Say Hello, Wave Goodbye...

When Mark and I moved our family to Belleville on a bitterly cold January day in 2009, we had no clue what was coming. We'd sold our house in Newcastle on the heels of a vicious recession and were just trying to keep ourselves - and our family - together in the aftermath of job loss and a frustrating, province-wide search for employment.

There were days, moored here in a strange city in the middle of winter with two boys - one just 3, the other a busy 16 months -when I questioned my own sanity at making such a move. Almost exactly a month later, my brother passed away and in the days between his death and his funeral, I wandered the unfamiliar rooms of our rented house in a fog. Cast adrift. Lost.

By Spring, I'd moved from now-familiar rooms to unfamiliar streets, just beginning to blossom with the promise of new beginnings. I made some incredible friends, fell in love with this city's parks, its people, my neighbourhood and the fresh breath of hope that blew into our faltering marriage.

In 2010, exactly one year after our move to the Friendly City, we spent another frigid January day hauling our possessions and hopes into another house on the same street. Only this one was ours and we were staying for keeps.

Or so we thought.

In July of this year, Mark received a job offer from a company based in our hometown. With equal amounts trepidation and delight, he accepted the job and began in September, a day after the Reds and I entered SK, Grade 2 and Final Year, respectively.

As of this writing, he has almost passed his probationary period and has given me permission to "officially" announce that - at some point, possibly this summer - we will be moving home.

To Bowmanville.

It feels odd to write that, now. Bowmanville is our shared hometown and many of our memories of childhood are also shared as Mark and I grew up mere blocks from each other. 

But as adults, our best memories - for me at least - have been made here, in Belleville. This is where our family has truly grown, even though the Reds were born elsewhere. THIS is the place whose streets I know well - at least, the ones in my end of the city - whose parks have beckoned and shaded and pleased me and my sons for almost five years. It's where many of my dearest friends live, my sons began school and I began to dream of something bigger for myself.


And yet...

Bowmanville is filled with old, true friends and amazing opportunities for all of us. Its streets are unfamiliar to me now, as they've multiplied a thousand-fold it seems, in the years since we've been gone. But I've been visiting. Since early summer, I've been quietly researching schools, house prices and the professional possibilities for me, once I've graduated in the Spring. I've looked into sports teams and Scout troops, pored over home builders' plans, old photographs and sweet memories.

I've narrowed down the school search to two which are well-run and have great reputations. We know people whose children attend one or the other and are thriving and happy. Our "wish list" for a new house in our old stomping grounds includes being able to walk the kids to school and easy access to parks and other  green space.

Alas. The public school, which is presently being built to accommodate the population of an old one, won't have a playground. Budget cuts have made one impossible and so my hometown friends have rallied to "win" one.

The Aviva Community Fund is a relatively unique concept: communities submit their ideas and plans to competition. The concept/idea/plan/dream that garners the most votes - from anywhere in the world - can receive up to $100,000 towards its goal. In this instance, voting for the playground builds a place to be a kid for deserving students, but it also helps to build a brand-new community at the same time.

I mention it here, dear readers, because an old, dear hometown friend asked me to. I ask you  to vote please, dear reader, so that the children of my childhood friends will have a place to begin building lifelong friendships like the ones their parents enjoy.

So that my sons might begin building them, too.

With tears in my eyes for all that we will be leaving behind and with enormous hope for what we might find, I'm ignoring my own "never plug stuff" rule to ask for your vote.

To vote, please click this link: http://www.avivacommunityfund.org/ideas/acf15858

I will accept your vote with gratitude and love and consider it a farewell gift....or one that says, "Welcome home!"

Love,
Belly

If you vote, would you let me know in the comments? Thank you. For all of it.

Words to Love By...

T'is the week of awesomeness here at Life With Bellymonster. To recap:

On Wednesday, I met God. At McDonald's. He was wearing a nice sweater, lovely slacks and a wedding band. In one hand, he held his wife's, in the other, a cup of coffee. From His heart, he offered up words of  hope to a woman in need.

This morning, I bumped into Santa Claus at my son's hockey game. Pretty sure it was him: white beard, red hat, twinkly eyes, rounded belly...

When the man in red leaned past me to wink a "hello" to Luke, Luke's eyes went huge and he froze on the spot. Chuckling, I turned to my gaze to smile at the man as he settled down next to me:

 "I guess you hear all the time that you look like Santa, eh?"

