At Zooniversity, we get at least one e-mail each week from a college student who idyllically aspires to be a wildlife educator. They spent years admiring those larger-than-life TV guys working with animals and have hopeful visions of becoming the next wildlife conservation idol. Besides asking for a job, they almost always ask, "What do I need to do to become a wildlife educator?"

The answer is not a simple one. The necessary skill sets are an odd mix of cognitive scientific knowledge, acute audience management skills, and that mysterious "Q factor" that it takes to make an audience like you. Here’s the cold, hard fact that most of these college kids don’t want to hear…ANYONE can display these animals (as long as they religiously follow the federal, state, county and city wildlife laws), but not ANYONE can be good at this.

The delivery of animal information is actually the easy part. Learning the textbook facts about each species, learning their adaptive and wild behaviors, reciting the Latin Genus species names…all that is the really easy part of the job. The tough part cannot be taught, cannot be memorized. Three additional skills need to be mastered: (1) the ability to control the behavior of a collection of program animals, with unique personalities, under incredibly stressful conditions, with little to no risk of a problem, (2) the ability to politely, yet diplomatically manage an audience’s behavior (including the ever-challenging, young audiences) with little to no risk of a problem, and (3) the intangible, indescribable skill of getting an audience to "like you."

So, what is our sage advise for those eager college students? What do we suggest they do to prep them for their dream job?

"What do I need to do to become a wildlife educator?"

Work With Real Animals: Get as much hands-on experience with animals as possible. Volunteer at the shelter, the veterinary clinic, the horse ranch, the zoo, the exotic sanctuary, the local wildlife rehabilitator, your local chapter of the Audubon Society, Master Naturalists, or herpetological society. Take a no-pay internship at a sanctuary or respected wildlife company. Do anything to get some real hands-on skills. Rake the cages, scoop the poop, haul the garbage, design enrichment, build trust, learn their signals, bond, train, love, share the moment. Each animal you work with, each scratch, each bite, each lick or cuddle, will teach you with lessons that can only be learned from the real teachers — the animals.

Work With Real People (Especially Kids): A critical skill is NOT taught in school — how to manage a crowd’s behavior to limit the risk of a problem. Whew, this is tough. Crowds of kids are especially tough. Crowds of kids with their parents are even tougher. It’s a VERY fine line between diplomatically directing a crowd for their safety and enjoyment — and ordering them around like the Gestapo. The only way to learn how to tight-rope walk that fine line is through experience. Work as a camp counselor or a day care teacher. Work customer relations at a theme park, fair or festival, or zoo. You’ll quickly learn what works and what offends. We still learn every day how fine his line can become if you get overly demanding. The sting of each lesson learned lasts a long time — learn how to walk the line before you try wildlife education.

Stand Up There Naked: Okay, it’s a just a metaphor, but you need to experience the vulnerability of being a presenter and you need to feel both the admiration or the distain of a human audience…again, and again, and again. Find every opportunity to do public speaking. The subject matter doesn’t matter. Join the debate team, the Toastmasters or Salesmanship Club, speak on behalf of your club, fraternal organization or political party. Sing a solo in the choir, get cast as a lead in your theater, preach at your church or temple. Do whatever it takes to stand in front of an audience, and another audience, and another audience. You’ll have to conquer the stage fright, exude total confidence, work the crowd, and develop a tough skin. You need to learn to sense the energy of the audience — both positive and negative — and find those intangible ways to turn it around. Then, there is the toughest part of the job — that indefinable "Q Factor." Audiences quickly decide if they "like you." This is magical, indefinable, nearly impossible to teach, and totally unpredictable. It varies with the time of day, waning of the moon, your attitude and mood – and it only takes a nano-second or an ill chosen word to turn audience admiration into distain. Only years of stand-up experience will teach you how to do your best. If they don’t "like you," anything you try to teach about the animals will fall on deaf ears.

Now, don’t assume that this blog entry is intended to dissuade our young, eager wanna-be wildlife educators from entering the field. On the contrary, we welcome the next generation with their fresh energy to continue our lifetime of effort. We just want them to be fully prepared for what it REALLY takes to be a wildlife educator — a GOOD wildlife educator.

