The animals have turned against me.


Ok, in this post she’s going to try and convince you that I am a weird cat. Just look at me, folks. I’m as right as furry rain. Whatever that means. And, I am cute, no?


So, I don’t pay much attention to the trash cans in this house. The reason for this is twofold:

  1. My children are in charge of taking out the trash. We really have a lead on something exciting here, folks. Our children can do the chores that we once had to do! It’s like free labor, if you discount all the whining and really crap jobs they do at any sort of cleaning, but I’ll take it.
  2. Who really wants to ponder a trash can? What? You don’t have enough stimulation from the Netflixes?

Anyhow. As I was upstairs today, making the beds, I did notice the trash can. I noticed that it was looking rather… shredded?

And then, I noticed our cat, Vader, (also referred to as Willie, Sir William, Vader-Tator, and Grandmaster Cat in previous posts. Keep up, y’all. In our house we like to make sure everyone is on rotation with their naming) as he sidled over to the trash can.

And then, he proceeded to START EATING IT.

That’s right. He was eating the trash can.


What, wee grey cat? What is your problem? Do I not go to the Petco and buy you large crinkly expensive bags of super-healthy food pebbles? Ever since the gigantic white cat had his brush with death we have gone totally upscale on our food options here. Basically, it’s “So long college fund, kids! Gotta feed the kitties!” That sort of thing.

Vader, do you suddenly need more fiber in your diet?

Is it a “My Weird Addiction” kind of thing? Do you need Dr. Phil?

I can’t imagine a trash can tastes good. Perhaps, however, it’s a step up from the mortgage-breaker brown stuff that I feed you every morning.

And then, Vader made eye contact with me. His mouth was still sort of attached to the trashcan. It’s just like that time my husband caught me gnawing on his precious super sharp cheddar that he tries to hide from me. I hadn’t even bothered to slice off a piece of cheese. I was gnawing on it like an angry hamster, and I froze as his eyes locked onto mine. We then argued about sharp cheddar and how it should not be gnawed.

It had been a long day.

Anyhow, back to the cat/trash can thing. Vader stopped, mid chew. And then, he extracted himself from trash can, and sauntered off. All casual, like, “Well, that was a great trash can snack. Thanks Byeeeee!”

So, that’s it then. This little bit of daily weirdness was brought to you by an ungrateful furball and my inability to get it on film.



What is wrong with everyone? I don’t understand out world at all.


Dog: Can you not?


 Dog: And I get yelled at for the licking.




No Gift Returns

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today. The theme is:

Screenshot 2015-06-05 07.08.25We have a really great tradition at our house. At about four pm, we all kinda fall apart.

It’s typical. I feel pretty adult-y until then. We go on bike rides. I feed the cat. We weed the garden (read: I weed, the boys end up looking like they just went to the spa for a mud facial). It’s all pretty normal. “Look at me!” I think, as we buy healthy food at the store, “We are at the store! And we bought kale! That’s what big people do!” And I even pay for the groceries myself. I drive home. It’s all so very grownup.

And then, it turns four. And that’s when the monsters come out.

Yesterday, that was when my sons had some milk and graham crackers (so, not a healthy-ish choice, I know. Graham crackers are on the cusp. Sorta healthy, cuz they’re brown? Perhaps the crackers are a symbol. The graham crackers are a sign that the adultish-ness is starting to break down.) And then, my sweet cherubs spilled their milk. And THEN, they proceeded to try and clean it up. The horror.

Yes, I realize you might be thinking, “Wow! They tried to clean it up! That’s awesome! What responsible little darlings!” Yea, sure.

Have you ever seen a five and a six-year-old attempt to clean up something?

One small one grabs my decorative towel and proceeds to grind it into one spot on the table, thus pushing all the milk onto the floor beneath the refrigerator, where it will soon fester and make my house smell like something died. Along with my soul.

Then, the other one takes a wash rag, and with one corner of it, proceeds to hover it over the gigantic pile of milk on the table and proceeds to wave it weakly about with the focus of a newborn.

“OH MY GRAVY,” Momsie says, “THE DECORATIVE TOWELS. HOW COULD YOU. JUST LET ME” and starts to grimly scrub up wayward milk with the martyrd gloom of Joan of Arc. If Joan of Arc had to clean the kitchen, with two small boys circling her at all times, she would fuss about decorative towels too. I am sure of it.

