Faith or fear?

We're in New Orleans. I've been on four interviews and have another today. We've found the neighborhoods of our dreams, but not the house of our dreams. We found a house that's great--for a grandma--and we may make it work. We visited Sumner's (hopefully) future school and we've had boiled crawfish and a soft shell crab po-boy. We're packing it in.

Despite the fact that we are moving to a hurricane ravaged city, I am doing just fine. Mainly I am excited for life down here. The pace is not hurried or harried (while the people are somewhat harried right now, it doesn't force them to move too fast and rush). There are neighborhoods that are friendly and stores and resturants are right smack dap in the middle of residential blocks. We love it. The people are so friendly (I repeat myself). We've been trolling the neighborhoods trying to find houses for sale. One woman we met, who does not have a vested interest in real estate, told us she's give us tips if she hears of anyone selling before the house hits the market. Another two people who happen to be hanging out on the street referred us to homes of people who might be selling. So New Orleans will be a great home.

But we don't have a home and I don't have a job and the kids school is still up in the air.

I have moments when I am really scared.

I told Rick, my father-in-law, that I was right between fear and faith. He said, "Isn't that where we all live?" So true, so true.

Oh, the shame of it!

It is simply shameful how long it has been since I have written in my blog. I was always worried that "living neat" (my last entry on March 14) would cramp my style a bit and it has/is.

Apparently my cousin Amy, a blog reader, and my mom were visiting this weekend in Iowa and griping about how many days it has been since my last blog. They want to know the colors of my everyday...and I want to paint them. That was a wake up call. Back to the old keyboard.

I have a lot of topics, scribbled onto receipts and inside my datebook and even on my hand, but I just haven't had the energy to write. So, I peck away and finally flesh out these topics--things that happened or occurred since March 14, my last entry. I am going to try to fill in the blank two weeks.

Why fly when you can walk?

I have seen it happen so many times before to Phil. I anticipate. To the max. I imagine and imagine and worry a bit and picture what life will be like during and after a big change. It hits Phil when it happens. Ramona has asked a lot of questions over the last months. She doesn't just want to know if her bunk bed will be in New Orleans, she wants to know how it will fit out of the house and make its way down here.

The other day we went to the magnet school we hope that Sumner "gets into". It met all of Phil and my's expectations and then some. We thought he was impressed, if overwhelmed a bit.

That night, as Sumner was falling asleep, he had a lot of tears. "Mom, you ruined my day. You made me turn off the TV in the morning. And you wouldn't let me play on the computer later and how will the kids at that new school know me?" It went something like that. Many more tears and questions followed. For instance: How will I know the rules of that school? Why are we moving?

We talked to him for a long time. We told him that we made this decision because we felt that it would be best for our family in the long run. We also acknowledged that it will be really hard and really sad. We told him he'd make friends and we'd help with that. They'd make the rules clear to him. We sang, "Make New Friends and Keep the Old". We even told him that we could fly back to Boston and visit all of our friends when we wanted.

He told us just what he thought about these things:

Moving is not what is best for him. And why fly [to visit your friends] when you can walk?

Living Neat

This was actually part of our dinner conversation tonight:

Me (Recounting my daily events.): After breakfast, Ramona helped me tidy up the house. She learned how to make a bed and then...

Sumner (Annoyed and bubbling over with jealousy, near tears.): How come I don't know how to make a bed? I want to know how to make a bed!

I thought that not knowing how to make a bed equals liberation. For Sumner it was exclusion.

For all of my parents' over-neat and generally pathological and overbearing housekeeping habits, bed making was not one of the things they harped on. I do know how to make a bed very skillfully and I can remember standing on the opposite side of many beds from my mom while she instructed me about how to get it right, yet these memories are warm ones. I liked making beds and I didn't HAVE to do it if I didn't want to.

Apparently my grandmother Rhoda made my dad make his bed everyday and so the day he left home he stopped making his bed.

I think generally my mom only makes my parents' bed for show. When guests come over, she fluffs everything up (just so) and tucks hospital corners (just so) before piling a tower of pillows on her bed (just so). But most days my mom just doesn't see the point. She's really into airing things out--not one corner or cranny of her house is stuffy. So most days she throws the comforter back and airs the bed out to keep it fresh.

