A Case of the Momdays

Today I had a semi-serious case of the Momdays. So, I’m creating this entry as a mini-mama-mantra to reflect on in days ahead when I feel a relapse coming on. Don’t be scared, dear reader. I won’t hurt you.

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No mother is perfect. No mother is flawless. I’ve never known a mother who has never yelled, lost her patience, or wanted to hand her children off to the nearest circus that passes through town. And, it’s true – I too am a mother. And today I yelled. I lost my patience. And, at the wrong moment, had there been a Barnum and Bailey recruiter in Minneapolis? Well, yeah, I may have traded my two brown-eyed beauties for a bicycling grizzly bear.

I took my kids to the zoo. It was an impromptu stop after dropping off Nate’s laptop that he had accidentally left at home. In my short time packing up this morning, I slapped together two PB&Js, packed them each their own favorite-flavored juice box, and, upon arrival, was already pushing one in the stroller while the other rode on my shoulders so they could both view the clumsy baby giraffe from different angles. I am not one to half-ass motherhood, and it’s something on which I (humbly or not-so-humbly) pride myself. Every day should be filled with joy, lessons, memories, long talks, kisses, more lessons, and plenty of “I love yous.” The zoo was a success. Naps on the car ride home were a success. Even transferring them from the car to their beds was indeed a success.

During nap time, I tried to do some work, wash some dishes, fold some laundry, and concoct some sort of Italian dinner. I balanced some of my bank accounts, paid my bills, looked in to a new weight loss app, and focused on a few other personal vendettas I’ve been trying to fight day in and day out. I played with the dog, replanted a flower pot, uploaded some photos to Shutterfly and actually watched 5 minutes of Bethany Frankel’s new talk show. Then the kids woke up.

During those 90 minutes of glorious, silent slumber, my “give-’em-everything-I’ve-got” fuse grew short. I’m embarrassed to even admit that, but then again, I know I’m not alone. Er, I hope I’m not alone.

I caught myself snapping at Coen for putting the hose too close to the sidewalk chalk. I reprimanded Mabel for throwing her popsicle into the hostas. I smacked Chloe’s nose when she barked at a skateboarder. I was finished. I felt unappreciated. And I know that’s ridiculous. I’m a MOTHER. That is precisely what we sign up for the second that kid makes its grand entrance into the world. My kids are FOUR and ONE, for Peter’s sake!! And, for four and one, they have damn good manners. We are having lots of talks about gratitude and it’s nice to instill these lessons in their minds before they are too old to have it make a difference. Coen knows when I ask him, “How many people is mommy?” that the answer is, “One. So I can only do one thing at a time.” But, today, I expected too much.

Me, my Mac, a crepe and a latte.

I wanted to finish the dishes. I wanted to finish ANYthing I had started. I wanted to shop online. I wanted to mow the lawn. I wanted more time. And that was the issue… I got a glimpse into a little me-time, and it was taken away abruptly (as it is every day so don’t ask me why today felt so different). We, as parents, take on too much. And that’s fine, as long as it’s accompanied by a breather here or there. Seconds after I snapped a “STOP! Just everyone stop talking!” and started crying in the kitchen (good LORD, woman, pull yourself together), I texted Nate and told him I needed some time alone tonight. He agreed and after we ate the dinner I sort of whipped together, I grabbed my laptop and walked away.

After two hours of catching up on work emails at a local (what I thought was a coffee shop, but wound up being a) kosher deli, I had kicked some project booty, eaten the world’s greatest peanut butter crepe, and gotten my head back on (as straight as it’s ever been). I shot Nate a text apologizing for being a hot mess, and he reminded me that I had a great day with a bad hour. Always wise, that man.

Walking in the door at 8:30, I was greeted with smiles and loud “MOMMY!” chants. Even Mabel the Anti-Cuddler wanted a hug. I scratched my dog’s belly and thanked Nate for, well, everything and settled in to watch The Great Pumpkin before bedtime. Of course, I finished those dumb dishes first.

Momdays will come and go. Some weeks, Momdays will occur more than once. There may be stretches of time when EVERY day is a Momday. Just remember that you’re doing your best, no one is perfect, and even those impossibly hard moments too shall pass.

Then, if time permits, take an evening retreat to the nearest wine bar to enjoy a flight of expensive reds. Alone.