And then, both children slink away; their job is done.

They have Momsie fully trained.

So, as I’m trying to clean all this, I move the table away from the wall. When I do that, I notice a whole other subset of grime and despair that is lining my walls. Which then makes me see the ucky dust all over the floorboards. Which then leads me to the fact that there dust balls (balls? how?) all over my WALLS. And I want to cry a little. It’s like Sisyphus and his whole family set up camp in my kitchen. I want to cry a little.

f0e2ab11de5657835cdb621b00834259But then, I spied it.

An earring. An amethyst earring that I had lost ages ago. An amethyst earring I bought for myself back when I was in college, from a time long (LONG) ago but fondly remembered. There it was, sparkly and sitting amongst all the disgustingness that is my floor, as pretty as you please. If the milk hadn’t spilled, I wouldn’t have found it…

But you know that. I bet you, dear reader, can tell me already what the lesson is:

Look for the good. There are gifts everywhere. Even in spilled milk. Yep. It’s an easy lesson. God wants you to look for the good in it all.


And now I’m gonna go pour a pitcher of Kool-Aid in my living room to see what I can find there. Maybe a hundred dollars?

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people. Colossians 3:23

I’d Like to Schedule a Meeting. Click Reply.

Linking up with Kate Motaung over at Five Minute Fridays today!

The theme:Screenshot 2015-05-08 10.29.48

I’m sitting on the floor on my bathroom. I have two boys, and one husband. Therefore, the floor is not the best place to be. The bathroom has a door, however, and for the most part it is shoved shut.

Except my cat, somehow, manages to get in here now. And he is staring at me, as cats do, all up in my face. Like somehow this staring business is going to make me get up and get him a smelly kitty treat.

I am not. I am going to stay right here.


I am crying a little. I am also wondering where my waist went. It got, um, disappeared. I had just returned from a shopping trip where I had bludgeoned myself with changing room! bright lights! mirrors all over! dresses that seemed right and then when I put them on they turned into impossible cloth torture devices! a horrible feeling of “who are you kidding” malaise!

I was tired out by all that. So, the bathroom.

Also this: my children. The sweet little babies were whining so much this afternoon that I thought maybe they were, like, training for some sort of whining tournament later.

This was PULITZER whining. This was whining that could get you into the FRACKITY-FRACK WHINING OLYMPICS.

As I sat on that bathroom floor, with my cat all mouth breathing on me, and the linoleum screamed “Ebola! Plague! Disgusting! Clean me, now!!’ at me, I kinda hated my life.

Remember when you didn’t have children? The children that took your waist? Remember that? You used to read the freaking newspaper, woman. On a Saturday morning. With coffee. In BED.

I realize that I kinda hate everything.

And then, the cat came a little closer. Always one for barging through social boundaries, he leaned on me. And something kinda happened.

I leaned on him.

He purred. And I put my hand on his warm little head and I remembered something:

I am supposed to pray when I get like this.

And then, Jesus, who is always here with me, even in my bathroom of despair, said:

“I really think it’s time we get together. I’ve been trying to call you into a meeting all morning! Will you please reply?”

I sniffled.

“We can’t meet here. It’s like, gross. And I’m a mess.”

Jesus, always one for barging through all social boundaries, sat right down next to me, amidst the fur and germs, and said,

“I can do mess. Let’s meet. Right now. Before you switch over to doom and gloom forever. And then, let’s just keep meeting, like this, all day. Ok?”

He reminds me of this every day. The cat is sometimes His messenger. I know, it’s a cat. But for right now? He’s a Messenger from God. With fur on.

Why yes, I am wearing a tutu. It compliments my eyes. And yes, that is a furball photobomb in the background.
Why yes, I am wearing a tutu. It compliments my eyes. And yes, that is a furball photobomb in the background. She’s such a diva.

Cast all your anxieties on Him, because He cares for you. I Peter 5:7

W is for The Wheat Germ of Guilt


Scene:  Kitchen.  Momsie is humming, mixing up some eggs and sugar for cookies.  Chocolate chip cookies.  Also known as Toddler Smack.

The boys are assembling what looks like a nuclear power plant with Legos.  Occasionally the cat throws in a protest (He’s anti-nuclear. Or maybe anti-Lego.) by racing through and waving small signs.  The wee engineers are not deterred and a model of Three Mile Island is slowly forming in my living room.