Getting our house ready to "show" in the hopes of finding a buyer has been a grueling process, and living in a neat (nearly sterile) house is just not me. I like clean. I really like organization. I don’t like blank, boring neatness. Yesterday when I was making the beds I realized that before we were in the business of "showing" our house it never, ever crossed my mind that I might want to make our bed or our children's beds as part of my morning routine. That made me chuckle. I also realized that the only time we do make the beds is when we change the sheets or when VIP guests are coming by or when Phil is preparing to make the beds neat and safe for the kids and him to wrestle.

I like made beds, but I really just don't see the point.

We May

It is becoming an increasing possibility that we may move in May. That’s in like 60 days. That’s pretty sad.

I know that I should be worrying about selling my house, buying another, finding a job, finding schools for the kids, hiring a moving company, planning flights and drives and graduation, and setting up shop in a new city that was ravaged by a hurricane seven months ago. Thankfully I’m not worried today.

My secret is thankfulness. I heard this sermon last week that emphasized being thankful for what we have and where we are today. For about two weeks before I heard that sermon I had been fretting. A pathetic worry-wart. Panicking pathetically everyday. Then I started to count my blessings. It seems so simple and it is working.

I am sad and I get choked up a few more times a day then usual, but I know that I have been blessed by our four years here and there’s so much more for us in the next several years in New Orleans.

As I often say, “Praise God and thank you Jesus.”

Ramona on Moving

Our friend Julie: Ramona, are you excited to move to New Orleans?

Ramona: Yes.

Julie: What are you excited about?

Ramona: To learn French.

Julie: Really? Why do you want to learn French?

Ramona: Because it is fancy.

Later, she and I were watching TV show in which a little girl's friend was moving to Hong Kong.

Ramona: Kate is going to be so sad when I move. She is going to be so sad that God is taking me away from her.

Baby Slinger

This morning Phil delivered Ramona to our bed at about six. She was having a little asthma and I gave her a breathing treatment and waited to see if she was well enough to go to school. We lay there halfway between sleeping and waking, as I counted her breaths per minute and the seconds between coughs. Sumner bounded in about 45 minutes later, wanting to wrestle and cuddle in a rather active manner. We wanted to lay stillish. I asked him to stop, be quieter, relax, cuddle gently, but he wanted to tickle my armpits and dive under the covers. I got rather snappy with him.

Finally, we all got up and went about getting ready for school. I began making my cup of tea and oatmeal. Although Sumner ate an apple and yogurt at 5:20 and then more yogurt at 6:30, he was suddenly ravenous. Yet he needed to get his socks on, take his medicine, brush his teeth, and bundle up for school. He whined and stomped and didn’t cooperate. I think it was more about the snappy mother than an empty belly. I handed him a re-warmed leftover pancake as he walked out the door with Phil.

Then Ramona was hungry. Although my tea was getting cold, I cut up some fruit for her and scooped up some yogurt. Finally I sat down to eat my cold oatmeal and lukewarm tea and scan the paper.

And then the talking began. Oh, Ramona has a lot to say in the morning. Champion Chatterbox is the nickname she inherited from me. My mom says I used to chatter in the morning. There was lots of "Did you know that my teacher is actually a mommy?" and "When we move to New Orleans I am going to wear bows in my hair." I had to ask her to "just be quiet for a few minutes.” Again, I was rather snappy. For God's sake, I hadn't even been able to finish my tea.

Phil came back from dropping Sumner at the bus stop and immediately noticed how snappish I was. I tried to conceal it, but it seeped through. I was wishing that caretaking/parenting/ family/ relationships could be simpler. My house is organized now, so why can't the family fall in line? We have schedules, routines, rules, and expectations, so why can't I get a hot cup of tea?

While Phil was easing me out of snappy with some gentle teasing and the tea began to do its de-grouching work, Ramona wondered into her bedroom. She was talking, a lot. A few minutes later, as I was kissing Phil good-bye, I peaked in at her through the crack between her open door and the door jam. Here was a future-woman-mom (who may also be a teacher) who had it figured out. She had fashioned out of pop beads a baby holster and placed two babies on one side and one on the other. This allowed her the freedom to talk to them while she brushed her hair and sorted through her barrettes. I am sure she could also drink a cup of hot tea and make her family operate on remote control.

That's what I need: a baby holster. But I don't have babies any more, they're kids. So I guess I'd settle for a couple of horse poles that I could crosstie them to when I need some peace and quiet. Or a mute button. A mute button could be a good thing.

