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  • Everyone Has A Story

    January 13, 2013

    I recently came across the Washington Post story of Joshua Bell, a world class violinist who agrees to work in cahoots with the Post for a story.  He positions himself as an anonymous sort of starving artist in a Washington DC subway playing for tips during morning rush hour — that is, a starving artist playing for tips with a $3 million Stradivari.  As he plays his glorious music, for which he earns millions, for which he has played for kings and queens, he is largely ignored.

    The story is not new, it came out in 2007, but I didn’t see it then because at that time I had a just turned four-year-old and I was as likely to have time to read the newspaper as I was to take trapeze lessons.

    Nonetheless, I came across the story on Facebook, and as you might expect, there were hundreds of comments about how awful people are because here they were in the presence musical genius and they neither recognized it nor would they take time to stop and smell the musical roses.

    I, however, did not think the story was about how awful people are for not recognizing Joshua Bell or stopping to enjoy awesome violin music.  Until I read this story I had not heard of Joshua Bell and I only somewhat enjoy violin music. Paint my collar blue.

    That people don’t recognize a celebrity out of context is not surprising, especially a non-Hollywood celebrity.  That the majority of people don’t recognize a famous classical musician is not surprising as the majority of people who can afford seats at the symphony are not the majority of the subway-riding working stiffs.  That people won’t stop and close their eyes and sway and appreciate musical beauty as they are late to work is not surprising either, because if they get fired, how are they ever going to afford symphony tickets?

    Recognition of celebrity or beauty out of context may have been the intended story, but I thought the real story was about how everyone you pass has a story — a tragic beautiful amazing heroic unique thrilling and wonderful story, co-written with a mighty creator.

    Everyone you pass has a story that is out of context.  The mom I often pass on the way to school, who wears yoga pants and drives the Mercedes, who never makes eye contact or speaks to me, who makes me feel like she thinks she is better than me — she has a story.  And if I knew her story, it might provide some context.  It might change my perspective.  I might view her differently.

    The mom who is 30-pounds overweight.  The mom who is always pulled together and volunteers for everything.  The mom who is a little too loud. The mom who lets her kid wear shorts to school in January.  The mom who….

    Everyone has a story, which in the subway station of life, is out of context.  And no, I’m not suggesting that we stop and take in the story of everyone we pass, because then we would never have time for those trapeze lessons.  But we can try to remember that everyone we pass has a story and that if we knew it, we would have the context to recognize the celebrity and beauty in them that God sees.

    The Lord does not look at the things people look at.  People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.  1Samuel 16:7

     

    A Perfect Day ~ Book Review

    December 19, 2012

    Harper Collins has been sending me more books than I can read but one that stands out is A Perfect Day written and illustrated by Carin Berger and I wanted to tell you about it on case you are looking for a holiday book for someone special.

    The book jacket says it is for ages 4-8 but I know a 9-year-old (and a 50-cough-cough-year-old) who will enjoy sitting down and reading it together.  Berger celebrates the joys of winter with simple lines of text, one or two per page, nestled neatly among her simple folk art collages ~ exactly the kind of book Sean and I enjoy when we snuggle up together to read and chat and read and chat.

     

    Anyway, Merry Christmas y’all.

     

    Hands of Time

    July 18, 2012

    Why hello there internets!  It’s been a while since I’ve written much here, this I know.  I have a list of stuff that needs to be written, but I can’t seem to locate my writing mojo.  But hey! I haven’t completely given up, because I have a list!  A list on paper even, not just a list in my head.  Having a list on paper is the first step to success.  It’s true.  Or maybe it’s not true since I just made that up.

    Anyway, Sean has been taking some classes on a college campus this summer which makes me a little woozy to think about because I still sorta think of myself as a mom with a grocery store buddy, a mom who holds tightly onto a little chubby dimpled hand as we cross the grocery store parking lot – not a college campus parking lot.  GULP!   His hand is no longer sticky and chubby and dimpled but long and lean and grungy.  And strong.

    He still holds my hand though, so there’s that.

    I was thinking about all this today and so it seemed like a good day to rerun this from 2008.

    * * *

    The other night, in the wee small hours of the morning, I tiptoed into Sean’s room to check on him. I’m way beyond the days of checking on him 3 or 4 or 20 times a night to see if he is still breathing as I did those first several months of his life. Yet sometimes, something invisible gently stirs me into wakefulness and calls me to his room in the middle of the night to look at him.

