Before and After, A Year In The LIfe of You

You cried tonight at the thought of school.  You were so happy all summer long, but tonight you cried. At the beginning of summer, when first assigned to a new class, when first told of this class being different to the class of your friends, your best friends, you told me that it was fine.  It was all fine and then you smiled, and turned back to your drawing and finished colouring in the picture of our house.  You continued by saying that you weren't scared by "boys" anymore and that the man teacher, Mr. ..... was fine.  Later that night, I asked if you would miss your friends and you said, I will still  play with them at playtime.  I wasn't sure whose words those were but you held up a Roald Dahl book and asked if we could continue reading, so we did.  It was easier to pretend you were fine, to explain this reconciled behaviour as maturity.

However, tucked away in a little crevice, in a little you, hid the truth and tonight it decide to no longer hide.You yelled the truth quite loudly through a snotty tear-muffled tone at 12:00 AM and I tripped my way into your room to see you sitting up in your bed, wet hair stuck to your face, moaning. "I don't want to go to school!  None of my friends will be in my class!  Mr. ...  scares me ..... so and so says he is horrible! Don't make me go to school." I came to you, held you, gave you a tissue and sip of water and tried my best to calm you.Yes, the truth is you don't like change and you don't like men and next week, you will walk into a new classroom and come face to face with a rather tall, rather loud, head shaven, male teacher. Another problem facing us that I am just not sure of how to fix.

I know that at drop off, I will seek out other mothers who have positive things to say about this teacher and relay those messages back to you. I know I will have a word with the teacher and pray that he can at least feign sincerity and interest and  that he looks at you when he promises me it will be all right.  And I know, if there are "bumps in the road" I shall try to work with this teacher to help fix it. I promise you I will. But, Darling, it may not be all right and with all my best intentions and efforts, I may not be able to fix it.  In fact, things may be shit.

Tonight, I stay awake, thinking of the sliding door theory, the nursery you attended, which introduced you to a certain group of friends, which introduced me to certain mothers, which shaped both our schedules and in a way our personalities.  I think about difficult personalities, past social struggles and the teachers who assured me that you weren't really upset as they pulled your white knuckle grasp from the school gates. And, I try to come up with a plan.

 I don't know how this year will progress other than it will progress and the days will pass, and it will point you in new directions and give you new ideas and affect your personality again and ironically most of these days and events will probably not be remembered. However, what I do know is sometimes in life we need to hold our breath, wish for the best, surround ourselves with ridiculous feel-good cliches and jump into the abyss screaming yahoo. And,  Babe this is one of those times.

OK, I have left this in draft form for about nine months, hoping for a happy ending and guess what, here it is.

On the first day of school, we walked slowly in rhythm towards the brick building. You twisted both your arms around my elbow and leaned your head into my arm. Girls walked by and some waved, which gave you a momentary distraction from the gates and the man standing by them.  We joined a line of parents, waiting to talk to him, and I realised that my house was probably not the only one with a a midnight wake-up call.  I told you not to listen to schoolyard gossip, make up your own beautiful mind. You nodded because you wanted to believe me or maybe you were just being polite. You loosened your hold slightly, feeling the pull of the abyss and we moved forward to take front position in the line. He smiled and bent down to greet you first. I smiled. He knew your name and you smiled.  I explained you were nervous, and in a serious tone he promised you it would be fine and then he looked up and promised me it would be fine.

And, it was fine. No, it was better than fine.  After a few shaky weeks, you made wonderful new friends, which you couldn't wait to tell me all about and the stories filled our afternoons. You taught me the new games and jokes you learned and showed me the the dangly things hanging from your coat which they had given you. And as for Mr. .... Yes, at times he used a "Loud Voice" to corral the group and this frightened you, at times, and then it didn't. He also gave out sweeties which seemed to release him of all his crimes.

At Parent Teacher evening, he sat there at the table telling me all the things that I already knew and then he asked if I had concerns.  I said my daughter's happy and I am happy that is all I could ever want. I smiled, knowing he didn't appreciate the gravity of that statement.   He didn't have to.  He just needed to create  and position the cushion that would protect your landing and he did that splendidly.