The man smiled and patted my hand. "My dear," he leaned close to whisper, "I AM Santa!"

For a moment - one brief, incredible, magical moment - I thought, "Santa! It IS you!"

(And, "God and Santa in the same week? What are the chances?)

Santa Claus! (courtesy of Pinterest)

We talked about all kinds of things, the jolly old elf man and I: the Reds, hockey, his accent, his love of children and fear of technology. We laughed at his hat and the faces of children and grown-ups as they spotted him - young and old alike, a look of wonder crossed many of their faces before they blinked and shook their heads before moving on, smiling.

 For 1/2 an hour we sat with our heads together, discussing my college program (training to support people with disabilities) and the wondrous journey that brought him to Ontario from the east, many years ago....to support people with disabilities.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But....maybe not.

A little while later, I posted about the happy encounter on Facebook and was delighted and gratified to see how many of friends "liked" the tale and how many responded happily to it. Just sharing a little bit of Christmas magic, I wrote to one friend, who'd messaged me privately to say "Thanks for that!"

And then into my inbox, came another message. This one was from an old friend who I've not seen face-to-face in 20 or more years, but whose life I watch with pleasure, via Facebook.

This is what she wrote:


Hi Liz!
I just wanted to leave u a little note. There are times when my days are well... Lets not go there but reading ur posts make me smile, laugh, always heartwarming, and sometimes tearful. Your an amazing women to share all ur tidbits because u are funny as hell!! You know just what to say! Just want to let you know u have inspired me. In the small ways u express yourself.
When I saw you were going back to school I too have decided to go back. ( hopefully I get admissions ;-) I just wanted to let you know keep it ur amazing and inspiring.
Xo
Ps hope this wasn't too awkward ... But I just wanted you to know ur post about God and Santa really just made my day!!

Jo xo


I don't share her words here to toot my own horn, but rather to show once more and the best way I know how, that the words we use - and the way in which we use them - can and do have an awesome, incredible, sometimes transformative power.

I have never been more aware of or focused on the power of words than I have been this week. Practically every encounter I've had during the past seven days has left me pondering the conversation long after it ended.I have been marveling over the profound effect we have on others when we speak our truth, call "Hello!" offer our thanks, our prayers, type a status, publish a blog post, a comment, a manifesto, when we whisper, "I need help," or "You hurt me," or  say "I love you."

And because I've had such amazing conversations - with God, Santa, in real life and via the 'net - I want to keep them going. Let me, dear readers, thank YOU for being such a strangely intimate and wonderful  part of my life and my family.

 If we're friends on Facebook, let me know in the comments HERE and I promise that - between now and year's end - I will send you some cyber love, via your inbox.

If I follow you on Twitter, comment HERE and  I'll tweet you 140 characters about why I'm happy you're my tweep.

(If we're connected by both, pick Facebook, OK? I tend to ramble on, as you know, so will need more space in which to do so...)

Let me tell you the story of how our friendship was born...

Who's in? Pass it on!

Eight Against the North (Part II): How Kool Aid Saved My Life

It's kind of a rite of passage here in Ontario - gather up a few friends, some beer, some canoes and head into the untamed wilderness that is Algonquin Park.

When my turn came for the merry adventure with long-time friends and semi-experienced campers, I thought I was prepared:

Tent...check!
Pack...check!
Beer cans shoved into socks and jammed into pack...check!
Kool-aid packet.....uh, no. Nope, did not think to pack cherry-flavoured sugar crystals.

Good thing my friend Clarence did:

On Day Three of our trip into 'Nam the beautiful and wild heart of the Canadian Shield, I discovered the horror that are leeches. Leeches, in case you've never seen the movie "Stand By Me" are filthy black, blood-sucking slugs, known to frequent swampy bogs and marshes and attach themselves to passersby, at whim. Park authorities had issued a fire-ban mere days before our arrival, due to unseasonably hot temperatures and not enough rain, which put the park at risk for fire and meant more swamp, less water.

It also meant more leeches.

I thought I'd outsmarted the li'l buggers by jamming socks onto my feet as we slogged through swampland, canoes held high above our heads, jaws set in grim determination. Our quest: make it to our next campsite before dark, or die trying.