Medicine Schmedicine

I’m writing this in a heated moment of frustration, as I’ve just left the doctors office. I just have one question: Do doctors get PAID to make their patients feel like they’re never good enough? Like, all our hard work and valiant efforts go unnoticed and unmentioned? Maybe they get a little extra commission if they can make you cry.  I wouldn’t know. I never went to Med School. But, I DO know that I am a relatively-healthy diabetic prego who is trying her best to keep her numbers in check so her baby doesn’t come out with six legs and a curly tail.

I’m not going to say that I’m not feeling the pressure, because I absolutely am. Every time I have a high blood sugar or wake up lying on my back or drink a sip of coffee, I feel like I’m not “taking care of myself” to the level that Doctor Almighty thinks I should be. I tell myself to try harder and stick with it, but it’s such an overwhelming, all-consuming, time-intensive full-time job that I have a hard time keeping focus.

All pregnant women see the doctor. Most pregnant women are told they could be doing something differently to ensure better health for her and her baby. I have 49 doctor appointments scheduled in the next 70 days. That is an average of one appointment every 1.4 days. Granted, some are piled up on the same day one after another, but a woman can only take getting pricked, pierced, and prodded for so long. I know it’s in my “best interest,” but days like today when I walk in with my head held high because I thought things were running smoothly, and walk out feeling like a was shat on by Patch Adams himself, don’t make me look forward to my additional 48 upcoming visits.

The best part about today’s visit was my complete lack of hormonal control. I knew I was feeling emotional when I walked in and got treated like hangover vomit by the lady behind the scheduling desk. Emotion: ANGER. Then, I got some blood drawn and my blood pressure taken. I was told everything was in order. Emotion: HAPPINESS. The nurse told me that my doctor was being shadowed by a resident and asked if I would mind him tagging along. Emotion: UNEASINESS. Doctor Never-Been-A-Diabetic walks in and looks through my book of blood sugars, making note of the numerous gaping holes of time when I didn’t check my blood every two hours. Emotion: EMBARRASSMENT.

“What’s been happening with these numbers?” she asks.

“Well, let me tell you…” I took a deep breath and with one simple question, she had turned an everyday endocrinology appointment into a 20-minute therapy session. Hey, she’s the one who opened the door. Don’t ask me an open-ended question if you want a simple Yes or No.

“I know I’ve fallen off the wagon a bit in the last few weeks. I’m stressed and not sleeping. I’m sore and tired. I can’t exercise comfortably. I eat a lot. Counting carbs is not simple for me right now because it requires that I consult my little doctor-written (illegible) notepaper with the latest insulin-to-carb ratios with me every time I want to sneak a peanut M&M. You talk in lingo I barely understand – ‘If fasting, let’s do a 1 over 30 ratio, unless your sugar is greater than 160 before bed, but not in the morning since you seem to be more on a 4 per carb schedule around noon so let’s up your bolus in the morning and hope for the best in the evening.’ Ummm….lather, rinse, repeat please. I have NO idea what you just said. Math is hard enough for a normal person, but twice as hard for an art major, so please…talk slowly. My life is not boring and monotonous. Spontaneity is one element of my life that I pride myself on, so please, don’t take that away from me because I require anal-retentive consistency if I want to live past 80. I’m pregnant. I’m easily irritated. I’m behind at work. I practically live at your clinic. I have nothing in my bank account, and every time I pay your $35 co-pay, it makes me want to strangle somebody.”

Ahhh….her face was priceless. And, if you thought that was good, you should’ve seen the look on the resident’s face. Without words, this man conveyed a sense of fear, shame, and doubt that he had quite possibly gotten himself into the wrong profession. “Mailmen don’t deal with situations like this, do they?” I could see it all in his face. Seven years of education down the toilet.

Eventually, I sucked my tears back into my head and sniffed the snot back up my nose, I composed myself just long enough to have a rational discussion about diabetes. Is that why I was there? Oops. I was way off!

After we got that out of the way, she sheepishly suggested that I talk to my OB about anxiety medication and left the room. Hmph. I’ll give YOU anxiety medication!

Upon reflection, maybe doctors DO deserve a commission if they make patients cry. After all, a $35 co-pay is a heck of a lot cheaper than a trip to the therapist. And today, I’m going to guess that we both got our money’s worth.

