Day Twenty Five: Family Gatherings

Me, surrounded by presents. My Christening, 1971.

We all have quirks, which make us unique and occasionally interesting. (And sometimes irritating.)

Take coffee, for instance. In addition to skim milk and no sugar, I like it tepid. Oh, you can serve it to me hot, but I won't drink it until it has cooled down to a nice, lukewarm temperature. And no, I don't like ice coffee. Won't touch the stuff. My coffee must be tepid.

Dave has a whole bunch of quirks, like furniture on the middle of the room. When I purchased that red leather ottoman a couple of days ago, it broke his "open space in the center so I can roam freely" rule. But because I am his grief-stricken wife, the only thing he said was "wow" in all lowercase letters and then walked upstairs. Yes, I admit to playing the grief card, but I get to do it so rarely. It felt oddly satisfying.

Growing up in Brooklyn during the 70's and 80's, my friends (and boyfriends) thought I had a lot of quirks just because of my Filipino background. The strange food, the funny language, the mannerisms and attitudes of my parents, and the large Filipino family gatherings that dominated every weekend for the first eighteen years of my life: all of these things made me different. But in order to be accepted I allowed myself to be called "quirky."

I tried to separate myself once I got into college, only dropping by once in a while to visit my parents or hang out with my cousins. And while Dave has met my family and we certainly had a Filipino wedding, he has not really been introduced to the "Filipino ways" of my past.  I had buried it by the time we met.

To commemorate the 40th day of my Mom's passing, we had a Mass at my aunt's house last night. Of course I dragged my kids, because they are, after all, Filipino. And because they are young and therefore more accepting of the strange and bizarre. But then there's Dave, my non-Filipino husband who thinks that one of my only quirks is drinking tepid coffee. I've mostly shielded him from all things Filipino, except for small visits here and there with my immediate family.

The Mass at my aunt's house was held in "Taglish" (half English, half Tagalog) and punctuated with many Filipino hymns. The priest was Filipino and peppered his homily with jokes about husbands and wives like he was Henny Youngman. A Filipino folk choir group sat in the back of the room with guitars and an amp, and sang. There was an egregious amount of food waiting in the next room where the huge television was tuned to the TFC (The Filipino Channel). And there was about a hundred Filipinos packed into my aunt's house, singing, crying, talking, eating, and laughing.

I felt it was important that Dave come to this Filipino family gathering, that he experience this small dose of what my life was growing up in Brooklyn. And Dave was fine. During the Mass, he stood in the doorway to the next room, holding my cousin's newborn baby, and swaying to the music of the choir group. He ate pancit and pan de sal, talked with my family, and even invited a few of my cousins to our house. He was, above all, the man that I always knew him to be, but never gave a chance.

It was all the more sad because my Mom would have been so proud, having him there, her handsome and loving son-in-law. She would have introduced him to everyone, made sure that each person knew that he belonged to her in some way, stressing the word "my" in saying "oh, this is my son-in-law David..."and smiling widely as the words tumbled out of her mouth. But I denied her that pleasure. She had often made excuses to my aunts and cousins about my lack of attendance to our family parties: another party, a sick kid, or us being out of town.


So now I am making this promise to my Mom: we will be there, as much as we can, to every Filipino family gathering.

Because I miss you, and because I love you. And because I can't think of a better way of honoring your memory.

Day Fifteen: My Sister Liza

Fabian Family, 1971.

One month ago, my Mom died at the Robert Wood Johnson Hospital in New Jersey.


My sisters and I stayed up all night in my Mom's hospital room, talking and crying, huddled in a triangle of hard plastic chairs and blankets someone gave us. There were light moments, especially when we reminisced of the old days in Brooklyn, growing up in a house filled with too many relatives and too little room. The last time the three of us slept in the same room was almost thirty years ago, and so the early morning hours took on the air of a pilgrimage. We were there to say goodbye to our Mom.

The day before, her brother--my uncle--had just stepped off an airplane from the Philippines and was driven directly to the hospital. I am not sure what he was told but he entered the room with a pleading look. The sight of his confusion and then his realization of her certain death was heartbreaking, and this strong man who survived multiple tours of duty in the army had to be held together by his wife and kids. He came back the next day, as did a stream of other relatives and friends.

