Category Archives: Transition

Dec6

Being a long distance Sitti and Mom…

Posted on by
Being a long distance Sitti and Mom…

 

F97A01CF-913A-407B-BF00-00CEE48B0C06

I recently returned from a quick and dirty fun-filled trip to Nashville to see Peter, Brianna and my two precious grandsons- Bear and Boe.  It had been a while, so this Sitti (Arabic for Grandmother) was itching to get as many hugs and kisses in as possible during the visit.

I am filled with thoughtful reflection about my five days on the floor, climbing in and out of playground tunnels and zooming down slides, sorting through legos and trucks, jumping on pillows, bending down to help little hands drive little vehicles, playing Uno and Candyland, practicing reading and making silly words out of vowels and consonants and loving every head bang and diaper change while simultaneously singing “I’m being swallowed by a boa constrictor” over and over again.

I won’t lie..

This 65 year old body was ready for a quiet four and a half hour flight home in an aisle seat with my glass of water and bag of pretzels.

It’s challenging being a long distance Sitti.  You have to pile all the love, presents, angst and intention into a multi-day window of concentrated and intense togetherness that is probably better budgeted out into smaller and more absorbable portions.  But it’s the best we can do with the 2000 plus mile distance between us.  I find myself yearning to hear things like “Mom, can you pick Boe up from school today” or “Hey mom, can you babysit this Saturday night?”

My son Peter and I had a chance to talk one evening over an adult beverage after the boys were tucked in and then again before I left for the airport.  We talked about raising sons and what it was like for me to have three little ones under 5 years old.

Frankly, I have trouble remembering!  I just know that it was hard work and looking back I was crazy to not get more household help!  I told him that I thought he and Breezy were doing a wonderful job and I was impressed with the “sleep training” and the 7pm bedtime, all of the kid friendly kitchen utensils and cups and the multi-bag deliveries from Whole Foods including fresh flowers for each of the boys’ bedrooms.  Such a sweet gesture.

When I come to Nashville I walk into their world and it’s a different world than the one I raised Peter and his brothers in.  We had no internet.  No google to search.  No “Alexa, set the timer for 10 minutes”.  No grocery delivery.  (Although there was a drive through dairy that was fun for getting the occasional popsicle!)

I got my parenting advise from my wise and highly experienced mom (of six), The Gesell Institute and T Berry Brazelton.  I subscribed to the “toy of the month club” and diligently studied the instructions for each toy to make sure I understood the developmental milestones being reinforced.  I depended on Le Leche to help me with breast feeding and I had my mother tribe to meet with at the park or call in a desperate moment from the wall phone in the kitchen.  (Oh Lordy, I’m dating myself!)

I told Peter that we still live in different worlds.  We each have our own peer group- he and Breezy have their friends  who are immersed in the business of raising children.  And I have mine.  A partner who loves and supports me and vibrant women friends who have done their time raising families and who are now navigating the next chapter of their lives- finding an encore career or retiring all together- selling all their belongings and traveling the world in an Airstream!

Yet, most importantly, we are all asking ourselves how we might find a place in the lives of our children and grandchildren.

The generation gap is huge.  Yet the chasm is manageable when we can have heart to heart conversations like this one.

I shared with Peter how devastating it was to lose my mom to cancer when I was 30.  Peter was just one year old.  I told him other things that he was too young to remember.  And personal things about me that he would have been too young to understand.  And why not?

How old do our children have to be before we tell them who you really are?

Are they old enough at 36 years old to know the struggles we had at their age?  To know our vulnerabilities and our weaknesses?  To unearth stagnant memories and harvest understanding?  To change the narrative? To garner acceptance and forgiveness?

At the airport we circled a few times so that we could finish our conversation- to be sure that we ended our time together with understanding and closure.  Peter suggested that.

Being a long distance Sitti and a long distance Mom is challenging.  But it has its advantages.  There is focused time to be together, to be intentional, and to dig deep.  It’s like concentrated orange juice before you dilute it.

It’s sticky.. yet oh so sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May9

What are we busy about?

Posted on by
What are we busy about?

IMG_0122

“Your right ovary is enlarged.  That’s unusual after menopause.”

This is not something you want to hear from your gynecologist when your mother died from ovarian cancer at 61 years of age.  I stare at the ceiling and try to stay calm.