For Sale

We're really doing it. The house is on the market. Yikes. Our house reduced to catalogish shots:

Willie and Monie

I was playing a little slow Willie Nelson for Sumner last night.

"I don't like this song, Mom," Sumner flatly told me.

"This guy is friends with Johnny Cash. You'll like him," I tried to convince, certain that I could get him on my side. I moved on to the next slow song.

"Nope, I don't like this one." I skipped to the next one, another slow song, "Mom, I just don't like his voice. It is like sorrow."

I quickly found Whiskey River. Sumner just smiled and started dancing.

________________________________________

Monie, Ramona, Smooshy Small pants--that's Ramona. Today she moved to New Orleans. She got five other children at her school to move all of the toys from the toy kitchen, costumes from their wall, dolls from their bin, and hundreds of toys from block room to one small area for her move. Everything was in bins and boxes stacked on top of everything. She was getting it organized for a move. First she was going to Iowa and California for a visit and then New Orleans.

When I arrived the teacher told me, "Sumner and Ramona are going to be fine [with the move]. You and Phil are the ones who are going to have a hard time."

How right she is. Moving is so fun and so sad.

Goof Off

Today I got a panicked call from Phil, "Where is the Goof Off? I can't find it." He was agitated.

"I dunno, I think we used it all. I haven't seen it.” Tired of his home improvement impatience, which has been frequent this week, I retorted, “What do you need it for anyway?"

"You don't want to know."

Apparently, about 10 minutes before this phone call, Phil stepped out to take some garbage to the curb. During the few moments that Phil was out, Sumner found two glue traps for our furry neighbors. They looked so gooey and shiny; he put his hand in one. It wasn't easy to get his hand out, but he managed to free it. This lead him to decide to step into not one, but two mouse traps--just to see what it felt like. Then Sumner realized that his hand was quite sticky and it wouldn't wipe off, so he started to skate on the mouse traps on the kitchen floor towards the bathroom to wash his hands. Skating was fun. At that moment, Phil opened the front door.

"You've got to be kidding me Sumner," Phil said.

A bath and a food rub with some sort of citrus adhesive removal and Sumner smelled like oranges and was very clean.

Number of mice trapped this year: zero. Number of seven year olds: one.

A Ray of Light

Today was just a bad day.

Transition sucks. There are too many things to do. Normal life has been moving at a comfortable pace and I don't like having to speed up. I haven't been my best self over the last few days. I have to host a birthday party this weekend, host a workshop at Sumner's school, parent help at the Coop tomorrow, feed my family, respond to emails, sleep, eat, and do every home improvement project that I wished I had done over the last four years in five days. I have become surly, mean, bossy. Phil hasn't been a gentleman all the time either. Sumner's waking up before five o'clock. Today we had some annoying interactions with people we have to deal with here and Boston. Will the condo sell? Will I find a job a like that pays me well enough (whatever that means)? Will I get to be with my children enough with the job I find? I can't remember the last shower I had. Needless to say, by the time the kids were in bed, I was pooped. Phil and I both were low.

Then I got a call. From Marshall, Phil's high school buddy, who lives in New Orleans. He is in Boston for the night. Forty minutes later Phil was making Marshall a French Dip sandwich and a salad and he was telling us tales from his Fat Tuesday, which was just yesterday, in New Orleans. Early morning costume assembly, the inside scoop on property and neighborhoods, retelling old stories, talking about the realities of rebuilding. Ahhh, it was good. We had to stop and sit and talk and listen. Forget the boxes. They'll be done. Don't sweat the spackle--there's tomorrow. And the birthday party--it'll be a smash hit. No worries. It's all good.

So I sit and blog. A pleasure that I have been neglecting. It's all good.

All Business

My friends are in mourning and I am packing boxes. I am all business. Practical. Always in motion. Always thinking of the next thing that I need to check off the list.

My Boston friends are freaking out. They are getting used to the fact that we are leaving. I looking into the future.

Why is this mismatch happening?

I go to the five stages of grief:

• Denial (this isn't happening to me!)
  
• Anger (why is this happening to me?)
  
• Bargaining (I promise I'll be a better person if...)
  
• Depression (I don't care anymore)
  
• Acceptance (I'm ready for whatever comes)

What do they say? You move through the stages of grief in no particular order and you can return to or dwell in any of them for any amount of time. I'm in acceptance today...when will I get depressed again. No time to think about that...I have things to do.