Planning for a Crowd

The most important number to know when planning for a crowd is the maximum fire code room capacity. This is not just an arbitrary figure for you to double or triple as needed, this is the number you must restrict yourself to in audience planning. No joke — we once had fire engines arrive screaming at a library when a disgruntled father, whose tike couldn’t see well in the crowd, got irritated enough by overcrowding that he dialed 911 in protest! This didn’t bode well for the librarian’s future. And, packing in more than the max number is just plain dangerous should an emergency occur. If you can predict potential crowd size, and they won’t all fit into your space, we suggest you:

- offer multiple show times, or

- move to a larger venue, or

- limit your crowd size (keep reading for the how-to’s)

Managing the Numbers

Here are some successful ways other event planners have managed or limited the size of their crowds:

- count the heads as they enter — first come, first seated — turn-away the overflow or offer them the next show [be warned that this method can result in agitated folks, probably not the smoothest approach to customer service]

- require pre-registration or advance ticket distribution — when they’re gone, they’re gone [be aware that this approach requires LOTS of pre-publicity and you'll need to be ready to turn-away those at the door who hadn't read the fine print]

- restrict daycare groups – limit their numbers with advance reservations or don’t allow daycares to attend at all [they're always looking for free entertainment, but is this really your primary audience?]

- restrict the age of the audience — for example, limiting the audience to schoolers (ages 6 years and older) will greatly reduce the number of infants, noisy toddlers, and noisier parents

- restrict the audience to children ONLY – that’s right, "no adults" – and advertise a strict set of audience age limits [OK, we know this makes you cringe, but we know of LOTS of schools and libraries who have successfully weaned their parents from needing to sit with their kids at shows, it can take a couple of years and a few confrontations, but it CAN be done -- call us and we'll put you in touch with those with experience]

Controlling the Audience

The crowd shouldn’t control you, YOU should control the crowd. Here’re some proven tricks of the trade to help you control the masses:

- keep your audience in a holding area – seat them just 5 minutes before show time, the performer will love you forever and the audience volume will stay much lower

- mark the seating areas — if on-the-floor seating, mark the audience areas with blue painter’s tape to show them the boundaries [no mess to remove]

- use staff or volunteers — position them around the room to guide the audience to the seating areas and to enforce the boundaries during the show

- restrict strollers — ban strollers all together or require them to be kept at the back of the room [they take way too much space and are an exit hazard in case of emergency]

- require parents with infants or toddlers to sit nearest the exit doors – announce that noisy youngsters must immediately be taken out of the show area [be prepared to enforce this during show time, as we've had many mothers stubbornly refuse to leave, which ruins the show for the rest of your audience]

- provide a quality microphone/speaker system – set the volume loud enough to maintain the audience’s attention over light chatter

- introduce the performer — announce whatever house rules you and your performer have agreed upon, such as the use of cell phones or video recorders

- instruct your audience how to exit the show area – position staff or volunteers to keep the crowd moving-on out

- provide a private and safe entrance and exit route for your performer – especially when they’re lugging props or animal crates [nothing worse than getting swarmed with your arms full]

- exude confidence and professionalism at all times — be polite, but firm, if challenged — crowds will usually behave according to your expectations, IF you make your expectations perfectly clear

Are they licensed? Anyone who displays a mammal (something with fur, even a bunny in a magic show), must be licensed by the federal government – it’s called a USDA-APHIS "Class C" Exhibitor’s License. Ask for the performer’s USDA license number to be sure they are following federal animal care standards and that they’re inspected annually by government officials. The license number should be in this format:  ##-C-####. A reputable exhibitor will not be offended – they will be amazed that you care about the animal’s welfare. To confirm they are licensed, go to the USDA-APHIS list of approved exhibitors.  Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, you can now also access their latest federal facilty inspection report, to see if they were in violation of any Animal Welfare regulations. In addition, ask anyone with any animal (not just the furry kind), if they hold the required state, county or city permits for the animals they keep. Again, they shouldn’t hesitate to professionally answer your question. If in doubt, contact the Animal Control office in the city in which they reside, to ask if they hold any needed permits.

