Telling Tales

By Becky Andrews

Remember when we were kids and all you ever wanted was to be treated like a grown up? Grown-ups got to all the fun stuff; drive, go to bed when they wanted to, wear makeup, talk on the phone all night, eat cookies before dinner, date who they wanted, watch rated R movies, and they only talked to their parents when they wanted to. Adults could also curse anytime they wanted to.

The most insulting part was grownups, like my parents, didn’t even appreciate the fact that they had these freedoms. Instead they would show off their power and spout off things like,

“Go to bed!”

“You are too young to wear makeup”

“Sex kills! Seriously, it does! Ask your father!” My dad agreed, but he wouldn’t even say the word. It wasn’t until later that I realized being one of six children my parents obviously had nine lives.

“You want to go to the movies with a boy? Sure, but first let me inject myself with the plague.”  

“When you have a car of your own, you can pick the music.”

“Stop putting makeup on your little brother.” That’s the price he paid for my parents not having cable.

“You do get paid to work in the family business. You get a roof over your head, food, and we paid for your braces. If anything, you should be paying us.”

 “We are having a family night tonight. That means only those with your last name can stop by, sleep over, or eat at this house.” Family night meant we watched Gunsmoke reruns and had to go to bed by 8pm. My parents loved family night!

And my personal favorite,

“This hurts us worse than it hurts you.” A few years after my first child was born my mom fessed up. “It didn’t really hurt us at all. In fact, sometimes it felt wonderful to teach you little twits a lesson.”

At the time, it seemed so unfair to have to wait 18 years to be considered a grown up. More than two decades after becoming an adult I can proudly say, being a grownup isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. There are even days when it sucks!

Sure I go to bed when I want. I can stay up ALL.NIGHT.LONG. Although it’s usually because of a fussy baby, pending deadline or marathon house cleaning before out of town relatives arrive the next day.

Thank God I can wear as much makeup as I want to now. I use it to cover the dark circles, freckles (i.e. age spots) and sun damage.

I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want…until my fat pants get snug.

As an adult, I also get to pay a mortgage, taxes, and pay for braces, insurance, and batting/guitar/drum/shooting lessons for our children.

So whenever I hear my kids complain about how rough they have it, I just remind them that it won’t be too many years before they will have their own car, mortgage and fat pants. For now, they are stuck with me and their dad for family night. Mom was right, this feels awesome!

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Control-ALT-Delete…

By BECKY ANDREWS

Wilson Living Magazine

There were seven beeps then nothing. When I tried rebooting, the same seven beeps and blank screen. That’s how a device that weighs less than a newborn, has no conscience or sense of urgency turned my life completely upside down for SEVEN FULL DAYS!

When I took my tech baby to the doctor, I got the standard battery of questions. If there’s anything that will make you feel more inept as a human being it’s being questioned by an IT Specialist, Programmer, System Administrator or any other computer person title you can think of that means, “You are a complete moron and a disgrace to Silicon Valley.”

By the grace of Steve Jobs I found a guy that is cool with me not worshipping at the altar of Apple to fix my super inefficient Windows-operating laptop without using inside words like “PITA” to describe me. (LOOK IT UP)

Here’s how the conversation went:

“Did you notice your processor overheating?”

“What’s a processor?”

“It’s the brain of your computer; the memory, everything. When it overheats for an extended amount of time, it will completely shut down and take everything with it.”

He acted like it was no big deal, so I really didn’t think there was a reason to worry. I felt super smart. We were getting each other. For a moment, I felt technically superior, even thinking that I may adopt all hoodie/flip flop wardrobe and listening to continuous loop of dub step. But then, he continued.

“Since everybody backs up these days, it’s not that big of a deal to lose your information.”

“Right. Wait, what? What do you mean? I’ve lost everything on my computer?”

“Probably, but as long as you saved it on your external hard drive, don’t worry about it.”

“My what? Is that another name for a thumb drive?”

He looked over the top of his reading glasses as if he was trying to decide if I was joking or a complete moron. That’s when he realized that, yes, I am a complete moron and not really that funny. In fact, it was just a few months ago I learned that Google is considered a verb.

This is probably where his story and my story will differ.

