Gluckenmütter: The Moms behing AP

I first discovered Attachment Parenting when I was 18 years old, no joke. Since I lived with my sister, I was a very hands-on aunt and when my oldest nephew was in 3rd grade, he started having major issues in school (mostly based on the fact that the teacher did not like him). So I turned to the internet for solutions. First I found homeschooling and then, by following links, I found the Natural Child Project and many other attachment parenting websites and began to read tons of articles and lay the groundwork of How I Would Raise My Children.

As everyone who has ever googled attachment parenting knows, it has seven basic principles that you follow (copypasted from the Attachment Parenting International website):


Of course, these things are rather vague. Off-hand, I would say that the vast majority of parents follow these beliefs. Most parents don’t pinch their kids noses and then shove food in their mouths. Most parents don’t put their kids to sleep in a room with hyenas. Most parents aren’t all loving one day and then lock their kids in the closet the next.

But I didn’t think about this. I immediately knew i would practice attachment parenting. I was going to breastfeed, of course (my sister said she would disown me if I didn’t). I would naturally babywear (slings are awesome!), cosleeping made so much more sense than cribs. Of course I would listen to my baby and not train them! Follow your baby’s cues! During the first year of life, babies don’t have wants. They have needs.

The issue, of course, is accurately deciphering what they need. According to attachment parents, babies need to be held. They need to nurse on demand (but when are they demanding to nurse versus something else?). They need, from the American perspective, 100% total dedication from their parents, especially their mother. And sleeping through the night, in case you wondered, is a developmental issue. Babies will eventually sleep through the night when they get to that developmental stage, just like walking. I know of one AP mom who nursed through the night until her ‘baby’ was 5 years old. Your mileage may vary.

Contrast this with my German friends, whose babies all started sleeping through the night at a very young age. None of them cried it out. Instead, they showed their babies how to sleep and how to go to sleep. Some flexibility is naturally necessary. Occasionally when the baby was sick, they would allow the baby into their bed and the baby (of course) slept worse when sick. They weren’t monsters. They didn’t let their baby cry for hours on end in order to “sleep train.” Clearly, American babies just develop differently!

As befits American culture, there is a lot of emphasis in the US on making your baby (and child) happy. “Never fear spoiling a child by making him happy,” one AP mom’s signature chirps. They just want to make their kids happy—and happy is the American Way to Feel. So they breastfeed on demand, because it makes their children happy, even if it makes mom miserable. They go years without a decent night’s sleep because it makes baby happy. They run around after their children at parks because it makes their kids happy.

I went over to visit an AP mom who I had met only once before and as we were getting to know each other, one of her kids brought her a book and she immediately dropped her conversation with me and sat down to read it, leaving my son and me hanging around, ignored and feeling very, very awkward. This same woman also enforced rules such as “ask my children before you play with their toys!” and that sort of thing, all of which made being a guest at her house feel rather uncomfortable, almost as though you ought to apologize for interloping on her children’s territory. I mentioned a video on youtube she might enjoy watching. “Oh, I wouldn’t have the time—anytime I sit down to watch anything on my computer, the kids all clamor to watch something, so they end up watching something instead.” I guess telling them to wait would have been out of the question.

In so many ways, these women forget the last side note of attachment parenting, the whole issue of balance. Their lives simply have none. They might mention “oh yes, it’s so important to be balanced! Don’t forget to get enough sleep, too! Don’t forget to get time to yourself!” But of course if you’re following all the principles of AP, getting any of that is absolutely impossible. It’s just not in the cards. Add to that the fact that a lot of AP mothers live far away from their families and the father’s work long hours or are otherwise disinterested in their children and attachment parenting is attachment mothering: all mom, all the time.You can forget about balance.

“What’s best for the child isn’t always what’s best for the mom,” another AP mom chirps. Replace ‘child’ with husband and you have an abusive relationship, I think. Nevermind the fact that the quote is absolutely wrong. What’s best for the mom IS best for the child. They live in a harmonious relationship where they both move together to satisfy each other’s needs, not actively work counter to them.

And what happens if you actually take steps to achieve balance? I know a few AP moms who have decided to go back to work, after concluding that staying at home was not for them. One had a fellow AP mom babysit her son and after monumental struggle with the breastpump, ended up switching to formula. They co-slept for the longest time, as well, with her husband sleeping on the couch.