    Sure enough all was well. His little boy form, bathed in the amber glow of the nightlight lay peaceful and motionless.

    As I turned to leave, I heard him whisper, “Mommy, will you lay down with me?”

    “Sean, I didn’t know you were awake. Why are you awake?”

    “Will you?” he pleaded with a desperate catch in his voice, “Will you please lay down with me? For a little while?”

    “Sure” I said. “Move over.”

    And so he did.

    I should say here, that the bed Sean sleeps in is not really a big boy bed or even a youth bed. It is basically a crib six inches off the ground. It is so tiny it is straight out of The Three Bears and I am Goldilocks. If I contort myself just right I can snuggle up with him in this tiny bed. If I lay there much longer than 20 minutes, I can’t feel any of my limbs or walk upright the next day, but it’s a small price to pay, temporarily paralysis in exchange for snuggling.

    I wedged myself in beside him. With his head tucked under my chin, he squirmed and squiggled and shifted until he had sufficiently pressed his bony backside into my tummy, just as he did in the days that I carried him in my body. He reached around for my hand and pulled it across him like a belt and then he wove his fingers between mine.

    “Here’s the church,” he yawned. “Here’s the steeple….”

    And then he gave up, too tired to continue.

    Then, with his other hand, he covered our interlaced fingers. It struck me as an odd thing for a four-year-old to do. It was an old man sort of thing to do, this nestling of my hand, like a bird, into his two small hands.

     In the thinning morning darkness, I watched him stroke and pet our clasped hands as he drifted back to sleep. I flashed upon that day in 2003 when I first saw his hands on the sonogram – tiny, shaky, translucent fingers reaching for the light of this world and then shielding his eyes from the harshness of it.

    I thought of how those little hands reached out for me as he took his first unsteady steps. I wondered how many more times he will seek my hand. Before he won’t. Dear God, bless me, that I might always be there to hold his hand and steady him as he goes, for as long as he needs me.

    Then I flashed forward to the appointed day when that one clear call is for me. And on that day, it will be my shaky, translucent fingers that reach for the light of the next world and then shield my eyes from the glory of it. Dear God, bless me, that he might be there to hold my hand and steady me as I go into that great goodnight.

    In that moment, and just for that moment, I felt as though I understood something of eternity.

    Finally his hands stopped moving. He had fallen back to sleep. I slowly extricated myself from the tiny boy and the tiny bed. I stood over him for a moment, praying over him, that goodness and mercy will surely follow him all the days of his life.

    I never tire of looking at him.

    I hobbled back to bed.

    Novica Goody McGoodness

    June 17, 2012

    I am always happy when I see an email from Novica in my inbox because that means something awesome for me and something awesome for you.

    For those not in the know about Novica, they are a company which works in association with National Geographic to showcase and sell art, jewelry, clothing, handbags, home décor, corporate gifts and more from artisans from all over the world.  They ensure the artists receive a fair market value for their work so that they might keep body and soul together, which as an artist and a human being, I really appreciate.

    They have a zillion items in all price ranges and all of them unique, handcrafted, eco-friendly and fabulous.  Each item includes a bio of the artist and in a world of identical big-box stores, it’s just kind of nice to know something of the person who made what I’m buying.

    Having worked with Novica on several occasions and spent many hours on their site, I would suggest using the filters to narrow your viewing options.  There is just so much wonderful stuff to look at that eventually your eyeballs will  pop out of your head and dangle by springs and that’s not an attractive look.

    If you want to avoid that whole eyeall popping out thing, here are some suggestions:

    Silver Charm Bracelets
    Amethyst Chandelier Earrings
    Sterling Silver Earrings from Peru
    Lockets
    Silk Fans
    Natural Flower Necklaces

    So then, the details:  Novica has offered me two $50 gift certificates, one for me and one for you.   I’m getting these earrings just cuz they’re purdy.  You could get the same earrings and then we could wear them to school on the same day since we are BFF’s and all.

     

    If you are interested in a chance to win the other $50 gift certificate, visit Novica (and you may be gone for three or four hours because there is a LOT of cool stuff there) and then pop back in and leave me a comment telling me what you saw that you liked and your Dad’s name since it’s Father’s Day.