He might say I got emotional and tried talking him out of giving up so easy. He might even say that I blamed this whole fiasco on my children, my husband, the Harlem Shake or the fact that I was a Jehovah’s Witness as a child.

I would like to say this is NOT how it happened. But, because this person recovered all of that very valuable information, I’m not going to call him a liar. I’m not even going to blame it on PMS. I will just say this: I may be an idiot. I may not know the difference between MB and RAM. I may have outdated software, still use Internet Explorer, and prefer Facebook to Twitter. HOWEVER, I do know the computer I just ordered is already obsolete, techie people are 21^st century mechanics spouting off a dialect mere mortals can’t understand, and the next time someone asks about backing up, I’ll know they are not talking about a person’s driving abilities. 

Email any comments to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it because luckily she knows how to check email.

By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine

Besides religion, politics and sex there’s one more hot button issue that should be added to that list of taboo topics never discussed in mixed company. Not war. Not equal pay. Not even the latest shocking elimination on “Dancing with the Stars.” Nope, it’s breastfeeding. I understand that because this word actually includes part of the female anatomy some would argue it falls under the “sex” category, but trust me, it’s shouldn’t.

When my oldest child was born, I had every intention of doing things the “right” way. No television, strict feeding and sleeping schedule, classical music piped in the nursery daily, cloth diapers and because all the books and medical research proved that breastfeeding would make my little genius even smarter and healthier, I would breastfeed for at least a year. After six months and six brand new razor sharp teeth emerged, I decided to quit.

A few weeks later I was out to lunch with a friend when a lady approached asking the standard questions, “How old is he? Is he crawling? Eating solids?” And out of left field, “Are you breastfeeding?” I explained that I did for “SIX WHOLE MONTHS!” With a disappointed look, she introduced herself as a member of La Leche and went on to explain how much smarter my child would have been had I continued to breastfeed.  Now because of my selfishness he would probably be overweight as an adult and struggle with low self-esteem. I was crippled with fear. 

Shortly after this incident, my little guy was diagnosed with an ear infection. When my dad found out, he insisted that if I’d continued breastfeeding his grandson wouldn’t be sick.  He went on and on about how it was so good for the baby and how my mother enjoyed every minute of it and blah, blah, blah.  When my mother explained to him that unless you possess a uterus, you have ZERO credibility in this matter, he let it go.

Four years later my youngest joined the family. I decided that nothing would stop me from breastfeeding for at least a year. I was going to prove to myself, La Leche and everyone else that I could be a weapon of mass lactation. As most of you know, when that second or third child comes along your “plans” change. Two weeks after he was born, I stopped breastfeeding.

For the next three months, when we were out at the grocery or any public place, I was prepared for strangers to ask a question whose answer would reveal my status as an unfit mother.

At his next well-baby visit my pediatrician went over all the usual items; weight, length, where he ranked compared to other babies, etc. Then she asked if he was taking a bottle or breast. That was it! I don’t care how many degrees she had, she wasn’t going to bully me into feeling bad.

“No, I’m not breastfeeding. It’s not for me. And, yes I know that this means he won’t be as smart as his peers. What is so wrong with being average? My mom breastfeed all six of my brothers and sisters for two years, and my younger brother never finished college.  And so what if he’s overweight as an adult, who isn’t in America? Not that it’s any of your business, but I can bond just as well by feeding him a bottle. He coos just as much as his big brother did at this age. I also know I’d probably lose all this baby weight faster, whatever! I am so sick of people asking me about this. I’d feel more comfortable telling you who I was going to vote for in the next presidential election.”

The doctor made a quick note in the chart, looked up with a smile and said, “So… Who ARE you voting for?”

Comments about anything besides Politics, religion, sex or breastfeeding? Email Becky at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By Becky Andrews

It was a 1971 Ford Torino and it was mine! Who cares that it was 1992 and the new car smell disappeared around the time ‘lap only’ seat belts were replaced with those fancy shoulder belts or that the AM radio no longer worked or that every time I pressed the brake water would rush up to the pedals. It was my first car and it was new to me. The newness wore off the third time I had to take it in for repairs. Honestly, I got sick of the mechanics and their lingo.

‘She’s a classic!’

“You need to take care of her.”

