My Top Ten...Okay, Fifteen Children's Books

Reading is big at our house. I would like to describe as an "avid" reader--admittedly sometimes driven more by achievement than pleasure--but reading really is a huge part of my life. A few years ago when I worked with junior high and high school students in our church's youth ministry, I remember several of the girls in my small groups saying how they hated to read and would never, ever pick up a book outside of school assignments. What a loss! I thought. Then I realized that quite likely no one had ever taught them how to enjoy reading. Since then it's always been extremely important to me to teach my kids enjoy reading…and wow, do they enjoy it now! Even if my boys say they don't want to sit down and read a book with me, it never fails that if I start a story without them, it's amazing how quickly Batman and Lightning McQueen get dropped as Gabriel and Elliot gravitate toward the irresistible pull of a book. And the last time we went to the library and all I got were cookbooks for myself, my almost-5-year-old couldn't believe I didn't check out any kids' books for him. Here's hoping this lasts a lifetime! (By the way, for some excellent points on how to teach your kids to enjoy reading, check out Diane Frankenstein's book Reading Together.)

Because we enjoy reading so much in our house and I'm always looking for new books to read with my little ones (who are 5 and 3, by the way--the 11-month-old is still in the biting and slamming phase as pertains to books) I thought I would compile a list of our favorites. These are the ones I pull off the shelf when it's my turn to pick. And I'll even let you in on a little secret…there are nights when the kids have gone to bed and I actually want to sit down and read these books by myself.

1. Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodkina

A true classic. This is actually one of the first books I can remember reading in school--I remember being five years old walking around saying the peddler protagonist's mantra, "Caps! Caps for sale! Fifty cents a cap!" It has all the elements of great storytelling--repetition, an imaginative landscape, surprise, and a tree full of monkeys wearing hats. Come on, monkeys in hats? You have to read it now.

2. The Day The Babies Crawled Away by Peggy Rathmann

My current favorite. Peggy Rathmann is famous for many of her other children's books, such as Goodnight, Gorilla, Ruby the Copycat, and Officer Buckle and Gloria, but this one is by far her most delightful, in my opinion. The entire book is illustrated in silhouette with the vivid colors of a sunset fading to dusk in the background as the book progresses, evoking the feeling of a lovely day ending. The story's hero is a young boy who must track down a pack of naughty babies who have crawled away from a pie eating contest. Lots of whimsical touches throughout.

3. Our Raspberry Jam by David F. Marx

If you and I are friends on Facebook, you may have seen my pictures of the strawberry jam the kids and I made last summer. This little book was the inspiration for that adventure. It's a simple story of a little girl and her parents experiencing the joy of making their own raspberry jam from berries they've picked. It actually kick-started a whole jam phase in our family. Worth a read.

4. Burnt Toast on Davenport Street by Tim Egan

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't follow a book about jam with a book about toast. This strange book follows the Crandalls, a young couple picked on by bullies. Arthur, the husband, is in for a surprise when he is magically granted three wishes--a gift he does not take seriously until the wishes begin to come true. Oh, and did I mention the Crandalls are dogs? And the bullies are alligators? Yeah, it's a very strange book.

5. Any of the Frog and Toad books by Arnold Lobel

Frog and Toad are king in my book. No pun intended. And actually, maybe they would be princes? Frog princes? In my book? Anyway, this utterly lovable pair star in four books, each of which contain several individual stories. Toad is the charmingly bumbling, rather obstinate foil to Frog's slightly more worldly-wise-yet-still-innocent persona. Ultimately these are tales of two friends who just love each other very much, and their stories are totally endearing.

6. Just Enough and Not Too Much by Kaethe Zemach

A great story about contentment with material possessions--something I very much want to teach my kids in an age and culture of excess! Simon the fiddler, at first content with a simple life, decides he doesn't have enough stuff in his house, but soon comes to realize that having more can turn into having too much.