    Random.org will help me determine the winner later this week, or when the mood strikes.

    My dad’s name is Ed and everyone likes him, but no one more than me.  Except maybe my mom.

     

    * * * *

    UPDATE:  Contest closed!  Congratulations to Jake, commenter #4!

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    The Fine Art of Goofing Off

    April 27, 2012

    This is a re-run from way way back in the day.  But I needed to run it again today.  I needed to think about my dad and the time we have spent just hanging out and goofing off and doing nothing and the joy and contentment and quality that has added to my life.

    * * *

    Here in the northern reaches of the great state of Texas, it was 85 degrees on Thursday – a wonderfully warm winter day perfect for doing nothing in particular. Sean and I took the opportunity to get out and about in the neighborhood where I hoped to instruct him in the fine art of goofing off.

    Goofing off is best done in pairs. My dad and I, who are similarly wired, have always liked to goof off together. Whenever I’m home, Dad and I still head out to the garage and make something with whatever we find out there. And then we paint it. We won’t know what it is when we’re done. We won’t even know when we’re done, unless someone hollers “Dinner’s ready!” Then we’re done.

    The memories I have of just hanging out with my dad and doing nothing mean nothing and everything at the same time. Nothing in that nothing extraordinarily memorable happened, everything in that we spent a lot of time together over the years (doing nothing) and that means everything.  These days they call that quality time.  You may have quality time. I goof off.

    Now that Sean is two, it’s time he claimed his heritage and learned how to properly goof off. And Thursday was an excellent day for that. Since Sean is still too little for power tools and paint, we set off together out the front door, hand in hand, with no plan and no purpose, just to see what we could see.

    It wasn’t long before we found a very nice big stick. People skilled in the fine art of goofing off recognize the treasure in such an item. It was perfect for poking into gofer holes, perfect for swatting against the trunk of a tree and perfect for carrying like the staff of Moses. Sean was thrilled with the find. “I gotta cane! I gotta cane!” he exclaimed. “Papa George have a cane!” he reminded me, brandishing it like a saber as he kangaroo-jumped over the sidewalk cracks.

    As we continued towards the pond on our unplanned adventure, we saw a man and his son fishing. Sean held up his stick and a light bulb lit up over his head. “I do go fishin! I do go fishin!” So off we went to the pond to see what we could catch with this fabulous stick. He cast his imaginary line over and over, long and deep, imitating the man and his son. He reeled in a bounty of invisible fish that we pretended to eat. We both agreed that they were the most delicious fish either of us had ever eaten.

    As the sun began to set and the wind turned from the north, I hoisted him onto my back like a mother Koala and we headed back down the path towards home. He wrapped his arms around my neck and as he pressed his face into mine and I felt his eyelashes flutter against my cheek. It reminded me of the first time I felt him move in my womb. It had been a good day.

    When we reached the end of the driveway, I set him down and stole a hug. Instead of pulling away and running off like he usually does, he leaned into me and looked into my face, in a manner beyond his two years, as though he was searching for something. I wondered what he was thinking. Could it be that someday he will remember how his mother looked on this warm winter day? Probably not. Perhaps like me, he will remember nothing in particular, only that we never missed an opportunity to do nothing together. And that will mean everything.

    Summer of the Gypsy Moths

    March 23, 2012

    Summer of the Gypsy Moths was in the box of books that Harper Collins Childrens recently sent me to review.  It was written by Sara Pennypacker and is slated for release in May.  Pennypacker is the author of the popular Clementine books.  She also wrote some of the Flat Stanley books which Sean loves.

    Gypsy Moths is about two twelve-year-old girls who are unrelated and opposite in every way except that they are both more or less orphaned.  Through very odd circumstances and one very bad decision, they are forced to forge a friendship and rely on one another to survive for a summer.

    The story is set in a small beach town on Cape Cod.  Louise, a somewhat crusty elderly lady, runs the vacation cottages in the town and has taken in the two girls as foster children.

    Stella, Louise’s great niece, never knew her father and has suffered a lifetime with her incredibly selfish and irresponsible mother who is in and out of her life and frequently abandons her.  When she is left in a hotel room for several days, Stella calls the authorities and that is how she ends up in the care of her great aunt. Angel, the other girl, is a tough and independent girl who has lost both of her parents and has been in more foster homes than she can remember — and now she is in another one with an old lady and a girl she doesn’t like.