“It’s so sad,” the AP mom who babysat their son commented. “He is so obviously an unwanted child.” She went on to talk about how he obviously had an attachment disorder from having (in her opinion) failed to adequately bond with any of his caregivers. “Why does his mom always talk about being an attachment parent when she is so obviously NOT one?” she continued. “She doesn’t stay home. She didn’t breastfeed. She didn’t wear him in a sling.” I should have pointed out how she did all of those things, for a period of time. Instead I muttered something about how the best laid plains often go awry, but inside I was horrified. How can you say something like that about another mother, especially a friend?

In the final analysis, attachment parenting isn’t about forming a strong attachment with one’s child, whatever that means. Attachment isn’t something that can be measured and charted like height and weight. It can’t be objectively gauged. Sometimes the worst mothers are the one’s that seem most engaged, most enthralled by their children outside the home, but no one can ever see what goes on behind closed doors. More often than not, attachment parenting is about competing with other women. Bringing Up Bébé mentions how, among Anglophones, how long you breastfeed is how you can compare the size of your mothering wangs. The author recounts how she breastfed for a year, to the day, just to stick it to a woman in her playgroup. It’s the same among attachment parents. I breastfed slightly over 2 years. But of course I will never win against those attachment parents who have breastfed 3. Nor against those who tandem breastfed. Nor against those who have been breastfeeding continuously for 5 years since they keep getting pregnant before they wean and nurse through the pregnancy.

The best mother in attachment circles is the one who consistently sacrifices herself for the supposed benefit of her children. The greater the cost, the higher devotion and there is no cross too heavy to bear.

(as an aside, the term Gluckenmutter comes from the image of a hen (Glucke) covered and surrounded by her chicks. It was coined by the Brothers Grim as “a mother with a ton of children constantly running around her.”)


My Protegé

It’s always nice to have those moments as a mother where you realize that you’re having an effect on your son. Yesterday was one of those moments.

We came home from a friend’s house and Alpha saw the kitchen light was on. Irate, he shouted, “Mach das Licht aus!” and turned it off. Then he headed to the bathroom, saw the light on in there too and yelled again “Mach das Licht aus! Die Sonne scheint, da brauchen wir keine Lichter anzumachen!” [turn off the light. The sun is up, so we don’t need to turn on the lights].

Clearly, my campaign to keep the lights off during the day is having an effect. Alpha likes to turn the lights on and off, so whenever he would want to mess with the lights, I would say “No, we don’t need to turn the lights on because the sun is shining.” Sometimes I even add a bit about saving electricity, but he doesn’t really understand electricity yet, but the sun rising is a pretty solid concept for him right now.

It’s really hilarious to hear the things he says these days. He really likes to play ghosts right now and runs around with a red blanket over his head going “woooooooooooo…woooooooooooo.” One night, after bathing, he threw it on his head and said “wooooooo…ein nackig Gespenst!” (A naked ghost!) Playing ghosts is so popular these days that Beta as started walking around waving her arms around and going “woooooooooo” at which point Alpha observes, “Beta ist ein Gespenst.” Last night the red blanket was hanging outside on the wash line when Alpha wanted to play ghosts and I apologized. “Wir können keine Gespenster spielen, weil die Decke draussen ist.” Alpha was undeterred. “Gehen wir raus, Decke holen! Ich ziehe die Stiefel an” [“We can’t play ghosts because the blanket is outside” “Let’s go outside, get the blanket. I’ll put on my boots”) I quickly found a problem. “Aber draussen ist es dunkel. Wir können nicht sehen.” He quickly found a solution “Wo ist die Laterne?” “Keine Ahnung.” “Papas Licht? Wo ist Papas Licht?” [“It’s dark outside. We can’t see” “WHere’s the lantern?” “No idea.” “Daddy’s light? Where’s Daddy’s light?”] My husband has a neat light he bought to jog in the dark, which fits on his head and Alpha loves wearing it on his head. But alas, Mom was feeling very inflexible that evening and I promised that we could get the blanket in the morning.

And indeed, the next morning, the very first words out of his mouth were “Nach draussen gehen! Rote Decke holen!” [go outside, get the red blanket] and out we went. It stinks when kids start remembering things.

