. After a morning of playing with them at the park, Doodles says, "H! H! H!" for awhile afterwards.

G. and her family spent the 4th of July of us, as it's not a true Independence Day without with a good ol' American backyard barbecue. We enjoyed their company. Even my father, when he met them at the reservoir, found G.'s husband immensely interesting. So everyone thought it was a good idea to invite them over for Thanksgiving. G. seemed excited--wanted to cook something--for the first Thanksgiving she'd celebrate. It was fun for me because it gave me extra oomph for planning my menu--I didn't want to miss anything. Dinner included hot mulled cider, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes. Turkey, stuffing, and gravy of course. My best cranberry sauce recipe. Green beans and salad. Pecan pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I really wanted to show them what an American Thanksgiving was like.

When I saw on Thanksgiving morning that I had an e-mail from her account, I was disappointed, as I imagined it meant she must be canceling.

I had to read the e-mail three times before it began to sink in. It was from G.'s husband. He wrote that they wouldn't be attending Thanksgiving. G. was in the hospital. The night before she had suffered a massive stroke and at that point, they were trying to determine how badly her brain was damaged.

As you can imagine, it's shaken up the mom community here. Everyone is taking close stock of her life, trying to imagine if this had happened to her. G.'s out of the life or death danger, but there is a question of how much can she be rehabiliatated. Will she be able to walk again? Feed herself? Talk? Her husband tells me that she will never again be able to do something like read a book and comprehend what it says. He says she won't be herself ever again.

I've been having dreams about G. I can't stop thinking about her. I baked cookies with Doodles on Sunday, and I couldn't help but feel sad that G. will never bake with H. Why didn't I get to know her better? Why don't I know who her parents are or what she wanted to be when she grew up? I don't know her favorite color or if she gets lonely here in the States. Of course, it's easy to say that now. I think of all the moms--and people in general--on the fringe of my life. There simply isn't time to open yourself up to the world.

How does this happen? One week you're reading the paper together, arguing over the messy counters, laughing at your kid's funny faces, cooing with he baby; the next week a vital part of your family is gone. Overnight your life as you know it could disappear. Overnight, decisions have to be made about what kind of life you could have, what that quality would be. We try to protect our kids. We teach them to be wary of strangers. We vaccinate them to protect them from disease. We make sure they look both ways before crossing the street. We don't let them swing on the scary-steep slide. Yet who can protect them from losing us? Who can protect them from the betrayal of their own bodies. What do we do when we're no longer in control of our own body?

When something bad happens to someone, you go over all the details, trying to figure out where you're different, why that bad thing won't happen to you. I cry every time I read an article about a baby who died of S.I.D.S. And then I scour the article for comfort. "Her baby wouldn't sleep on his back? Well, thank God. Mine does. Oh, she smoked? No one in our house smokes. The baby drank formula? Well, I breastfeed." Nothing makes us safe. But it doesn't stop us for searching for talismans and mantras that will protect us.

You'd think that this would make me a better person. And it does make me feel very grateful for my family. Yet I still snip at Adam. I still feel impatient at Doodles. I still long for Sweetie Pie to let me sleep. And I was feeling guilty about that until I realized, that's just part of living. On one hand, I feel like I should be living every day as if it were my last, but the fact is that's not just impractical, it's impossible. Someone needs to clean out the back of the fridge and pay the car insurance and change the burnt out lightbulbs. But on the flip side, it does justify playing peek-a-boo with the baby, writing even if no one is going to read it, and reading Bark, George twelve times to a toddler.

I feel so very, very sad. G. was such a good person. She still is a good person, I'm just not sure what kind of person she will be anymore. My heart breaks for her husband and son. Sweetie Pie is too young to know me on any level that we can comprehend, but what would Doodles do if I just disappeared from his life? Whenever Doodles has been sick (Sweetie Pie, happily, has had no illnesses yet), I make a bargain with whatever higher power there may be. "If it has to be something serious, make it be me. If someone has to go, let it be me." As horrible an image it is to me to think of Doodles and Sweetie Pie without a mother, it's at least a bearable thought. Losing a child...I can't even begin to understand the chasm in my being it would create. Did G. make the same bargain? Is this her way of protecting H.? Is she sacrificing herself for him?