Are they insured? Professional animal exhibitors carry at least $1 million in business liability insurance. In today’s litigious society, you should ask for proof of insurance in order to protect yourself. Again, a reputable performer won’t hesitate to send you proof.

How are the animals handled? If you’re able, observe one of their shows. Watch carefully how they handle the animals. Is it done with care? Are the animals’ bodies fully supported? Does the handler insure that the animal can’t risk harm to themselves or to an audience member? "Tailing" a snake (dangling it by the tip of its tail), letting an animal crawl freeing on their body, or wrapping a snake around a kid’s neck, are prime examples of a performer who’s in it for "show" and "scare tactics." This should be a major red flag.

Is there direct audience contact with the animals? Audiences love to touch, so most performers offer some form of limited or controlled touch with animals that pose little to no risk. Watch how the animal is restrained. A professional handler will restrain the animal’s head and offer a spot to touch that is far from teeth and claws. In addition, they should require use of hand sanitizer immediately after direct contact. Ask if they do this. If not, insist that they do. At Zooniversity, we do not allow contact with any animal that could incur harm, we just don’t take chances. We strongly agree with federal recommendations that there should not be direct contact with primates (lemurs, apes, monkeys – even the cute ones in clothes) or with big cats (even those tiny tiger cubs). It is our opinion that doing so is a headline waiting to happen.

What’s their training, expertise and affiliations? Anyone can buy a few animals and make a website. We field many calls from folks with a snake or two that want to know how to do this for a living. Unfortunately, these folks are out there, without licenses, without inspection, without insurance, and without the foggiest notion about animal welfare or audience safety. Ask about their education, their training, their practical experience, and their affiliation with professional zoological organizations. By doing your research upfront and asking the right questions, you can feel good about the organization you’ve selected.

Monday, March 9, 2009

6:15 AM: Alarm goes off. Hit snooze button two times before getting up to let the dog out. Make 8 cups of black coffee and check calendar for today’s bookings. Unload animal feeding bowls from dishwasher. Pile another load of animal laundry into washer.

6:45 AM: Still in pajamas, take coffee to do morning rounds in the animal facilities (yes, they are on our property). Eye each cage, reply to animal greetings, note any food bowels that haven’t been finished, turn on the parrot’s TV, give post-surgical ferret morning meds, mist down the chameleon and the bullfrog to simulate morning dew. Take extra time to cuddle with those who have come out to greet me. Make notes on the message board for the zookeeper who’s scheduled.

7:15 AM: Pour 4th cup of coffee and check for new e-mail. Reply to 3 new inquiries that appeared overnight. Hit the shower and put on Zooniversity uniform. Wish my husband a good day at work.

8:00 AM: Pack for first client, a preschool that books every year. Transfer five “Springtime” animals into their travel carriers. Load all into the Zooniversity vehicle (you’ve seen it, the one with giant lizards on each side) and prep to leave. Packing interrupted by two phone call inquiries. Answer the first, let the second one go to voice mail. No time to answer now.

9:00 AM: Leave on schedule with animals, an energy drink, and a protein bar (no time to eat a real breakfast). Say morning prayers while driving.

9:45 AM: Arrive in Arlington on schedule. Make two trips to hand carry all crates into the classroom. Sound system set-up and checked. Remind client that no children under the age of 3 years may attend. Fifty 3-5 year olds try to enter as quietly as possible, sitting “criss-cross applesauce” with “bubbles in their mouths.” Kids try their best to follow the safety rules (thank goodness for microphones).

10:30 AM: Show #1 complete. Reload the car and head back to Zooniversity. Return trip slowed down by two phone calls that turned into bookings—needed to pull-over to get all the details.

12:00 Noon: Have 30-minutes to unpack animals, clean travel carriers, grab a lunch of left-overs, and repack for Rockwall Zoo School (a weekly class for home schoolers). Glance at new emails. No time to call them back now.

12:30 PM: Back in the car and aiming for Rockwall. Detour around a stopped LBJ Freeway and lose 20 minutes. Answer a call from my college-student son and got all his news updates from the weekend while driving.

1:30 PM: Arrive behind schedule. Set-up classroom and animals just as the first of 26 students arrive.