“Let’s schedule an ultrasound.”

I go mute.  I don’t ask any questions.  So unlike me.  I accept my sentence and graciously take my referral paperwork from the nurse and half listen to her instructions.  I need to get to work for a meeting at 9am.  I’ll process this later.  It’s Wednesday and life is busy.

On the following Monday evening, in anticipation of my early morning ultrasound appointment, I decide to go through my personal books.  In a Marie Kondo moment when I sold my house on Del Monte, I gave away boxes and boxes of books to the library.  I have to admit it was NOT life-changing magic.  It was like cutting off an arm.  What I have left on my bookshelves are most treasured.

I paged through them one by one- reading underlined sentences and comments written in the margins and tearing up over little pictures and holy cards I stuffed away in the pages intentionally.  It was the best kind of treasure hunt.  But who was this woman who read all these books and hungrily devoured their content?  What happened to her?  And where is she now?

I contemplate the woman I have become.  I’m busy.  Too busy.  But what am I busy about?

Meetings, counseling teenagers, paperwork, data, traffic duty, chaperoning dances juxtaposed with weddings, new grand babies, summer vacation…   how could I ever fit in (God forbid) surgery, radiation, chemo, oh my.  The what ifs took over.

The wine helped. I got a pricey bottle of red just for the occasion.

The next morning in the middle of yet another meeting I received an email from my doctor with a clean bill of health. It’s just a fibroid- nothing to be concerned about.  Back at work I feel relieved- yet oddly changed.  What matters?  What am I missing here?

And the larger more encompassing question… would it take a debilitating illness in order to give myself permission to step off this hamster wheel?

I started this blog over a month ago.  Hoping that a clever ending would make it’s way into my consciousness during a bike ride or a hike.  That’s what usually happens.  But nada, zilch.

What are you busy being about?  What are you planning on doing “some day”?  When the dishes are done.  When you finish the landscaping outside.  When you quit your day job.  When you win the lottery.

What are you waiting for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jan26

And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down. ~Joni Mitchelle

Posted on by
And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down. ~Joni Mitchelle

IMG_7627 2

I’ve always love the song “Circle Game” by Joni Mitchell.  As an adolescent when this song first came out, I never truly appreciated the significance of the lyrics.  But at this time in my life, they pulse with meaning.

I’ve noticed an interesting pattern through the years and I wonder if other women my age are seeing it as well.  Our children leave home and go to college.  They acquire degrees and find careers that make them happy.  And life feels somewhat stagnant as a parent with an empty nest.  We take a back seat to many of their adventures and accomplishments.  We brag about them with our closest friends or a stranger in the market, showing pictures on our phones to whomever appears interested and feel blissful when they call home to say hi or I love you.  After a life full of raising sons and taking a back seat to their health, education and well being, I am often at a loss for how to proceed.

We’re captive on the carousel of time, we can’t return.  We can only look behind from where we came.

And then suddenly things begin to happen.  A wedding, a grandchild, another grandchild, another wedding.  Life takes on new challenges and excitement.  A flurry of new activity.

When my sons were growing up, my childrearing “bible” was The Gesell Institute of Human Development.  Anyone remember the books “Your One Year Old”, “Your Two Year Old”, “Your Three Year Old”?  Their research shows that children’s growth is not always an even ride from less to more maturity.  Instead, smooth and calm behavior alternates with unsettled and uneven behavior.  Children go through periods of “disequilibrium”- when they are learning new skills and abilities, growing quickly and experiencing more anxiety and less confidence.  And “equilibrium”- a period of stability and consolidated behavior- when they practice the skills already mastered- when they are easier to live with…

Wowzy..   sounds like my adult life! 😱

2018 was smooth sailing.  A year of equilibrium.  I had the grandmother skills honed and the mother in law persona figured out.  I’d finally settled into my townhome after grieving the sale of my memory-filled yet large and empty house.

2019 will be the year of disequilibrium for me.  A new grandchild.  A wedding.  A new daughter in law.  Growth, challenge, frenzy, a year of learning.  I see the pattern emerging.  What has been lost to the past is being reincarnated in the present-  layered with periods of anxiety and the mastering of new skills.