I was barely old enough to vote but because she was only fed low grade gasoline and barely bathed, I was the neglectful mother of an inanimate object.

That new car smell applies to many things…jobs, homes, marriage, and yes, even those little bundles of joy who call us mommy.

That new job is perfect until you realize more money means more responsibility. That new home is perfect until that first major repair bill or you visit a friend’s house and realize you should have gone with a different floor plan. The honeymoon stage ends when your husband buys you a new vacuum for your first anniversary. Finally the new car smell of your little boy is nearly impossible to detect once they reach their teens who live in a  messy room, have a smart mouth and would rather spend a week without Wi-Fi than give his mother a kiss before getting out of the car on morning drop off.

After 7 long years, more than 40 road trips, countless seasons of baseball, soccer, football, and basketball, at least 1,000 showings of Cars and Happy Feet (whoever decided to put televisions in a vehicle, I’m forever indebted to you), and ten sets of tires, the new car smell had long worn off and that meant it was time to finally retire our family car-my minivan. For me it was like giving away a very important piece of our family history. For my husband, a new car meant he would be getting respect on the roadways once again. He’s always been convinced that no one takes a man in a minivan seriously.

With a new(er) vehicle, it was my goal to keep it cleaner. At 13 and 9 years old, it shouldn’t be that hard for my boys to comply with our new rules. A few days after our purchase, it looked like my new rules were being followed. No longer would I feel embarrassed opening my car door where empty fast food containers, gum, overdue library books and loose change were peppered all over the floor. I patted myself on the back because finally they got it. About that time, my youngest shouted from the back,

“Can we get this car dirty yet? I’m hungry!”

I knew I was getting too cocky.

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For more Telling Tales visit www.tellingtalesblog.com or the style section at www.wilsonpost.com

By Becky Andrews

Let me introduce you to my children…

Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2^nd grade.

This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,

“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”

She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,

“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”

“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”

I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.

“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.”  “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”

 “This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”

“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”

I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.

Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Let me introduce you to my children…

By Becky Andrews

Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2^nd grade.

This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,

“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”

She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,

“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”

“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”

I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.

“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.”  “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”

 “This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”

“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”

I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.

Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

50 strands of grey…

It happens every time I go to the hairdresser. After sitting in the chair, she spins me around, surveys dry, split and graying tresses then asks,

“So what are we going to do today?”

This is where I get nervous. Not at my hairdresser. She’s a pro. It’s just that I never know the right answer. It sounds so boring to say, “Keep it the same as last time” and unrealistic to show her a picture of Jennifer Anniston and say, “Make me look like this”. Instead, we begin an exchange I’m positive makes her want to hold my head a little longer under the water as she’s washing my hair.

“I’d like a cut that makes me look 20 pounds lighter, 10 years younger and requires no maintenance.”

“I left my wand at home, Becky. How did you like the color last time?”

“Loved it, but it didn’t last long enough. Look at all of this gray.”

“I see it but it’s been four months since your last appointment. What kind of shampoo have you been using? Are you washing it every other day like we talked about last time?”

She already knows the answer to those questions. Kind of like when I ask my husband if he thinks I’m prettier than Beyoncé.

“Don’t you have a color that will last at least six months and can withstand daily washings with dish detergent? Not that I use dish detergent. I mean, I have in a pinch but not all the time.”

I can tell she’s exhausted with me.

“No I am 99% positive there is nothing like that on the market. If you will stop washing it every day and use the correct shampoo, your color will last longer.”

“What about something that will stop all of this gray?” I can tell my time is limited in her chair today so before she fires me, we collectively decide that a few extra highlights and a bit of razoring around my face will do the trick.

After my blow out, I think about how my hair will never look this good again until my next appointment.  I also think of alternate names for the term ‘Blow out’.

She always pulls off the perfect look with very little (i.e.-realistic) direction from me. Before leaving, I promise to use the expensive sulfate-free hair products, only wash my hair every other day and return in 6-8 weeks so I don’t monopolize her chair for half a day. She gives me a hopeful smile but I can tell she knows better.

“I’ll block off five hours four months from now. See ya then!”

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“Where do babies come from?” or having THE TALK

By Becky Andrews

When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.

