No Pictures, Please

Saturday night, Moo ate the best dinner she’d eaten in maybe months.  Tons of quiche, watermelon, even broccoli! and some ice cream.  Then, at midnight, she awoke with coughing and screaming for us.  I opened the door, wondering what that smell was, and quickly figured out that she’d thrown up her entire dinner.

Now she’ll NEVER eat broccoli again!

As Herbie cuddled with her on the couch, rubbing her back and wiping her clean following the aftershocks, I attacked her bedroom.  As I scrubbed the carpet, I thought, “Ah, this is parenthood – the part nobody takes pictures of.”

She got back to bed a few hours later, and the next day was sick-free, so on Monday I let her have milk and all her favorites (blackberries, cheese).  We had two mighty battles over lunch and dinner, with Moo insisting that she was done after two bites, and me lecturing her over the importance of eating so that the nutrients in the food can boost her immunity and make her stronger.  Moo:  “??????”  At one point, I asked if her tummy felt okay, and she gave me a calculating glance, then grabbed her stomach and proclaimed, “OWWWW!”  Uh-huh.

After dinner, we played, had a bath, and she chased Caa around the house until the crazy parrot figured out that he had her pacifier stuck on his wing (a nightly ritual with Herbie).  She fell asleep without a peep, and at exactly midnight:  BLECH.

I spent the next hour crying because I’d forced my sick daughter into eating, and also she clearly had a terrible and very rare digestive disease.  Herbie realized I needed to stop punishing myself with sick clean-up and handed over our whimpery girl, who cuddled with me for the next couple hours.  The nurse on-call assured me that this was all very normal, yawning and saying, “Call back if she suddenly develops a high fever or rash or whatever…”  Grr.  Please do not “whatever” my child, thank you very much.

Yesterday was all about Rice Krispies (no milk, of course) and apple juice, and we had a peaceful night.  Tonight at midnight will be the real test, of course.  Herbie and I are planning a vigil around the monitor.  In the meantime, I’m keeping my lectures to myself, and currently allowing Moo to watch her fourth Caillou of the morning.  Ah, guilt.

So Now What?

Moo is still sleeping.  The house is cleanish.  I’ve watered the plants and fed the bird, checked all the celebrity gossip sites and even caught up on the news (yikes).

Also, I went to three auditions, performed in two shows, and turned 35.

 My quest is officially over.  So now what?

People keep asking me, “What’s next?”  And I keep asking myself the same thing.  I know that I want to take a break over the summer.  I know that this is an ideal time in our lives (economy notwithstanding) to try and add to our family.*  I also know that I don’t want to stop.  I obsessively check all the audition updates, and the local theaters’ web sites to see if they’ve posted their 2009-2010 seasons yet.

I dream of Sweet Charity, City of Angels, Oklahoma… and I dream about baby names.

I thought I would get to the end of my so-called quest with some kind of huge revelation:  A-HA!  You suck!  Give it up, get over it, and throw yourself into mommyhood!  Or A-HA!  You do not suck!  Directors are beating down your door and now you’re a professional actress!

I mean, I didn’t really think either of those exact situations would occur, but I did think that I would find – clarity.

Maybe I should review the questions I posed to myself at the beginning of this adventure.  After 14 years of letting fear get the best of me, I wanted to know the answers to these questions:

Do I have what it takes?

 - Well, that’s kind of a lame question, Mama.  Do I have what it takes to get cast in two community theatre shows?  Yes, apparently I do.  Do I have what it takes to get cast in a professional theatre?  Dunno.  Doubtful.  Definitely need some singing lessons.
 
Do I have the guts to try?

- Just barely.  Three auditions = three imaginary stomach flus, three nervous breakdowns, three episodes of extreme rudeness to husband.  But I did it.  And I learned that unlike when I was younger and believed that for success to count, I had to DO IT ON MY OWN, it’s okay to accept the support and encouragement of your friends, family, and kind blog-readers.  So from the bottom of my heart, thanks for the kick in the ass.

Is this still my dream, or is it time to let it go?