As they say in Portland, Oregon.. if you don’t like the weather wait an hour or so.  The clouds and rain give way to sunshine and blue skies.  The painted ponies go up and down.  We’re captive on a carousel of time.

And oh what an incredible ride it is.  

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

Jul9

Choose your adventure…

Posted on by
Choose your adventure…

IMG_5098

On our way to the Nashville International Airport, Boe and I reviewed all the lessons learned during my week long visit.  First a little Arabic…
Di´ddy Di´ddy is what you say when you hit your head or your arm or some other extremity on something that hurts!  Repeat over and over while hitting the guilty object until the hurt is gone.  Fa´dush!  That’s what you say when someone sneezes.  I think it means God Bless You.  If a person is coughing or choking on something, place your hand on their back and tap lightly while repeating Sa´ha!  And lastly, when dinner is ready get yourself to the table in a hurry!  Ya´la!
Next, some basic manners.  Boe, keep your foot to yourself when in the car seat or Sitti will have to take a bite out of it!  Also, make sure you sit on your teezee (bottom, buttocks, bum) in the bathtub and when riding in your red wagon.
Now, a grammar lesson.  In the south, BBQ is a NOUN, not a verb!
ASSWHATIMTALKINABOUT says Uncle Mickey!
We’ve arrived now at the airport.  “No long goodbyes, Boe.  I will see you soon!  Chin up!  Ok.. just one more bite of your toes!
Standing at the curb, I wave and watch as Peter, Breezy and Boe pull away.  I didn’t want to cry and be THAT gramma.  But as I walked through the airport terminal every little baby squeal or laugh reminds me of Boe.  Every sweet kiss and snuggle.  That baby smell.  Those contemplative blue eyes.
Sigh….
When my boys were little we read to them a series of books entitled “Choose Your Adventure”.  In each book, the reader would get to choose how the story progressed and make decisions at each impasse.  Until they would reach the final destination.
As parents, that’s pretty much what we strive for.  We want our children to choose their own path, set goals and create their own lives.  We begin to train them when they are little- pick up your toys, get ready for school, comb your hair, do your homework!  We continue (with added fervor) when they become teenagers- get a job, save your money, go to college!  We long to have our own lives back and to be able to traverse life unencumbered by the awesome demands of parenthood.  Well, at least for a day or so.  😌
So when my son announced that his little family was going to move across the country- 2000 plus miles away- like a good parent, I listened, showed my best game face, and celebrated.  Isn’t this what I prepared him for all along?
And amidst the confusion, sadness and eventual resolution, there came a profound epiphany.  Life has a funny way of turning the tables.  Our children become our mentors.  Their adventures become our adventures.  They teach us that we also get to choose.  And there is, indeed, life after parenting.  That the world is vast and there may be no place like home, but there are also journeys and experiences and adventures to be had- near and far.  👠
So, in the wise words of Max from the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are… dry your tears onehipdiva and “Let the wild rumpus begin”!

IMG_5056

May13

Being Sitti

Posted on by
Being Sitti

FullSizeRender-17

I have been reflecting on the awesome responsibility of being a grandmother.  It has been a transition to say the least. And with all transitions there is an adjustment period and an awkward sense of the unknown as well as the anticipation of what is to come and how it will all look once everyone finds their sea legs.

My gracious son and daughter in law let me choose the name I would like to be called by little Boe and it was a quick decision.  Like my Sittis before me, I felt that the Arabic name for grandmother was more than appropriate because it speaks of a long history of Lebanese women who wanted nothing more than to cook, feed, and make a cozy home for their families.  And even though I had the means and awareness to get a college degree and beyond and have a thriving and rewarding career, I have to admit my first goal when I stepped onto a college campus at 17 years old was to get my MRS degree, have a family, and create a loving home for them.

I was named after my maternal Sitti, Rosa Maloof, and of course like all good Catholic girls, the Blessed Virgin Mary.  (My parents must have had high aspirations for me!)  I had to do some fact checking with my brothers and as my memory serves me, I only saw my maternal grandmother three times in my entire life.  She and my grandfather lived in Atlanta and were not fond of flying.  We were a family of eight in California and traveling across the country to see our grandparents was a bit out of the budget.  I was able to spend time with them once as a little girl, once as a teenager, and much later when I was 30.  When my mother passed away at 61 years old, they did not come out for her funeral.  It is still incredulous to me today.  I would move heaven and earth to see my children in any state (or state).