From the time my children could talk, I thought it necessary to call a body part what it was. None of the cutesy little names like oo-ah’s and tete’s for my kids. This was all in preparation for the questions they would have later. I was determined to answer those inquiries better than my parents. While I loved my mom, when it came to “the talk” she simply said, “That’s none of your business, Becky. Sometimes you talk too much.” I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. Yes, my parents were raised in a different time -where having the talk meant giving your children brochures and telling them to see the school nurse with any questions- but there had to be a better way.

My decision to be open with my kids was derailed for a short time when I was pregnant with my youngest and my oldest asked me how the baby was going to get out. I knew this was a pivotal moment for my little boy. He was almost 5. I gave him an answer and he was satisfied. No more questions. He was brilliant. The next day I picked him up from preschool. After the teacher buckled his seatbelt, she looked at me and said with an enthusiastic tone, “He was so excited today! He let everyone in the class know that his new brother was going to come out of his mama’s BAGINA.” That should have been my first clue that maybe its better if the stork visits instead of honesty.

When I hear people fret about how they are dreading the talk I don’t understand. I say the more uncomfortable the better. In other words, BRING IT! But this probably has a lot to do with me being so cool.

I was brought down a few notches recently and it turns out I’m not as cool and cavalier as I thought. My boys and I were getting ready for school and as everyone was putting on their coats my youngest said, “Mom, what’s a period?” I thought for a moment about how this could be yet another pivotal moment in his life then answered, “It’s what comes after a sentence. Sometimes you talk too much.”

You can reach Becky Andrews at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Letters from the edge…

By Becky Andrews

A few weeks ago I found some old letters that my mother had written. Letters sent to her mother, my grandmother, who lived on the Carolina coast; a 12 hour drive away from our home in Tennessee.  My grandmother saved everything, and letters from her only daughter were no exception. I read page after page of correspondence between a very young mom asking for recipes and advice on colic, then letters from a middle aged mom of 6 asking for advice on teenage sons and daughters and wondering if the boys will ever talk again and if the girls ever ‘shut up’. Finally there were letters from a post-menopausal woman asking her mom if she’s eating well and updating her on the children;

 “Mike is dating a super nice woman. Not sure what she sees in him since he’s been married twice before? I can’t get over what a fabulous mom Laura has become with her two boys. She is so organized about everything. You should see the arts and crafts she does with both of them. I told her she needs a hobby that doesn’t involve pipe cleaners and glitter or she’ll end up like crazy Aunt Madge. Kathy is enjoying the newly married life and wants to start a family. I told her to get a cat first. Becky just finished her first semester of college and she let us know that she’s changing her major from nursing to English Literature because, and I quote, ‘you and dad are NOT the boss of me anymore!’ Who really needs the stability a nursing career can bring? The world just doesn’t have enough struggling writers. Christy is biding her time before she leaves for college in two years. She almost hisses in the morning when I wake her for school. When she doesn’t have her nose in a book, she’s arguing with me about the importance of recycling and can’t believe her parents are so irresponsible with refuse. I told that the same two breasts fed all 6 of my children and that alone gives me a free pass to do whatever I want to with my ‘refuse’.  Ralph says it’s because she was being reared in the middle of our obsession with Peter, Paul and Mary. Tony is still doing wonderful in school and he’s now the very proud wearer of contact lenses. It was tough on Christy and Becky when he retired those coke bottle glasses. They really miss seeing  how big his eyes could get when he’d pull the glasses away from his face. What can I say…? Kids come up with their own fun when you don’t have cable.”

She signed off every letter with a clever little valediction like ‘Love your eternally unorganized daughter’ or ‘Love from your NOT pregnant daughter’

Letter writing has become sort of a communication anomaly these days. We are more likely to see hand written letters hanging in the Smithsonian next to the stone etched hieroglyphics display, than pulling one out of a mailbox. I may decide to start writing letters again. Not to my mom of course, because I have no idea where to send it? But if I could write her a letter I’d probably ask her opinion on the one thing I just can’t figure out… ‘Why do the housewives continue to have dinner parties if they all end in a disaster or lawsuit?’ She’d totally understand!

If you know why the housewives keep having dinner parties, please email Becky the answer at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Resolutions Schmesolutions! 

