It's New Year's Eve, where is the lampshade for my head?

Notice the timestamp; It is 8:30pm on New Year's Eve and I am updating a blog, having some creme soda (that will turn to Chardonnay soon) and anxiously awaiting my husband to get home. Yup, a far cry from years gone by when I was sitting on a bar stool in Manhattan with a million of my closest friends or in a hotel room at the base of a mountain drinking to calm my nerves about my first ski lesson happening the next day (note: easy New Year's resolution alert, don't go to NY for New Year's Eve and only ski again when I am doing it in hell because it just froze over). No, this year is different. The only confetti I will see will be on television and I will only get a taste of the Big Apple through Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve. There are only two people I "party" with these days and one is at work and the other, well she is sleeping soundly, oblivious to fireworks and frivolity and acutely uninterested in calendar changes.



I have no New Year's Eve resolutions; I find it to be a particularly masochistic practice as it almost inevitably results in failure and goals unachieved. Besides, this year my accomplishments all belong to Zoe and seeing what she has done in one year would surely overshadow any trite resolution that I might come up with. Really, how do you compare "lose weight" with "learning to walk" or "save money" with "understand language"? Impossible. So instead of such predictable and annoyingly unattainable resolutions I will simply watch Zoe and allow her to continue to inspire me. Instead of "eat more spinach" I will look at Zoe and understand what it is like to have to repeatedly get up when you fall. Instead of vaguely aspiring to "learn something new" I look at my daughter and get a keen understanding of just how much work that takes and stand in awe of why it is so worth it.



Happy New Year's Eve!
Cheers to a New Year and another chance for us to get it right. --Oprah Winfrey

A Red Rider BB gun?! You'll shoot your eye out, kid!

What's the matter, little one? It's the most wonderful time of the year! You know, sugar plums dancing, chestnuts popping, all the Whos in Whoville celebrating. Ah, wait a minute; you two haven't been formally introduced. Last time you met you were asleep and, well, it has been a year. This is Santa Clause. . . aka, St. Nick. His job is to bring all the good little girls and boys gifts on Christmas morning. My guess is that your Christmas list consists of get me off the lap of this crazy man who thinks it is appropriate to wear a velvet suit in 80-degree Savannah weather and for me to let you play in the bathroom cabinets at will, but soon that will all change. I promise one day I will use Santa to blackmail you into behaving. . . ummm, what I meant to say was, one day you will find the magic in this man who is so generous with his love for the children of the world. You will write a letter to him detailing all your Christmas wishes and leave him cookies on Christmas Eve. You will pick your favorite reindeer (those are the animals that help him get all over the world, kind of like big Sadies but with antlers and the ability to fly. They are also probably much better on a leash) and you will be pleading to sit on his lap. I know, it seems a little strange, and after the fish costume incident I can't really blame you for not trusting me. But one day you will understand the enchantment of this season; you will believe, as all children do, in the inherent beauty of the holiday and find happiness in all that is right with the world. Yes, Zoe, there is a Santa Clause.

She did not read. . .

Zoe apparently did not read the blog and did indeed turn one. I wonder what goes through the head of a one-year-old during their birthday party. From what I understand, these parties take all forms; there are events that rival the Academy Awards and there small soirees that consist of the obligatory mini cake and paper plates covered in Disney characters. Zoe's more closely resembled the latter. Either way, one thing is certain; the guest of honor has no idea what the hell is going on. On Zoe's big day she woke up from her afternoon nap, probably expecting a quick round of "kitty cat" hunt and some chicken fingers but instead came out of her room to a house full of people, a mound of presents and the paparazzi. She eventually took a seat in her new big-girl chair and took to the presents with abandon (well, more the present packaging). After the truckload of gifts were open, she did in fact have her chicken fingers but then was presented with a dessert the likes of which she has never seen. She started slowly with that cupcake but soon was diving in like she was Betty Crocker herself. All the while people were standing around her highchair, staring at the remarkable site, and using all available technology to capture the moment. And the moment was wonderful.

To make it official, we had her 12-month doctor's appointment yesterday. She is 21lbs 9ounces and 31 inches long. Her head is still really big. She had four shots and a blood draw and I find myself wondering if nurses get paid in relation to how long it takes to take blood; it seemed like an hour and I feel like I showed remarkable restraint in not outright slugging her. But Zoe took it like a champ.