    When the girls come home one afternoon, they find that Louise has died unexpectedly. They are afraid of being sent back into foster care, so they bury her in the backyard and then spend the rest of the summer making creative excuses for her absence, running the cottages and nearly starving as they try to survive on their own.

    What did I think about this story?  Hmmm, that is a good question.  I can’t decide.  I found the characters to be likeable.  (I didn’t like that the young girls said crap repeatedly and Jesus querido which I think is a Spanish epithet.)  I liked the themes of community, family and friendship.  I liked the core of the story – two vastly different girls find common ground in the difficult cards life has dealt them and learning to overcome their differences and rely on one another to become a family of sorts.

    What I didn’t like was that these two young girls buried Louise in the backyard.  I think in order for that plotline to work, it would have to be absurd and funny and this wasn’t a story that aimed to be funny.  And so it was just sort of gross and sad, and disrespectful.

    I wish Louise had been called away for the summer and through some miscues, the person who was supposed to care for the girls never shows up, or maybe the girls figure out that Louise has Alzheimers and the girls somehow arrange for her care in the local nursing home so CPS doesn’t find out, or maybe Louise drowns in Cape Code — or something!  But it was hard for me to move beyond the imagery of these two girls being so heartless they could unceremoniously bury a human being and go on with their summer while a corpse rots just beyond the backdoor.

    * * *

    In other news, Harper Collins Childrens also sent me Big Nate What Could Possibly Go Wrong? by Lincoln Piece.  I will be honest with you, I didn’t read it, but Sean did and he loved it.  He sat down and read it through in about 30 minutes and asked for another.

    Jake and Lily

    March 2, 2012

    Jerry Spinelli is a well-known and prolific writer of children’s stories, most notably Maniac Magee for which he won the Newbery Medal in 1990, and Wringer, which won a Newbery Honor in 1998.  Jake and Lily is his latest work and is scheduled for release this spring.

    Jake and Lily is the story of 10-year-old twins who have arrived at a pivotal season in their twin-ness — they each must learn how to become an individual and how to create a life separate from their twin.

    It is the beginning of summer vacation and their parent’s have decided it is time for them to have separate bedrooms.  Soon thereafter, easy-going Jake quickly carves out a life of his own and buddies up with a pack of bicycle-riding neighborhood boys, leaving hot-headed Lily to feel dumped, lonely – and mad!

    Without Jake, Lily doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.  With the encouragement of her grandfather, Lily tries to find friends and interests of her own, but with no success.  She has a sleepover that goes badly, she tries various arts and crafts, but nothing fills the hole Jake has left behind.  But Jake’s efforts at becoming an individual are troubled too. When he discovers that his neighborhood friend is a bully, he has to figure out what kind of individual he’s going to be.

    On the whole, this is a terrific plot and could have been a really wonderful story – there is hardly a topic more fascinating than twins.  But in my view, this book missed the mark.

    One of the big issues for me is that all throughout the story, 10-year-old kids say “crap” and use other low language that doesn’t bring anything good to the story or the reader.  It doesn’t make the story more authentic, it doesn’t make it funny; it just seems to be gratuitous. For that reason alone I would not recommend this book. (Note to publishers:  I will not buy my son any book with the following words in the title:  stupid, fartsalot, underpants, poop, idiot, butt.)

    The other issue I have with this book is that the author uses the literary device of having the characters take turns speaking, as well as narrating alternate chapters, which given that they are twins “should” work, but I found it really hard to follow, especially in the beginning.

    When I found this book in the box of books Harper Collins sent me to review, I was excited because my mother-in-law has a boy twin and they have another set of boy-girl twin siblings two years ahead of them, so I really expected I would like this book.  I am disappointed to report that I did not — although I think the average 4th or 5th grader might.

    Peepsqueak!

    February 28, 2012

    Harper Collins Childrens books contacted me recently and asked me if I would be willing to review some of their children’s books.  Since Sean and I had recently decided to read through the entire list of Newbery books (that’s around 300 books if you keep track of that sort of thing) I said yes, I would love to, and I sent them my wish list.

    They sent all of the books I requested and a few others.  I will be reviewing those books here over the next several months as we get them read.