The Dehumanizing Factor

We are erasing ourselves, more or less, from our house. We took down all of our pictures and all but one of our bookshelves. One of our bed stands is gone and the one that remains has two books on it. Usually there are about 8 books on each side of our bed and a pile of papers. Our realtor recommended removing all religious or political books because potential buyers will profile us based on our books and if they don't like what they see on the spines of the books...you can forget about making a deal. The kids' toys have been downsized to the current favorites and those have to be out of sight when they are not being used.

This morning Sumner stomped into our room looking for his Harry Potter tapes at about 5 AM. I didn't know where they were and it was too damn early to get up and look for them. Couldn't he just play with legos and enjoy the quiet?

Ramona wonders where her all the dolls went.

Phil can't find his flashlight because it was in a new box on the exact same shelf we've always kept it.

Even our coats are out of the entryway. We're hanging them on hangers in the kid's closet.

It is dehumanizing.

The worst of it is this mirror. Our wall of family photos has been dismantled. What now hangs there is a mirror fit for a vacation condo. It just cries to be unnoticed.

We are not the type of people who like to go unnoticed. I hope it sells fast.

Keep? Throw out? Give away?

What do you do with two thermoses from lunchboxes long forgotten? A thrift store shirt that never fit quite right? A junky party favor from a party that happened just three weeks ago? 100 pens and pencils and crayons and markers and colored pencils that Phil and I and our children could never use in the next 50 years if we wrote ever second of everyday? (But they work and no one wants them and it's wasteful to throw them away...)

Alex tells me that I am a good person and that I reuse and recycle and so it is okay to throw out pencils without erasers and pens without tops and any I don't like. "Send them to Africa," she suggests. How do you get pencils to Africa? Don't they need erasers there too?

When I googled "donate pencils Africa", I found Teach Africa. They want pencils. New ones.

So I threw away lots of pencils and topless pens and party favors.

Alex also told me to throw away almost all of my children's artwork unless it is brillant or a milestone. "It's all about process," she says.

It hit me that decluttering is all about process: the process of retracing your history, appreciating your journey, embracing your present, and planning for the future.

Wrapping up the pictures of Phil and I at 22--the pictures that sit unnoticed on our dresser for years. These are the the pictures that we each had of one another when we lived 5,000 miles apart.

And the artwork...it tells volumes about who we are and what we've learned. Take for instance the lanterns I packed today from three different JP Lantern parades that we attended.

What I keep even tells me something of my future. I am keep some clothing that has been on layaway, hoping, expecting believing that I can wear it. As I fold it up, I am imagining how cool it will look in New Orleans.

So, decluttering is important. It is a time to reflect and evaluate.

That word is...

Yesterday Sumner and I and his friend were hanging out. Sumner was getting into some potty talk and I was tolerating and ignoring it. There were a few poops and a few butts peppering the conversation about holograms and superpowers and at one point he spelled u-n-d-e-r-w-e-a-r for his friend. I tried not to get too worked up about it.

Then, out of no where, he says a nonesense sentence and ends it with the word shit.

I spun around, grabbed his arm, and said, "Sumner, do not say that word."

He looked at me, shocked, and said, "What? Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes," I said with a firm toungue and fierce eyes, "I know what it means and I do not want to hear it or you will lose some priviledges."

"Okay," he agreed, clearly not getting the difference between poop and shit.

Later, away for the ears of his friend, I explained myself. "Shit is a word that people take offense at. It is rude to say it and people get really shocked when someone says it aloud."

Sumner just said, "No, Mom, that word is fuck."

I guess he understands these things.

Potty Humor

I was just doing the lunch dishes. Ramona pranced into the kitchen, wandered around, talking to herself, "Oh, I need to go to the bathroom. Pee-pee? Poo-poo? I don't know which one I have to go. I need to go to the bathroom."

She wandered back out of the kitchen towards the bathroom, gripping her crotch.

I heard a tinkle. There was no more running commentary, usually a sign that a deep thought is emerging.

She poked her head back into the kitchen and said, while pulling up her pants, "Did you know that pee-pee in kind of like vanilla and poo-poo is kind of like chocolate?" With that she was off back to her playing.