When It Doesn't Go To Plan

"We can't all be rocket scientists, Darling."  I cannot remember when or by whom  that comment was made, but I do remember the way it was said.  Sweet, soft, intonation in the right place and horribly patrionising.  I was still young enough to believe that I could be the first woman president, but not old enough to appreciate what the job entailed. That comment made me pause, look up, before being tagged and hearing "Your It!"  Those words seemed to push that phrase to the back of my psyche, lost, forgotten for a bit, but still there.  

My mother said my grades didn't reflect my potential but maybe they did; regardless, those weren't the grades of the future president.  So, I decided to just dabble in politics. Dressed up in a sweater, skirt and chunky high heals, I babbled political rhetoric, passed out pamphlets, joined parties at meeting halls and then at cocktail bars.  It was passionate, I was loud and it was all horribly insincere and I grew tired of it, turning towards the Peace Corps and choosing to give up red meat instead.

I don't know if I could have been a rocket scientist.  I am interested in physics and enjoyed chemistry and math  but not enough to want to give it my nights or my days.  Not enough to choose a science museum over an art gallery, a night sky over a cold morning walk. So, I suppose that if even given the potential, I would have been a lousy rocket scientist.

Power and money taunts and temps from the first time one melts into leather bucket seats.  It is insecurity's  crutch.  So, we make the effort and let it steer us in a particular direction, one that maybe our body is not suited, and this is when  we experience what we believe to be a failure, and we are reminded of the voice that said, "We can't all be rocket scientists, Darling."  However, this time  we cannot be deterred by the distraction of a child's game; so, we wallow, ironically, because we are not the person that we were never suppose to be.

I have wallowed, little one. I try to distract from the practice, turning the music up to dance with you, holding a book to hand, whispering to the characters. Sometimes, I cuddle with your father, head on his shoulder, hand in hand, legs intwined and become silly, so silly that we laugh till we stop making sense and for a moment I can forget about my wallow and be happy.

Baby, if this should happen to you, I want you to know, wallowing is a wasted emotion. You are mourning for something you, probably, never desired but felt obliged to obtain.  It is not failure to stop and find your bearings when you are lost.  That gap in the universe that you were meant to fill is waiting to be found. And I, for the first time, will admit to you and to myself that I never had the heart to and as the result, the drive to be a rocket scientist, Darling. It was just the better paved path that I was expected to follow.

Blossom

Gardenias floated in a blue tinted glass bowl. Vibrant green leaves waltzed round their delicate white petals, which still remained in tact and unbruised even though their journey an arduous one. They travel from their tropical comforts through cold frost in the confines of a lorry to pose and greet and fulfill their role in the midst of a centre piece.  Each of the hundred flowers, unique, each complicated, each beauty distracting from their own fragility, each creating their own stage to be seen while the band played at your Aunty's wedding.

I saw those gardenias, again, today, in the outline of your silhouette. You reached over to your sister, whispering in her ear, quietly guiding her through the line of other little sisters. She stepped back and you placed your arms around her, she leaned into you before she stepped out with new confidence. She was three and you were seven. However, your profile, momentarily, reflected the woman you would become and that flicker startled me. I watch your curious brown eyes scan the room, processing finite detail, creating a plan.  Your composed, as you maintain control of the little ones conducting them to their places. And then, you smile, patiently, hands together, kneeling down to the one that is lost.

Let me introduce you to your seven year old self.  You collect stones, and keep them in shoe boxes that you also collect. You are bored by ballet but have the grace not to say it in company. You still don't like to see people kiss on TV, and you become visibly uncomfortable watching a fight, even if Spiderman always wins. You love to create whether it be by needle and thread or pen to paper.  You watch things grow, change shape.  You commit to distinct ideas that live, at times, in conflict with the mores of your little-girl world and it disturbs you, at times.  Sometimes you play a part, noticeably mimicking the movements and words of others, without fully understanding its context.  You, out of boredom, or silliness, or to create a reaction, poke fun at Mommy's need to be so serious, and you do it again and again and again until Mommy turns red. Then, you ask for a cuddle and shed the bravado, reminding me of your delicate soul of your pure spirit.