Our little girl is one.

A Mother's Plea. . .

Dear Zoe:
You are almost one. In light of this fact I am writing to ask a favor of you. It's a big favor but please hear me out before you answer right away. Here it goes; please stop growing up so fast. That's it. I don't think it is too much to ask. I mean, really, what's the rush? Sure, when you get older you'll be able to do things like walk and tie your shoes. Yeah, there's that whole thing about being at the playground and using equipment other than the swings. Sure, Halloween might be more exciting for you than it is now (yes, the fish costume is just one more annoying thing your mother makes you wear). But when you get older I will also expect you to pick up the toys you so leisurely toss around the house and make you wear shoes; do you really want to deal with that headache? I know I am asking a lot, but you have a full week to think about it before you make your decision. I'm told it is my right, nay my responsibility as a mother to use the guilt card, so here is my best shot. Who was it that almost one year ago spent 15 hours in labor with you? Who remained vigilantly positioned on her right side for the last three of those 15 hours as you so demanded from the womb? That's correct, your mother. Who slept on the chair for the first two months of your life so that you could sleep yourself? Who plays airplane with you and scouts the neighborhood for feral cats just so you can say your first word, "kitty cat"? Who makes you pumpkin yogurt and has waffle weekends with you? Who takes you to feed the ducks and lets you play with the keyboard in her office? Who got you hooked on milk? Who brushes all of your seven teeth? Yeah, the answer is me. Your father does many good things for you too, but I think he is secretly looking forward to you growing and changing. So, don't talk to your father about this, he is sleep-deprived from his crazy work schedule and isn't thinking straight. So that's it, a simple request and one that I hope you will consider. I will be anxiously awaiting your answer on Tuesday. Until then, just know that this has been the best year of my life and I love you very much. Happy birthday Juicy, Juicy Pickle.
Love,
Mommy

Can I bring my Orange Julius into the softplay?

When I was a teenager, the mall was a place you went to meet up with your friends. You didn't have any actual money, so you sort of just went there to, well be there. As I got older and had a job, I would go there to frequent the likes of the Gap, Ann Tayor, JCrew. Now I'm a mom and I'm back to having no money (for myself anyway) so the mall has become. . . wait for it. . . a softplay area for Zoe. That's right, on a rainy Saturday I took Zoe to the mall softplay area conveniently located between JCPenny and Auntie Anne's Pretzels. The mall softplay area. I almost need to keep repeating it to make sure it was real. Understand, I have nothing against mall softplay areas. But prior to Zoe, I'm not even sure I even knew they existed. I was too busy zipping in and out of The Limited with cute new outfits to notice. If you have never been to one, allow me to describe the situation. You walk up to an enclosed area full of softplay things and about a hundred children inside running amock like wild Injuns who just escaped Alcatraz. By just looking at the germs. . . um, I mean children. . . you would think they are locked in closets all day and then blindfolded just until they reach the softplay area where they are finally set free. But then you see the weary parents sitting on the benches stretched along the parameter of the softplay area. No, these kids are not confined. . . they are always like this. We get closer and parallel park my stroller between two other strollers the size of hummers, grab Zoe, pray, then head into the chaos. Meandering my way to the far corner I am dodging children at every turn. I'm ducking as I feel like they are falling out of the sky and I glance around looking for the closest softplay mushroom I would use if I need to take cover. I take my place among peers and wonder to myself if this is just the start of things. You begin innocently enough with a mall softplay and before you know it you are at bowling birthday parties and Chuck-E-Cheese. *Sigh* I place Zoe down and she holds her own with the Injuns. In true Zoe form, with all the mounds of "softstuff" and children, she goes for the shoe rack. I begin to get up to grab her because, get this, I think the shoe rack may have some germs. I laugh at my own irony then secrety vow to get her a tetanus shot. After about 20 minutes, Zoe has had enough (OK, I had had enough) and we start back through the war zone towards the exit. I glance over at the woman who's sole job was to watch the softplay and wonder who she had angered in a previous life. We get back in the stroller and start on our way. As we walk by The Gap and Ann Taylor, I look at the storefronts and smile. "Don't worry Ann, I'll be back. First I need to stop in Gymboree."

Force her into becoming a Pats fan; Check.