Even as my friends stopped  regularly to peel feasting bloodsuckers from between their toes or off their calves, I was left blessedly alone. I'm not certain, but I think that my shrieking every time I spied a leech (or a water snake...after awhile, they all looked the same to me) may have deterred them. Regardless, it was a happy relief to set up camp without having experienced  something drinking three times its body-weight of MY blood.

Day Four: Perfection. The day dawned sunny, but not humid and we decided to stay put for one more day, stretching our long weekend into an extra-long one and pushing off for a quick paddle to a sandy beach across the way. Spent the morning frolicking, sunbathing, laughing, all thoughts of trudging through swamp and leeches forgotten.

Bellymonster at the Beach

After lunch, the good mood continued as we dove from the rocks near our site into the cool, dark lake. Splashed and traded "shampoo" back and forth, delighting in the feeling of clean and of contentment. Later, I chatted happily to Clarence as I bent over an overturned canoe, attempting to put in my contact lenses. The first twinge in my nether regions should have got my attention, but didn't really.

The second pinch did and I frowned - surely that pinching sensation in the crease between thigh and my lady bits was from a twisted tankini bottom and not a....

LEECH!

Stumbling, stuttering with terror, I made my awkward, legs-akimbo way over to Clarence and clutched his arm. Willing myself not to cry, I spoke with icy calm: "Clarence, this may sound weird and sort of rude, but I need you to look at my crotch."

Clarence blinked.

I inclined my head downward, looked back up at him and gave a slight nod. As understanding dawned in his eyes, I allowed myself a brief moment's respite from the hysteria building in my body: someone else now shared my horror.

As Clarence hunkered down, I angled my leg slightly, closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting.

A moment passed - a second, a lifetime and then Clarence said the word that pitched me headlong into a living nightmare:

"Duuude!"

And just like that our peaceful morning was shattered as my shrieks of panic filled the air:

 "OhmyGOOOOODDDgetitoffgetitoffgetiofff....howmanyaretheregetitoffgetitoff...

ohmyGODwhatifitgotinsiiidddeeeeeeee me.....AGGGGGHHHHH!!"

The others came running and gathered around as Clarence tried his best to calm me down, mumbling half-hearted assurances that leeches can NOT crawl into one's body through one's vagina (a bold lie, actually, but he was desperate) and would I just calm the f*ck down already?

Slight-Goddess* rifled through the first aid kit and then the meal kits, frantically looking for some salt when Clarence spied the Kool-Aid packs he'd tossed in at the last minute. In that moment, my hero was born. He snatched up a packet and ripped it open, while grabbing me by the arm and forcing my gaze onto his:

"Liz! Hold still now...I'm gonna put some of this Kool-Aid on your...uh...leg, but you have to hold still, ok?"

I whimpered, sniffed, drew in a long, shaky breath and nodded. Okay.

With a steady and deliberate hand, Clarence gently poured the Kool-Aid crystals onto my crotch and to my shock and amazement, within seconds, the long, slimy slug HURLED itself - shrieking, I'm sure I heard shrieking - from my body and lay twitching and twisting in agony in a red, cherry-flavoured puddle on the ground.

Planning a trip? Bring Kool-Aid.

For a moment, there was absolute silence as we watched and then, as blood and Kool-Aid flowed freely from my nether region and snot and tears flowed from my face, I turned to my friends:

"I don't care what you people do, but I am taking THAT canoe and I am getting the hell outta here. Today. I'll sleep in the car if I have to, but I am NOT spending another day out here, getting eaten by leeches!"

As I stomped off toward my tent, the others took a quick vote. All in favour of heading home today?

7 out of 8.

And so, off we went, pushing hard against the wind that suddenly swirled up out of nowhere. With each stroke, Mark encouraged me from his spot in the back of the canoe: "Stroke left....coca-cola! Stroke right....with ice...stroke left...in a fountain glass....stroke left...with a straw...."

When the rain began to pelt us from all sides and caps formed on the water underneath us, he simply got louder: Stroke, stroke, stroke! What I heard was "Coke, coke, coke!" but it was more than enough to have me paddling as hard as I could, determined to propel us off the water before we got struck by lightning. With our only and last stroke - ha! - of luck, we managed to scramble ashore and into our cars just as the lightning lit up the sky. Phew!