    They also asked if I would review a picture book.  Even though my kiddo is eight and has moved well beyond the genre of picture books, I still love picture books.  As an artist I love the illustrations, and as a writer I appreciate the skill that it takes to distill a story into a few precise lines per page rather than to write big fat juicy paragraphs.  Less is more, but it is definitely not easier.  At any rate, I told them to send me any old picture book and I would review it.

    The book that they sent me is Peepsqueak! by Leslie Ann Clark.

    When the book arrived, Sean — my eight-year-old who loves reading about boys surviving on their own in the wilderness – immediately ran off with the picture book about a little chick who wants to fly, and quickly read it.  When he came back, I asked him what he thought of it.  He said he really liked it and thought “little kids” would like it too.

    Since I am somewhat of a little kid, I read it, and I have to agree with Sean, I like it too.  I just wish he was still small enough to fit on my lap so I could read it to him.

    The story is about a little chick named Peepsqueak who wants to fly.  He spends his day launching himself off of various things hoping to take flight, but with no success.  All of the other barnyard animals are quick to remind him that he can’t fly but Peepsqueak doesn’t listen, he just keeps movin’ along.  When he finally gives up, his mother is there to console him, but along comes a big gray goose who hoists him onto his back and takes him for a ride way up in the sky.

    Here’s what I loved about this book:  I love the simplicity of the story and the message.  I love the simple and bright illustrations.  I love the short sentences and big bold print on each page which is great for older parents (like me!) or grandparents with poor close vision as well as for children who are learning to read.  So many children’s authors make the mistake of cramming too many words in a too-small font on a single page and those are the books I discard because it tells me that author doesn’t read to children.

    On the whole, Peepsqueak! is a sweet simple secular story.  But when I went to the author’s website, I found that there was another story behind the story in book that made me love the story even more.

    Wherein We Speak of YKW

    February 19, 2012

    Today’s topic is YKW, which shall be code for ‘you know what’ which shall be code for well, you know. . .  It’s not that I am Victorian when it comes to the topic of YKW, it’s just that I’d prefer Google not send a certain audience of seekers to my humble wholesome blog, so therefore I have developed my own dorky top secret code.  So then, now you are in the know about YKW.

    * * * * *

    Sean prefers to sit with AD and I in our Sunday school class.  And we don’t mind, we like having him with us.  He brings a book to read.  But he is also listening.  He’s always listening.  We know this because usually sometime around Wednesday, out of the blue, he’ll make some observation about something the teacher said.

    For the past several weeks, a family and marriage therapist has been leading the class on various aspects of the marriage relationship.  The next class, we were warned, would be on marital intimacy.  So of course we told Sean that he would have to go to his own class.  “Why!?” he protested, “Because you’re going to talk about s+x?”  Yes, I said, for that very reason.  “But I promise I won’t answer any of the questions!” he said.

    Sean has a good understanding of YKW.  He understands the physiology.  He knows that God created male and female, each with their own unique components for reproduction.  He does not yet fully understand how the components come together to make that happen because he is not ready for that.

    We decided early on that we would approach the topic honestly anytime the opportunity presented.  And one thing that has helped in that regard is that Sean has always been keenly interested in wild life and animals.  We have watched a lot of Animal Planet, where the topic is unavoidable and usually narrated in a British voice.  Which somehow makes everything seem more proper.

    One time when Sean was about five and my parents were visiting, Sean and my dad were sitting on the couch watching an episode of Animal Planet while the British guy gave a play by play of two lions engaged in YKW.  Sean, ever the educator, turns to my dad and flatly informs him, “The male is the one top.”  To which my dad replied, “Oh.” and then quickly excused himself to the kitchen to refill his glass of tea.

    Everyone has to develop their own parenting philosophy in terms of how and when to teach their children about YKW, so what follows is not to comment upon what anyone else is doing, but merely to say what has worked for us. Thus far.  We may find out years from now that our philosophy was a complete and utter failure.

    If I were to offer any advice in regards to how you decide to educate your children on this topic it would be to decide.  That is to say give some thought as to what, when and how you want your children to learn about YKW, and not wait to see how the world fills the void.