This last day, my sister Liza tried her best to manage the steady flow of doctors, nurses, and visitors. She and I had been awake for 72 hours or more, and I felt her exhaustion more than anyone. I had witnessed her discussions with every single doctor who had the unfortunate task of delivering bad news, and she was forced to be the only grown-up in the room that sometimes included my Dad, my Mom's siblings, my other sister Elle, and me.

Liza was the one who stayed in the room while the doctors and nurses shooed us out, and she was the one who watched as they tried to determine "brain death." It was supposed to go like clockwork, the various tests taken one after the other. And with every test, we were one step closer to the end of my Mom's life. Once the doctors agreed that she was brain dead, they would take her off the ventilator as per my Mom's DNR directive.

But some things don't go like clockwork, and dying is certainly one of them. Because of her irregular heartbeat, the doctors could not finish the tests that determined brain death. And because they couldn't determine brain death, the doctors could not take my Mom off the ventilator. That had to be our decision. We were forced into a corner: turn it off and she would stop breathing in an hour or less; keep it on and she would stay "alive" until her heart stopped beating on its own, which could last a week.

We fought in her room, passionately for and against the idea. Were we ending her life or allowing her to finally rest?

In the end, we agreed to let her go and turn off the ventilator in the evening, after everyone could say their goodbyes. But some of us did so reluctantly, begrudgingly. There would still be guilt and shame from this decision, and my sister Liza said that she hoped this decision wouldn't tear us apart. My sister Liza, the least sentimental of us, the one least likely to cry, was heartbroken and beaten up and exhausted beyond all human limitations.

And my Mom sensed this. So in the late afternoon, before the doctors had a chance to turn off the machines, she let her heart stop beating and passed away on her own. We were all in her room and holding some part of her, and felt our love for her instead guilt or shame. She wanted Liza to have a little peace in this whole ordeal, and not be saddled with responsibility of making such an awful decision. And she wanted to show that she loved Liza. Loved her for being the strong one, the one that now was taking care of everyone else.

Like my Mom used to do. Before she died.

Day Fourteen: The Fly

A picture of a fly from the National Geographic website. I thought it was an
appropriate image for this blog entry.

My Dad can sometimes say ridiculous things, but this one really had me shaking my head.


Apparently, he is not getting enough sleep. This is completely normal under the circumstances and I am sympathetic to his plight. But over lunch at his apartment yesterday, he told me that my Mom visits him, and this was the reason for his sleepless nights.

I was a little freaked out by his admission. Before she died, my Mom was worried that Dad was showing signs of dementia. Being married to the same person for over 45 years, I understood how they could both worry about each other's failing health, but they could also get on each other's nerves. Sometimes I would tell Mom that she was blowing things out of proportion, that a little forgetfulness was certainly not dementia. And that maybe she was just looking for another reason to call Dad crazy.

But this? My Dad was having hallucinations about my Mom? Sirens were going off in my head.

I immediately apologized to her. Egads, woman! You were right all along. Mom, how could I have doubted you.  I was dialing my sister's phone number when Dad opened up his mouth to explain further. And after he spoke, I kind of sat there in disbelief.

Dad claims that Mom is a FLY that has been trapped inside his apartment the last few weeks. And late at night she buzzes around his bed, annoying him, and keeping him from getting any sleep.

A fly? Really? Mom is a fly? I'd like to think that she came back as a higher form of life. And I found myself wishing that he did have hallucinations of Mom instead of thinking she was a fly, so I could resist the urge to smack him. I heard my Mom's voice, reproachful as ever, saying, "That man..."

When my sister and brother-in-law arrived later on, I told them the fly story. I could tell Elle was more than a little ticked off. And then we both spotted the fly in the living room, lazily going from wall to table to chair to television. My brother-in-law Victor opened the patio door in hopes that it would leave. It did not.

I left my Dad's apartment yesterday fearing for the fly's life.

Day Thirteen: Routines

My Dad has his routines.



He makes the same breakfast every morning, as if he's cooking for my Mom, an egg omelet with tomatoes and fresh cilantro. He toasts two Portuguese rolls every morning, just because they were my Mom's favorite. They usually end up in the garbage since he's diabetic and cannot eat them. He makes a small pot of hazelnut coffee, and pours an extra cup for no one in particular. When I am there, I take that extra cup, but the mornings that I am not are a mystery to me.