2:00 PM: Teach Zoo School Unit 2: Arachnids to an inquisitive group of K-4th graders (GREAT kids). Only a few squeals at the tarantula and scorpion.

3:15 PM: Show #2 complete. Repack and back on the road. Three missed calls. Try to figure out when there’ll be time to return calls and messages, not now.

4:00 PM: Unload again. Greet the evening-shift zookeeper and brief him on special needs today. Ask him to force-feed an anorexic chameleon while I move the post-surgical ferret and one of the fennec foxes into travel carriers and head to the veterinarian’s office. My high-school daughter joins me to catch me up on her day’s news.

4:30 PM: At vet’s office. Ferret sutures are removed (partial pancreaectomy due to insulinoma) and blood sugar is checked. Too low, put back on medication. Fox’s leg is examined. Vet also suspects the worst—a nasty looking tumor has started on her leg. Surgery is scheduled for the following Wednesday. Dang, not good. Stay hopeful.

5:15 PM: Quick stop at the Farmers Market to restock animal food: sweet potatoes, Spring mix, apples and oranges. Grab a few ripe melons and mangoes. Forget to buy human food, oh well.

5:45 PM: Unload and reload for the night’s show—6 rainforest animals for a PTA meeting in Flower Mound. No time for dinner, grab another protein bar.

6:45 PM: Arrive ahead of schedule despite rush hour traffic and sit in the car to return 5 phone calls, connect with three of them and book reservations.

7:00 PM: Set-up for show and wait while the PTA meeting drags on beyond our scheduled start time. Start 20 minutes later than planned. The natives are rather restless, but left with the client happy.

8:30 PM: Show #3 complete. Repack and back in the car. Swing through Wendy’s drive-thru and eat dinner in the parking lot.

9:15 PM: Back at Zooniversity to unpack animals, clean travel carriers and check for any new zookeeper’s notes. One last animal walk-around. Lots of nighttime greetings and cuddles for the nocturnal animals. Give the last of the day’s medications. Lights-out for all non-human creatures.

10:00 PM: Sit down at computer to check email. Generate email confirmations and invoices for the new bookings. Realize that my website needs updating, add it to my to-do list my day-off next week.

12:00 AM: Stare at tomorrow’s schedule to figure-out what wake-up time is needed. Lights out for all human creatures.

Presenter: "This big green iguana is not green right now, he’s orange. That’s because he’s a boy, and boy iguanas think they are more attractive to the females when they wear orange."  Birthday Boy: "My Daddy LOVES to wear orange."

Presenter: "We are now going to meet a rare rainforest creature (pause)…a kinkajou." Student: "God bless you!"

Presenter: "See how this tiny opossum can hang upside down by his tail to reach his dinner."  Student: "Teacher, what are those purple things? There, right there under his tail. They look like two big blueberries."

Presenter: "The hedgehog has 7,000 tiny hairs that he can stick straight up in the air—like 7,000 tiny needles." Birthday Girl: "Just like my Daddy after his hair transplant."

Presenter: "Now, we’re going to meet my daughter’s favorite animal." Student: "Daughter? You look too old to have a daughter."

Presenter: "This unusual lizard has two large expansion joints that run down the sides of his body. So, if he has a large meal, they can expand to let him eat two times more food at one sitting." Birthday Boy: "Wow, my grandma REALLY needed those at Thanksgiving."

Presenter: "Look at the hedgehog you’re holding—he’s sniffing for bugs. You don’t have any bugs, do you?" Birthday Boy: "Not any more. Mommy cut my hair off and took me to the doctor, so they’re all gone now."

As a professional biologist, I knew better. But, I am also a mother; which means that I too sometimes abandon all sense and logic to appease the pleadings of one of my adorable, and always convincing, children. Meet Simon, the iguana who started it all.

There was Simon, perched lopsided on that branch in that crummy pet store. He was maybe 6 inches long and bright green. His twisted and broken back leg lay at an odd angle and his rounded puffy thighs didn’t match his emaciated tail and torso, a telltale sign of MBD (metabolic bone disease). He was one sick, green iguana hatchling. These guys are farmed in Mexico, Central and South America, over-packed in tight boxes, and shipped by the thousands to pet stores. Once on display, eager children convince their parents to buy them one as a “cool” pet—”It’s like having my own dinosaur, Mommy!” Most hatchlings will never survive a month, let alone a year. Without the proper lighting, heat, humidity, food, and supplements, they almost always die young.