7. A Bad Case of Stripes by David Shannon

This beautifully colorful and extremely imaginative story is another one about contentment--this time not about possessions, but contentment with ourselves. Camilla Cream is a little girl who doesn't want to admit she likes lima beans because she thinks it will make her unpopular. But the more she resists eating lima beans, the more her body breaks out in strange colors and shapes--everything from stripes to tails! I love the way this story brings home the truth that even our own bodies can rebel when we are going against what is right for us, whether it be physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

8. The Twelve Dancing Princesses by Marianna Mayer, illustrated by K. Y. Craft

I was given this book when I was a girl and it is one of the only surviving original copies of a book from my childhood. GET. THIS. BOOK. especially if you have a daughter. Throughout my life I have returned to this book when I need an escape to a land of fantasy or even just when I am feeling uncreative. The lush, gorgeous illustrations and patient pace of this fairy tale always renew me. A simply beautiful book.

9. Go To Bed, Monster! by Natasha Wing

Sort of a silly one here. The tables are turned on a little girl who doesn't like to go to bed when a monster she has drawn comes to life and won't go to bed, even after she herself is really tired.

10. The Old Woman Who Named Things by Cynthia Rylant

This book certainly has an unusual tone for a children's book, as the central character is an old woman who has stopped giving a name to anything she knows she may outlive. Because of her hurt over so many of her friends dying before her, she is reluctant to take in a stray dog that wants her love. When I first read this to my boys, I thought, yikes, I'll save this for when they're older. But I realized that even young children sometimes think about death and may have to deal with it in their midst. This book has a very redeeming ending and is a good non-scary way to open the door to talking about the issue of death with younger kids.

11. King Bidgood's in the Bathtub by Audrey Wood, illustrated by Don Wood

I am a big fan of the Woods. Some of their books seem story-driven, others image-driven. In this book, the illustrations are really the star. The various personages of King Bidgood's court are trying to get him to come out of the bathtub, but he is simply having too jolly a time to be bothered. One of those books where you can spot a million details on every page.

12. Alphabet Adventure/Rescue/Mystery by Audrey Wood, illustrated by Bruce Wood

In these three Audrey Wood books, an alphabet of lower-case letters must solve a mystery or save the day. Clever stories that get kids more familiar with the lesser-used "little letters."

13. How Much Is A Million? by David M. Schwartz, illustrated by Steven Kellogg

This one is probably for kids just a bit older than mine, but my kids sat through it and asked lots of questions. Essentially it endeavors to give a concept or a visual of how much is in a thousand, a million, and a billion, and compares the three. It was certainly enlightening to me as an adult! I like to think of it as foreshadowing some math skills for kids.

14. Rain by Peter Spier

Did you know Peter Spier is awesome? I had his Noah's Ark book when I was a kid and would look at it for hours, so I checked out Rain at the library for my own kids. It did not disappoint! Spier's trademark children's books tell stories in pictures only. Rain depicts a day a brother and sister spend in the rain, exploring all the minute details of what happens in a small town on a rainy day. The scene where they come inside to take off their soaking clothes and take a hot bath captures the feeling of that experience perfectly.

15. D.W. The Picky Eater by Marc Brown

Who doesn't like D. W., Arthur the aardvark's spunkily obnoxious little sister? Well, surprise, surprise, D. W. is a picky eater. This one is about the gradual development of her curiosity as the family goes out to eat at interesting places without her. I'll bet you can guess how it ends. While we are blessed to have adventurous eaters in our house, I think this book could go a long way with kids who aren't. Plus it's just a fun read that my kids have requested over and over.

So there you have a few of our/my faves. I hope the list continues to grow! What are some of your best-loved children's books?

The Snack More Processed

While I'm at it, I might as well post this parody of "The Road Less Traveled" by Robert Frost, written amidst one of the many instances where I've thought I'm going to get cancer after making a bad food choice….

The Snack More Processed

Two snacks diverged in a vending machine

And sorry I could not eat them both

And be no fatty, long I leaned

And felt the waistband of my jeans

And considered the apple chips.

Then got the Twinkie, just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it looked sad, like it wanted air;

Though under the plastic packaged glare

They're really about the same.

And both that snack time equally sat

in coils, perched teetering on the brink.

Oh, I saved that first for another snack!

Yet knowing how fat compounds upon fat,

I doubted if I should ever rethink.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

When the cancer has commenced:

Two snacks diverged in a machine, and I--

I chose the one with Yellow 5,

And that damn cake made all the difference.