Whenever he has a visitor, he talks about that Friday when they skipped their morning walk so they could drive my aunt to a doctor's appointment. He remembers eating lunch, a salad and rotisserie chicken, and the last time she stood at the kitchen sink, telling him to go take a nap while she washed the dishes. And he shows the way she fell down and how he tried to catch her.

I don't know if he's trying to work through his emotions about that fateful day, or trying not to forget because that's all he has left of her. But he tells me and my sisters the same stories and goes about the same routine since my Mom died.

I am no better than my Dad. This was the weekend that my parents were supposed to stay over my house. All that I have left of my Mom is the phone conversation we had the day before she was admitted to the hospital. She and my Dad were planning to attend a wedding nearby and wanted to stay at my house for a few days afterwards. I told her about all the treats I wanted to make for her, because I loved cooking for her and talking about food.

I hear that conversation in my head a lot, especially today. It's all I have left of her, the promise of spending time with her in my house, waiting on her hand and foot, spoiling her with baked treats and pots of tea. Seeing my Dad and his routines make me think that we all have to work through something. So I'll sit and replay my Mom's voice in my head. At the end of our last conversation, I remember telling her that I loved her, and her telling me that she loved me. It wasn't the words as much as it was the sound of happiness in her voice, that we finally reached a place in our lives where we could end every conversation this way, and not filled with regret or anger.

And I'll hang on to this because it makes me less angry, less sad. She knew that I loved her.

Day Twelve: The Importance of Wowowee

This is one ridiculous photo of Willie from WOWOWEE.
Unfortunately, he's not on the show anymore.
You can imagine what the rest of the television show is like. 

I am sitting in my Dad's living room, watching Filipino television. I cannot understand a word anyone is saying. And despite this handicap, I find myself captivated and unable to tear my eyes away.



It's a train wreck of a show is called "WOWOWEE." Little girls in full pageant make-up are forced to sing for prizes. Chubby little boys stand in a line with transvestites and play a game called "Hep Hep Hooray." Another game called "Cash Bukas" put a disheveled middle aged woman in a glass box half-filled with cash (I'll let your imagination guess what happens next). The hosts are painful to watch as they flirt with each other and the contestants (yes, even the children). Horrible, horrible. And yet here I sit, pretending to write, pretending to not watch the spectacle of these desperate people. My Dad snickers at the TV. He loves this show. He used to watch it with my Mom, and so here I am watching it with him. And I feel silly, happy, and a little embarrassed.

This is the only the second time I've come back to my Dad's condo since my Mom died. The piles of sympathy cards sit on the dining table next to the piles of Mom's junk mail. Her closet remains untouched, as does the right side of the bed. A glass of water, now covered with a small bowl, still sits on the night table, waiting for her to take a sip in the middle of the night.  She left it there the morning she had her stroke, and Dad has covered it so that it would not collect dust. In fact, the night table is dust-free, which leads me to believe that he has cleaned everything around the remnants of her life. Her slippers sit at the edge of the bed, her brushes are neatly arranged on the dresser.

When I leave in the morning, I'll probably clean up after myself, taking care to not disturb the places she last touched.

Day Eight: Her Hands

When my Mom was first admitted to the hospital on June 18, my sisters and I took turns holding her hand.
She recently had a manicure, her fingernails neatly painted pearly peach, her cuticles trim and clean. It made me smile to think of my Mom sitting comfortably while someone pampered her, something she rarely did but thoroughly enjoyed. So when it was my turn to hold Mom's hand, I lightly massaged her palm and fingers. Sometimes she would squeeze my hand back to let me know that she was aware of my presence.

Sometime during that first long night (Liza and I took the first night shift to watch over my Mom), I noticed how much my own hands resembled hers. I laughed a little because I always thought that I had my Dad's hands and feet. But it made sense that I would have my crafty Mom's hands. And after all the crazy crafty things I've made, my Mom was always the one who cast an appreciative eye rather than raise a skeptical eyebrow. I thought that I would share this with my Mom and sisters in the morning, and kept it to myself.

But also sometime during that first long night, something drastically changed, and she stopped squeezing back.