So I was talking to a friend who was lamenting about
how her nine-year-old is already feeling the pangs of getting "in" with the "in crowd." That's right, she's nine. She seems to have handled it gracefully (the daughter, not my friend, she's a mess) but just hearing the story of how this sweet girl didn't get invited to a party but her friend did frankly scared the bageebers out of me. I believe it was around that time when I realized I'm not simply taking care of a baby anymore; I'm attempting to raising a strong, confident woman. This is when it got dicey. Honestly, I was sort of hoping I would fully become one before I had to raise one. So now, the questions about her future and who she will become have been hitting me fast and furious lately at seemingly innocuous times. I will innocently be sitting on the couch thinking about what she will be for Halloween, then BAM! Halloween?! Who cares about Halloween?? What will she be for life? Will she step out her college graduation and move onto medical school or will she hop the nearest Greyhound to "find herself" with a band of vagabonds. Will she marry a nice guy or find someone who won't settle down until he gets his music career out of the garage? Will she cook like her father or ummm. . . not so much like her mother. So I figure the only thing you can do is model behavior you would like her to emulate. This is so not as easy as it sounds as Zoe has become a little mirror, a true reflection of everything I am. Oy. Ok, we'll start small. Wear a Patriots t-shirt on opening day hopefully eliminating at least one downfall of her future (I truly believe Mike would sooner have her come home one day announcing she's just joined a cult and could we lend her the membership fees then proclaim her allegiance to any New York team). I think I *maybe* need to curb my "enthusiasm" when I get cut off in traffic. Maybe I could travel to more exotic places, write a novel, or learn to play the cello in the hopes that she will see this and become well-rounded. Or maybe the answer is to just do the best you can and then the hell with it knowing in the end Zoe will follow her own path hopefully with whatever lessons you manged to eek out as my own parents, accounts both, did when I announced I would be declaring English *gasp* as my college major and are only now, through this blog, seeing the fruits of their labor (read: checkbook). For now, let's just welcome the newest Patriots fan, Zoe Fuller.

A public service announcement

***We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog reading for this important public service announcement from the real estate investment firm of Fuller, Fuller & Fuller. ***


1308 East 52nd Street has been sold and we are finally down to one house.


Thank you for your attention. We now return you to you normal blog postings already in progress.

Sometimes our life is like "Seinfeld" -- A show about nothing

So I felt like I should do an update, but I have nothing to say. I could write about her new love for waffles, but waffles aren't that exciting. There are no new teeth, there's no walking, and no first words have been uttered. Some days, we just go about our routine. As much as we our blessed by Zoe and as much as observing her daily miraculous milestones is like watching brushstrokes on her soul, the reality is that sometimes it's just plain boring. That's right, I said it; I went there. The fact of the matter is that she isn't really a great conversationalist. She gets easily amused by little things, but frankly pulling out all the toys in her toy basket doesn't offer me the same stimulation. And trust me, I like bedroom door peek-a-boo as much as the next guy, but can she really believe I am that surprised to see her every time? So I find myself with nothing to say. I guess I should really be happy, I mean there are many "exciting" things of which I am blissfully unaware. I'm sure there are many people with a house full of kids who would, on occasion, gladly trade my boring for their "exciting." Still, there are some days I long for an after-work drink with friends or a night out to dinner that doesn't take place before 6pm and that doesn't involve the phrase "did you bring the cheerios". I would occasionally like to meet up with a friend without concern for nap times (hers, not mine) or schedule a haircut without the planets being aligned. I'd like to not have a song involving colors stuck in my head during a crucial meeting with a client. But then, after a few boring hours in the late afternoon and into the evening, she goes to sleep. We sit in her chair in her bedroom a she snuggles next to me with a bottle and I realize, if this is boring sign me up. No after-work martini is worth giving up big, wet, sloppy baby kisses. I'll carry Cheerios to every meal if it meant I get to watch her squeal in the morning when I get her up. And, let's be honest, who is better afternoon company, nap time or otherwise, then Zoe? So I get to take back everything I wrote. Why? Because I'm the mother and I said so.