Playground Confessional

I took the kids to the park yesterday afternoon, despite the gray skies and generally uninviting outlook outside. Sometimes in the afternoons around 4:00, the lag between snack time and Daddy-gets-home time at 5:30 is just too long for this momma, and we have to get out of the house. (Not gonna lie, sometimes we just go for a drive. As I like to say, good for the mental if not for the environmental.) Gabriel, Elliot, Christine, and I showed up at Laguna Park with pretty low expectations, other than filling the hour and a half space with Something To Do. As we neared the playground, I saw we were not alone: a middle aged woman was pushing a broad-faced boy on one of the "big kid" swings. Coming closer, I realized we had met this pair here before, months ago when I was still (very) pregnant with Christine. I have a memory for names, and recalled that the woman's name was Gwen--the caretaker for the boy, Ryan, who is severely retarded. We smiled at each other with the awkward obligatory friendliness of the only two adults at a playground, and I could tell she didn't remember me. Finally after several minutes I re-introduced myself, saying we had met months back. I think it kind of weirded her out that I remembered not only meeting her, but her and Ryan's names, but she rolled with it, and we started talking. She told me a bit about her work with Ryan--the way she shows him "yes" and "no" cards to get him to answer her questions ("yes" with a happy face on it, "no" with a sad face), the fact that he was never expected to walk but has begun to do so since she started working with him three years ago. I watched her spot him as he practiced walking on a half-wall surrounding the picnic tables.

Gwen is not like the people I usually hang out with. She's quite pretty, but she looks like she's been around the block…maybe even "occupied" the block. She has no less than six piercings in each ear, each one droopier than the last and each one holding a dangling turquoise earring. Yesterday she was wearing a fleece with a loud southwestern pattern, accompanied by a neon pink scarf. When she pushes Ryan on the swing, she lets out this guttural, bordering-on-manly grunt--I assume to let him know what a big kid he is that it requires so much of her strength to push him--and when he groans at her (his version of speech), she gives him attitude and says, "Oh, yeah?" like she's about to pick a fight. I'll bet she drives a motorcycle.

It became especially apparent to me that Gwen is not my usual crowd when, about twenty minutes later, a couple of WASP-y young moms showed up with their four Baby Gap-ad little girls and I squinted over at them to see if I knew them. I guess I just assume when I see women who look vaguely like myself (one of them even got out of the exact same car as mine--same make, same year, same color) that there's a decent chance I know them from somewhere. You know, somewhere like my old women's ministry, my playgroup, or the gazillion baby showers I've attended in the last few years. It turns out I didn't know them, but the closer they came, the more they looked like what some corporate marketing genius might mass produce as Stay At Home Mom Barbie. Or, to take a more philosophical turn, they reminded me of an archetype or one of Plato's Forms--a template or idea of what it means to appear like a normal woman who takes care of children in the eastern suburbs of Phoenix in 2012. By this I mean nice dark wash jeans, shiny ballet flats, sleek hair, and (bonus trendy points!) an expensive professional-grade camera carelessly slung over one shoulder. While Gwen and Ryan worked on short-wall ambulation, I listened in on the SAHM Barbies' conversation. And wouldn't you know it? They were talking about several of the charter schools I've looked into putting my son in, a documentary I've watched part of on Netflix, and various kids' issues commonplace in my own life.

Any casual observer drawing social lines would probably group me with the Shiny Flats Ladies. I look like them (more or less--I don't actually own shiny flats and I definitely don't have sleek hair, but we're talking generalities), I speak their language, and my kids are probably much more like theirs than like Ryan--but I feel so much more drawn to someone like Gwen. As I sat there observing these two very divergent versions of Woman, I thought about how I want to be around people who know who they are and don't find particular value in trendiness. Women who are comfortable in their own skin, who don't have to fit a particular image. I know I can't judge those two young moms based on my brief playground surveillance, but they as representatives or archetypes of a particular kind of woman in my generation gave rise to questions in my mind…like what kind of people do I want to make my friends? How do I meet people different from myself on the outside but similar on the inside? What does it mean to be feminine? And am I awfully obnoxiously judgmental for pigeonholing these two unsuspecting moms who are quite likely lovely people?