My father’s mother, Louise, died in childbirth along with her fifth child.  My dad was the oldest and we think (our collective memories) he was about 6 years old when she died.  The baby’s name was John and I remember my dad telling me the story- never with a straight face- always with tears running down his cheeks.  My brother John was named after my dad’s little brother.

My grandfather sent for a wife from Lebanon (cousins.. can you do some fact checking for me?  This is part urban legend passed down through oral history).  Her name was Madeleine and she had to quickly adjust to a new country, a new husband, and to my grandfather Thomas’ four children.  They went on to have four more children of their own whom my grandmother favored.  And she favored their children as well.

With that said, I must confess that I don’t remember having a Sitti who wanted to kiss me and hold me, babysit me and get on the floor and play with me and/or agonize over the next time she might be able to spend time with me.

I write all this not so that you will feel sorry for me.  I write it for my own understanding and for my children’s understanding.  I write it to rub a salve on a wound that has just recently been exposed as I reflect on my own experience as a grandmother.  I write it to help me understand this longing in my heart to be near my new grandson and be a part of his life.  I write it because I know I am not alone in this reflection and confession and to open a conversation about the role of a grandmother in a child’s life.

In the song Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell sings “Something’s lost and something’s gained in living every day.”  Life is not always easy.  Family is not always as Norman Rockwell would illustrate but I believe people try.  In the absence of holding me and reading stories to me, my Sittis cooked and cleaned and fed me and I suppose they thought that was enough.  But this Sitti wants something different with her grandchildren.

I would love to hear your thoughts on being a grandparent.

 

 

 

 

Jan3

Do you believe in New Year’s Resolutions?

Posted on by
Do you believe in New Year’s Resolutions?

fullsizerender-14

One wouldn’t get in a sailboat without a compass or embark on a grueling scenic hike without a map.

Or would they?

Myself? I have a tendency to get lost.  Lost on a trail.  Lost on the freeway.  Lost in my thoughts.  A good plan keeps me focused and on task.  Goals help me to breakthrough inertia.  A map helps me to reach my destination.

So I plan.  And I plan.  And I journal.  And I plan some more.  And I re-read my old journals to see if life has deposited me somewhere close to where X marks the spot.

How about you?  Do you know where you want to go in 2017?  Do you have a hankering for something different?  Are you ready to change things up and see what sticks?  Or are you plodding along the same path.  Waking up to the same job.  Shopping at Target and getting take out from the Chinese restaurant on the corner.

Benjamin Franklin once said “If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail”.  Winston Churchill said this- “Those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it”.

In either case, some self reflection seems to be in order as we embark on a new year.

Your thoughts?

 

 

 

 

 

Sep10

Fearfully and wonderfully made…

Posted on by
Fearfully and wonderfully made…

IMG_0235

in the secret of darkness

before I saw the sun

in my mother’s womb

        ~Psalm 139:14

Dear little Boe,

You are a miracle.  A gift.  Someone new to love and long to hold.  A bundle of sweet smells and warm cuddles.  You have us all in awe and wonder.

How beautiful you are.  A blank slate.  A crisp white page to be filled with lovely lyrics.  An empty vessel within which we place all our hopes and dreams.  Your innocence is compelling.  I feel absolution in your presence.

I know that some little parts of you have been etched from my own body.  That in itself is mind blowing.  I look at you and feel such love and connection- and at the same time, a sense of mystery.  Who are you?  Who will you become?  How will I fit into your life?  What will we do together to build our relationship?

Little lovey, the day you were born we all experienced a life changing transition.  Woman and man became mother and father.  Mother and father became grandmother and grandfather.  It may take some time for us to learn our new roles so please be patient with us.

I hear other grandparents brag that they can spoil their grandchildren and then send them home.  All the fun and none of the responsibility.  Then they laugh!  But Boe, I have a little secret for you.

I would do it all again.  The pain of labor, the sleepless nights, the diapers, the desitine, the sticky kisses, the million and one soccer, basketball and little league games, the waiting up for teenagers, the “sex” talks, and the endless and painful letting gos- witnessing three little boys traverse their paths into manhood.