Blackie’s Demise

Spring is a dangerous time for chickens. Predators awaken from their winter sleep. Many have litters of hungry kits to feed. Where do they go to get their fill? My house, apparently!

We lost 9 hens to a fox in one day. It wasn’t readily apparent what was causing their demise. We initially thought it was a hawk.

I went grocery shopping with the kids that morning and when we returned, my husband came outside to help unload the groceries from the car. “Where’d that come from?” he asked, nodding at a pile of feathers on the driveway. “Was that there when you left?” “No…” we looked around but saw no chickens. He went around the back of the house and found a few more piles. Then he saw a few chickens in the woods, all spread out. George the Rooster was out, there as well, clucking around and DH looked up to see one of our Hamburg chickens way up high in a pine tree; another of our chickens was far back in the woods, but he didn’t go and get them since he figured they would find their way back since George was calling for them.

He went and counted the remaining chickens and only got to 19: 16 hens and 3 roosters. In shock, I immediately said I would go into the woods with the kids and walk around to see if I could find anymore. Off we went and the results were not good: several more piles of feathers, but no chickens.

“I think it’s a hawk,” I told my husband when I returned. His face set with determination and immediately set out to pen the rest of the chickens and pull their pasture pen up to their winter coop to temporarily protect them until our lightweight summer coop is finished. He added netting to the top of it to keep any hawks out. The chickens slowly came to roost and we stayed outside waiting for our dominant rooster, Blackie, and dominant hen to come in. They were walking through the trees to the side of our house, showing now hurry to go into the coop. “I’ll go get those two morons and put them in the coop,” DH decided and walked over to them. As soon as he got to them, Blackie put up a bit of a fuss and DH yelled out “She’s bleeding! The hen is badly wounded.” He managed to pick her up, while fighting off Blackie and brought her over to me. It’s the strangest thing to look at a living creature and see…chicken. As in, edible chicken meat. It was a pretty big gash and she was quite bloody, but we were pleased to see that at least one of our roosters was doing his job and protected one of our hens from her attacker. We put her into our hospital coop, otherwise known as our upstairs bathroom, to give her some time to heal.

The next morning, we kept our chickens in the pen and DH went to work and I set about life as usual. cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast and I looked out the window and saw a fox run right up to the pen. A gasp escaped my throat and I yelled to Alpha, “A FOX! A fox was eating our chickens.” The fox heard this and immediately turned tail. Alpha ran to the chair and he and his friend both looked out to see it disappear.

Alpha then ran into the living room and grabbed the Schleich animal figurines DH bought him for Christmas. In short order, a model fox was attacking a small group of chicks. I grabbed the rooster and said, “here, have the rooster do his job and protect the chickens. He needs to chase the fox away!”

Unfortunately, the fox attacks caused some pretty severe stress on our flock. They say a good ratio of roosters to hens is somewhere between 9 to 15 hens per rooster. Our ratio was pretty decent before the fox attack (26 hens to 3 roosters), but after the attacks it was rotten. Adding to our problems was the fact it was spring and Rupert (second in command) was constantly challenging Blackie for the top spot. Thus far, Black had managed to fend off the attacks and maintain supremacy. This all changed for the worse after the fox attacks.

To put it bluntly, Blackie lost his campaign for re-election as top rooster. Both Rupert and George ganged up on him. His beautiful plummage feathers (he is the black rooster in the picture at the top of the blog) were basically torn out and you could see his butt. The other roosters would no longer let him into the coop at night and we constantly hear squawking and fighting whenever he tried to come in, at least until it was properly dark. As befitting a dethroned rooster, he ceased doing his romancing dance to court hens and went the George route: chasing them down and raping them. Usually he never even made it to the hen but would be chased off by George.

We knew we were going to have to slaughter some more roosters eventually. Blackie, being the aggressive dominate rooster was number one on our list and George was number 2. The constant fighting solidified our decision and until the weekend came, we decided to just separate out the roosters. As a lark, I put Rupert and George in the pasture pens from last year. Interestingly enough, Blackie became absolutely obsessed with the run George was in and kept trying to attack George from the outside. He showed no interest in Rupert’s run, just George’s.