Long after Gwen had pedaled away with Ryan strapped in a weathered bike trailer, I thought about my time at the park. All in all, it was one of those encounters I think we are all blessed to have from time to time--the kind that leaves you thinking, almost leaves you wondering if those people were even real, or were they strange angels put in your path to give you some message, remind you of some truth…then again, I think southwestern-patterned fleece is out of fashion even in heaven. ;)

Palindromes: A Word-Nerd's Friend

In 2009 comedian Demetri Martin published a very unique poem that circulated around the internet and thoroughly impressed a lot of people. And I must say, I am seriously jealous--not because he wrote a poem or because the poem actually became popular, but because this poem was a 224-word...

palindrome!

See, I kind of have a thing about palindromes. My fifth grade teacher Mrs. Rhymes introduced me to them with "Pam A. sees a map" and I've been hooked ever since. (By the way, isn't it apropos that her name was Mrs. Rhymes? And also by the way, I've never considered this before, but I wonder now if she was related to Busta?) Anyway, whenever I'm driving or waiting at the doctor's office without a good book to read, I try to think of palindromes. Most of them are stupid. Very few of them make sense. But the wonderful thing to remember about language is that every day we say numerous sentences that no one else has ever said or written or heard before. Isn't that great? You're so original! Every single day! So with that in mind, I'd like to think that my little gems are sentences that somewhere, somehow could actually be uttered in real human discourse. Because you never know, maybe someone really needs to ask their cats if their roommate Marc ate all their tacos….right?

So here are a few of my favorites, most of which contain names, for some reason:

1. Crap! Ned got an oil lion at Ogden Parc!

2. Rae's deer tap at Reed's ear.

3. Salad elf fled--alas!

4. Enid did dine.

5. No lava nixes sex in Avalon.

6. So cats, Marc crams tacos?

7. Wow, Olga's aglow--ow!

8. Sad? I'm not a ton, Midas.

9. Have gnus and Edna sung, Eva H.?

10. Llama deified a mall.

Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week. Keew lla ere eb lli. Uoy knaht, Uoy knaht!

Of Carols, Callbacks, and Kids

A couple of weeks ago, I did something rather out of character. A friend from my playgroup had suggested that we get a group together to go see our local theatre's production of A Christmas Carol as a date night with our husbands. I went on the theatre's website to scrounge out ticket prices and other details, and came across a tab that said "Auditions." I clicked on it.

And clicked.

And clicked.

And clicked.

And somehow found myself facing a page that said, "You have reserved an audition slot at 7:10 P.M. Monday, October 17th."

I have to say, I really had no intention of ending up there…not unlike Lucy Pevensie poking around in a coat closet and arriving unexpectedly in glittering white Narnia. As in, how did I get here and where is my familiar lamppost? But once I had reserved an audition, though I waffled a bit the following days, I figured I might as well go ahead with it, for the experience, if nothing else. I grew up around stage productions (my mom having been a high school drama teacher during my childhood) and have had a handful of bit parts in a handful of plays, including bot not limited to: baby spider in Charlotte's Web, Bielke, one of the two younger, insignificant daughters in Fiddler on the Roof (Bielke--how's that for a winner of a name?), and Gracie Shinn in The Music Man. Thank you very much for not telling me you've never heard of any of these. Destined for greatness, I tell you!

At any rate, this Monday night, I arrived, knees knocking, at my first real-deal audition ever. There's a pretty significant difference between playing baby spider when you're six and your mom's the play director and trying out for a large-scale production with the primary purveyor of live theatre in the eastern suburbs of the nation's fifth largest city. With sixteen prepared bars of Till There Was You rolling around in my head, I waited my turn to read for the Ghost of Christmas Past. (Funny, by the way, how many hours of anxiety can be devoted to a process that takes all of three minutes.) When my name was called, I passed through the heavy stage curtains and gave what I thought was actually a decent rendition of Scrooge's first apparition--not too fast, bit of humor thrown in. Buoyed by this confidence, I moved on to the singing portion of the audition, where the music director ended up asking me to sing not only my 16 prepared bars, but the entire song. Wish I had considered this a possibility when I spent the entire drive there trying to get those first two phrases right, chanting "Bells-hill-never-heard-singing…birds-sky-never-saw-winging…" Thankfully, the piano was placed such that I could look over his shoulder and, like the song says, he "never saw me winging" it. I walked to my car feeling pumped. Maybe, just maybe, I might get a callback.