Finally, the trip was over.

With a tired sigh, I settled back into the suddenly-luxurious comfort of the fabric seat, switched the air-conditioning to full-blast and smiled sweetly at Mark.

"Next year?

"Yeah?" He sighed it, knowing.

We're renting a cottage."

At the start of our epic journey.

Wanna read how this oh-so-merry adventure began? Click here.

To share your own vacations-gone-awry stories, click in the Comments section and share away!

* By Slight-Goddess, I mean,Sheri who is a "tiny-figured" goddess, not "only-this-much" of a goddess.

* By Clarence, I mean Barry (aka Lumpy, aka Telly, aka My Hero, aka Dude)

* By Wog, I mean Paul, whom I call Pauly-Wog. He does not appreciate it as much as he should, but since he is my oldest and dearest friend, I use it sparingly. Sort of.

Eight Against the North: Adventure in Algonquin Park

The plan - such as it was - seemed fairly straightforward: drive to Algonquin Park, paddle for a few hours, pitch tents, sing Kumbaya, play some cards, have a few drinks, repeat for four days.

 It was with high hopes and light spirits, then, that the 8 of us, friends since high school, unloaded our packs by the water and waited for Wog to retrieve our permits from the check-in point. While we waited, we divvied ourselves into three canoes: Mark had a broken arm, but could still steer, so Slight-Goddess and I opted to switch off, while her husband, Clarence, went with another couple, to help even out the disproportionate weight in their canoe. G and A would paddle alone.

Piece of cake, we thought. Even when Wog returned with a warning from the Algonquin staff (No fires, it's been too hot and dry and the portage points may be a bit longer, due to low water levels) it didn't occur to me that anything could go wrong.

Ahem.

Day One: When the Algonquin staff said, "Portage distances may increase due to low water levels" what they meant was:

"You will spend four hours portaging through swampland, scale three beaver dams and stumble into your first campsite 10 - 10! - hours from the time you left, which is, incidentally, six hours longer than you'd planned, sorry about that."

That first night, I was so worn out I didn't even care that we'd pitched our tent on an incline and I kept rolling over onto a tree root. None of us felt like eating, which was a blessing really, as the fire-ban would have made cooking impossible and no one was up for a game of cards. Instead, we threw ourselves into tents and sleeping bags and fell asleep praying for an easier tomorrow.

Day Two: Pack-out went smoothly and we were a chipper bunch, paddling happily into the wilderness. We laughed and called out to one another, saw two moose and a loon family. Indeed, as I trailed my paddle in the water, felt the rising sun on my back and listened to my friends' happy voices, I forgot all about our dismal beginning and was content.

Photo by: TriMuskoka.com

Cue "something's-gonna-happen-to-ruin-this-idyllic-scene" music now...

Just as we'd found a decent pace and had settled into an easy morning of paddling, we struck land.

Again.

Where they ought to have been a narrow, yet deep channel to paddle through, there was instead, swampland. We'd have to walk it. And so, grumbling and groaning, we hoisted canoes and paddles and backpacks and soldiered onward, determined to make camp by lunch.

By 2 pm, we'd scrambled over two more beaver dams, traipsed through wilderness so wet and humid I kept asking if we weren't in Vietnam and if so, would someone please shoot me and Sonja lost her shoe in the mud. For good.

About 3 kilometres from our campsite (according to our map), we decided to leave one canoe anchored to a beaver dam, haul everything else to the site and send Mark back for the canoe. Though I went to keep Mark company, it soon became apparent that I was only holding him back, so I sat down on yet another beaver dam, promising to sing loudly until he got back. There's nothing like raising one's voice in praise, surrounded by the beauty of an (almost) unspoiled and rugged land...

I feel certain that the only reason that moose slurping water at the edge of an inlet about 800 metres away only left - crashing through the brush at an alarming speed, given his awkward-looking body - to gather more wildlife friends for the impromptu concert, not because he didn't appreciate my voice.
But I digress...