Everything feels so fragile. Everything is so fragile.

No Time to Talk Turkey

It's past my blogging time (is that like past my bedtime?) and I really have no business sitting at my computer. There's cranberry sauce to be made, onions to be carmelized (for the onion-buttermilk rolls), pumpkins to be pied, and assorted other things that need to be done for tomorrow's dinner. Sweetie is asleep in the mei tai, threatening to wake any second; my family's in the other room, insuring that Adam doesn't get any work done; and I'm so tired I can barely chop straight. So forgive today's lack of post and know that the people (all 13 of them, including wee ones) seated around our dinner table tomorrow night will appreciate that I cooked instead of blogged.

Oh, okay. Here's one quickie:

Doodles likes to look through magazines with me so we can talk about the pictures. We were going through Real Simple when I saw an ad for a Cuisanart griddle-type thingy. On the griddle were eggs and bacon.

Me: Do you know what that is?
Doodles: Um, yeah. Um... [silence]
Me: Those are eggs. Do you know what is next to the eggs?
Doodles: Um, yeah. Yeah. Um. Yeah. Um... [silence]
Me: That's bacon.
Doodles [with vehemence]: I love bacon!

Like my crunchy-carb-only son would even touch bacon, never mind taste it. Um, yeah.

My Baby, Mei Tai

"What is that?" Adam asked, pointing at a small piece of brown something in our bed.

"Ew! I don't know!" I said, moving away, expecting it to start crawling at any moment.

Adam inspected a little closer. He pokes at it. Finally he announces, "It's bacon." He looks at me and then to Sweetie Pie who is lying on my chest. "There's more of it in Sweetie's hair."

I look down. He's right. I've covered my darling in trayf. Because the easiest way to eat these days is by simply wearing Sweetie and eating over her head. Wearing you ask? Let me explain.

Maybe you've seen them at the park. Or shopping. Or eating their organic goodies while breastfeeding their toddlers and talking about the Green Party. I'm talking about the babywearers. And I've joined the cult. Babywearing rocks!

Now, I'm not talking about all those folks in their Baby Bjorns. Baby Bjorns are not considered baby wearing, for reasons that I'm not completely sure of. (Some of it might have to do with the allegations that it's bad for a baby's hips. Of course, I wore Doodles in one for about eight months with no problems, so who knows?) I'm talking about the massive pieces of fabric you ensconce your child in on various parts of your body. Babywearers have a language of their own (ring slings, wraps, ABCs). They have e-mail lists (joined!), group meetings (attended!), and lots of support for newbies (used it!).

When I had Doodles, I'd throw him in the Baby Bjorn and it was fine. After a while, of course, he got too big and the Bjorn hurt my shoulders. Also, taking him in and out was a little cumbersome and I had to remove the whole contraption when I wanted to nurse him. I knew that when I had Sweetie Pie, I was going to need my hands free much more of the time to take care of Doodles. So I wanted to get something that was going to be both more comfortable and able to handle a heavier child. I began exploring wraps.

I think I can safely say that Sweetie Pie spends 90% of her waking hours and 50% of her sleeping hours being worn (and for the record, at Sweetie's two-month appointment, I asked Sweetie's doctor if it was possible to wear Sweetie too much. She just laughed at me and said I could wear away!). My wrap of choice is an ABC (an Asian Baby Carrier) known as a Mei Tai (I ordered a gorgeous floral embroidered one, the fabric for which is unfortunately sold out, from Mei Tai Baby. She does amazing work!) Originally, I had thought I wanted a Hotsling. Man those Hotslings are cool. And pouches seemed like the way to go. But luckily, before I plunked out the money for one, the kind women of my local babywearing group came by my house and let me try on their carriers, where I discovered that Sweetie hates pouches and that the mei tai was the way to go for me (babies do have preferences for carriers). The mei tai is waaaaaaay more comfy than the Bjorn.