As the hours passed and the reality of her condition sunk in, we started holding and touching other parts of her: her legs, her feet, her hair, her cheeks, her elbows. Whatever part of her that was free from tubes and needles were touched and caressed and kissed.  When it came to her hands, I put them to my face and wept into them. I cradled them in my own hands, and took mental pictures of them, storing the images deep in my head and heart. These were the hands that made my First Communion gown, Liza's prom dress, and the bead work on Elle's wedding dress. These were the hands that made wonton soup every New Year's Eve, popcorn shrimp for my high school graduation party, and arroz caldo soup whenever I asked. My Mom's hands were precious things to me, and I needed to remember what they looked like next to mine. Because my hands are my Mom's hands.

When her heart finally stopped beating and the tubes were taken away, we were able to hug her one last time. I put her hands around me and pretended that she hugged me back. I tried to remember the last real hug she gave me, on Easter Sunday a few months back. She was happy we were all together then, and although I didn't know it then, so was I.

Day Six: Dad in the Kitchen

My Dad and kids pretending to hold up a tree. August, 2008.

Yesterday I dragged Dave and the kids to my sister's house.
Under normal circumstances, Dave would groan a little, maybe ask if he could sit this one out (which, of course, would be met with a glare that could melt arctic glaciers).  But he smiled and said absolutely nothing. I know that I should feel guilty for playing the grief card, but it so rarely comes in handy. So we spent the day at Elle's house, eating Totonno's pizza and watching the World Cup.

It usually happens in the kitchen. The girl talk, I mean. My two sisters and I always hang out in the kitchen during these gatherings, and yesterday it was the same. My sisters Liza and Elle sat at the table with me, and we joked and laughed. But it was a little different this time, the first time we gathered at my sister's house since my Mom died.

My Mom would usually sit quietly in the mix, smiling as she listened to the three of us, the sound of our voices building to a crescendo until it exploded into laughter. Sometimes she would interject, especially if one of us needed someone to corroborate a story from the past. "Yes, Elle, you DID wear your slippers to school. Don't you remember?" or "No, Rish, I didn't drop you on your head when you were a baby. That was someone else...Mom?"

Instead of Mom being in the kitchen, my Dad was there. Before yesterday, my Dad never ventured into the kitchen during a family gathering. I suppose he felt that it was my Mom's territory. But he wandered in, looking for a drink, found a spot at the table, and didn't leave. He stayed and listened to us. And I dare say he even smiled.

I hope this was not a one time deal, that my Dad finds his way back to the kitchen at the next family gathering. Because there shouldn't be an empty chair at the table. He should enjoy what my Mom so often did: his three children, talking, laughing, remembering, making plans for the future, and cherishing every moment we spend together.

My Mom passed away on Father's Day, which was pretty ironic, I think. Or maybe it was her way of telling us to take care of our Dad.

When I gave the eulogy at my Mom's funeral, and I said that one of the greatest gifts she gave us was each other. And when I said this, I was looking my sisters who were sitting next to my Dad in the front row. I hope he understands now that I was including him.

Day Two: The Garden Weasel

It's hard to figure out what will set off an emotional avalanche these days. Some days, it's a song on the radio. Others, it's the junk in my mailbox.

Yep, a dumb coupon for the Garden Weasel did me in today.



Since my Mom passed away on June 20, I haven't really taken the time to reflect on the ways we as humans are suppose to grieve. Crying seems to be the most popular (and darn convenient). But it's soooo tiring. After two weeks of crying every conscious moment, I began to think (hope? pray?) that there was more to grieving than just reducing oneself to a giant swollen tear duct.

So I've been writing about the way I feel rather than having my sorrow culminate into uncontrollable sobs. This is Day Two on my thoughts and feelings, and for the most part it has been working. (See?? No tears now. Just cramped and sweaty hands typing as fast as possible.) But then I looked in my mailbox earlier and spotted that dumb packet of coupons.

My Mom loved getting junk mail. She would pour over every single grocery store circular, department store catalog, and coupon booklet that came to her attention. She would cut out photos of random things that maybe one of her children could use, like a water filter or electric fireplace or recordable key chain.

The coupon in question was advertising the Garden Weasel, a hand-held rotary device that tills soil. For some reason, I thought about how my Mom would have seen that and thought of me--or, more accurately, my champion gardener of a husband. And I broke down on my front steps. Oy vey.

Conclusion: I will stop looking at my junk mail. It can literally bring me to tears.

Day One

My son Mack found a firefly inside our house this morning.

In the haste of getting the kids out the door and into the car (yes, today is the first day of camp), I ignored his barrage of questions.