"Thank You" - Sadie 'The Dog' Fuller

I will not move the dog bowl off the floor. That's right, I'm taking a stance; laying down the law if you will. Sadie, while loved, is not welcomed to hop up on a chair and join us at the table for dinner. She has no opposable thumbs so she can not use the silverware. Her table manners are atrocious and she gets hair everywhere so her food and water must stay on the ground. She is under no directive to eat her chow at any set time so it frequently sits in the bowl all day. What is the point of this rambling about obvious canine dietary habits you may ask yourself. Well, we are now practicing "discipline". Yes, the word discipline is put in quotes to illustrate just how loosely I am meaning it. Frankly, it has become a game and I am the only one playing; so the question you need to ask yourself is if I am the only one playing, how can I be losing? Indulge me by taking a peek into life in the Fuller house.

5:00 p.m. - Zoe wakes from her nap squealing and laughing. I place her on the floor.
5:10 p.m. - She happily plays with anything that I did not purchase specifically for her. Her expensive Leap Frog toys languish in the corner, probably laughing at the poor remote control.
5:25 p.m. - Like a bullet out of gun, Zoe beelines across the kitchen to the dog food bowl (she is quicker than you might think).
5:25:30 p.m. - "I will not move the dog food bowl, I will not move the dog food bowl."
5:26 p.m. - I give Zoe a stern "No!"
5:26:30 p.m. - Zoe hysterically laughs. "nnnnnaaaa"
5:27 p.m. - Zoe is placed far from the dog food bowl and is now playing with the door. All Leapforg items are sleeping.
5:28 p.m. - Zoe makes another run for it as I unload the dishwasher. I wonder to myself how people do this with more than one.
5:28:30 p.m. - "Zoe, No!"
5:29 p.m. - Laughter fills the room
5:30 p.m. - Sadie begs for a treat with no appreciation for the lengths I am going to protect her actual dinner.
5:31 p.m. - Zoe is playing with the magazines. Leapfrog products have borrowed the keys to the car and have gone out for a spin.
5:35 p.m. - I am paying bills and like a flash she is back, heading for the dog food bowl. I wonder, out loud this time, how people do this with more than one.
5:35:30 p.m. - She stops just short of the bowl and smiles at me, gets back into crawling position and continues on.
5:35 p.m. - "Zoe, No!"
5:36 p.m. - Now Zoe and Sadie are both laughing.
5:37 p.m. - I call a friend with multiple kids and asks how she does it.
"Why don't you just move the dog food bowl?"
5:40 p.m. - The Leapfrog toys come home.

We had her nine-month appointment today; Zoe is a whopping 20lbs and 28 inches! Everything looks great and her hair is getting better.

Grrrr. . . vacation is over

We're back from our vacation at my parents house and at the Jersey shore and I thought I would try something a little different. I could use an entire blog entry to post about the joys of traveling with an infant and the worried looks from fellow airline passengers (for the record, just because you avoid eye contact with a person with a baby, doesn't mean they are not in your row). I could post pages on the new light in which you see your own parents when you visit them with your eight-month-old and the sudden appreciation you feel as you realize that someday you too will have a 13-year-old who will probably resemble you at that age. Or I could go on and on about the duel emotions you feel the first time you leave your child over night; sweet freedom and slightly heart-wrenching guilt. But instead I'd thought I'd do a Letterman-like top 10 list of our time in the Garden State.

10. My father really does have a textbook-like knowledge of New Jersey. Some might call it a little spooky but it really is fascinating. When asked about getting to Atlantic City, he talked about the blueberry farms. When we went to a festival a few towns over, he knew its history.

9. Zoe learned to crawl. She was close when we left but maybe she too was feeling power of a vacation and decided to throw caution to the wind. We spent hours child-proofing our house in Savannah for this moment so of course her first crawls were in a house that is about as childproofed as Tiffanys.

8. Zoe likes to be in the pool. . . a lot. We have two houses, neither of which have a pool so we're pretty certain her first words will be "I want to go back to Mimi and Poppi's."

7. Under the heading "New Jersey is a magical place" (and please, no jokes about which exit one would find that magic), good news item number one: Mike and I won about a grand in Atlantic City.

6. Same heading, good news item number two: We have contract on our "city house." This news came as we sat on the veranda (OK, roof) of our Wildwood, NJ retreat (OK, motel).

5. Wildwood, NJ is not for the weak of heart. If you have never been there it is difficult to describe without dedicating an entire post to it, but to summarize: try the pizza, avoid the t-shirts.