Of course, that was just the beginning. Off of e-bay, I got a Mama Kangaroo wrap, which is one of those funky big pieces of fabric and when I first put it on, Adam said, "You look like you should be singing folk music in Inman Square." And then, when I put Sweetie Pie on so she was facing out, he said I looked like Kuato from Total Recall. I also have two ring slings: I picked up an Over the Shoulder Baby Holder at a yard sale and a neighbor gave me a Nojo she doesn't use.

Even Adam has gotten into the babywearing thing, albeit just around the house. And when he does, he always reverses the mei tai so solid black instead of flowers are facing out. He also very cleverly covers Sweetie's head when he's eating so he doesn't drop food on her.

There are a few downsides to babywearing. Like bacon in bed. Whenever I eat (like a BLT) when I'm wearing Sweetie, it's guaranteed a nice shower of crumbs will land on her. And then when she falls asleep and I climb in bed to take her off, those crumbs will fall in the bed. Also, she looks like she's wearing a burka when I have her facing me in the mei tai. I also forget about her. When I'm at the park with Doodles, I don't feel comfortable leaving her in the stroller, which I know so many moms do with great success. Instead I strap her on. And then I can chase Doodles without worrying about how Sweetie is doing. On more than one occasion, though, I'll be chasing Doodles, far away from where we started, and I'll panic, thinking, "Ohmygod! Where's Sweetie?!?" And then I'll remember that I'm wearing her and I'll look down at her most often sleeping head and give her a little smooch. Also, all our photos tend to be a game of "Where's Sweetie?" (Can you spot her in here?)

We'll see how the carriers hold up as Sweetie Pie gets heavier. But I can vouch that they really do hold up to 35 pounds. Doodles one day demanded I carry him in it, and it was really quite comfortable. Now, if I could just get my hands on an unpadded ring sling, a nonstretch wrap, and, oh, what about a pouch for easy hip carries? This babywearing thing can be quite the addiction....

Information You *Really* Didn't Want to Know

Sweetie Pie has been fussy, fussy, fussy! Screaming bloody murder screams. Causing Mommy to want to yank her own hair out. Five minutes ago, Sweetie Pie had her first it-was-so-massive-and-gross-I-had-to-throw-out-the-onesie poop. Coincidence? I think not.

Blogging interrupted

I want to blog today, I really do. But Sweetie Pie doesn't want me to. Every time I sit down to type, she perks right up and starts to fuss. I will post eventually today... but it could be closer to tomorrow.

Shut the Freak Up

I deserve a freakin' medal for not hauling back and whacking this old lady. Doodles and I were having A Day. You know it was One of Those Days days. It started with trying to get him out of the house to run some errands at Target.

"Pants off?" he asked, starting to tug at the waistband.

"No, sweetie, we need to go out. Pants on."

"Pants off!" he now demanded. Luckily the pants have a snap and zipper, as he can get elastic-waisted pants on his own.

This goes back and forth for ten minutes. Desperate I look out the window. Our across-the-street neighbors, ages 3 and 4, are playing outside. "Look, Doodles! Connor and Cole are wearing pants! Do you want to go say hi to Connor and Cole?"

I did manage to get the three of us out of the house. At Target, Doodles was given a choice: "Doodles, do you want to sit in the front or back of the cart?" (I'm wearing Sweetie Pie who is happily drifting in and out of sleep through this whole thing.)

"Back."

"Okay, but that means you need to sit down. You cannot stand in the back of the cart because it is not safe."

This is fine and for an entire five minutes, Doodles sits in the back. But then, in the middle of the sheet aisle, Doodles stands.

"Doodles, you need to sit."

"No."

"Doodles, you need to sit down or--" Hmmm. What's my "or" going to be? It's not to go home, because he'd be delighted with that, and I'm not trekking the three of us back out again when we're already here.

Doodles looks at me expectantly. "Doodles, you must sit down or you'll be strapped into the front of the cart. Doodles, you can't stand. It's not safe."

"I want to!"

This goes on for a few minutes before I physically lift the child out of the back of the cart, force him into the cart's seat, and manage to get the strap around him, all while making sure Sweetie Pie doesn't get crushed.