But there would be do-overs.  I would clean less, order more take out, play more games and be more attentive to the ebb and flow of raising a family.  And most of all I would allow myself to enjoy it all.  Not be so stressed and insecure. Not be so hard on myself.  Not compare myself to other moms who appeared to be doing it better.

Little Boe, when your daddy was growing up, I wrote him letters on his birthdays and other occasions so that he would know how my love for him unfolded and developed as he grew up and became a young man.  When he graduated from high school I gave him all those letters.  It was a labor of love.

I want to do that for you, little Boe.  I want you to see what I see in you.  And in those moments when you are feeling insecure or a little blue, I want you to know how much you are loved, fearfully and wonderfully made, and carefully knit together in the secret of your mother’s womb by an even greater Love.

My heart is full.  My life has taken on a new meaning with your birth.  I have so many things I’d like to share with you.  So many songs I want to sing to you.  And I have all the time in the world to listen to you.

Stay sweet, little boy.  Take in all the love you can.  Learn honesty and integrity.  Be generous and kind.

Grow up to be a man for others.

I love you,

Your Sitti

 

IMG_0570

May8

The Mom Void

Posted on by
The Mom Void

It’s Mother’s Day and it seems appropriate that I would be channeling my mother in the kitchen this weekend.  Tabouli, Hummus, Baba Ghannouj- salt, allspice, cinnamon, garlic, tahini, eggplant, and parsley dripped and splashed everywhere!  You can’t make Lebanese food without making a mess, using your hands and taste testing along the way.  The sterile kitchen police would have me under arrest.

My daughter in law is craving Lebanese food for my little Lebanese grandson still nesting just under her heart.  A new little Shaheen boy in the works.  My mom would be beside herself!  Another man to cook for!

I found my place very early in life next to my mother in the kitchen.  I had no choice really.  I just grew up in there with my own apron and stepping stool, stirring the rice pudding, chopping the parsley and washing the dishes.  Sometimes all at the same time.

I never complained.  With a family of eight and so many brothers, it was the only way I could sneak something to eat before the food hit the dinner table. It was also my special time to be with my mom.  To smell her perfume and sing songs with her.  At a very young age, I wanted to be just like her.  She was so loved and admired by everyone.  And she was a fabulous cook.  I think she invented that idiom about the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach..

She always knew just what to do in every situation.  What to cook for every ailment.  How to take care of her family.  She could have written the book on mothering.

I watched her as a young mother wrap up my babies and sing to them.  When my youngest, Peter, was born, I found her playing in the sandbox with Patrick and Robert and their trucks.  “Whose mother is that??” I wondered!  My mother never got dirty.  My mother had her nails and hair done every week and wore heels and hose.  My mother didn’t own a pair of jeans until she turned 50!

As I recuperated from each pregnancy and birth, she cleaned my house and did the laundry and cooked delicious things for us in the kitchen.  I just held my babies and watched.  I wanted to get in there and chop and stir and wash dishes but clearly our roles had changed and I was no longer the little girl helping.  I was the mother. Still learning from her.  Still needing her advice and expertise.  Still wanting to be close to her in the kitchen.

Now on the cusp of being a new grandmother myself, I’m feeling a bit insecure in the transition.  What will my new role be like?  What are the expectations?  Will I know what to do with a new baby?  After all, it’s been 30 years since I had Peter.  Things have changed. Mothers are more enlightened due to the internet.  Information is dispelled easily through a quick Google.  Does anyone call their mother for advice anymore?

The new parenting trends bring natural fibers and toxic free toys.  Gender fluid nurseries and neutral color schemes.  Babies sleep face up instead of face down.  Bumpers are no longer safe in cribs.  There’s something called “sleep training”.

Maybe I will Google “gramma training”.

So I find myself in the kitchen where I feel safe and smug.  I know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.  Or through his mommy’s stomach.

It’s a start.  The rest will come in time.

As I chop the parsley and squeeze the lemons.  Smash the garlic with the salt just how she taught me.  Mix the Tabouli with my unsterile hands- I haven’t killed anyone yet with my cooking- I feel her standing next to me and I smell her perfume.  I am infused with her wisdom and her strength and her confidence in me.

“You got this, Sissie!  You’re going to be a wonderful Sittie!”