Much to my excitement, I did! Moving right along in the world from Bielke and baby spider, I was called back for…Woman #2! Hey, it must be an important role, since there's a Woman #2 in just about every stage production out there, right? The phone call went something like this:

Girl on the phone: "We'd like to bring you back in for Woman #2 in the [garbled, sounded like "pauper"] scene."

Me: "Woman #2 in the what scene?"

Girl on the phone: "The Auper scene. You know, like, Auper?"

Me: "Yes, of course. Okay, see you then!"

I had no idea what she'd said, but I figured I'd get it straightened out when I arrived on Wednesday night. Because who cares what scene it was? Callback, glorious callback!

Upon arrival at the callback, I saw piles of mini-scripts (which all the cool people were calling "slides"). None of the slides said anything about paupers (or "aupers," for that matter). I was stumped and finally had to ask someone for assistance. Thus was I informed that I was there for the "Topper" scene--Topper apparently being a character who attends Scrooge's nephew's Christmas party. Finally I was invited back with a group of others also being sized up for parts in this scene. It was fascinating, exhilarating to be in an arena performing something other than finger puppet antics and feats of bravery involving poop. It's been so long since I've experienced something so unapologetically competitive--and it felt really, really good. Even though I didn't really know what I was doing, and quite likely looked like a major idiot, and tried to take my cues (literally and figuratively) from the other more experienced performers there, I had a great time…which was the point in the first place.

So now I await the final word, due tomorrow, of whether I am woman enough to be Woman #2. I find myself really wanting to be a part of this play. But as I consider the reality of the commitment--rehearsals several nights a week, seven shows a week in the month of December--I find that Doubt and Guilt are knocking at my door just as surely as Scrooge's ghosts. Doubt says, "Will it really be worth it to miss out on all that time with my kids? Will I be able to care for them properly if I'm committed so many hours a week elsewhere? Won't they miss me if I'm not there to put them to bed every night?" Guilt picks up where Doubt leaves off, telling me I couldn't possibly be a good mother if I leave my kids that much, that I'll have to wean the baby if I'm going to be gone that many hours a week, that I'll ruin Christmas for all of them, all because of my own selfishness. Surely I can't do this play…because (did I forget?)…

I have kids.

And I realize that's the excuse that trumps everything, all the time. It's the sign I might as well have tattooed to my forehead, the limitation I have placed on myself in so many ways since I stopped working four years ago. Over and over: I couldn't possibly do (fill-in-the-blank-thing-I-think-I-want-to-do). I have kids. Like they're some debilitating disease that keeps me home-bound. The truth is, they're not. They're wonderful little people with a wonderful dad who supports me pursuing my passions. So why don't I? I'm starting to think that the "I have kids" line is something a lot of us moms throw at anything that threatens us, anything we're afraid to try. We do kids and kids and kids all day long and we start to be afraid that maybe we won't be good at anything but kids anymore.

But I don't want to be like that, and I'll bet you don't either, mom-friend. I have to believe that by showing my kids that I have passions, it may teach them to have passions, too. If I get out there and use my God-given gifts (not just the baby-rocking and/or Spiderman-web-throwing ones), I have to hope that my children will see that as important, a value we hold in this family.

And frankly, if you can do kids, you can do anything, mamas. Kids are the hard part. Everything else is cake.

So woman #2, it's on. I am ready to step into your uncomfortable Victorian shoes. I think it's worth it and it's gonna be okay. And (have to conclude with this) God bless us, everyone!

Surprise! It's your hero!

I've been a Mac user since 2002 (and like most other dedicated Mac users, yes, I say that with a certain sense of smug superiority) but I'm no big Apple nut. I've never watched a Keynote, don't have the sticker on my car, didn't rush out to replace my iPod Touch when my toddler threw it in the trash, and my main interest in Apple's line of operating systems is when they're going to run out of species of large cats. So aside from Steve Jobs being an obvious cultural icon, you wouldn't think his death would matter much to me. I mean, I'm just this suburban stay-at-home mom, right? What do I care about the passing of some CEO? Some incredibly brilliant, world-changing, paradigm-shifting CEO?

Hmmm….