Drum roll, please

We’ve dug. Deep. Deep into our desires for our life. Deep into our hopes for our future. And deep into our pockets to fund two graduate degrees. And now it is time to write the next chapter. Or blog.

The news: We’ve decided to rank New Orleans as our top pick for Phil’s residency program. We will know if we have “matched” there on Friday, March 16. Our chances are pretty good.

I’ve been holding off blogging all together this week because most of my blogable moments have to do with incidents, conversations, tears, and mishaps relating to this transition. I’ve started to write this entry several times. I’ve written sentences like, “While we will be sad to leave Boston,...” and “Can’t wait to see you at Jazzfest 2007!” None of these sentences, which I deleted as quickly as I jabbed them into my keyboard, really do our decision justice.

The billing on my blog says that this blog is about a year of digging deep. We have done a lot of that and I have written about of very little of it, because it is a private process and this is, of course, rather public. But at the end of the day, we are going to New Orleans because we feel drawn/pulled/called there. We want to be locals among locals. We want to pitch in. We want to learn something from the pace of New Orleans and the resolve of those we have been able to make it back to rebuild. We want to live by family.

And we’re in mourning. We simply are in denial about leaving our friends. Our neighborhood is perfect. We walk. Yesterday we walked to the pool for a swim and then Sumner and Phil walked to the library for Chess Club and Ramona and I walked home for lunch and then over the salon to have my hair done. Phil and Sumner walked to the grocery for a snack, picked up Monie at the salon and walked home. Later our friends, who live down the street, walked over with their kids for dinner. We love JP.

And we’re scared. We’re not scared about the things you’re probably scared of, like levies and hurricanes and rotten moldy buildings and Southern people, but we’re anxious about change on 100 different levels.

But we’re trusting ourselves and I believe that God has some sort of plan in this, so we’re going.

This week I’ve been putting things in boxes in an effort to get ready to put our house on the market. I call it packing. My friend Aaron, who lives behind us, asked me to stop saying that—it makes him too sad. So I started to call it de-cluttering. Later I talked to my friend Amy, who lives in New Orleans, she told me to “pack away”.

I want to go and I want to stay.

Poetry

Sumner wrote these last year for his kindergarten classmates. He dictated them to us and we transcribed them. Each one was individualized for a member of his class.

Every kind of food is so delicious to the cob.
It’s so delicious like the snow.

Winter is so fun.
Spring is so fun.
Every season is fun.
Summer is fun.
Fall is fun.

Plants can be any kind of beautiful color.
But each one is the most beautiful of all.

The valentine color couldn’t be redder.
Valentines, valentines are so red.
They are the best red in the world.

The spider web is shining.
Oh spider web shine every second.
Glow in the night like moon-glowing star.
Off to a spider glow no more.

The sun is yellow.
The moon is gray.
But every day is valentine beautiful.

Bananas are yellow, apples are red, and every fruit is healthy.

A rainbow rocketship is built by the moon and the sun.

Vines are green.
Branches are brown.
Every kind of stick is useful every day.

Eyes can be any color, blue, red, or purple.
Every color of eye is beautiful.

Blue, red and yellow are very primary.
They like to be very beautiful.

Butterflies are beautiful, as the most beautiful things on earth.
Beautiful as wind, song and wings.

Oh beautiful, oh beautiful.
Baby.

Bless God, for spirits bless a shining heart.
Give and shine.

Friendship can never be broken.
By the force that connects it with two people that might even marry.

Inside is love, outside is beauty.
Beauty is married forever.

A shining spider web in the night.
Oh beautiful web, oh beautiful night.
The night never ends.

Oh beautiful birds, you are wonderful.
Be quick or fast, there’s a net in your eyes.

Beauty comes from the inside, not out.
And the heart is more loving with each inside out.

Neither bunny nor dragon, but beautiful guard of inside.

Draw a picture, or paint a picture.
Make a wonder-picture of beauty and all.

Star Wars Episode I: Someone hired two Jedis. Darth Maul is after the two Jedis and queen. But nobody wins. To be continued....

The Jury

When Phil and I get in an argument, I think he says insane things. Not just things I don’t agree with and not just rude things or heat-of-the-moment things. INSANE things. I don’t want you to think he’s crazy, so I won’t report any examples here.