4. Mike can beat me in Skeeball, blowing up a balloon with a water gun, and miniature golf, but not pinochle.

3. There is nothing like free babysitting. My parents did amazingly well considering they probably have not been alone with an infant for any length of time in about 33 years. Too well perhaps; see number eight.

2. If you are in Atlantic City and want to stop at Red Square for a drink, first take out a second mortgage. In a moment of crazy frivolity and post some sweet winning, we spent a cool $30 on two drinks. Yeah, the house always wins.

1. There is nothing like taking a breather from the stress of everyday life, surrounding yourself with people you love and having some good, clean summertime fun in the Garden State. Now, dad, just when did they start calling it that?

Safety is not the only concern with a baby on the move. . .

Many of the things I assumed before becoming a mother are out the window: Once they sleep through the night it just stays that way, being tired makes sleep easier, and my house is clean. This last assumption was shattered the other night as I placed Zoe on the carpet I just vacuumed and watched her roll onto the linoleum/wood (linolawood) floor in our entry way that I just swept. I thought I had done a pretty thorough job until I noticed Zoe under the desk in the entry way with a giant Sadie dust bunny on her leg. Zoe just looked at me and grinned. Yeah, I get it kid; that area "maybe" doesn't get the attention it deserves. Hard to tell when you yourself are not routinely laying under the desk in the entryway. Her unique vantage point also allows her to see under the sofa where she finds all kinds of goodies. Great. Ok, leaves and twigs belong outside not in your livingroom; check. Dog food belongs in the dog food bowl, not strewn about the house like a buffet at a dog cocktail party; gotcha. The only analogy I have for the situation is when you were in elementary school and on "dentist day" you had to chew on those weird red tablets. You're eight years old and you know what's coming. You brush your teeth like no one has ever brushed before. You get the back ones, you get the front ones (mostly the front ones because any indiscretion there would be most obvious). You're determined that the magic red chewables, designed solely to illuminate your bad oral hygiene habits, will not get the better of you this time. You eat one, look in the mirror, and see the reflection of someone who looks as if they just got punched in the mouth and is now bleeding profusely. Foiled again. Zoe is now our red chewable tooth pill. I'm not sure what the solution is because it seems that just when you are supposed to have the cleaning skills of Martha Stewart, you have the least amount of time. So I simply look around the house that seven and a half months ago I would've thought clean and sigh. Then I remember the poetic words I once heard uttered by a very wise man (my husband): God made dirt. . . .dirt don't hurt.

A Father's Day Tale. . .

I was quite nervous to become a mother. I had spent the last two months of pregnancy pouring over parenting books as if the authors themselves were going to come to my house and, in a round table-like fashion, fire questions at me on such topics as sleep scheduling, formula preparation and benefits of tummy time. I wanted to get this parenting thing down not only for Zoe, but also because I knew that as the mother I would get all the credit if she managed to avoid growing up to be, say, an ax-wielding serial killer, but if serial killing was in her future, I would get most of the blame. . . it's always the mother.

After she was born, my obsession about doing everything "by the book" kicked into full gear. It wasn't that I thought Mike wouldn't be a great dad, I did. It's just that he hadn't put in the time; where were his notes in the margin of The Baby Whisperer? Where were his parenting websites booked marked? I decided early on that there needed to be a plan, a schedule, a right way to do things and I had Dr. Spock to back me up.

That changed a couple weeks ago. I had taken Zoe to the park as I normally did. I had spread out a blanket and she sat up on her own and played, the Bumbo long since retired. I caught a glimpse of the swings at the playground, you know, the rubber ones that safely encase a child not yet ready for the ones without sides. As I strolled towards them I noticed the sign, "This playground is intended for children 2-5 years of age." Ok, Zoe was just over six months old and the sign said "no". Just looking at the swing with my infant in tow made me feel like I was ripping off the the tag on the mattress. What would my books say? Should I call the pediatrician on this one?

I moved forward making sure I was alone and could avoid the judgemental glares of the other mothers as they wondered how I could so blatantly disregard the sign, obviously putting my daughter in harm's way. I placed Zoe in the swing, she nervously teetered, then I promptly tore her away vowing never again to break the rules, to deviate from the milestone schedule set up by people much smarter than myself.