Their conversation sounds like this:

Blonde: Dear brother, could you pass me yonder grey Lego?

Red:  Why of course, I would be honored.

Blonde: Thank you.  This will complete Zone three on the reactor.  It’s da Red Zone.

Red:  Lovely weather we’re having today, wouldn’t you agree?

Blonde:  Oh yes!  Later I think we should go outside for healthy sunshine and fresh air, don’t you think?
My cherubs.

I smile  and start to measure out the chocolate chips, blessed by the peaceful day and the wonderment that is parenting.  But then, I hear it.  My inner nutball:

“WHAT are you doing?  Are you INSANE?  You are making them COOKIES!  WITH SUGAR.  And where’s the carob chips?  This is gross negligence!”  I look around guiltily. Inner nutball whispers in horror:  “The sugar… It’s WHITE.”


“I mean, look at my those babies:”


This is a representation. This is not actually one of my babies. That would be odd, wouldn’t it?









Fear not, neurotic one, there is a solution to all this malaise.  It’s this stuff:


W. Germ.  AKA Wheat Germ. I usually buy the Mom Guilt Brand.  It's the best.

W. Germ. AKA Wheat Germ. I usually buy the Mom Guilt Brand. It’s the best.

Just toss some of this into your cookie batter and voila!  You are no longer serving your darlings small pastries of doom!  It’s that simple.

I add this magic powder to:

pancakes, cookies, cakes, smoothies, oatmeal, vodka tonics (JUST KIDDING)

I also: 

Wave it over my tater tots when I begin to feel the guilt curtain descend.

Set it in front of the television while they watch yet another episode of Barney.

Position it strategically over their beds at night, amending any snappish comments I might have uttered earlier that day.

It also works in marriages!

Try it in your coffee the morning after a particularly violent episode with a snoring husband.  It erases all possibility that you might have tried feeding him a pillow.

Just hand him the entire container when you make him watch The Sound of Music with you. Again.

Sprinkle it on the bedsheets!  You fall asleep every night at 8 pm due to exhaustion?  No guilt.  Wheat germ it.
Put a container in your kitchen, your clothes closets, the litter boxes!

Set some as a paper weight in office to fend off ennui as you write and ignore your children!

Get a travel size for the car!

Take it on vacation!

Mail a case of the stuff to Pinterest!
But, don’t even try to take it to your mother’s.  It won’t work there.
(Just kidding, Mom.)

Now I feel guilty.



Sunday Spruce Up


This post is brought to you by: Cat Herders United. The world’s oldest profession. Ok. second oldest. You know, for Moms.

I am writing this post with a large cat on me, so I apologize for any impurrfections.  (I know.  It was just too easy.  Please furgive me.  Oops, did it again!  I just CAT help it.)

No.  Don’t leave. I’ll stop.

Anyhoo.  Today is Sunday; my favorite day of the week.  We go to church; I bake sweet stuff; we watch football.  My husband lies on the couch a lot.  I aimlessly walk around and pick up my mug and hoist it into the sink.  Voila!  House tidied.  Back to reading my books and eating sweet stuff.  Rinse, repeat.

Sundays are for REST.  Something my cat is very good at, incidentally.  I try to learn from him.  Currently he is on his back, waving his paws at me for a belly rub.  The lap cat = a daily reminder that we are to REST.  And REST with our entire selves – belly up, paws fluttering, occasionally punctuated with gigantic, fishy yawns.

But since Momsie’s brain can never fully shut off (see industrious in the dictionary), I do always tackle one other sort of “chore” on Sundays:  I plan.


I take about a good 20 minutes and I sit down (with cat and coffee, preferably not too mingled together) and plan my upcoming week.  I write down in a good, old-fashioned spiral notebook my menu for the week, appointments, tasks I gotta get done, my daily chores, any contacts and emails I need to make.  And then:

I shut my Master Plan, put it away, and go in search of more coffee.  And some Frisky Crispies.  For the CAT.  Not the hubs.  That’s a post for another day.


This is Master Control. It ain’t pretty, but it knows how to work it.