Day Three: Holy hell. It was hot - a steaming, humid blanket of hot that pitched everyone into a foul mood before we'd even broken camp. Like petulant children, we bickered as we shoved our canoes into the water, dreading the unknown challenges ahead, hoping it wouldn't be worse than the day before, which of course, it was:


During Portage #377,  the strap on my backpack broke just as Clarence began to complain of chest pains. G. and his girlfriend got into an argument when she swung the canoe she carried too quickly and almost knocked him off his feet. Sonja had long ago fallen into a broody silence, no doubt  missing her lost shoe and her air-conditioned apartment while the rest of us wondered - sometimes aloud - if we'd be fined for lighting a fire during a fire-ban, in case we needed to get Clarence helicoptered out of the park.

And then, dear readers, there were the leeches.

(I Googled images of leeches to share with you here, but was so overcome, I couldn't pick. You'll just have to go ahead and google 'em yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you...)

Did you know that when water levels are low, marshy, swampland left behind is hard to slog through? It is. Did you also know that when water levels are low and one is forced to slog through marshy swampland on a sweltering hot day, one must also watch for leeches?

I did not. Not until several of our motley crew stopped and began peeling the black, still-moving slugs from between their sandaled toes. Oh. my. GOD.

Moving swiftly, so as not to draw the leeches' attention my way, I dug into my pack for a pair of socks and jammed them onto my feet. I spent the next three hours shrieking with horror at the leeches that had suddenly found their way into my field of vision and dreaming of a tall glass filled with ice and Coca-Cola and a straw...

The cure for all that ails...Coca-Cola!

Wanna know what happened next?

Come on back tomorrow and read along as our Trip from Hell Eight Against the North: Adventure in Algonquin Park (also known as "How Kool-Aid Saved My Life") went from bad to worse...

When Santa Calls...

Yesterday, wee Luke had a hard time listening to instructions. Specifically, he threw two decks of cards all over the floor and refused to pick them up. No amount of asking, cajoling or hollering was working, so, like many a desperate parent before me has done, I threatened to call Santa.

He begged me to hang up the phone and hurried to pick up, only to be distracted by dust motes dancing and hunger and Lord knows what else. Suddenly inspired, I posted this on Facebook:

 

Within minutes, my friend Jamie offered to make the call. This is how it went:

Luke: Hello?

Santa: Hello Luke, it's Santa! How are you?

 

Luke: Fine.

Santa: Are you having trouble picking up your toys? Are you having a problem? Mommy asked you to pick them up.

Luke: Yeah. But all I wanted was someone to help me pick up.

Santa: Did you ask someone to help you? Did you make the mess? If so  you have to pick it up. If you need help, ask Mommy.

Luke: Ok.

Me: If you pick up your toys Luke I will look into getting you that "Cars" guitar you wanted. You still want that right?

Luke: Yes.

Santa: Well then you pick up and be a good boy for Mommy and I will see about getting one to you for Christmas, OK?

Luke: OK.

Santa: You go clean up Luke and I will talk to you later and have a Merry Christmas.

In the meantime, Jamie and I were conversing madly on Facebook, hopping between a thread on my wall and one on his. The conversation on his had me howling with laughter, as Luke scurried about behind me:

Luke: Hello! Luke speaking.

Santa: Luke. It's Santa again. Did you clean up your toys?

Luke: Yep.

Santa:  Good boy. I knew you could do it. Now I will look at getting that guitar in the sleigh for you OK?

Luke: Ok bye.  CLICK.

My son had indeed hung up on Santa, but boy, was he proud of himself:

 The fun didn't end there. In between the picking up, hysterical laughter and mad Facebook'ing by me, Luke managed to jam his finger into the pencil sharpener, proceeded to sharpen his finger and then burst into panicked tears. In the midst of the ensuing chaos, "Santa" rang again:

Matthew:  Hello! Matthew McLennan speaking.

Santa: Hello Matthew! It's Santa! I heard you wanted to talk to me too?

Matthew: Yeah!

Santa: Did your brother clean up his toys?

Matthew: Yes.

Santa: Good, good. What happened to his finger? He tried to sharpen it? That's silly! You tell him Santa is bringing him pencils so he won't have to sharpen his fingers OK?

Matthew: ( giggling): OK Santa. ( giggling)

Santa: Now. you want a police man costume and drums?

Matthew: YES, PLEASE! 

Santa: Well I think I can get you the costume, but the drums are a bit big for my sleigh, maybe when you are older OK, buddy?

Matthew: That's what my Mom said too. So that's OK.

Santa: Because when you are older you get bigger things and I can make more room in the sleigh.

Matthew: That's fine.