There was my son, six years old, with his blond head turned to the side, staring at the pitiful, little green lizard. He didn’t beg for a pet. No, that would have been too easy for me to turn down. “Save him, Mommy. He’s too skinny and he looks so sad. Can’t we take him home and save him? We can’t let him stay here to die!” Now, I was in trouble. He aimed for the heart, bulls-eye! How could his Mommy not rescue this pitiful baby lizard? I knew better…I really knew better.

We named him Simon, after a Saturday Night Live Mike Myer’s character that my son liked. “He won’t eat his iguana salad, Mom.” Nope, wouldn’t touch a bite—lizard anorexia, too. Great. Weeks of vegetable baby food, hand-fed through a syringe, drop-by-drop..and calcium supplements…and heat lights…and sunshine. I knew better. Simon would live. Simon would live a long, long, time.

Fast forward 15 years. My 6-year old boy is now 21-years old. He’s away at college studying to be a wildlife biologist (surprise). And, I am here, still taking care of Simon.

As you can see, Simon is now one BIG lizard, about 4-foot long. He is a favorite stage star for Zooniversity’s educational shows. You might recognize him. His image is part of our company logo. There he is, draped across the top of our company name, looking very green and very regal. But, don’t take that as an endorsement for owning an iguana as a pet. Far from it! Iguanas are the #1 most abandoned pet in the exotic pet industry, and for good reason.

If you do your research, and invest a ton of money into proper caging, lighting and heating, you too can raise an iguana to adulthood. But, we do not recommend you try this at home. You see, adult iguanas do NOT make good pets. They are naturally territorial and they will defend their branch or tree with a quick scratch or tail whip. If they get a bit too amorous with their human, they can bite (part of natural mating behavior), and they do NOT let go. Their strong, muscular legs and razor sharp claws can climb trees, or your body, in an instant, leaving a trail of damage behind. And, of course, if you are silly enough to let them crawl and climb across your human furnishings, they can leave an invisible trail of salmonella for your family to enjoy. These are NOT good pets.

Simon was our first exotic rescue. More rescues seemed to find us, LOTS more. All those mouths to feed and all those vet expenses to pay, generated the idea of a wildlife education service—and Zooniversity was born. Today we are caring for more than 50 species of rescued exotic animals at Zooniversity, most of whom are unwanted or abandoned, former pets. We think it’s only fitting that Simon be our mascot and part of our logo. After all, he is the iguana who started it all.

Problem Adults

The Animal-Hugger – The grown-up that ooohs and aaaahs at every animal and incessantly begs to hold it. Once you concede, they snuggle it so tightly, you’re sure the animal can’t breath. One significantly inebriated adult birthday girl had to have 3 friends insist she release our fennec fox from her loving, Margarita-inspired, death grip, before she turned the animal loose.

The Know-It-All – These folks like to interject, at evenly spaced intervals in your program, lengthy comments (cleverly disguised as questions) for the sole purpose of impressing the other adults in the room with their knowledge of the animal kingdom. "Isn’t it true that the tarantula’s exoskeleton is soft and delicate immediately after a shed?" Uh, yep.

The Socialite – The adults, usually women, who treat the party performer as if we were invisible. They never look at the lowly hired help, but ooze hugs and air kisses for the other well-coiffed guests. The Socialites tend to lose track of their children at the party, never hear our clearly announced safety rules, and their cell phones usually ring in the middle of the program — which they answer in a loud voice, since they can’t hear the caller over the trivial wildlife program that’s going on.

The Heckler – Usually a man. He likes to whip-out a clever quip whenever we ask the children an animal question. "Look at this snake’s back, do you see the tree trunk pattern?" "Looks like a pair of boots to me!" he’ll chortle, looking to the other parents for some laughs and back slaps.