As you can well imagine, this did not sit well with Doodles, who proceeded to let out the Howl to End All Howls. It was the Howl Heard 'Round the World. It was one of those legendary meltdowns that you read about in parenting magazines and horror stories, but never experience for yourself. Doodles is screaming, tears streaming down his face, and I blithesomely push the cart, determined to go about my business.

I'm searching for another twin waterproof mattress pad, doing my damndest to ignore the tantruming monkey strapped to the cart right in front of me, when this older woman looks at me worriedly. Finally, she speaks. "I can give you money if you need it to buy him some food."

Huh? Does my child look hungry? My roly-poly carb-addicted toddler is quite well fed and it's hard to miss. Does this woman think that I'm simply starving my child?

"He's fine, thank you," I say with as much chill as I can put in my voice. I continue down the aisle but she persists.

"You really shouldn't let him cry like that," she tells me. "It will only make him angrier."

And remarkably, instead of shrieking, "Go f--- yourself, you old cow!" I merely seethed, "He'll be just fine," and wheeled away to the toy aisle, where three minutes with a noise-making toy calmed him right down.

If any of you are thinking of giving advice to a frustrated mom, let me help you out here. DON'T!!

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You

Whenever the phone rings, I tense up and think, "Who the freak is calling me at this hour?" Doesn't matter what that hour is, any hour is the wrong time to call me, and I will sound grumpy and cranky even if you're calling to tell me I won Publisher's Clearinghouse.

Here's when not to call us:
6 a.m. to 8 a.m.: Adam is still home from work and he's watching Doodles and Sweetie Pie while I either grab a quick run and a shower or am trying to make up a little of the sleep deprivation by staying in bed for a few minutes longer. Don't call then because I'll either be not home or asleep.
9 a.m. to 10 a.m.: Definitely don't call then. Because I'm frantically trying to get one or both of my children out the door to some playgroup/music class/playground/gymnastics class, and I'm trying to put Doodles shoes on, but he's having a meltdown screaming, "I do it self!! I do it self!!" and Sweetie Pie is screaming because I'm not holding her, and I haven't had any breakfast yet, I'm in dire need of a cup of decaf (which psychologically makes me feel better), and I really have to pee.
10 a.m. to noon: We're not home. We're out somewhere. Anywhere. Because if we don't go out, I will let my toddler watch five straight hours of TV, and apparently, that's a no-no.
Noon: If you call now, I'll just ignore the ringing phone, as I'm trying to appease my child who wants the "other yogurt" for lunch, when he's got the very last yogurt in the house in front of him, and even then I'm ignoring the fact that it's three weeks past its pull date. I'm trying to eat whatever leftovers I was able to scrounge up while bouncing Sweetie Pie in my other arm, because she doesn't want to be put down.
12:30 to 1: I'm putting Doodles down for his nap, which requires a fight over whether he's going to walk up the stairs himself or if I'm going to carry him. If I'm lucky, Sweetie Pie is asleep in her swing. If I'm not, I've got her under one arm while I'm dragging Doodles with the other. There's diaper change, story, and then nap.
1 to 3ish: Sweetie needs to be walked. Back and forth and back and forth. I listen to Doodles over the monitor as he chats to himself, occasionally calling out, "Mommy! Wiggles time!" I mentally will Doodles to sleep and try to soothe Sweetie to sleep so I can get a little shut eye myself. Doodles falls asleep, but Sweetie Pie doesn't... at least not until five minutes before Doodles wakes up.
3 to 3:20: Repeat of 9 to 10 but in a shorter time frame because I need to get the kids to the playground and it's getting dark very, very early these days.
3:20 till dark (about 4:30 these days): Not a good time to call. Because I'm wearing Sweetie in my carrier and chasing Doodles who has left the playground to run up and down the hill. I just pray he doesn't take off for the street before I can get to him and that I don't do permanent damage to Sweetie's little head as I try to run with her in the carrier.
dark to 5: I walk us home. Slllllooooowly to kill time. There are many hills. Don't call me. I'll be out of breath.
5 to 6: Plant Doodles in front of Wiggles and Elmo's World (he doesn't like the rest of Sesame Street). Frantically try to calm Sweetie enough that I can put her down to make dinner. Give up at 5:30 and figure out what I can make that doesn't involve the stove or oven because I can't use either when wearing Sweetie in my carrier.
6 to 7: Don't call, it's family time! Adam's home! Get dinner on the table, have family meal, rush through so Adam can get Doodles bathed and ready for bed while I try to clean as much as I can before Sweetie's fussy hour.
7 to 9 p.m.: Whoops, didn't make it! Sweetie Pie is a wreck. She's screaming and needs to be walked and walked and walked. Sometimes this involves a trip outside in fresh air. Sometimes it just involves pacing the living room. While theoretically you could call now, there's no point, as I can't hear you over the screaming.
9 p.m.: I want to go to bed. I'm tired and cranky. Sweetie is finally quiet so I take her upstairs so we can both go to sleep.
9 to 11 p.m.: Sweetie Pie alternates nursing and screaming till she finally passes out. I too pass out, knowing I'll be back up in three to four hours. Don't call now; I'm trying to sleep.