Santa: Now you be a good boy and help Mommy and I will get you your presents OK? And tell Luke to stop sharpening his fingers! I will get him some pencils!

Matthew: ( Giggling again) OK Santa.

Santa: Good bye, Matthew and Merry Christmas.

Matthew: Bye! Merry Christmas, Santa.

. 

 Proof, dear readers, that the magic of Christmas is all around us: all you need is a good friend, Facebook and a phone.

With love and thanks to the awesome Jamie Terry, for playing along and for letting me plaster his Facebook wall all over the place. Merry Christmas, my friend! xo

On Old Friends and The Gifts of Small-Town Life

Saw an old friend today. Several old friends, actually.

I have not seen Kristian for close to 20 years. Until today, that is. Back in Ontario for a month-long visit, he recently sent a group email to as many old friends as he could find and presto, a reunion was born.

Today, a handful of us gathered at Cobourg's Victoria Beach, our towels and children and memories in tow.

Kristian was one of my best friends throughout high school, living as we were in a tiny village - a hamlet, really - in Middle Of Nowhere, Ontario. Though we attended different high schools, we rode the same yellow bus and despaired of life in the boonies. We shared teenaged angst, confidences, pilfered beer, stolen cigarettes, romances-gone-bust, gas money and most importantly, friends.

His shock of red hair on a lanky frame made Kristian easy to spot in a crowd, on a soccer field or hiding behind the tallest tree in my parents' yard, as he, Jen and Rob waited for me to sneak out, long after dark. Throughout long, hot summers we would scramble into the night, tripping over ourselves and each other as we made our way to the park, just because. There we would play, like the children we were, swinging, sliding, laughing and chatting until the sky lightened or we grew weary of our games.

Memories like this assailed me as I drove to the beach this afternoon. I had forgotten those nights and all the days in between that made up our teenaged years. Today, remembering, I smiled, pleased that I'd had such a good friend in Kristian.

When high school ended, we drifted amicably apart - I went off to university and Kristian headed west, seeking his future. He landed in Alberta, where he has been ever since, building a life. He is a husband now. And a father of two. A contented, settled and confident man.

Today, I watched as Kristian dealt gently with his tired little boy - patiently coaxing him to sleep under the shade of a beach umbrella. Was touched, though not surprised, to find that he is an engaged and attentive father. The oldest of three boys, he was the same way with his brothers way back when, though he doesn't remember it the way I do.

"Did you always want to be a dad?" I asked, because suddenly, I couldn't recall. Kristian considered for a moment and then smiled at his wife, Ann.

"I don't know.Yeah, I suppose. I just didn't know for sure, until Ann."

 We spoke for a long while about where our lives have taken us, how differently things have turned out, compared to our dreams of  long ago.

 "What the heck did we know, anyway?" Kristian laughed, remembering. "We knew nothing!"

Indeed, we knew very little but that was part of the magic. We were children then, simply pretending.
20 years later, we watched each other's children frolic on the sand and splash through the cool lake water - their own kind of magic. Dreams we didn't know we had, come true.

Around us, chatted other friends  from our separate and shared lives. All of us asking each other, "Are you still in touch with So-and-So?" and "Whatever happened to Whatshername?" Slowly but surely, with lots of laughter, we filled in the bigger gaps left by time and distance.

Sarah and Becky, Kristian's prom date and once-upon-a-time-crush, respectively, have been in my life since grade school. Our stories are woven together in strange and beautiful ways and even though we  communicate mostly through Facebook these days, I believe that we will always be connected. At least, I hope so.

Nikki and Katie went to high school with Kristian and while neither was part of my circle, I was on the fringe of both of theirs. Katie, as warm and friendly as her younger self, is in touch with practically everybody, it seems. And what she didn't know, still vibrant and funny Nikki did. T'was a delightful way to catch-up on the goings-on around town.

Sitting with them all, I realized that this is the real gift of small-town life: that there will always be people who knew you before you knew you.  That old friends are the best keepers of childhood dreams and that it feels good to spend time in the past, especially if  you spent it with good people.

And I did. Then....and now.

Thanks to Kristian, Sarah, Becky, Nikki and Katie for the gifts of time - past and present - and of friendship - then, now and in the future.

 Let's not let another 20 years go by between visits, OK?

And you? Who do you miss?