I am on chapter three of Organize Now!  (My lawyer is nudging me and wants to point out the obvious:   I have been reading this now for SIX weeks, but am still just on… chapter three.  I get the math.  PROGRESS, NOT PERFECTION.)

Chapter Three:  Organize Your Cleaning Schedule.

BRILLIANT CHAPTER. Know why? Because I have already done about 90% of it!!!  This book is AWESOME.  It’s like my own personal validation system – at least for this chapter – telling me I’m the Organizing Bombdiggity.  (Again, at least for this chapter.  We all know how long it took me to finish chapter 2 and the dentist appointment thing-y.*)

Some nuggets of wisdom from Jennifer Ford Berry:

  • Save space by minimizing cleaners.  I do this by simply using vinegar and water spray.  I also use old cloth diapers for wipes – we have a kamillion of ’em.  Might as well put them to good use.
  • Take 15 minutes each night to straighten up the house.  I find myself doing this around 4 pm every night. It seems a natural time to do it, you know, when we are all sick of each other, and I need some time alone.  As soon as I mention “clean up” they scatter like crazed minnows. Boom! Quiet time!   (I know.  The lawyer says children should be INCLUDED in clean up.  I do that.  Really.  LAY OFF.)
  • Be a basket case.  Carry a basket around the house while you are cleaning.  I amended this by having a “stairs basket” that is somewhat cute and allows me to throw any odd item in there to go up or down stairs as needed. The items in there right now?  Three logos, some shoes, Spiderman underpants (clean?  One can hope), a matching Spiderman action figure missing one hand (IT’S MINE MOMMY DONT THWOW IT AWAY CUZ I NEEEEEEED IT!) and some rope.  (Rope?) Also, 5 million cat toys.  The cat is way organized.**

I LOVE THIS CHAPTER!  If only I could have skipped Chapter 2 and just doubled up on Chapter 3.

*  Dentist appointment: Root canal.  WAT.  NO.  HELP. March 13.  Prayer vigil will start at March 12 at midnight…

** And, in the delicious knowledge that one can never have too many pictures of CATS that are ORGANIZED, I leave you with this:

  Fifteen Ways to Organize Your Cats


R is for Re-Gift.


Pre kids:

1.  I had better hair.

2.  I would say things like, “I think I’ll hit the hay early tonight!” and the universe didn’t retort with an ominous cackle.

3.  My idea of home decor did not involve huge, red, flashing plastic monstrosities or pointy things to step upon and curse at.  (And yes I KNOW I ended a sentence with TWO prepositions.  Argh.  Do you prefer: “pointy thing on which to step or at which to curse”?  Puh-lease.)

Post Kids:  (or what I fondly refer to as After My Uterus Filed for Social Security):

1.  I talk to my hair now.  I lecture it.  We have a very tense relationship.

2.  I never speak of bedtime or getting sl–p or lack of sl–p.  I know that any sort of verbal mention of That Which We Do At Night But Shall Not Be Named* means the Death Eaters (toddlers) are coming.

3.  I still try with the home decor.  Sometimes I have luck to put some cute item up or about in my house.  But eventually… it gets covered with something large, red, or plastic or moved so that small pointy things can be strewn around it.

Pre Kids, I kinda had this in mind when I imagined my Play Room:


Look at us! We are well-behaved and our play set costs more than Momsie’s car! We play by sitting still a lot and smiling! No sudden moves! No loud noises!

So.  You can imagine my surprise because it didn’t really work out that way.  I was shocked.

I count myself very lucky because we actually DO have a playroom.  It’s a delightful space up on our top floor with lots of windows and sunlight.  It’s lovely.  That’s if you could actually stop your brain from hurting anytime you go in there because For PETE’S sake WHY must we dump stuff?  WHY?  Why does dumping it all OUT = play?  Do YOU SEE ME come home and take out my computer or my phone and dump them out all over the floor to play with THEM?  NO.  NO YOU DON’T!  CAN’T YOU JUST PLAY LIKE THE CHILDREN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH ABOVE?

Toddlers can take a perfectly clean sunroom and turn it into this within 20 seconds.  TWENTY.


No, I do not have a before shot. I couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough.

So, about a month ago our family embarked on our yearly tradition:  The Toy Purge.  It’s generally done about a week before Christmas, when the littles are worked up in a Santa Lather about all da toys comin!  With Da wrappings!!  All under da tree!