I tried to figure out if there was a time when I would willingly receive phone calls and there is. Those five minutes when Doodles is happily, finally eating his yogurt and Sweetie is calm on me. If you can find those moments, call me. If you can't, drop me an e-mail. Only please don't expect me to reply. At least not in the near future. Because the same day that doesn't allow me to prop a phone under my ear, certainly doesn't allow for any activities that would require the use of two hands. Because one of those hands is trying to keep the baby's head from flopping, while I'm dodging projectile spit up and the other is in a stranglehold on my toddler, trying to keep him from destroying, well, the world.

From the Mouths of Babes...

I realize from here on out I no longer need to think of what to write in my blog. I can simply transcribe the conversations I have with Doodles.

In the car:

Doodles: What time is it?
Me: [startled] What?
Doodles: What time is it?
Adam and I look at each other and shrug.
Me: It's 1:47
[pause]
Doodles: What time is it?
Me: It's still 1:47
Doodles: What time is it?
Adam: It's now 1:48
[pause]
Doodles: What time is it?
Me: It's still 1:48
[pause]
Doodles: Wiggles time?
Me: No
[pause]
Doodles: What time is it?

At the breakfast table:
Adam: Doodles, what do you want for breakfast?
Doodles: Cereal bar.
Adam: Which cereal bar?
Doodles: Green cereal bar.
[Adam brings out the green cereal bar.]
Doodles: No! Other green cereal bar.
Adam: This is the only green cereal bar we have.
[Minor temper tantrum ensues. I intervene and pull out one of every type of bar we have, which is about seven.]
Me: Doodles, which bar do you want?
Doodles: Other cereal bar! Other cereal bar!
Me: There are no other cereal bars! Do you want Os?
Doodles: No.
Me: Do you want Kix?
Doodles: No.
Me: Do you want Cheerios?
Doodles: No.
Me: Do you want Squares?
Doodles: No.
Me: Do you want to starve?
Doodles: Yeah.
Me [to Adam]: He wants to starve.
Doodles: Starve! Starve! I want starve!
Me [realizing that Doodles is under the impression that "starve" is a type of food, I rummage through the freezer to find some food he hasn't seen before and find some rugelach, which I warm up]: Here Doodles. [I place the rugelach on his plate.] This is starve. Enjoy it.
Doodles [very upset now, shoves the rugelach back at me]: Other starve!! I want other starve!

Boo!

Awww...