The day before we slaughtered him, we kept him in a pen by himself and brought him inside while the kids were taking a bath so they would be out of the way. We have a homemade killing cone in the basement from when we dispatched our two bastard Fayoumi roosters and I stayed upstairs awaiting the agitated thrashing from the rooster being slaughtered, which I remembered from the Fayoumis. But there was no noise. As soon as we turned him upside down, complete silence. I yelled down into the basement, “Are you killing him yet?” “Yes, but it’s like he’s asleep, no noise, nothing, he’s just laying there.” Silently, he bled out and DH removed his head.

After a few hours spent with my hand up his butt trying to scrape out the last bit of lung, Blackie ended up in the crockpot and then in the freezer, where he remains today. My husband can’t wait to eat it and as far as I’m concerned, he can have all of him.

For me, Blackie is the first meaningful chicken we’ve killed. He was the first rooster to wake us up crowing a few weeks after we got him. He was the boss from early own, the acknowledged head of our original five chickens. I never felt worse than I did slaughtering him after he was so horribly disposed before his death.

But things are more peaceful with the flock now. George is going to be the next to go and we’re debating getting rid of Rupert as he is being a complete dick and keeps trying to attack everyone from inside the chicken run. He tried to get Beta once as she walked by it and she gave him a look that very clearly asked, “WTF is your problem?” But I would like to keep at least one rooster. I love seeing them do their mating dance for the hens and making their boc-boc-boc sounds to tell them they’ve found something good for them to eat. Rupert always makes sure to pick off bits of food to share with his hens, especially with his favorite, the Cochin.

Lastly, our formerly dominant hen made a full recovery and is back with the flock. Aside from losing her top spot in the pecking order, she is completely reintegrated into the flock.

Gluckenmutter vs Rabenmutter

I’ve been thinking about parenting a lot.

When I went to Germany with my son when he was 9 months old, I knew I was going to get a lot of comments about my parenting since even in the US I’m at the extreme end of mainstream parenting and considered myself to be an “Attachment Parent,” which meant we co-sleep, babywear breastfeed on demand, clothdiaper, don’t ‘sleep train’ or anything else and try to follow the baby’s cues.

Immediately, my host family wondered at me. I would follow Alpha around to supervise him, though at their house this made since: it was full of breakables and they had an unfenced pool in the backyard he was highly attracted to.  “Doesn’t he play by himself?” they would ask. I would spend a looooong time putting him to sleep for both naps and night-time. “You know what Franca and Bernd do?” My host sister asked me. “They just put him in his crib with some toys at night and he plays til he falls asleep.” I felt pity for their son, who was so unfortunate to not have attachment parents like mine. And when Alpha would wake up, I would immediately rush up there to get him down. “Don’t you let him wait a while first?” they asked me, each time.

Then there are the clothes, which are best summed up thusly:

Alpha is on the right, German child is on the left

As you can see, Germans have a tendency to dress their children a little more…heavily than Americans. “Where is his hat?” they wanted to know.

Ah, culture, you sly dog, you, butting your head into areas of my life I never even predicted! I viewed things solely as an attachment parenting vs. ‘mainstream’ issue, but the problem is a bit more complicated than that. Attachment parenting is based on Attachment Theory, developed by a British psychologist. The “strange situation” experiment was used as a way to discover what kind of attachment a child had with its mother, with ‘secure’ being considered the best. Attachment Parenting is advertised as a way to ensure your child develops a ‘secure’ attachment and was popularized largely by an American doctor, Dr. Sears, and widely misinterpreted by its American audience.

The ideas, on the surface, don’t sound too unreasonable. You follow your baby’s cues, babywear, breastfeed, co-sleep, don’t put your baby on a schedule and that sort of thing. But left in the hands of Americans, it’s become a great way to make the baby the center of family life. For example, if your baby cries, Dr Sears would say to first figure out what cry it is. Is the baby tired? Need a diaper change? Hungry? Or just need to be soothed? Then respond appropriately. In my hands, this became RESPOND IMMEDIATELY, first with the boob.