Definitively, it is not time to let go of my old childhood dream.  I love theatre as much as I always have, and maybe even more.  Even more, because this time around I’ve introduced Moo to theatre, and together we’ve become intoxicated by the joy of running around in circles, singing showtunes, waving your arms in the air, and (especially) wearing sparkly costumes.  Herbie, too.  Well, except for the sparkly costumes.  I’m proud that I’ve ushered Moo into this joyful world, thrilled that she loves it so much, and so happy that I will never have to hang my head when Moo asks me why I studied theatre but never performed, because I did find courage, I did perform, and I did get to see her clapping for me in the audience.  Maybe one day I’ll be clapping for her.

But as for what comes next?  …..?????……

I have always longed for clarity.  I remember once, many years ago, I was starting a new job as a waitress at Houston’s and I was scared to death, intimidated by the wall of liquor bottles, the towering plates I had to carry, the potential sneers from angry customers.  I sat on my bed working myself into a nervous frenzy and finally decided to lay down and try to rest before my shift began.  I had just moved to LA from New York, fleeing my floundering dreams and a bad relationship, and I was always on the edge of a panic attack.  As I lay back on the pillows, I repeated over and over, “I just want to be happy.  I just want to be happy.”

I had a dream that I was sitting at a computer, writing.  I paused to look over my shoulder and saw the man I loved with all my heart still sleeping in the bedroom.  Then I looked out the window and thought about the dance class I’d be taking later that afternoon.  Then I went back to typing.  I was perfectly happy.

I held onto that dream for a very long time, trying to find the right combination to unlock that fleeting vision of pure happiness.  I tried different jobs, different men, different colleges, different wardrobes, diets, outlooks.  I finally found the right man.  And it was only recently that I realized that no where in that vision of so-called happiness was there a little Moo.

 Maybe clarity only comes in timely little bursts, a peek through the window, not as a sustained state of mind.   And when I pause now to gaze out the window in the midst of my typing  – the child I love with all my heart sleeping down the hall, the man I love with all my heart puttering about the house – I realize that I am full, I am hopeful, and I am happy.

And I’ll just wait and see what comes next.

 

 

*Henceforth, if anyone asks me (ahem*family*ahem) about this particular issue, I will pretend that you have asked me about the weather and will answer thusly.  It IS getting hot, isn’t it!

Bon Appetit!

When I got out of the shower yesterday morning, Moo had a lovely breakfast waiting for me in the playroom:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hamburger, orange, pear, fried egg, and an onion, of course.  So delicious!  Although I admit I’m slightly jealous of Moo’s cupcake breakfast, on the other side of the table.

Mama vs. The Mommies, Pt. 2

A couple Wednesdays ago, when Irwin and Clara were still in town, we all went to the Children’s Museum.  Clara had gone the last time she visited and wanted to introduce Irwin to the wonder of the Noodle Forest, and we’re members so Moo’s always happy to make the trip.

But we picked a day when the museum was overrun with screaming children.  I counted six school buses in the parking lot, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the museum was being greedy (not to mention unfair to their non-school-age visitors) by allowing so many school groups at once.  We could hardly move without being knocked over, which was annoying enough, and then we got trapped in the creaky old elevator, whose doors closed on Moo’s stroller as we tried to escape.

By the time we attempted to have our picnic lunch in the middle of a swarm of matching-shirted kindergarteners, I was not in the best of moods.  After lunch, we went back inside for some more playtime.  Luckily, most of the school kids had cleared out.  Moo had already been run down a few times, and I was happy we could move without fear now.  We explored the art room (art room robots!!) and then the kids wanted to go back upstairs.  So we walked out the (very large) doorway, and right at the threshold, Moo was mowed down – but not by a child, by a mother.

Moo managed to catch her balance and didn’t fall down completely, and the mother who knocked into her just swept right by without a backwards glance.

“Small child!”  I said to her back.  I said it louder than I intended, but whatever.  She’d just made my daughter the unwilling pin in her big-ass bowling game.

Moo was whimpering, so I picked her up and my mom and I started walking down the hall, when I heard a loud, “EXCUSE ME.”

I turned around and saw the woman who’d mowed down Moo stalking up to me.

“I HEARD what you said!  And I did say sorry to your kid!” she shouted at me, standing two inches away.

“Well, I didn’t hear you say that,” I stammered.  She wasn’t done.