The gas we pass when we’re passing for two

I almost hate to write about this due to the fact that I might be revealing a little too much of myself, but if I can admit that my greatest ideas come to me on the toilet, why can’t I admit to this? I’ll just keep it short as to not over-expose those details we would all rather not hear. So, here it is folks: The gas we pass when we’re passing for two is…umm…wow…I’m actually at a loss for words. I can’t concoct a word rancid enough to describe it. It’s not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Apparently, that lovely progesterone (which I’ve complained about since blog post #1) is at it again. Not only does it shorten my breath and cause me to act like a raging lunatic, but it softens the tissue in my digestive tract too. A lovely thought, I know. Women aren’t supposed to fart, I get that. I understand there are certain “standards” we as a sex should try to live up to. But, I for one have never (EVER!) been very good at living up to standards, so why start with something I’m so disgustingly good at? And if that dumb hormone is going to work its magic on my entire existence during this magical time, why not throw in an increased role for my intestines and colon too!?

Gas is created from the food you consume that is not fully digested, yet somehow still manages to sneak into your intestines. Well, it’s a miracle I don’t break wind 1,440 minutes a day at the speed I’ve been eating lately! It actually amazes me that anything can get fully digested when I’m shoveling it in at a rate Speedracer would have a tough time beating.  Tonight, after a marathon of pizza-eating and soda-drinking, I stopped to wonder how these gassy bubbles are impacting my baby. I already know how they’re impacting my husband by his quick sprint out of the room with his sweatshirt sleeve covering his nose, but is it possible that there are negative effects on the tiny creature growing up so close to all the gaseous action?

Like every good mother, I googled. And, luckily, I found that the only impact it may have on baby is that he may be slightly startled by the noise or vibrations around him. Um, you and me both, honey. Most of what I found just defined it as “embarrassing” and “uncomfortable.” I would say, yes, it is both of those things. I would also add to the list: “revolting,” “immeasurable,” “unnecessary,” “inconvenient,” and “stinky.”

I hope I’m not the first pregnant woman to admit to being stinky, because – lie all you want ladies – it’s happened to YOU! Maybe you’re better at hiding it than me. Maybe you time your bathroom visits with your internal clock o’ flatulence. Maybe you excuse yourself from bed whenever you feel a bomb coming on. I do none of the above. I don’t, and I don’t care. Not right now, at least. I’m big, I’m tired, and I’m insufferable. Why not add “irreverently smelly” to the laundry list of reasons my husband wants his old wife back?

Good news is, this too shall pass (no pun intended). Once we exude that big final push at the end of this stinktastic tunnel, we resume life as our dainty, feminine selves, and if our husbands know what’s good for them, they never mention “that time you cleared the room during that dinner party” ever again.  Maybe you’re like me and you were never so dainty or feminine to begin with, but hey, your pre- and post-baby self has GOT to have more self-control than your current self, right? For my sake, and for the sake of everyone within nose-shot of me, I certainly hope so.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go refill my Glade Plug-in.

We same weight!

I spent this past Sunday away from my computer in hometown Wisconsin for my future sister-in-law’s wedding shower. The whole family was there, which is always nice. I have a family of compassionate, generous, kind and wonderful souls, and most of these souls hadn’t seen me since I announced the news around Christmas time. Four months may not seem long in “normal” time, but in gut-growing baby-making time, four months can mean the difference between a Kate Moss and a Kathy Bates. In four months, your chin can triple, your ankles can inflate, and your boobs command the stage. So, to hear these kind souls tell me I “looked beautiful” shocked me. The cynic in me knew they were just saying it to keep me from crying. But, the optimist in me thought maybe they really DID see something I didn’t. Who knows anymore…I’ve lost control of all rational reasoning, so I just went with how I felt at that moment, which was: “I feel good.”

The shower went off without a hitch.  It was lovely and girly and purple – everything a wedding shower should be. I’m not going to hold anything back in my writing, since that would just be dishonest, so I will list off my wedding shower food consumption list, down to the final sausage. I had: 2 pancakes (with syrup), a heapingly overwhelming pile of eggs, 2 (and a half) biscuits with gravy, 3 sausage links, and a glass of orange juice. This may not sound too bad just yet (insert consoling “you’re eating for two” line here), but I haven’t even gotten to the cupcakes. I ate the cupcake at my original seat. I ate the one at the bride-to-be’s seat. And, oh yeah, I ate the one at my mother-in-law’s seat (she left early – hers was free game)! The fascinating part is, I didn’t even feel full. But, the “I feel good” was still going strong. I was mentally powering through another day.