    Parenting often occurs in reaction to and against our own experience and this may be part of how our thinking on this topic developed — we looked back on our own experience and decided that maybe there was a better way.  I think for many of us Baby Boomers the best practice of the day was that somewhere around puberty, your mother or some other well-intended adult would ominously sit you down and give you THE TALK, maybe give you a book which covered the basic physiology illustrated with line drawings.  They would then dust their hands, relieved that the task was complete, thankful that we could all move on with our lives and pretend it never happened.

    The problem with this approach in my view is that it’s like getting a bucket of cold water in the face.  There was no information leading up to THE TALK (except maybe from unreliable peer sources), there was no context, and definitely no follow-up.  And it was incredibly awkward at a time when your life is one big hot steaming bowl of awkward.

    In light of that we decided to forego the bucket method, and opted instead for the dribble method – we would start early and give him little bits of accurate and age-appropriate information as the opportunity presented.  There would be no cabbage patch or stork or cute names for body parts.

    THE TALK approach, to me, always seemed to confer upon it a sense of shame, that somehow after THE TALK you don’t talk about it, ever, again.  We want Sean to talk to us openly and freely, about everything, but at the same time YKW is not a topic we want him discussing openly and freely outside of our family, for many reasons, but not the least of which is because just like Santa Claus, other families might be going the stork route and we want to respect that.  We don’t want Sean to be a spoiler or to get in the way of how other people are teaching their children.  So, we constantly remind Sean that this is a topic that we only talk about at home among the three of us, and never with others.

    When I was coming of age, my knowledge on the topic was like a book that was missing every other page.  I had bits and pieces of information here and there, but by no means did I have a complete picture or a useful understanding.  And I knew it.  I can still remember my freshman year of high school, the panicky feeling of knowing that I didn’t know what I thought everyone else knew, and trying to pretend that I did.  And that panic and pretending is awful, because you’re just waiting to be found out as the dumbest person ever.  And I don’t want for Sean.  I want him to have confidence in who he is and what he knows. I don’t want to leave wide open gaps for the world to fill with panic and ugly half-truths.

    That is why we want Sean to hear from us first on the topic of YKW – like the local news, we want to be his first and most trusted source of information!  Back to you AD in the studio!

    That he should hear from us first on this topic is the cornerstone of our philosophy — the two people who love him most and know him best, who have his best interest at heart and in whom he knows he can trust completely.

    We want to provide him with information on a level that is appropriate for him, in the context of our beliefs and values, with the understanding that physiology and faith are partners, not opponents, that one without the other is incomplete.  We want him to feel he can talk to us anytime, openly and without reserve or shame.  We want him to understand that this is a topic that is to be handled with respect, and therefore is private (not secret) and not public.

    If our philosophy is sound and works the way we hope, when the topic of YKW comes up on the playground, as it will if it hasn’t already, he’s heard it before, it is old news.  And hopefully he’ll yawn confidently and walk away.

    If not, he can discuss it with his future family and marriage therapist.

    A Big Conversation

    February 4, 2012

    We have a number of friends who home school their children and one of the traits that AD and I have observed in these kiddos that we admire is their comfort and poise in speaking with adults.  We are impressed with how they look us in the eye when speaking to us, how they speak in complete sentences, how they thoughtfully and appropriately engage us in conversation, both contributing and inquiring.   

    Of course it would be a gross over-generalization to attribute this solely to homeschooling but that seems to be the common denominator in our limited experience.  It could just be that our friends have terrific kids. 

    Most kids – and I’m sure yours is an exception - will answer in choppy one or two-word sentences when engaged by an adult and then look around nervously for an escape hatch. 

    All that to say, we have been working with Sean to help him to become a comfortable conversationalist.  We think it is a valuable life skill, one that we want him to develop.  For some kids this may come easily, for others, like mine, it will require some practice.

    So the other day, we were driving up to Tuna to see some of our relatives, whom we don’t see often enough, and we were preparing him to greet his great aunts and uncles and so we were role playing as a way to practice.

    Me:  Ok Sean, let’s pretend I am Aunt Doris.  And I say something like, ‘Why hello Sean.  You sure are getting big!’ – What would you say to Aunt Doris? 

    Sean:  You are too! 

    On second thought, maybe it would be better if he just said “Yup” and then hid behind my skirt. 

    Disclaimer:  Doris is NOT big, we don’t think Doris is big, no one at our house has ever said Doris and Big in the same sentence, ever, not once.