“I have a small child myself!” she yelled, sticking her finger in my face.  (Remember, I am holding Moo this whole time.)  “I wouldn’t knock over a kid without saying sorry,” (Because saying sorry makes it okay?) “And I don’t know what kind of mother YOU ARE-”

“If you have a small child of your own, then you know what it’s like to feel very protective!” I interrupted.

“Yes I DO, and-”

“THEN WE’RE DONE!” I shouted back, stepping back and putting some space between us, because the more she yelled, the more I wanted to punch her in the face, and the more I had to struggle to remind myself that I was holding Moo and should NOT punch her in the face, and then had to struggle even MORE to remember that this was a big, big woman who could definitely kick my ass.  Also, I have never punched anybody in the face.  Always wanted to, though…

I turned my back on her and my mom and I started to escape down the hallway.  But she had one more thing to say.

“YOU’RE A TERRIBLE EXAMPLE TO YOUR DAUGHTER!” she screamed at my back.

I whirled, mouth agape, as she retreated into the art room.  I felt like she’d slapped me, and couldn’t find words to scream back at her.  So my mom did.

“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO’S A TERRIBLE EXAMPLE!” she shouted.

If you knew my mom, you’d know that this was a big deal.  She just might hate confrontation even more than I do. 

So, thanks to my mom, we had the last word.  But that didn’t stop me from bursting into tears in the stairwell (because they’d finally officially decided the elevator was broken).

My mom hugged me tightly, with poor Moo squished between us, looking terribly confused.

“Don’t you let that stupid woman make you feel this way,” she said, with just the same kind of fierce devotion I feel for my own daughter.

 So – maybe I don’t need to be best friends with all the other mothers in the world when I’ve got such a wonderful one of my very own so ready and willing to hug me and tell me I’m a good parent. 

However, I would like to be able to keep from punching all the other ones in the face.

Conversation of the Week

Scene:  Mama and Moo, eating lunch.  Or rather, Mama eating her lunch, and Moo ignoring her lunch and sticking her finger in her eye.

Mama:  Moo, please don’t stick your finger in your eye.

Moo:  I AM sticking my finger in my eye.

Mama:  And I am saying do NOT stick your finger in your eye.

So she doesn’t.

And then she does.

Mama:  Moo, DO NOT stick your finger in your eye.   That is NOT safe, it’s not good for your eye.  It HURTS your eye.  I don’t ever stick my finger in my… oh.

(That’s when I realized that I do, technically, stick my finger in my eye, at least probably in Moo’s opinion.  Stray eyelash, smudged eyeliner = insert finger into eye.)

Moo:  You DO, Mommy.  You DO stick your finger in your eye!

Mama:  You’re right, Moo – sometimes I do stick my finger in my eye. 

Moo:  Poor mommy!  You should NOT stick your finger in your eye, Mommy.

….Right.  Thanks, Moo.

Mama vs. The Mommies, Part 1

I’ve been stewing about this for a whole week, and I think I’m finally ready to rant.

Suddenly, I seem to be at war with the mothers of the world.  I used to feel like we were all in the same club, sending each other knowing smiles at the park, admiring each other’s babies in the grocery store.  But ever since Moo hit toddler age, I find myself sneering more than smiling.

It really started last Monday at the railroad park.  Before the train ride, we stopped for a bit at the playground.  Moo settled down in the sand and I pulled out two buckets, two shovels, and three snakes.  By this point, I’ve learned that inevitably, some child is going to approach and steal away Moo’s sand toys, so I might as well bring just enough to share, but not so much that we attract too much attention.

In a couple minutes a boy just slightly older than Moo toddled up.  He had spied the brightly colored snakes and promptly clutched one in each hand, turned, and began to make his escape.

“Oh, whoops!” I called after him.  “Can you bring those snakes back here?”

He turned and scowled at me.

“You can play with them,” I said.  “I just don’t want to lose them, so they need to stay here by us.”

He reluctantly returned and sat down with the snakes.  I looked around for his mom, since this is usually their cue to come up and ask if it’s okay, and make sure he’s sharing.  And then I say sure, no problem, she keeps an eye on the situation, and all is well.

Except nobody approached.