Doodles language is growing in leaps and bounds. Some of the recent highlights:

--We sing a song in Tot Shabbat called "Shalom Haverim", which is a hello song in which we sing shalom to all the kids. And Doodles likes to sing it at home. But he sings exactly what he hears: "Shalom, Halloween. Shalom, Halloween. Shalom! Shalom!"
--Doodles loves his nursery rhymes book. He always asks for the "Humpty Humpty" book.
--He sings "Rainbow Connection". There's nothing cuter than hearing him sing, "Rainbows are visions, but only illusions." I can't translate the adorableness of his pronunciation, but trust me, it's way cute.
--He's speaking in more complex sentences, using up to five words in a sentence.
--We have a house cleaner who speaks Portuguese. As many of you may know, "Oy," in Portuguese, is "Hello." Doodles adores our house cleaner and when he heard her say, "Oy," on the phone, he picked it up. "Oy! Oy! Oy!" he tootled. Who knew our little Doodles would pick up his Yiddish from a Brazilian?
--In the morning, Adam takes care of Doodles. Every now and then, Doodles wakes up very early. "Milk?" Doodles asks. "Doodles," Adam says, "let's sleep longer. It's still early." And then Doodles proves that he is the master manipulator and says, "Doodles use potty?" which of course gets Adam up and running only to get downstairs and have Doodle flash his killer smile and say, "Milk?"
--Life is now running commentary from him. He's either telling you about every detail of his day ("Doodles go sleep on pillow!"), he's making nonstop inquires about the world around him ("What's that? Who's that?"), or he's making his desires crystal ("I don't like that!" "I want to!" and our favorite, "I don't want to!" all of course said with a lilting whine).

Peeps! Peeps!

Hannah brought her new boyfriend over for brunch last Sunday. Hannah is one of my favorite people and I enjoy spending time with her, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she brings me Peeps. My brother-in-law often brings me Peeps, too. I'm quite fond of my brother-in-law as well.

"You have everyone trained! Halloween rolls around and they all think, 'Must bring Jenny Peeps!'" Adam said.

"I haven't trained them well enough," I complained. "Because at Valentine's Day, fourth of July, Christmas, and Easter, they should all think 'Must bring Jenny Peeps!' as well."

Some of my other favorite people don't bring me Peeps. And while all favorite people are created equal, those who bring Peeps are more equal than others.

The Important Stuff

Halloween candy sucks. Big time! They make those packages so tiny! I mean, how are three Whoppers ever enough? Or one bite of a Milky Way? You need to eat about twelve of them to get a meaningful taste. And that's half the bag. Like I said, Halloween candy sucks. From now on, it's Costco-sized candy for me!

The Same Yet Different

The differences between Doodles and Sweetie Pie:
--Doodles was an orange on a toothpick; Sweetie Pie is a pea on a tree trunk (Doodles as a baby was generally in the 5th percentile for length, 20th percentile for weight, and 75th percentile for head size; Sweetie's head size is in the 25th percentile, but she's in the 90th percentile for both weight and length)
--For Doodles, the swing was the magic sleeping swing of love. For Sweetie Pie, my baby carrier is the magic baby carrier of love.
--By now, Doodles had lost most of his hair; Sweetie Pie's hair is only getting longer.
--Both were/are into the side of their hands. Doodles sucked on his voraciously until he found his first finger; whenever her hand accidentally strays near her mouth, Sweetie Pie goes to town.

The similarities between Doodles and Sweetie Pie:
--Both had serious hair when they were born.
--Both actively disliked their father at some point (Sweetie Pie currently screams bloody murder when Adam holds her; Doodles used to do the same)
--Neither one could/can stand a pacifier. Doodles wouldn't put up with it and Sweetie Pie wails and screams every time I come within two feet of her with a pacifier. (Why do I want her to take a pacifier? Two reasons: 1) Current thinking is that sleeping with a pacifier helps prevent SIDS and 2) I hate having my breast used as a pacifier all night.)
--Both were/are the cutest babies ever (sorry to all my mom friends out there, but you know how it is!)

The Benefit of Blogging

The best thing about keeping this blog is having a written record to throw back into Adam's face. "Doodles never cried like that!" he said, desperately trying to console Sweetie Pie. (Yeah, remember November 2003?) "Doodles didn't have any issues with me!" he complains as Sweetie Pie calms down the second he hands her to me. And I can just point to the archives and say, "Um, hello??" Amazing how quickly you forget those first few months. Sweetie Pie's first few weeks are already a real blur. Time to get on the ball with baby #3. (Do you hear that piercing noise? It's Adam shrieking, "Nooooooo!")