Feeling the Mom void..

218714_10150183593448449_6136620_o

 

Mar25

Special Delivery

Posted on by
Special Delivery

 

The tracking number stated that my mini chandeliers had been delivered yesterday to my front porch!  At 8pm last night I looked again…

Front porch, back porch, neighbor’s porch…  no packages.

This morning I pulled up the email to get the customer service phone number and there it was in black and white.  Delivered to my old house on Del Monte Avenue.

Panic set in..   The new owners have sprawled “return to sender” on everything they have received with my name on it- even though I left them my email and phone number in case of said scenario.

I had formed an opinion of “them” as being uncaring and hostile.

I gathered my courage, washed my face, threw on some clothes and got in my car- destination Del Monte Avenue- before I had a moment to change my mind.  I had not been back to my old house since I moved almost a year ago- not even to drive down the street- although I got a quick view in my peripheral vision when I would drive down Llagas Road before my new development created a street with more direct access.

Not even a quarter mile away yet worlds away…  I pulled up in front of the house and jumped out.  I had a handwritten note to leave just in case no one answered the door (which I expected).  It was only 8am and even though I’m usually awake for hours by then, the rest of the world sleeps in.

She answered the door, clad in a bathrobe, mascara smeared and hair in disarray.  She was so kind!  “Oh, they are in the garage!  Let me go and open it!”

In my imagination I walked with her through the sunlit entry and into my cheerful kitchen.  Past the breakfast nook and through the faithful laundry room.  I opened the garage door and then I met this stranger in the driveway.

And it was me.

I asked “Are you enjoying the house?”

She responded “Yes!  I’d love to ask you in but…”

Little did she know that I had already been inside.  And it was lovely.

I have done the grieving and I’m feeling quite content in my new home.  But this has been the graced moment that I have needed to complete my transition.

On this very beautiful Good Friday morning I have received a special delivery.

And I am finally delivered.

Dec3

Dare Me…

Posted on by
Dare Me…

FullSizeRender

Don’t ever tell me that I cannot do something.  It makes my resolve bubble up like saliva around a sweet tart.  I love a good dare.  It gives me a focus and a purpose and a drive.  Dares might just be the only way that I move forward in my life.

But no one dared me to sell my house and move into a townhouse a couple short blocks away.  I can practically see the out- of- control 50 foot curly willow tree from my front porch!  They haven’t cut it down yet even though I disclosed the snapping branches in the escrow papers.   But they did remove the beautiful buttercup blooming Magnolia that Dale planted for me in the front yard three years ago.  And the potted flowers on the front porch that I left behind because they were oh so pretty and I wanted the new owners to enjoy them…  gone now and nothing to replace them.

“It’s not your house anymore” says my wise middle son.

I know, wise middle son.

I found this “Dare” card as I was decorating my new place and I put it in my downstairs bathroom.  The red matches the lovely framed print of the Virgin Mary and Jesus that I purchased at the Uffizi Gallery Museum in Florence, Italy way back in 2000. The picture hung proudly over the toilet of my red powder room in the house that I no longer own.  I’m quite sure they have repainted THAT room. Who paints a bathroom red??  Right?

As I read this card I see that it has taken on a meaning that is utterly circumstantial and profound in my current state of mind.  Dare to believe in yourself. Dare to trust that you have what it takes to make it happen.  Dare to savor all that life has to offer.

Dare to grasp that your Kansas is within you.   OK.. ouch!

Some people are nomads.  Wherever they can lay their head and set up camp is sufficient.

But some of us are always looking for our Kansas.  Our home.  We click away at our red sparkly designer flats and tell ourselves that there’s no place like it.  There’s no place like home.  And then we find ourselves constantly looking.

For that idyllic home. The one we dream about.  The one that makes us feel secure and safe.

I ask myself.. where is my home?  My parents are deceased.  My children are college educated and gainfully employed.  I’ve given away the sweatshirts, the camping gear, the tents, whiffle bats and balls, beach umbrellas, boogie boards, shelves of required reading for high school students and the magical closet full of suits that my three sons wore with permutations of ties, socks, shirts and shoes.  The paraphernalia of parenthood has been dissolved and distributed.  I am no longer the keeper of things.

Where the hell is my Kansas?

Someone, quick, dare me to find it!