After the shower, all the bridesmaids went to see the seamstress to get fitted. This was an event I have been dreading since the dresses were ordered pre-knockup. I had already arranged to swap with the bride’s sister (who lost weight), so I figured I should be able to squeeze into a dress two sizes bigger than my original order. Oh, Lord Almighty! How wrong I was! We got it zipped, but to do so comfortably, I had to pull the halter up so high that it appeared I had grown two extra breasts. Nope, this was NOT happening. I must admit, the look of the dress dolled up the bump to red carpet status…if only it FIT the way it was MEANT to. The worst part was knowing that, even if she could get me into it for now, the wedding isn’t for another month, and I haven’t read any baby book chapters about dropping weight in the final trimester.

You could say I was feeling a little emotionally “large” on the drive home after the fitting. I got to wondering how hard it will be to take the pounds off post-baby. What if I can’t do it? What if I’ll always need my seamstress to add stretchy inserts to the sides of my dresses? Thankfully, my foul mood didn’t last long. We arrived back at my parents house and it was filled with favorite aunts and cousins and siblings and dogs. There is no way you can feel down around these people – I’m telling you. I vowed not to lie about my diet to you all, so when I got home, I ate 2 plates of my mom’s spaghetti bake, a slice of key lime pie, and a Dilly Bar (timed it at probably 8 minutes for total intake). I sat down on the loveseat with my cousin Greg.

Oh, my dear Greg…he requires a mini introduction so you can get the full picture. Greg is my 30-year old cousin with Downs Syndrome. He is hilarious and loving and easily one of my favorite people on this earth. He is also a big boy, probably weighing in around 275 pounds – mostly belly. He says what he wants when he wants to whoever he wants, and it usually ends with an innocent “should I really be laughing” laugh from whomever he just accidentally insulted. Today was no different. My dear favorite cousin plopped his heavy butt down next to mine and we literally covered the entire loveseat, just the two of us. The whole family was sitting around us in various chairs, and Greg looked down at my stomach. I could see his mind working as he looked at his stomach, then back at mine, then back at his. He put his stocky arm around my neck and pointed at both of our stomachs, back and forth…back and forth…and said, “WE SAME WEIGHT.”

Well, boys and girls, this about did it for me. Immediately I felt the tears well up in the corners of my eyes as I tried with all my pregnant might to suck in whatever I could from my bulging babyland. I looked up around the room – complete silence. My eyes immediately met my dad’s, who was SO obviously trying to hold in his laughter as he waited…juuuust waited…to see what my final reaction would be before belly-laughing himself to death. I did what I could. I forced those tears back in, reminded myself to consider the source (hey, I would’ve laughed if he had said it to someone else), and laughed and laughed and laughed. I even quipped back at him with, “Mine’s building a human and will be gone in 3 months. What’s your excuse?” Greg, of course, chuckles his rough chuckle, snorted in my face, messed up my hair, and moved on. No tears from him. No tears from me. And, hey, it was inspiration for a great blog post.

I also convinced myself that the Internet lies, because after the comment, I googled “expected pregnancy weight” and found 25-30 pounds as their final answer. I wanted to throw my computer against the wall. Then, if you kept reading, it told me 35-40 pounds is average if you are expecting TWINS.  I decided then and there that I am never WebMD-ing again. I don’t care if I have a pussing fungal foot disorder eating my toenails little by little with no insurance coverage and zero cash. Never…again. How is a first-time pregnant woman supposed to react to this uncontrollable, yet oh-so-obvious, physical change?

My Medication: Laughter. And I’d prescribe it to anyone.

I am not going to let it bother me anymore, the whole weight thing. This morning at the doctors office, the nurse told me to hop on the scale whenever I was ready. I stood there for a minute and eventually told her I’d hop on in four months. I figured, if I’m going to see that number on the scale, I’m going to have to combat it with a sense of humor. I make light of my ever-showing buttcrack, joke about the one lonely functioning button on my winter jacket, and intentionally dodge photographs stating I don’t want to block all of the natural sunlight. Yup. It’s my way of getting through it all with an ounce of sanity and pride. To each their own. It works for me.