The weird thing is, I find myself caring deeply. I never followed Jobs' career very closely, his ascent and descent and then mega-skyrocket, and until I googled him tonight, knew next to nothing about his personal life. What I have seen, though, is his tremendous inspirational impact on my husband. For years, Anthony has talked about Jobs' genius for innovation, his simple yet effective approach to design, and a variety of other qualities that have made Apple a totally unique business and brand. And through our discussions about Jobs, I have come to recognize (who wouldn't?) why he has long stood out as a hero for my husband. Because truly, someone like him, someone who SERIOUSLY changes the world, only comes around every great, great once in awhile. Articles online are comparing him to Edison left and right, but in far fewer years than Edison, he revolutionized this world. And I don't even care about the revolution itself so much--in many ways, I'm your quintessential Luddite clinging to my Discman, and I still refuse to type on the wee, beady iPad keys--but I simply have to stand in awe of the power of the individual. Marking Jobs' passing is one of those strange moments when you know you're living out history. I don't know if people during the Renaissance thought, Wow, this is one heck of a renaissance we're experiencing here! but 21st century me knows I am living in a technological revolution, and I know (although I'm sure he worked with a team of great minds) Steve Jobs was largely responsible for that revolution.

I know I'm not saying anything new. I know that a bo-jillion other bloggers out there are eulogizing and weeping and teeth-gnashing over this guy's demise, heaping upon him the same kind of adulations I just have. The difference, to me, is perspective. If even I, Mrs. Joe Schmoe American Housewife, am touched and saddened by this stranger's death, I think he must have been something very special indeed--an unlikely hero for this unlikely fan.

Hostess Schmostess

Now that we've been in our new, mega-mondo house for a few months, we've had the opportunity to host several events, some of them large-scale, some of them small. I've always enjoyed entertaining and have dived into it with even greater effort since the move. I thought I'd share a few things I've learned about host/essing over the years, such as...

1. Being a good hostess is, in part, a lot like being a good waitress. Does anyone need more wine? Have we run out of forks or ice? A well-provisioned guest is a happy guest. This is the behind-the-scenes stuff that people shouldn't even notice. The wine and the forks should just keep appearing, like loaves and fishes out of your proverbial basket. So your job is to a.) be prepared by having more than enough of everything to begin with, b.) notice when a lack appears, and c.) then do something about it.

2. Hosting is an honor, and oddly enough can be a very humbling experience. You'd think that as the person showcasing her fabulous house and entertaining dozens of people with (hopefully) some charm and grace, I'd feel some smug superiority. Yes, you peons, enjoy my abundance for this one evening before you go back to your squalor. For me, it is rather the opposite. I feel so humbled that all these people would even want to come to my house, so blessed that God has gifted us this house and allowed us to be the ones opening it to so many people, so pleased and satisfied to be living the dream of entertaining large groups. As people left an event we recently hosted, they were all saying thank you, almost as though they had inconvenienced us or were indebted to us, and I found myself responding with the phrase "my pleasure." I never use this phrase because it always seems to come off insincere and reminds me of Chick Fil-A, where they make their employees say this instead of "you're welcome" (and I just have a hard time believing it's truly their pleasure to get me more Polynesian sauce). But truly, it is a pleasure to provide the space for people to deepen their relationships with each other and enjoy themselves--for that place to be our home is a remarkable gift.

3. Forgive and forget. People are going to cancel 15 minutes prior to an event you've already paid good money and spent good time preparing for them to attend. They're going to grind Cheetos into your carpet and "forget" to tell you about it. And someday, someone is going to drop a serious deuce in your bathroom during a party. This comes with the territory, so if you're going to continue to host events (and enjoy it) you just gotta deal. Like anything else in life, there are drawbacks. But in my mind, being a gracious hostess is a ministry, a little way of extending an attribute of God to others. God always throws his arms wide, accepts us just as we are, and says, "With me, you are home." I know I want to be treated this way--and I know I would want to be invited back for next year's party even after the dropping of a great and terrible deuce.

4. It's not a party without food--good food. Inviting people to a "party" and providing a $5 Little Caesar's Hot-N-Ready reminds me of the words of the immortal Judge Judy: "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining." If I'm calling it a party, I'm going to spring for at least two Hot-N-Readys. Or maybe a carefully selected menu of tasty goodies.

5. Last but not least, vacuum afterward, not before. No one's looking at your carpet. Unless it's covered with crushed Doritos. Then vacuum before and after, because those can really stick in your toes. Word to the wise.