This results primarily in babies who don’t sleep. My oldest was particularly bad. From 10 months to about a year, he only slept for 45 minutes at a time and I thought I was riding the crazy train off a cliff. I resented him for disturbing my sleep, but I couldn’t force myself to actually make any changes. Well, actually we tried, but he started throwing more fits during the day so we figured it wasn’t working, stopped trying to nightwean him and waited until he was 15 months old. It took 1 week of me sleeping on the couch and listening to him scream with DH for two hours in the bedroom to get him to go first two hours in the night (!) without nursing. Once he could do that, we extended the period another hour. Then another hour. The second week, I went back into the bedroom, which meant he would calm down sooner since he had already accepted that I would not nurse him. At the end of that period, he went from waking every 45 minutes to going from 11pm to 4 am sleeping. He would still wake up and nurse before and after that period.

I wonder now, looking back, how things would have been different if we had taught him different sleeping habits in the beginning because, really, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? A newborn doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do to fall back to sleep when it wakes up. It learns that based on how you respond. Wouldn’t it have been better to show him these methods from a young age—say, a month old or so—instead of actively resenting him for months, being about as functional as a zombie, and then forcing him to give it up via screaming for hours on end, even if my husband was with him?

I just got the book Bringing Up Bebe and it discusses how the French get their babies to sleep from an early age and no, it’s not crying it out. The French are decidedly against crying it out and think it’s horrible. But what they do do is wait. When their baby wakes up, first they wait. They listen to their baby’s cry because they know that sleep cycles are very short and young babies have issues cycling between them, so they might still be asleep but fuss in their sleep, move around, maybe even open their eyes. But they’re not yet fully awake! Rushing in to rescue them when they don’t need rescuing just wakes them up and if that continues long enough, they learn they need you to fall asleep.

Instead, the French give their babies time to settle themselves. If they keep crying, it’s probably something else, like hunger or a wet diaper. But first you listen and wait.

They also talk about how they view their babies as rational beings, who need sleep and understand that their parents need sleep as well. They just need to be shown how to sleep and their natural rhythm of sleeping at night and settling themselves needs to be encouraged. Instead of viewing it as a war as American parents might (babies don’t sleep, parents want sleep…parents have to give in in the beginning, but will eventually conquer all!), they see it as something parents show their babies. It’s encouragement and follow through with plenty of encouragement to listen to your heart. No earplugs are recommended unless you have a really bad sleeper and the baby is much, much older.

I wonder now if this is what my host family was wondering about when they asked me if I never let Alpha just cry for a little while when he wakes up. I sure ought to have and now I wish I had done that with Beta because she, too, is not sleeping well. She’s sleeping better than Alpha, but she wakes up about 5 times a night right now. Germans and Finns would be astounded at that, but I’m surprisingly functional. I am definitely planning on nightweaning her soon. I know she’s old enough. I know she understands me when I tell her things. If I tell her “dreh dich um!” she will turn herself around in a circle. If I tell her to give me a hug, she does so. It logically follows that she can understand me when I tell her that now is not time to nurse, but time to sleep. And if she wants to cuddle with me or daddy, that is perfectly fine. And she is perfectly alright to be upset because it is a change and changes are upsetting. But mommy’s all-night cafe is closed.

I thought about starting this tonight, but I already feel bad for leaving her alone with a babysitter so my husband and I could go out on a date. So maybe I’ll start it tomorrow night.

I wonder really what it must be like to parent in a country where the main emotion felt by parents is joy instead of guilt.

Palomies Sami

We had an interesting incident the other night, but first a bit of background.

In the last care package from Finland, my mother-in-law included some dvds, among which was one called “Palomies Sami,” or Fireman Sam (I guess…it’s a translation of a British show and I don’t know what it’s supposed to be called.). One day when Alpha wanted to watch a show I suggested it to him and asked him, “Wie wär’s mit Palomies Sami? Wollen wir Palomies Sami gucken?”  He agreed and watched a few episodes.

I never referred to the show as anything but Palomies Sami.

My husband found the DVD upstairs in his computer at night when Alpha usually watches Sandmännchen before going to bed and decided to play it instead, reasoning that Alpha got enough German during the day anyway. The next night, as I was putting Beta to sleep, I heard the following argument on the stairs:

DH: (in Finnish) time to watch Palomies Sami!

Alpha: Ja! Feuerwehrmann Sam gucken!

DH: (in Finnish) No, it’s Palomies Sami.

Alpha: Feuerwehrmann Sam!

DH: Palomies Sami.

Alpha: Feuerwehrmann Sam!

Afterwards, DH commented how insistent Alpha was that it was Feuerwehrmann Sam and not Palomies Sami.