When he says these things I get quite passionate about talking him down, showing him how to be reasonable, and generally convincing him that I am the levelheaded one and all things that I think and say are sensible. Sometimes I have to shout to prove how rational my thinking is. It’s like the bumper sticker I saw the other day, “Don’t believe everything you think.” No matter how much foot stomping or clear speaking I do, I never get very far.

In the heat of the moment, I fantasize about the Jury. The Jury is a group of about 5-10 of our mutual friends who would essentially side with me if they were listening to our argument. I see them sitting on a bench set up along the side of our bedroom or kitchen or wherever we are. After they take in our perspectives, they would make a ruling. Chris, Ajay, Suzi, and Ha are always on the Jury, because they are our oldest joint friends and know us best. Ajay would be the captain (Sorry, Chris, it’s not an elected position and Ajay is more Swiss than you). Unfortunately, no family members make the cut on the permanent Jury seats; blood is thicker than water and that makes them impartial.

The rest of the jury selection varies depending on the topic under discussion. Parenting? I’d call in the Corner Coop teachers. Speedy decision-making? Ara, my father-in-law (I’ll make a special family exception because he’d vote with me), Molly Wolfe, and Darcy get to share the Jury bench and Chris gets an extra vote. Decorating? Erika, Amy, and our moms (again they get a special exception because they’d vote with me). Fashion issues? Aarti, Erika, Julie, both of our mothers, Laura, and my brother.

Last weekend, we drove to New York. And, as you might expect if you are driving into Brooklyn at 5:30 on a Friday and you have two tired kids in the way-back and your husband is trying to navigate from the middle seat, Phil started doing insane things. At least that’s how I saw it. And conveniently sitting shotgun was our friend, Alex. By the time we reached our destination I was boiling mad. And it was Phil’s fault. He was tense. He back-seat driving. He was being unfair. And worst of all...he wouldn’t admit it.

As we unpacked the car, we had words. Alex stood there with a pillow under each arm and took it all in. Actually, she quietly took the children upstairs while we worked it out. Within 10 minutes it was all resolved. He said he was sorry that the things he was saying were coming across tense, but he didn’t feel tense. I accepted that I was maybe a little tense and took a little responsibility too. We kissed and he went off to meet some friends on the Upper West Side.

Here’s were I saw my chance. I had a jury of one, Alex, waiting upstairs to side with me. When I got upstairs I told her and the kids that it was all worked out. Nothing to worry about. Then, as an aside, I asked Alex, “Wasn’t he being so intense in the car? I couldn’t believe it.” Then I waited for her guilty-as-charged verdict.

She smiled and said, “I dunno, Em, you were pretty tense.” Then she paused and saw my gapping mouth and added, “You both kind of were.” She really meant that I was the tense one, but softened the blow with an addendum.

Justice can be bitter.

Making Sense

Our kids are trying to make sense of the world and we’re trying to make sense of them.

____________________________________________

Sumner: Mom, if I wanted to and I was empty and you gave me permission, I could eat a quarter of a pie. I could put it all in my mouth at one time.

Me: Really. I can put my fist in my mouth.

Sumner: Me too.

Me: What if you were full?

Sumner: I would vomit the pie up.

____________________________________________

Ramona: Mom, was this Barbie alive?

Me: No.

Ramona: Is it dead?

Me: No, it was never alive.

Ramona: Not even it the time of dinosaurs!

Me: No even then.

____________________________________________

Sumner has been making it clear lately that he doesn’t get enough attention. He’s right. Ramona edges him out and demands everyone’s attention. We were talking about this...

Sumner: When it happens I don’t feel smart.

Me: What do you mean?

Sumner: Well, like at school I am always smart. I am really smart.

Me: Huh, and when you don’t get attention you don’t feel smart?

Sumner: Yeah.

Later, Sumner was explaining to Phil why he likes to wear this fleece buttondown shirt to school everyday.

Sumner: You know how I am the smartest kid in that class? Well, I wear this shirt because I am smart and this shirt is like the kind smart people wear, like professors.

Phil: Huh.

Sumner: When I have a bad day at school I don’t remember it the next day.

____________________________________________

What do you say to that? Sumner, there’s lots of kinds of smart. You’re the kind of smart that’s valued in school, but there’s other types too. OR Sumner, you probably shouldn’t go around saying you're the smartest kid in the class. OR Smart people don’t have to wear collared shirts. OR Sumner, eating a lot of pie will make you sick. We don’t say anything.