"Is it hungry?"

"Will it be okay?"

"Is it going to die?"

I honestly couldn't deal with his compassion for an insect that somehow lost its way and wound up inside our house. Pretending not to hear him, I just kept moving.

When I came back home, I discovered a jar on top of our patio table. Mack had taken matters into his own hands and had placed the firefly inside the jar with a leaf for food. He also found a lid with holes and topped the jar with it, despite it being two sizes too big. When I realized what Mack had done, I sat at the table and cried.

Children grieve so differently than we expect. When my daughter Masana learned of my Mom's passing, my husband Dave told me that she was matter-of-fact and rather cool. I think he was disappointed that she wasn't tearful or emotional, but that's just her personality. She's composed on the outside, but an emotional wreck on the inside. And during the wake and funeral, Masana finally had something to show for all her inner turmoil: she developed hives all over her arms and legs.

Mack has always been the child to wear his emotions on his sleeve. If he's mad or hurt, he'll tell you. If he's sad, you can see it on the expression of his face or his body language. So it was far easier to sense what he needed during these last two weeks.

But this morning, instead of asking for another hug or showing how sad he was feeling, he transferred his energy into caring for an insect that was lost and alone. And I was vacant.  I couldn't give Mack any comfort despite how plainly he was asking for it. He wanted to make something live again. He wanted to take care of a living thing and make sure it would survive. And sitting at the table, looking at all his efforts for a stupid firefly, I cried for Mack.

A Hard Weekend

My mother passed away yesterday.
She had a massive stroke last Friday, which we all thought she would recover from. But she didn't, and I still don't know what went wrong.


Her sudden change of status came as a surprise, like when the sky suddenly darkens and a passing shower soaks every inch of you because there's nowhere to run. Just as quickly, the sun comes back out from the behind the clouds and you're left just standing there on some random street corner. You're looking and feeling completely disheveled, unable to hide what happened to you. And when people ask, "What happened to you?" You want to reply, "What the hell do you think happened, moron? It rained."

And that's how I feel when people ask me about my Mom or how I'm doing. You know the obvious, so why are you asking? I'm in no mood for polite conversation, or, at the other end of the spectrum, a detailed explanation of weather systems. I'm angry and tired and temporarily bereft of social grace.

Maybe I'll feel it less on my skin next week, when I change out of these wet clothes. But until then, I'm just going to stand here and hope nobody notices that it rained on me last night.

Markers and Old Photos

A few months ago, my daughter Masana decided to name all the colors in her vast 100-marker collection.
At first it was something that was fun to do, but it slowly became an obsession in which she had to give the various permutations of each “plain” color an identity. Some names were simply made from combining two base colors, such as orange-yellow or yellow-orange. But there were others that required more thought, more introspection. Often, Masana could be found contemplating the natural habitats of the world as she tried to describe yet another damn green marker. And now, when she asks her little brother Mack to pass a certain green marker to her, she makes sure to identify it by its full name, so moss green would never be confused with dark seaweed green. 

Which brings me to my birthday and the matter of my historical identity. We spent Easter at my parents' place last Sunday, where we also celebrated my (eh-hem) 29^th birthday. In addition to her regular “I couldn’t have written it better myself” Hallmark birthday card, my Mom put together a photo album of my old photographs and certificates. It was a slim yet concise volume of my life thus far, from the pre-k graduation certificate to candid high school prom photos to my wedding ceremony program. Masana and Mack were fascinated by the toddler and adolescent versions of me, complete with bad haircuts, bad teeth, and (egads) bad manners. The one photo of me throwing at tantrum at the base of the Statue of Liberty must have been a delightful inclusion for my Mom. ("Oh, you know, your mom was a screamer when she was your age," she would tell them. Argh.)

What really made me laugh were the photos that were NOT of me. Like the one of a girl riding her bicycle in the park—that would be my sister. Or of a girlish woman fishing at the edge of a beach—that would be my aunt, who is 22 years older than me. In both photos, the female in question has a pixie hairstyle and brown skin. 

Growing up, I’m sure that I had the same hairstyle, and plus we all share that constant Filipino tan. But while we are of the same flavor, we certainly are quite different from each other. If we were markers in my daughter’s collection, I’m sure she would never confuse the three of us!