I question how you will wear the journey to your own centre piece.  Like all little girls, you can be easily bruised and your memory is much too keen. I try to shelter you from all that will taint your lustre, but I can't shelter you from me. I questioned the affects of the choices I make, of the flippant comment that escapes. Fatigue that causes me to misread a moment and confuse you with an undeserved rebuke. I play confident, mimic those who came before me. You, unaware for now, ignorant to the hesitancy in my response, trip of a breath and the whispers between your father and me.  You put your confidence in me and I want your world to be secure and safe as you follow me through this labyrinth. I turn to a different you each time;  the baby I cradled, the toddler with chubby arms and legs disappears behind the brush. There is barely enough time for me to say goodbye as maturity invades your being. I wonder how the morphed memories of me will affect how you live and how you love, and I wonder how you will remember how I loved you.

Please know, you are Cherry Blossoms in spring to me.  The wind catches and spreads your fragrant petals across my world, and my world becomes beauty.

Can I Have This Dance

I remember I was vacuuming or trying to and you were pulling at my trousers or trying to because I kept flagging your hand away with a sort of swiping motion, usually reserved for removing stains. I used the remote to direct away your interest. "Just a minute," I said," Let Mommy finish, just this, just that, just one more thing and then the kitchen."

You didn't realise that I had a sort of schedule,  we sort of ate around this time and sort of cleaned around that time, different activities for different days to fit different forms of development: literacy, social interaction and coordination. Had to get my ticks in before we could take part in frivolous play.

Routines, the unwanted guest, I would rather live in a world of chaotic stress then live with structure.  However it was a lifestyle choice.  One that I often reevaluated and recreated in order to be a good mother. So, as with your father's sports car and my smoking, sporadic trips to faraway places, frivolous shopping and naughty nights out, it all had to go bye byes to create a household and lifestyle that was appropriate for a tiny little miracle like you. In came the white sheets, organic sleep suits, fruit smoothies, mothers clubs, dusted mantles, clean toilets, spotless floors and ironed panties.  I wanted the perfect home for the perfect you. A happy and safe home, but was it?

As you grow, you will be barraged by domestic goddess themes, which subtly impregnate false truths and infect unrealistic expectations.  There will be pictures of women smiling while they scrub toilets and wash floors and you may feel the need to smile back, don't! They are not your friends.  They are paid to lie, run! You will overhear pensioners on buses and trains reminiscing about household pride, joys of cleaning. Well, dear, their memory is shit.  And then, of course, there is that smiling mother of your child's school friend, who wears linen trousers, eats only organic, has stain free cream carpets and an ivory sofa. Open her closets and you will free a cleaning lady.

You are not as old as my favourite jeans, but faded pencil marks on Grandma's wall reminds me that your dynamic form is ever changing and I am missing the performance because I am vacuuming, diligently, heartfelt -back and forth, back and forth.

Days slip by and time goes faster and faster as we grow older and older.  Your infancy was a flash, toddler years a breath and I am so afraid that your little girl years will simply disappear in a moment of distraction.  I understand how you could not prefer my preference for vacuuming over cuddling, wiping stained toilets over puzzle making.  Why should I simply walk to a store when I could be pushing a doll pram, skipping alongside you. You, wearing silk and satin, glitter and velvet gowns.

Interesting how easy it is to touch the Dyson button and hear that annoying buzzing motor mute.  Also, interesting that I could still slide across the laminate floors like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, "Come on join me, little one," I put my hand out to you and you took it and you laughed and so did I, and then we ran around this trying to be perfect home dancing and singing.  It was so much more fun than vacuuming. I danced techno, jumping up and down on the bed.  You went heavy metal, head banging until dizzy, thick curls everywhere.  Then you did a mix up, throwing in an ABBA pose, finding your tiara and yelling "Super duper trooper." We dressed disco with blankets for capes, twirled around, kicking toys out of the way and prancing around in princess dresses to finalise a designer look.

Your father walked in to see us crab shuffling to the bathroom, knees and elbows moving in and out.  He stepped over plastic high heels, moved aside the custom jewellery that cluttered the counter, turned down the screaming radio and we stopped and we turned.  You with drugstore makeup smeared across your face, surprised.  You slid to him in your Peppa Pig socks, brought  your plastic microphone to your tiny mouth, pointed up to him with your other hand "I sekky and know it," and then gave a good Elvis-like shake. I looked at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, grease on the stove top, clean, wrinkled clothes thrown across the table and I stood quiet and smiled. "Have a good day at work, Dear?" Your father smiled, pulled me in and swayed with me as we did at our wedding. We then gathered you to us like a bouquet of flowers. My favourite part of the day.