I like to ride that wave of toy-frenzy and basically get rid of about 60% of their crap before the next onslaught begins.

Here’s how we do it:

The Great Toy Purge of 2013

1.  We talk it up.  A LOT.  Shameless propaganda.  Say things like, “Before Christmas we’re going to have our Give the Toys Away Party!  It’ll be great!  We’ll SHARE OUR TOYS WITH OTHERS!”  Sharing is caring, and all that.  They won’t buy it at all, but they’ll enjoy the theatrics.  Maybe.

2.  When the day comes,  grab three laundry baskets.  Label each:  KEEP, GIVE AWAY, BROKEN.  I had the boys make signs that they thought signified each thing. I did find it amusing that Blonde tried to get Red into the GIVE AWAY basket within about three minutes.  He has a wry sense of humor, that one.

3.  Pray.  I know, for reals.  We sat and prayed before we did this.  My sweet boys talked a bit about giving toys away that they no longer used or had outgrown.  It was adorbs.  Such sweet little hearts.  (And later when one of them is grabbing at some gnawed upon 6 month old RATTLE and shouting, “MINE MINE MINE MY PRESHUSSSSSSSS!”  you can gulp, dial-up that prayer again, and wonder What Would Jesus Do?  I am pretty sure thwacking ’em over the head with a bible is not the answer.)**

4.  Very important: set out a tray for all the toy bits that belong to other toy collections.  Therefore, you don’t get bogged down in finding where the stray phallic bit of white plastic thing -y that your 5-year-old fervently SWEARS belongs to something called “Da wocket set dat is from Grandpa and is da BEST. DIS is not trash!  It GOES to something ELSE.”  Heaven forbid you put that strange random and forlorn plastic bit in the trash because, “Do you not LOVE  the random plastic bits like I do?”


This weird collection of leftovers holds the key to a toddler’s sense of control. Do NOT throw them away. Do it later when the toddlers are not looking.  Suckers.

5.  Keep ’em focused.  Offer copious snacks and drinks to keep their energy up.  Push through.  Be ready for the inevitable sabotage of the THROW AWAY box – it will happen.  Once the toddlers start to lurch over to that container with its pathetic detritus (mostly from McDonald’s and therefore, China) with a sort of zombied focus of “Must have theses toyyyyys they are okaaaayyyyy we can fixxxx em….” you offer some juice and give them specific orders.

“You, Blonde!  Herd marbles!  Red!  You!  Go over there and look cute while you scarf some Cheerios out of the couch!  Then sort these dinosaurs!”  Keep the tasks specific and small, while you do about 98% of the work.  Which is, after all, how mothering pans out most of the time, anyhow.

6.  When done, get the kids out of the room.  This is very important.  They have probably unearthed some precious toy circa two years ago to mangle, so this is easy.  When they leave, you take a deep breath and:


Why. WHY?

        Redistribute the goods. You know what I mean.  It’s a cruel world, but if they want to keep that rolley popping vacumn thing your mom got them and you don’t, you seize the day and your sanity and get rid of it.  BEGONE EVIL POPPING THING.

          Get the GIVE AWAY and TRASH boxes OUT of the house.  That way, your sweet toddlers will not keep zombeing over to them and digging out the wired entrails of a broken batteried and very dead device that  is weally weally all dey ever wanted.  Who has the time for that insanity?

Sometimes toddlers remind me very much of the Log lady from Twin Peaks.


Once the purge is over, sit on the couch, eye your newly organized toy situation and pat yourself on the back.  It will be a mess in an hour.  You have an hour.  Pour a cup of coffee and RELISH it.

7.  NOW.  GIVE THOSE TOYS AWAY TO KIDS WHO WILL LOVE THEM AS MUCH AS WE DID.   Today, if at all possible.  I like to have a destination in mind BEFORE we even start the Purge.  It helps keep us focused on the WHY of this activity and also helps those boxes get to their destination pronto.  We do it together – the boys see the toys delivered and then we high five and walk away.  The real Re-gift is how proud the boys are when this is done;  it’s a big present for our hearts, I tell you.

Luke 3:11, my friends.  We don’t do it perfectly, and we forget many times, but this tradition is a good thing for us.


*This sounds rather saucy.  But that’s a post for another day.  See N is for Nookie.