Rosemary Chicken and Imaginary Potato Lines

(I wrote this last year. Since I can't import the entries from my old blog, I'm creating new ones in this one. And I'm suspecting that there are some people out there that have never read it. And my Dad is about to embark on another trip abroad. 

Enjoy.)

Last week my sister called me. She invited us to her house for a family Sunday dinner and asked me to bring over my “world famous” rosemary chicken, though I would have to argue that her opinion of what “world famous” means is somewhat skewed by her taste buds. KFC is world famous. My rosemary chicken? It might be more like “family famous.” Or “sister famous.” Every person in my family seems to have a favorite dish of mine, which means that they can pretty much talk me into making them anything with a little flattery. My other sister professes her love for my banana bread and my nephew has a soft spot for my chocolate chip cookies. During more alcohol-consuming gatherings, my cousin Linda never fails to bring up a fried rice dish that I made once upon a time. It’s almost become an urban myth, especially since I can’t remember anything about the dish except the rice. And my Mom talks about the fried tofu and tomato salad I make whenever she and my Dad stay over my house.

Speaking of my parents, the reason for the Sunday dinner was to wish my Dad a safe trip. He went on vacation last week—without my Mom. Again. Dad decided that he wanted a break from the cold weather; Mom decided that she wanted a break from him. So for two months, Dad will be in the Philippines while Mom is…well, I don’t know where Mom will be. I know that she wants to be alone in the apartment she shares with my Dad, but she has some health issues making it nearly impossible. I can’t believe that I’m actually writing this, but if she wasn’t so darn impulsive and irresponsible, the idea of her being home alone would not keep me up at night. Oh, how the tables have turned.

Mom is rebellious when Dad is not around, and one of the ways she likes to “live it up” is to eat a Hot Pocket in front of the television. My 70 year old mother channels her inner Spicoli. Unfortunately, her digestive system does not recognize a Hot Pocket as a genuine food item, so Mom winds up sick. And it’s not just a bad stomach ache. Her symptoms include vertigo, heart palpitations, and an unquenchable dry cough. Last year, again while Dad was away and Mom was left home alone, she had a series of mini strokes—brought on by poor diet, no doubt. 

My two sisters and I dread the drive to our parents’ apartment. After selling our childhood home, they moved to a “55 and over community” in central New Jersey. And while New Jersey is right next door to New York, it may as well be another country. Getting across the bridges or tunnels into New Jersey is what I imagine a potato line was like in the eastern European countries after World War II: slow-moving, soul-draining, and utterly unavoidable. When I was in college I had the good fortune to travel to Berlin shortly after the Wall came down. My traveling companions and I walked around the eastern part of the city one sunny afternoon. While there were no potato lines to be found, its unremarkable and colorless architecture are what I think of when I find myself stuck on the George Washington Bridge. The immobile vein of cars becomes an imaginary potato line and my mood turns cold and heavy as grey concrete.

This has been on my mind for the last week. I am consumed by Hot Pockets and potato lines, hoping that Mother Spicoli will come to her senses.

What's In a Name

When I was a kid, I hated my name. No one could spell it or pronounce it right. The first day of school was always met with high anxiety because all the kids waited with me to see if the teacher would butcher my name--and possibly assume that I was a boy. And whenever I went to the dentist, I would answer to the name "Sheila Sadian" because that's the way the receptionist read my name during my first visit at age 7. Consequently, I was Sheila until the day I left for college.

I recently had to embroider something with my name on it and for the first time in my (eh-hem) 29 years I have regarded it with pride. Something about the ascenders and descenders in this particular font gracefully and graciously transformed it. I look at it and can't believe that it's me.

My husband has always loved my name, much to my embarrassment. And even though I may blush whenever he calls out to me in public, I bask in the sound. He says it in a self-assured tone, never rushing each syllable. And this is coming from the man whose father called me "Russia" for an entire day. He says my name and I still go weak in the knees after 10 years of marriage. 

My kids have somewhat unique names, though they are not without some historical family significance. My daughter Masana is named after my mother and my son Mackinley is named after...well, okay, we named him after a mountain and a president (and misspelled it, too). But I love their names. I just hope they come to love their names as much as I do. I hope they hear the love in my voice when I call out their name, even if I'm mad as heck for something they did. And I hope that they won't have to wait until their are (eh-hem) 29 to come across some crappy old brown bag with their name embroidered on it to finally realize that their names are as special as they are.