So I introduced Moo and myself and asked him his name.  He looked at me doubtfully, stood up, and started to take off with the snakes again.

“Can you bring those back, please?” I asked, chasing after him.  “The snakes need to stay here with Moo so we don’t lose them.”

I enticed him back to our general area by telling him the snakes’ names, what they like to eat, and initiating a game of bury-the-snake-in-the-sand.  I played with this nameless, seemingly parentless child for about 15 minutes, entertaining him to the best of my ability, while Moo sat playing by herself.  Every once in a while, I’d scan the playground to see if I could catch sight of a mother chasing after an older sibling, or (more likely) sitting on a bench talking on her cell phone.  I mean, I’d been entertaining her child going on 20 minutes.  Would you go that long without so much as checking in with your not-even-3-year-old?  No, you would not.  But what if you saw that some other nice mommy was doing your job for you, would you then be perfectly happy to be a lazy DUMBASS?  No, you would not.

Anyway, a few minutes later, nameless kid got bored with my games, grabbed the snakes, and took off again, moving at a quicker pace.

If it wasn’t such a crowded playground, I would have just let him run off and retrieved the snakes later, but there were kids running all over the place, and also, WHERE IS YOUR MOTHER?

So my mom, who was playing with Moo’s cousins nearby, sat down with Moo while I chased after the little boy.  Other moms saw my predicament and tut-tutted.  I asked a couple of them if they’d seen his mother.  They said no.  I’d had enough of parenting someone else’s child, so I asked the little boy for the snakes back.  Of course, he started crying.

“Is this anyone’s child?!”  I yelled to the general playground population.

And then out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman emerge from the bench-dwellers and start walking over to us.

“Is this your child?” I demanded.

“Yes, sorrrry,” she purred.  “Joey, you have to share!”

Joey cried harder.

Of course you know what she looked like.  It’s mean but it’s true – the mothers ignoring their kids at the playground are always the ones with fake boobs and impossibly smooth foreheads, and they are ALWAYS wearing high heels and inappropriate tank tops.

I seethed.

“I don’t mind if he plays with the snakes,” I said.  “I just don’t want to lose them!”

“Give back the snakes,” she said to her son, ignoring me.

“And I’ve been playing with your child for the last 20 minutes, while I would really like to be, you know, playing with my OWN CHILD,” I said, hoping for, I don’t know, SOME kind of recognition that she had been a fake-boobed idiot.

Instead she yanked the snakes out of Joey’s hands and gave them to me without looking at me.  I turned on my (tennis-shoe-clad) heel and stalked away while Joey began to wail at the top of his lungs.

“Are we going to have to leave the park because you can’t behave?” I heard her scold him.

“It’s not his fault!” I wanted to shout.  I thought about going back and giving the poor kid a snake to keep, but I wasn’t sure that I might not try to shove it down blondie’s throat instead.

She dragged her screaming kid out of the park and I tried to shake it off.  This was just an unusual incident.  After all, the one thing I really noticed after having a baby was that most people in the world are actually good and kind, especially mommies.

And then Wednesday came along.

Baby Mine

Moo is sick – just a bad cold, just like all the other colds she’s ever had – but this one seems to have hit her particularly hard.  She’s more aware, somehow – able to tell me she doesn’t feel good, able to pinpoint where it hurts (her ears), and just simply furious at her runny nose.

The last few times she’s been sick, she’s still managed to sleep through the night.  But this time – well, we’ve had some difficult nights.  The other night we were catching up on “Heroes” when Moo suddenly screamed.

“MOMMY! DADDY!!!”

We ran to her and Herbie scooped her out of bed.  She wailed, she screamed.  She refused Hop, and her sucky, and her fuzzy blanket.  We finally got her settled down a bit after giving her some Tylenol, and then she declared she wanted to play.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently.  “It’s very late at night.  It’s time for sleeping, not playing.”

At least, that’s what I think I said.  But based on her reaction, I must have said something more like, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little Hop, too.  And then I shall boil all your animals and have them for dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, right after I feed your sucky to the dog next door.  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Moo summoned all her newfound 2-year-old power and let loose a tantrum like we hadn’t seen in, well, ever.  She hasn’t even awakened in the middle of the night since before Thanksgiving.  Let’s face it, we’d become wimps.