“It is really strange,” I agreed, “especially since I never called it Feuerwehrmann Sam. He did that all on his own.”

“Really? I thought you must have translated it.”

“No, I never did.”

The good thing is that he’s getting it. Unfortunately, German has such a hold on Alpha’s brain that Finnish isn’t getting the time of day…even things that we’ve only introduced in Finnish. But it’s so amazing how he’s figured this out, all on his own. I never would have thought it.

He also has these cookies he really likes to eat, that he first had at Finnish school. In Finnish they’re called “Lussika leipä” (spelling may not be correct). I think they’re called ladyfingers in English, but the brand is Milano and I have no idea what they’re called in German, but the Finnish name means “Spoon bread.” He came in from Finnish school after having them the first time repeating “lussika leipä” over and over again, but I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about until DH explained it to me. “Ooooh,” I said to Alpha, “hast du einen leckeren Keks gegessen?” (Oh, did you eat a yummy cookie?) letting him know that it was a cookie in German. Since I’m not sure what the accurate name is in German, I just call them lussika Keks to distinguish them from all the other cookies in the world.

We were at BJs the other day and passed by his favorite cookies. I pointed at them and asked him what they were and he said “lussika Brot–” then stopped quickly and corrected himself. “Lussika Keks!”

It’s really amazing. He’s getting it. His brain is figuring out. The wheels are definitely turning.


My husband was watching Sandmann with Alpha one evening when he suddenly exclaimed, “What the hell is wrong with Germans? There’s a doll, smoking!” I looked over at the computer monitor, “What? No, that’s not a smoking  doll!” I felt dismayed by his reaction. “It’s a Rauchermännlein. It’s a Christmas decoration, you put potporri in it and the smoke comes out the mouth.

“Oh.” DH was placated. “For a moment there, I thought Germans were seriously nuts.”


I’ve been feeling very at odds with American culture lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent too long of a time in this country with no break, no different perspective to keep things fresh, but many days it’s all I can do to keep myself from booking three tickets to Europe for an indefinite stay.

I’m so tired of the American way of raising kids, which is hyperintense. The general idea around here is that the more you do the better! Every minute counts! If you yell at your kid for something you might not just make him cry then, you could be ruining his chances at a spot in a top university. It all makes a difference.

It’s slowly driving me nuts. Kids aren’t allowed out anywhere. We have two neighbor kids that I really like and the boy is only a few years older than Alpha and having them all play together would be really ideal. But I hardly see them. They rarely just pop over, even though I wouldn’t mind at all. I find myself wondering if they’re even allowed to come through the woods to visit us.

I miss so much seeing kids out by themselves, having a good time. How common it was to see Finnish kids out in the town, riding their bikes, playing at the park or just going shopping. Even riding the train from Helsinki to Turku on a Friday night.

I miss seeing 6 year-olds riding the subway alone in Berlin without anyone wondering about it. I miss my host family wondering at my parenting, which I admit was extremely intense with Alpha, but is much more relaxed with Beta. I was so judgmental then, too, thinking how sad it was they didn’t know how to parent better–and how my ‘attachment parenting’ was so much better than the parenting my host parents had practiced or my German friends are practicing. Ugh, arrogance!

Now I absolutely want to move there. I dread the thought of my kids growing up in a country where they can’t play with other kids unless it’s a pre-arranged playdate. Where diets of children must be strictly controlled because there are just too many sweet things in society today.

I read Alpha Conni Feiert Weihnachten (Conni Celebrates Christmas) around Christmastime. When we got to the part where she went to the Weihnachtsmarkt, I was astounded at how intensely the memories and smells came back to me. It’s been nearly 10 years since I’ve been to a Weihnachtsmarkt, but I can still smell the gebrannte Mandeln and Schmalzkuchen. I miss gathering around the tall tables, drinking Glühwein. And I need a new Pyramide. My small one was already a bit bent, but Alpha tried to adjust it once and accidentally ripped one of the figurines clear off.

In so many ways, I think another year abroad could do me, the children, and my husband some good (provided he had a job there, of course). We would all strengthen our linguistic skills and get new experiences. Or maybe it’s just me, tired of my usual surroundings and tired of the same old people who are tired of me.

Maybe I just need copious amounts of Glühwein and a smoking doll to set me right.