So, if you want to know why you don't remember Mommy ever having a show home.  Blame yourself, kid. And, thank you because I will always be grateful. 

Malala

Little Warrior, he tried to subdue
you and rape your intellect.
You would not cease not submit.
Your books against your chest
Steadfast with your armour,

You turned and traveled home
And he watched and he waited
As you passed, he cocked his rifle
shot his dirty bullet, and
it tore through your skull,

and spattered across
the other children riding home
on that bus, on that day.
He then ran, as they do,
to his friends, to tell his tale.

They played your video on TV.
You, little warrior, woke
to white sheets, in a white room
and guarding family, celebrating
That you could stand. Stand again.

That you could ask for your books
but could you speak? I wondered,
slipping my view around your
mother's tired shoulders, I watched

While on exhibit, your
enduring eyes search the new room,
learning the imposed changes
to a world of 15 years.

Your father greeted the press
His smile maintained between gasping,
grasping water, and pausing
He described funeral plans and
I cried, and my daughter came to me

but you are alive to lift
your sword again with hilt
in hand, settling into soft skin.
Before scoring and scarring it.
All at 15 years

You are to return to your
rapist and his army,
Knowing he is loading his gun, again.
Knowing your father may cry again.
Your father will wave you off to battle.

I held my daughter,  tightly.

Sheltering her eyes from
the news of men who hate
A choice, I have.

Her head against my breast. She
felt my heart beating, so she said.

I thought of you, passing your
predator, when you clear fields for
little girls who trail behind you,
skipping between your footprints.

I unlock my arms and
my daughter breathes easier.

Trapped in Wendy's World

I remember standing in the hallway of the old synagogue, waiting... quietly... for the classroom door to open, waiting to take our seats and open our Hebrew books and recite our Hebrew letters.  It was the last class of the day, but our first class considered serious in the preparation for our bat mitzvahs. While waiting and wondering about such important issues like will Julie and Gopher's secret love stay secret, I felt a kick at my back. It was a hard kick, hard enough to knock me in to the cold cement wall, making me gasp.  I then heard a rapture of squealing laughter coming from a group of girls. They were pushing in and slopping up the entertainment. In the front of those girls, stood Wendy. A soured face girl with thin lips,  a pushed in pug nose and squinting eyes, all harshly framed with a fringe.   She wore argyle woollen sweaters, creased chino trousers with penny loafers, which also was the uniform of her lackeys.

 I turned to her. She smiled, squinting her red-rat eyes, and I stepped forward about to kick back when she cuddled into a teacher, who held her tightly.  Mrs R said, finger pointing, "Don't you dare!" I turned back around, which is when Wendy kicked me again.  This time, I just turned my head around and stared at the teacher. She stared back, raising her eye brows and Wendy smiled her winning smile and the line moved on.

Life at that time didn't imitate art because in this small girl's world the "baddie" always won. I was the kid who followed the rules, obeyed my mother, my teachers, was kind to my peers and elders, never lied,  never swore. She was the kid who ripped out pages of the bible and used it for spit balls, similar to the ones found stuck to my cheek or dangling from my hair.Wendy achieved the award of Best Student that year and life continued to defy logic. If it was possible for a little girl to hate, I hated her.

However, somewhere inside my thoughts,  I was consoled by the hope that to every negative there was a waiting positive, to every push there must be a pull, to every horrendous unkind act that Wendy did, there had to be an unkind act slapping back at her.

And then one day it happened, my proof, in our synagogue's adaptation of Annie, Wendy declared her unhappiness at not getting the lead role.  She took second to my friend Clair. Accepting her position with hostility, she talked through scene rehearsals, mocked performances and questioned the teacher's decisions.  The teacher continued to sigh and turn to Wendy, requesting appropriate behaviour.  Wendy ignored her and grew louder with her taunts. The teachers voice grew in assertiveness and volume and Wendy matched it note for note. Finally, Ms. G whipped around and shouted, "Shut up, just shut up!"

"You can't tell me to shut up, you are just a teacher.  You shut up!" Wendy snarled loudly.  That is when it happened. Mrs. G spun around, hand following, high in the air, and coming down with full force to a hard slap.  Wendy with her new red glow, stood quiet, shaken, as did the teacher.  "I am telling the principal," she whimpered, "I will have you fired."