Little Baby Brunner will never know the mental struggles I went through as a first-timer, nor do I want him to. I would like him to think that I enjoyed every second he grew inside of me and the bigger he got, the happier it made me. I AM happy he is developing at a healthy rate and I KNOW it’s all natural and worth it and will go back to normal, but when you’re living it day by day, it’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ll be very ready to drop those 10 immediate pounds, and hope to stroller the heck out of my neighborhood in the following three months.

But, my secret hope is that one year from now, when we’re sitting around after another family function, Greg will plop down next to me on the loveseat and I can say to him, “Me lose weight.” He won’t care then either – he’ll chuckle his rough chuckle, snort in my face, mess up my hair, and move on…again. And, the best part of it all will be that I will have gotten a beautiful baby boy out of the deal – which, I must admit, will have been well worth the WEIGHT!

Life in the not-so-fast lane

I’m not going to claim to be a “speedy” girl. To me, getting somewhere faster doesn’t have a whole lot of payoff. Why speed-walk when you can get there 5 minutes later walking like a normal human being? Running a marathon is certainly not on my Bucket List. I loathe the fact that Track & Field is considered a sport. I used to fake injuries during volleyball tryouts because they required we run a 400-meter dash. I could bump and set like nobody’s business, but move at a consistently rapid pace for more than 2 minutes? Over my dead body. I think I just never saved up enough breath to use it in the form of exercise…seemed like a waste to me. Why pant silently alone on a treadmill when you could use those same breaths gabbing a mile-a-minute with your girlfriends? And, THAT is where I used my speed. The Talk.

To be a speed-talker, you need to understand a few things: 1) It’s easiest to communicate with fellow speed-talkers; 2) Looks of confusion will follow you throughout your lifetime; and 3) Pregnancy will slow…(breath)…you…(breath)…down.

I didn’t realize it was happening to me until I was telling a story at work and got called out by a fellow-mother. “It’s starting, isn’t it?” My blank look did the talking for me as I waited for my diaphragm to catch up. “You’re having difficulty catching your breath.” Yes, I actually was. I hadn’t even noticed it amidst my pointless ramblings. I was still talking fast, but taking a lot more breaks. I sounded like a 95-year-old man doing chin-ups with a marshmallow lodged in his throat. What was happening to me?

Well, anatomically, I was 25 pounds heavier than 4 months prior. But, scientifically, I was increasing my progesterone levels at a fast rate, which apparently stimulates the respiratory center of my brain (basically, my hormones are giving the pink slip to all those hard-working lung-lovers employed in my head’s breath factory).  And, it wasn’t going to stop there. The bigger the baby gets, the more real estate my body has to sell. And, I thought I was already at “No Vacancy” with my intestines, liver, kidneys, appendix, spleen, and stomach! Oh, if only I knew what was coming…I would’ve bought more land.

Life feels different nowadays…
Chasing my dog down the street creates unison owner/puppy panting. Going from my office to the bathroom ends in a grateful prayer that I’m a woman and can sit to pee. Drinking an eight-ounce glass of water requires two to three intermissions.  Walking up stairs is reaching the point of amusing. And, walking up stairs, attempting to have a conversation is downright hilarious! It’s amazing all these everyday activities I took for granted before now cause me to feel dizzy, embarrassed, and fat.

According to my doctor, I’ll be speed-talking again in no time post-baby. In fact, she said I’ll even regain some breath when the baby “drops.” Hmmm…something tells me when he drops, I won’t be focusing on the joyfulness of simplified inhaling. I’m guessing I’ll be more centered on the fact that in less than 24 hours, I’ll be pushing an 8-pound child out of my pretty woman parts! Yeah, good try, doc.

And, even though I can’t breathe like I used to, I will bounce back, better and more fulfilled than ever. I now understand that speed isn’t everything. Sometimes, slow and steady wins the race. I know the whole process of pregnancy is a test of patience and endurance, which aren’t usually my strong points. But, in this particular race, I’m keeping solid form, holding my head high, and heading for the finish line…

And I haven’t faked an injury yet.

On Wisconsin! I want a beer!