By Becky Andrews

It’s that time of year again. Relatives are heading home, we say goodbye to the tree and that stupid elf till next year, returns are made and my jeans feel about three sizes too small and I’ve not even put them in the dryer. Regret from my over consumption of cheese balls, peanut butter balls, chips, dip, wine, cookies fill my head every time I see a new ‘NOT APPROVED’ photo floating around on Facebook. I have to diet and lose the weight that crept on between October 31^st and January 1^st. I knew it was time for an intervention when I bit the inside of my cheek while noshing on a handful of fried peanuts (Seriously!). Extra weight was now on my already full cheeks!

So I decided to get a head start on the weight loss wagon and made the plunge on December 27^th. Then by noon of that first day of a sugar detox, I caved and ate a piece of candy out of the office stash. In order to forego the guilt, I thought it’s better to ease in. Who starts a diet a few days before New Year’s? What was I trying to prove? Yes, I want to lose weight but it’s not like I’m training for the Olympics.

The smartest thing to do was look at the calendar, pick a date and stick to it. While January is the perfect month to start, January 1^st is out for obvious reasons. January 2nd falls on a Wednesday and everyone knows, Monday is THE day to start a diet. The following Monday is out because we have a dinner to go to that night and it would be rude to say no to the host’s offerings. In fact the only Monday in January I can start my new plan is the 7^th and the following Monday is the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. That means the kids are out of school so that would only give me one good week to eat right so why bother?  I could start on the last Monday of January but that weekend brings Groundhog Day and the Super Bowl so that’s out. If I start the first Monday of February, that gives me eight good days before Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day so that’s out.

The way it stands now I have two weeks at the end of February and the first week in March to lose the weight I gained from the holidays. After that there’s International Women’s Day, Daylight Savings Time, World Kidney Day, Spring Break for the kids, Saint Patrick’s Day, Good Friday, Easter… the list goes on and on. But I’m going to do it! I’ve got 21 days (18 if you count the days we have a kids birthday party) to lose this stubborn weight.  I have no doubt I can do this and as long as no one asks how the diet is going the first 3 days nobody gets hurt.

Sitting in the car pool lane waiting to pick up my kids from a birthday party at a popular kids facility, I looked around at all the bumpers and realized I was sitting in the company of greatness and according to one in particular-terrificness. Because of all the decals and magnets it felt like being in pit lane at the Daytona 500.

From the looks of it, little Maggie(a cheerleader) was a straight A student, loved ballet and had her colligiate sites set on Vanderbilt. Then I watched as little Maggie’s mom helped her daughter and buckled her into her car seat-not booster-CAR SEAT. Maggie was adorable and apparently a prodigy. Because, she couldn’t have been more than 2 years old!

Then there was little Stevie. Stevie’s an honor student, plays football- very well- AND does all his own punting. Stevie is also left handed. How do I know this? From a decal on the back of his mom’s SUV that read, “Everyone is born right handed; but only the gifted overcome it!” I think that kid just insulted me. But I can’t be sure… since I’m right handed!

By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine

With all that everyone is trying to accomplish in 24 hours, it’s clear that no one is planning on slowing down. So to that effect, I think there is a need to create some sort of reference formula to keep you from losing it while trying to do too much.

By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine

Its midnight and I can’t sleep. So instead of just enjoying the quiet hum of an otherwise bustling house, I think.  And you know what “that” leads to... I start out thinking about the birthday party I need to plan for my youngest. Then I remember Thanksgiving hits right before his birthday, so I need to mentally and physically prepare for hosting a day full of brothers, sisters, and in-laws, not to mention nieces and nephews with sticky fingers, loaded diapers and missing parents.

By BECKY ANDREWS
Wilson Living Magazine

My oldest child, a teenager now, gave me the most incredible gift recently. He agreed to spend the day with his mother shopping for new clothes, eating lunch and occasionally make eye contact with me. If you have boys of just about any age, you know what a BIG deal this really is. I was acting like a giddy teen in anticipation of spending one-on-one time with my first born.

The morning of our big day, I woke up early, finished a little work, did a load of laundry, got ready and waited for him to wake up so we could get the memory makin’ under way. So I waited and waited and waited. Could it be that he wasn’t as excited about this as me?