Mrs. G released her breath, slowly, deliberately and quietly whispered, "Good, go, you know where his office is."  Wendy left and Ms. G turned to us and without a word picked up her baton and led us in song and we sang, "The Sun Will Come Out, Tomorrow."   Ms G returned the next day and the day after that and nothing happened and Wendy learned a bit of humiliaty, at least towards Ms. G. That was it, my formula for life had been restored. 

I enjoyed that slap, and the nine year old in me, today, still thinks about it and smiles. However, it haunted me at the time.  I knew that slap was wrong, violence shouldn't be used.  No one deserves to be hit. I had been taught all of those things by my family and had it confirmed in my religious studies. Well, that is until the assault happened. When Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, came, and the Book of Life was opened and lists for life or death were made, this event loomed large.  I realised I had to seek forgiveness from Wendy. I approached her and then I circled around her, my stomach tightened.  I waited for her to be alone, but that didn't happen, so I said, "Excuse me, Wendy, can I talked to you for a moment?"

"No,"she replied.

"I really need to talk to you,"I continued.

And with a mocking reply, and high screechy voice, she said, "I really need to talk to you. NO!"

" I enjoyed seeing you get hit." seem to burst out. "I am sorry."

A genuine look of hurt came across her face, "You enjoyed seeing me get hit."

"Yes, I laughed often about it and I know that's wrong and I am sorry," I waited as she stood silent.

Slowly and with disbelief, she responded, "I cannot believe that you laughed."

"Wendy, you have to understand, you have been horrible to me," pleading my case.

"I have not,"she shouted.

"Yeah, you have." Her response confused me because she had to have realised this. "Wendy, you can't naturally be that big of a bitch.  You had to have worked at it."

"I cannot believe that you called me a bitch,"inflection in the correct place, repositioning her body, shoulders and head brought back.

She turned quickly, her pony tail brushing my face as it whipped passed. Now talking to the back of her head, "I just really wanted to apologise and I wanted to let you know that I also forgive you for the horrendous things you have done."

"Teacher," she called out. "She just called me a bitch." This was not going to plan. I turned and leaned on the familiar wall and waited.

Ms. G turned around. "I am sure that you will get over that, Wendy. It is the New Year, forgiveness is important." Ms. G looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. "The bell has rung, time to go to your next class."  I raised my eyebrow, turning my smile at Wendy. She looked back at me, dropped lip, giving gasp and then a snarl and passed me to walk through the door, which slammed it in my face.  Ms. G reopened it for me and I said, "Thank you, Happy New Year."

The purpose of this post is not to say that it is alright for people to be hurt or called names but to warn you about the Wendy's that exist. Sometimes we find ourselves trapped in their worlds. Unable to fight them and unable to walk away and we are stuck, at least for a short while.

Tonight we celebrate the Jewish New Year again and at the sermon today, the rabbi talked about the importance of forgiveness from those who seek it. I had forgotten that forgiveness had to be sought before given. Wendy didn't want to change.  She didn't want forgiveness. She was quite comfortable in her skin, probably more than I was.  Her behaviour warranted my anger and my anger came from a place of self-respect. When faced with a Wendy, I want you to be alright with anger, expect better treatment. As a practicing-to-be young lady, I was instructed that anger is an unattractive trait. In the 70's, the mantra seemed to be anger hurts you more than the offender. Now that I am no longer a practicing lady or young, I realise that anger has its role, it is self preservation. It lets us know to be weary, to keep a distance.

More often than not, we can't fix the Wendy's of the world.  Their demons lurk in very dark unreachable places and we didn't set their demons free. We were simply the catalyst used to justify their demons.

Remember, little one, you will escape her world, maybe with some bruises and scrapes, maybe even a noticeable scar, but those will fade with time. I promise you that. And when you leave, you will shut the door tightly behind you, leaving Wendy alone with her Demons and, of course, the demons will have no other choice but to turn against Wendy because that is just simply what demons do.