We backed up and cleared away some toys so Moo wouldn’t hit her head while she writhed on the floor, kicking and screaming.  Every time we tried to touch her, she shrieked.  Finally, Herbie opened up a book and started reading.  After a few minutes, she was too intrigued by where Bunny’s nose might lead him next, and crawled into my lap.  Three books later, I heaped her into Herbie’s arms, and they went and sat in her bedroom.  Herbie sang Harry Connick Jr.’s entire songbook to her, and she finally fell asleep about an hour later.

 Herbie has always been better than I during Moo’s worst times.  When she’s screaming at two in the morning, I tend to get sucked into a blind panic in which I really believe  that she just might scream forever and we will never ever sleep again.  But Herbie just rolls out of bed, time and time again, and rocks her and sings to her, time and time again, until she is eventually soothed.

Herbie definitely won the SuperDad award the night of Moo’s first official tantrum.

And then the next night came along.  At 1 o’clock, Moo started screaming again.  And while I appreciate Herbie’s gift for midnight soothing, I am not a bad wife.  It was my turn to give it a try.

So I went into her bedroom, scooped her up and shushed her quietly.  Once again, she declared she wanted to play, but this time she must have guessed the futility of her hopes, because when I told her we were going to sit down and sing some songs, she only whimpered.

I wiped her nose and held her close and she melted in my arms.  I started singing, as softly as I could.  First “Singin’ in the Rain,” then “Rainbow Connection,” then “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (rainbows are so calming, don’t you think?), and finally “Baby Mine.”  (“Baby mine, don’t you cry… baby mine, dry your eyes…”) I always sang “Baby Mine” when Moo was tiny, but lately our tastes have tended more toward songs about cows.  After I sang it once, I looked down, and Moo was asleep in my arms.

That hasn’t happened in… almost a year?

I didn’t want it to end, so I sang the song – our song – again, and again, and again.  And I noticed something.  As it turns out, singing softly to my daughter in the middle of the night, while she sleeps in my arms, is pretty much just as satisfying as standing in the spotlight, singing at the top of my lungs in front of a large audience.

And I admit, there’s a little part of me that hopes she wakes up again tonight.

Attack of the Four-Foot-Tall Cousins

Once the show and Moo’s birthday party were over, I was ready to sleep for a week and try to convince Moo to do so as well.  Only problem with my plan?  Cousin madness!

Okay, so Moo only has three cousins – I know lots of people have, like, 23.  But when you come from a small family, three cousins all in town at the same time feels something like this:

Wake up!  Here’s a waffle!  Yes, you can have more syrup!  Let’s go to the railroad park!  Sunscreen! Yes you have to put it on!  Slide, sand, traaaain ride!  Ice Cream!  Next day – Wake up!  Here’s a cereal bar!  Let’s go to the zoo!  YES YOU HAVE TO WEAR THE SUNSCREEN.  Agh, why did you just pour dirt over your sticky sunscreen skin?  Birds!  Giraffes!  No, penguins!  No, tiny poison frogs!  No, snakes!  No, ICEEE!  Traaaain ride!  Next day - Wake up!  Here’s a Cheerio I found on the floor!  Let’s go to the Children’s Museum!  Run, jump, fall down, cry!  Ahhhh children EVERYWHERE!  Must escape, must escape, must-

*Gasp*

Sometimes, I really think I’d like to stick with just the one little whirlwind.  But they are so cute.  And naturally, the cousins had a marvelous time.

Showing off her new robot ball:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clara and Irwin riding the train at the railroad park:
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aunt Fiona and Moo:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few moments of perfect ice cream bliss:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tried-and-true “Jump, Penguins, Jump” ritual dance at the zoo:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Except it didn’t work this time.  The penguins refused to jump, and one excreted penguin-colored poop (white, duh) in Irwin’s general direction as a sign of its general disdain for our silly human antics.  But we still had a good time:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I haven’t moved from the couch since Friday.

Waah wah wah

I probably shouldn’t start writing at nearly-midnight, because all I want to write about is how I am SO TIRED.  Which makes for incredibly captivating reading, of course.