I’m going to admit that I feel a little funny writing about this topic at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, but it must be done. After all, how often do you see a game like last night’s FSU/Badger NCAA first-round tournament basketball game? Better question I have: How often do you see a game like last night’s FSU/Badger NCAA first-round tournament basketball game sans beer?

Last night’s events got me thinking…not like this is the first time it’s crossed my mind in the 25 weeks I’ve been pregnant, but every time it gets more and more irritating. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I was a raging alcoholic pre-pregnancy, but I was a huge fan of ordering a glass of wine when out to dinner with the girls, or having a nice cold Honeyweiss after a rough day on the job or, oh I’ll even throw in a solid evening on Block E dancing til the cabs came home. So, if you’re anything like me, when you pee on a stick one day and you’re officially off alcohol for the next 9 months with no warning and no “last goodbye”, times like happy hours or NCAA basketball tournaments feel a little…less…energetic.

I honestly didn’t think I would mind going cold-turkey (speaking of, you can’t have cold turkey either) when I first found out I was pregnant. Who would? You are carrying a little miracle that you, with the help of that “insert-your-own-adjective” man, created together. You made life. You have life inside of you. You are CARRYING LIFE, for God’s sake! So, yes doctor, I can carry life for 9 months drinking orange juice and crystal lite. Sure…no problem.

5 months pass…can I get some vodka in this crystal lite please? No. No, you still cannot.

So, that is where I am at this morning. My late Friday nights on the town have turned into early morning walks with Nate and the dog…and, truth be told, I prefer the feeling of fresh spring air on my unshowered face than cold bathroom tiles under my hungover butt. But, when I’m in that moment – game-winning shot with 2.8 seconds left on the clock and your team is down by 1 – I don’t think about that early morning walk…I think about the Summit Pale Ale that my husband is drinking and how wonderful it would be to celebrate the victory in that fashion. The grass is always greener. You always want what you can’t have. Don’t cry over spilled milk. Blah, blah, blah.

Bottom line is: I will look back at ordering  all those dreaded lemonades at O’Garas Pub and laugh, because some day my little boy will look up at me, juice cup in hand, and NOT say, “Can I get some vodka in this crystal lite please?” He’ll just be satisfied with juice.

And I mean it, from the bottom of my fetus…

Welcome world! Welcome to the frighteningly irreverent, non-judgmental, explosive diarrhea of a headache I call my pregnancy. OK, that sounded bad. It’s not that bad. I’m just trying to break the ice.

As you probably could have guessed, I’m a pregnant woman at the ripe old age of 28 and I have a lot to say about that. I have a lot to learn about that too. Hence, why I am sharing my every last thought with the world, unedited, mind you.

I had the idea to start this blog today on the toilet. Nope, I’m not going to beat around the bush…I was on the toilet – a public one (even grosser). The thought came when I once again experienced the “la, la, la…look at me getting so much work done in my cubicle…la, la, llllaaaaaaa – holy mother of GOD, I have to PEE” feeling. And, you get up from your seat and have about 11 seconds (I haven’t timed it, but I’m guesstimating) to get your pregnant butt onto a toilet seat. Well, this was a day when I barely – and I mean barely – made it. As I sat there I wondered, “Do other women do this? Does it bug them as much as it bugs me? Am I being completely irrational?” (OK, don’t answer that last part)

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had plenty of pregnant friends and have hung out with a good number of babies in my day, but I gotta admit, growing my own is way different. I have a friend who just went through the most difficult labor I could ever imagine. I have a friend who has experienced baby-heartbreak. I have friends who didn’t know they were pregnant until very late into it. I have friends who only focus on the good, who only focus on the bad, and who steer pretty well towards the middle of the road. Everyone has a story and mine is nothing special. There is nothing dramatically wrong with me (I’m Type I Diabetic, but that’s in pretty solid control) and I can feel my baby boy kick on a regular basis. But, in this world, everyone has a different outlook on growth, and mine just happens to vary quite drastically from day to day.

“The Pregnancy Diaries” is basically a monologue of my thoughts (err, brain spasms) as I go through the weeks. I welcome your comments and advice. In fact, being that my baby-growing knowledge is pretty much at the level of a 2nd grader, I’ll be inviting that advice.

Stick with me – rumor has it, the end result is pretty darn worth it.