When Selfish Isn't A Bad Word

I threw away your father's toilet seat today.  It had been attached to a toilet about a week ago and before that to your father's backside for many an hour of solemn thought.  I suppose that had created some bond between them. A bond that was stronger than the bond given by the faulty hinge which had screamed for freedom. She was not suited to the life assigned  and she wiggled and slipped free from her station and fell from the toilet, cracking the seat she swore to protect.  Since her leap, she lay on the dining room floor, waiting for a post mortem. I threw her away.  I surrounded her with fifty magazines, that had too lain on the floor waiting for inspection.

You will probably remember this as the quiet storm.  Where daddy and I circled round and round each other in a cold cyclone, pushing the pressure up, picking up papers, sponging counters, putting away clothes, silently clearing the home of the clutter.

Your father had just finished another night shift, which meant night time routine had to be adapted and we needed to keep busy but quiet during the day.  You girls were brilliant for 3 and 7 but you were still 3 and 7 and the weather was terrible.  Had the weather not been terrible, we could have played in the park.  Had we had more notice, I would have made plans to visit friends. Had we not had Grandma and Grandpa coming for dinner, I wouldn't have felt the need to stay in the house and clean.

While I ironed, you both set up a tent in the hallway and played cops and robbers.  I ushered you back in to the toy room and shut the door.  While I prepared some food, you two decided to take the crying baby up and down the hallway.  I ushered you both back in the toy room and turned on the TV.  As I bleached tiles in the toilets and wiped away the grime. The littlest you came in crouching and hopping and I moved out of the way, so that you could do what needed to be done. I waited in the kitchen until I heard the sink throwing out water at the mirror, at the wall, at the pond developing on the floor.  I dried your hands, changed your clothes and ushered you back in to the toy room and opened the computer for the older you.

As I went through the papers and mail that went into that draw, I heard a scream, and I went to you girls, someone had accidentally kicked someone else.  I gave the injury a magical kiss, and set up a craft that I couldn't monitor because I had to season the beef and I had to peel the potatoes.  That is, until, I had to clean the paint off the wood floors that the littlest one of you was trailing in.   It was washable and I washed the table, the chairs, hung the paint soaked work of art, put the littlest you in the bath and changed your clothes, quietly, as your father slept.

I was soaked and tired and I stood up and looked in the mirror and felt that I resembled a worn tyre.  I remembered a story that Bubbie had taught me. It was about a dutiful wife and mother. Her Bubbie had told it to her, before she married. It was a story of the woman who kept a spotless home and spotless children.  Who spent all her money on the family before she spent on herself.  Who cleaned her house but didn't always have time to shower.  Who ironed everyone's clothes and if she had time she would iron her own, and because of this she had a beautiful home, beautiful husband and beautiful children.  One day her husband came in to the house and he had something in his mouth that he had to spit out.  He couldn't spit in the beautiful home, nor could he spit on the beautiful children, so he turned to his wife.  This is a very harsh analogy as your father described it and I explained it was metaphorical. If you are always last, giving yourself no value, no worth, neither will anyone else.  It is all right to take your turn.

I walked you back to the now destroyed room and finish sponging off the paint.  Plastic babies, puzzles, wet tea sets decorated the floor and I started to clean again.  Dolls in doll basket, puzzles (at least 33 of the 36 pieces that were found) back in the box and then I turned to the magazine case with its bulging, stretched form and I got a bag, a big bag, big enough to only make one trip to the recycling bin.  Your father's magazines about art, home design, politics were stained with yellow overlapping rings earned during our many late night conversations. While pages flipped by, your father and I gained ideas, many of which  would later take a position in your childhood memories of the home we created with you in mind. Maybe that is why I hesitated to throw them out. The stacks leaned against the sofa, fell over the magazine rack, fell across the kitchen table to the floor and lent itself to be slipped on. The week before, I told him that if they weren't sorted out they would be thrown out.  It was vacant threat, one I usually would not have followed through with, one that was made several times throughout our marriage, but today, I threw those magazines away and I smiled.  As I walked back through the door, I noticed the shine of a ceramic seat. I decided that like a wounded animal, it too needed to be put out of its misery and the mystery of why it didn't work, would never be found out.  I could live with that too.

Your father woke about three and smiled.  I smiled and passed him passing the baton and I went to shower and dress.  When I came back in to the kitchen. He was helping to prepare bread, he looked up and then down at the kneaded dough. He knew.  Later he mentioned it to me and I just said "Yes, Dear," as I finished putting on my lipstick and combing my hair,  "It was time."