I’m disappointed in myself for slacking on the blog.  My stamina is being sorely tested – as a mom, wife, and performer.   First, we are out of frozen waffles, and I’m pretty sure they can revoke my Mom membership card for that oversight.  Second, my husband spent all day mowing the lawn, repairing the roof, and then doing all the boring computer maintenance that I’m too lazy to do, and all I did tonight was lay on the couch and grumble. 

And finally - performing.  Oy, my aching bones!  This show requires vast amounts of energy – we are all on stage almost the entire show, and at this point, with rehearsals starting to feel endless, we can hardly tell our right foot from our left, much less remember if we’re supposed to bounce up and down or sway side to side.  Here’s a quick breakdown:

1) I sing a song and we all run around madly shaking bells.  At end of song, I am left for gawping for breath, hoping I don’t look like a dying fish.
2)  Ricky sings.  Whew!  A short break.
3)  Everybody else sings.  Hey, what am I complaining about?
4)  We all sing, bend our bodies into impossible positions, fall on the floor, and then dance with crutches.  Easy-peasy!
5)  Blaze and I sing about the grass being greener on somebody else’s weiner, pot roasts, and large whale sexual organs.  Or something like that.
6)  Everybody else sings again.  Short nap in the wings, perhaps?
7)  Money money money money and let’s all run around in circles with hats and oh shit do we take off our hats now?  Now?  What about now?  Yikes, ending pose, and…
8)  Zwooom rush off stage to whooosh rush back on stage and sing EVIL SONG FROM HELL, which surprisingly, every once in a while, just for a moment, is a little bit fun.  Try to paste look of ease and pleasure on my face instead of the face I make while pooping or throwing up, which would come more naturally during this song.
9)  And zwip! skitter to the wings to rrrrip! off skirts and fwoop!  fwoop! put on sparkly jackets while hoping that my ass doesn’t look huge in the green leotard and singing about how the world goes around and around and around and around and you get the idea…
10) and Bonjour!  We all sing in different languages to the tune of “New York, New York” while trying to remember whether our arms are at a 45 or 90-degree angle and how long do we hold “Yorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk?” and man, I really do think my ass will look blubbery in that leotard. 

The End.

And that’s just the second act!

If I wasn’t so tired, it would be so much easier to remember that this is all so gloriously FUN.

Zzzzz.

Greedy Bitch

Apparently, I’m never satisfied.  First, I just wanted to be in a show.  And I got in a show!  Then, I just wanted to be in the big dance number in the show.  And I got in the dance number!  And now that’s not even good enough, and I want to be in the big whoop-dee-doo portion of the dance number, instead of standing in the back doing boogie-woogie fingers.

I am a greedy, greedy bitch.

I know that not everyone can be in the big dance portion.  I know someone has to be in the back – that’s even what I told my fellow ensemble girl when she complained to me about also wanting to dance more.  And I know that the director promised all these other girls they’d be dancing, and he made no such promises to me.  So I have no reason to complain.

But-but-but! I can dance the shit out of that number!

My new favorite person in the world, Gina, pulled me aside during a break and told me I should just ask J the director if I could be included.  I hemmed and hawed, then rehearsal started again and the director wandered over near her. 

“Hey, can I be in this part of the dance?” she asked. 

“Sure,” he answered, and she trotted up to join the chosen few.  Then turned around to me and mouthed, “Loooooser!”  Complete with a finger-L squarely on her forehead.  I adore her. 

She tried to convince me again later to just ASK him, and I explained, “I just don’t have that thing you have.”   You know, that thing that allows you to open your mouth and say what you think.  I need to be drunk to do that.

By the time rehearsal ended, my body would be contained no longer and INSISTED on at least doing a couple turns.  I needed to spin like McCain needs to stop calling me his friend.  So I waited until everyone was stacking chairs in the other room, made sure no one was watching (although perhaps I secretly hoped someone would walk in and see), did a quick prep and performed five (!) perfect pirouettes.  Probably the best turns I’ve ever done.

Nobody walked in, of course.

So I packed up and went home, and the next day I did some more turns for Moo, who told me, “Nice, Mommy!  Niiiiiiiice.”  And whaddaya know?  Then, I actually did feel quite satisfied.