**Don’t worry… nobody was really thwacked with a bible.  I promise.  It just was a nice visual for a moment.

Monday Manuscript



So, yesterday the Blonde spilled his hot cocoa.   And from there, I decided it was time to organize my attic.

Stay with me.  Watch the wonder that is Momsie’s mind at work:

1.  Hot cocoa spills on floor in kitchen.  EVERYWHERE.

2.  Husband proceeds to start cleaning up cocoa with a light dusting of grumbling.

3.  Momsie tries to assist as best as she can but is so dazzled by watching hubs clean that she can only stand and hold out a towel, ineffectually, but with what can only be termed as romantic thoughts for cleaning husband.  But that’s another post for another day.

4.  Husband eventually stops cleaning and wanders away to watch football (self-medication) and Momsie goes in for second shift of cocoa removal.

5.  Momsie pulls small kids’ table away from the wall and finds puzzle piece.

This is an actual dust bunny.

This is an actual dust bunny.

It’s a puzzle piece.  Covered in fur.  And sticky.  It’s probably been there for over a year since we DON’T EVEN OWN THAT PUZZLE ANYMORE.

6.  Something in Momsie snaps and she vows:  I WILL CLEAN EVERYTHING!


My stuff is sparkly! This pan completes me!

7.  And so it begins.

My house has survived the onslaught of Christmas, two toddlers, a cat with an attitude, and a husband who redefines “Must keep all small pieces of paper that I empty out of my pockets because one of those miniscule pieces of twisted and crumpled bits might, just MIGHT, be a formula for solving World Peace.”

It’s time to spring clean.   In January.  Of course.

Here’s some visual proof that a Big Organization Intervention is due:

photo 2 (6)

Don’t judge. You all know you have a room like this.

The room above is what we like to call the “Blue Room.”  Not because each time I walk into it I start muttering despair (which I do)  but because the walls are, like, BLUE.  Yep, I know. We are suuuuper creative at Momsie house.  Right now, the Blue room is stuffed full of The Boxes that Held Christmas.  And laundry that keeps fooling around and procreating.  But hey!  There’s my coffee cup!! From three days ago! I just spotted it!  I have been looking all over for that thing!

And here is my “Sewing Room.”  We call it the “Sewing Room”  because a long time ago I bought a sewing machine and I put it in there.

photo 4 (1)

Looks so innocent, doesn’t it?

Wait for it…

photo 3 (2)

The horror… the HORROR…

The “Sewing Room” has slowwwwly morphed into the “Put it in the Sewing Room I’ll deal with it later” room.

Again.  Here is where I get a bit indignant – don’t you tssk tssk me.  YOU HAVE A ROOM LIKE THIS, DON’T YOU?

*small voice* Right?

Anyhow.  Once when I had no children I bought a book on organizing my life.  And I put the book away, swore I would “get to it” one day, and then had children and lost my ever-lovin’ mind.  I barely had time to keep us in underwear and milk (not necessarily in the same places) for about three years.  My sons were born 18 months apart, nearly to the day, and I have been a bit BUSY.  THUS, THE “SEWING ROOM”!

Well, I found the book the other day.  It’s Organize Now, by Jennifer Ford Berry.  Isn’t it the cutest thing? It looks like a little planner! And it’s green and pink!  And, it will “simplify your space AND your life!”  If you are interested, the author has a fabulous website – click here to see her marvelous ideas!

I adore it.  I haven’t actually READ it all yet, but I adore it.    For example:


“Chapter One: Organize Your Mind.”
It is actually possible. (Uh, subtitle is mine.)

So… I’ll keep you posted.  Each chapter covers a week from the year.  We start with the “Mind”  (actually bit scared to tackle that first, but you gotta start somewhere I guess) and then on to things like “Things” and “Papers” (my husband is gonna LOVE that chapter) and “Storage Areas” and on and on…  I think my favorite chapter is entitled:  “Organize your Pregnancy.”  BOOM.  Done!  Check that sucker off the list.  Anyone who has two boys within 18 months of each other and is forty-notgonnatellyous years old gets to say DONE on that one.

Seriously, this book is awesome. It covers it ALL.  I will keep you posted on my weekly sojourn into a clean mind, heart, and home.  What better week to start?

Now, I am going to go take a nap.  The Mind needs its rest. It has a lot of work to do.