Two days later, I came home from work only to have Mike (who knew nothing of the great swing trauma) show me some photos of his day with Zoe. There she was in the swing, and well, swinging. Zoe was grinning from ear to ear, flying in the only way she could. As I looked through the pictures I started imagining the scene: Mike placing her in the swing, Zoe nervously teetering, and him allowing her to take a risk, knowing he would be there to catch her if she fell.

It was then I realized that in raising Zoe, there are different ways, better ways. . . her father's ways.

Zoe is incredibly lucky.

Happy Father's Day to all dad's, especially my own, who had a different way, one that lead to some fine results.

Almost seven months old

I swear, every adult needs to learn the fine art of appreciating the small things in the way a seven-month-old does. Zoe is absolutely fascinated by the likes of blades of grass, the remote control, and travel packets of wipes. That's right, for all of you out there who paid good money for big-ticket toys, welcome to the world of our very creative daughter who finds fun in the mundane. That's not to say the toy piano and Leap Frog don't find their way into the mix; it's just that, in her mother's opinion anyway, she has a highly developed sense of imagination. I'm sure I'm not biased and that she really is quite advanced.

I have nixed the food list in favor of her favorite things which seems to be a more interesting topic. She is on to blends such as apple/blueberry and squash/corn and frankly I can't keep up. She now has two bottom teeth, that are unfortunately difficult to photograph, so soon we hope to take the leap in the virtual parenting right of passage, Cheerios.

We took our first trip to a Savannah Sand Gnats game which was great. Zoe was donning her Boston Red Sox gear as tribute to the best team in baseball. And, in addition to swings, she also sits in restaurant high chairs and in the front of shopping carts. Yes, she really is as great as she seems.

Stop the madness

Today, I spent more time than I care to admit crying as I packed away much of Zoe's 3-6 month clothes. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm really happy for her as she so effortlessly navigates the world she has only lived in for six and a half months, but it's making me just a little sad to see how big she is getting. Why do I get the feeling that I am going to wake up tomorrow and she is going to be borrowing the keys to the car? But enough about me. . . with just a few days practice Zoe now sits almost completely on her own. If she tips, she steadies herself. She rolls to get around. And, here's where it gets scary, she is at the proverbial crawling starting gate. That's right, if we shot a gun in the air, she'd be off.

But the big news is that we have the top of a tooth poking out! We now own stock in Infant Motrin and Hyland's Teething Tablets althought they seem to be no match for the tooth. You can be sure that when it's in, they'll be a photo.

And the times they are a changin'

If there is anything we are learning as parents it's this; just when you have figured something out, I mean really feel comfortable with the task at hand, the baby will change the rules. For instance, just when I think the baby tub will last until she is at least 11, she begins sitting up in it creating the need for the newest member of our family. Please welcome, giant inflatable duck.

Just when we get the hang of feeding her solids in the bumbo, she climbs her way out of it by arching her back with the skill of a pole vaulter and covering it with her small, but incredibly messy, variety of foods. Hence, she now has her very own chair.

She certainly has been keeping things exciting around here lately. Babbling and zerberting the end of the bottle nipple have also been added to her repertoire. I can't help but feel that Yale is right around the corner!

Also, we had her six-month appointment this week. She is a whopping 17.5 lbs and 27 inches long completely discrediting my theory that most everything we feed her winds up everywhere but in her mouth.

Visitors!

We had a wonderful visit with Nana and Popa (aka Kathy and Dave Fuller) this weekend. We couldn't have asked for better weather and took that oppotunity to troll around Savannah and enjoy the city, even catching the SCAD sidewalk chalk art festival. All in all a nice relaxing weekend.

Zoe's newest development, sitting, not laying down, in her bath. This makes for an interesting bathtime as I hold on for dear life to a very slippery, and suddenly very squirmy, baby. I would take a photo but I'm not sure I could handle baby and camera without dunking one of them.

"But it's green"

After rice cereal, which by the way tastes like paste, we moved on to peas. She was not a fan and mostly looked at me as if she couldn't belive what I was doing to her. She looks messy but she cleans up well.

Welcome!

Welcome to the new Zoe Katherine blog! We can't believe how big she is getting and how many new things she is learning. We hope you'll keep checking in and we will update often! Her newest challenge is trying new foods. So far peas are not her favorite but sweet potatoes seem to be a success. Enjoy!