The Chatterers – Can be clusters of men or women, but they tend to huddle in the kitchen or in the immediate perimeter of the kid’s party circle where the show is going on. They chatter, non-stop, never quietly, forcing the wildlife educator to speak louder and louder. It becomes a battle of volume to see who can top the other.

Problem Kids

The Questioner – When you only have 30 or 45-minutes to complete an entire wildlife program and still stay on schedule, there’s only time for a few poignant audience questions. Yet, there’s always the one child who asks incessant questions about the animals — of course, the answers were already presented in the show, had they been listening.

The Squeezer – We have a "one finger touch" rule, to avoid undo stress (and potential injury) to the program animal. But, there’s always the one child who just can’t resist. They raise the one-finger up to touch with the greatest self-restraint, and as the animal approaches for a gentle touch, they just can’t control the urge one more second, and reach out and squeeze the animal with their whole hand. Good wildlife educators must know the phrase "one finger" in at least three languages, and repeat it again, and again, and again.

The Fidget – Poor child just can’t stay seated or quiet no matter how many times they are reminded. And, their parent (usually "The Socialite" or "The Chatterer") is too busy to notice their struggle or to come to their aid.

The Sneaky Kid – You can see their little wheels turning… "she’s not looking, now’s my chance, I’ll just sneak a quick peek at what’s in that cage, she’ll never know, here I go…dang!" Nabbed again.

• 40 lbs. fresh Spring Mix (that expensive salad and herb stuff served at elegant eateries—only the best for our animals)
• 60 lbs. fresh seasonal vegetables
• 40 lbs. sweet potatoes
• 24 lbs. bananas



• 30 lbs. fresh seasonal fruit (especially mangoes, papayas and seasonal berries—these guys eat better than we do)
• 25 lbs. parrot pellets
• 4,000 live crickets
• 500 live wax worms
• 500 live superworms



• 4 jumbo rats, 8 medium rats, 32 adult mice, 32 pinkie rats and 40 pinkie mice (no, not alive—pre-killed, frozen and delivered by the FedEx man—bet he doesn’t know what’s in the box)
• 50 lbs. of timothy hay (shipped from Missouri, where it’s the freshest and tastiest)
• 60 gallons dechlorinated/filtered/ozonated water
• 32 rolls paper towels
• 150 lbs. wood shavings
• detergent and bleach for 30 large loads of laundry
• 2 liters hand sanitizer
• 60 45-gallon plastic yard bags

And, this doesn’t include any of the specialty zoological dry and canned diets that are custom ordered and shipped for each of our special animal ambassadors—each one has their own labeled and sealed feed bin. What, kangaroo formula and prairie dog pellets aren’t on your current shopping list? Not a problem, they’re standing items on ours.

I hear it almost everyday, "You have the most fun job ever. I’d love to do what you do!" Most folks think that being a wildlife educator is living the life of Jack Hanna: fame, your picture in the newspaper, spending days romping and playing with nature’s most exotic species. Sometimes, it is. Most of the time, it isn’t.

Standing in front of hundreds of people, holding a rare animal, explaining their place in the ecosystem and all the challenges that face the species, definitely can be an adrenaline rush and a moment of ego-boosting joy. So is that moment when a debilitated, improperly cared for, former pet, turns the corner towards health after weeks and months of dedicated, tender care. So is that fleeting instant when a baby animal, abandoned by its mother, clings to you for support and maternal love. Sheer bliss. But these "good" moments are few in the overall life of being a wildlife educator.

No one tells the young and hopeful educator "wanna-be" about real day-to-day life, the "bad" and the "ugly." There are endless daily cycles of cage cleaning and animal feeding; never-ending phone calls from well-intentioned, but misguided, mothers who want a monkey at their 3-year old’s birthday party; daily struggles with audiences who are less than well-mannered and parents who aren’t even embarrassed about it; the constant fear that an animal will be startled in public and, heaven forbid, get hurt or hurt someone else; traveling hours in 100+ degree heat to a small town auditorium just to find there’s no air conditioning; staying up all night at an emergency veterinary clinic when an animal falls ill. Sound glamorous? Hardly.

A successful wildlife educator must be an expert zoologist, an experienced veterinary technician, an engrossing and spirited public speaker, a customer care advocate, a crowd control specialist, a shrewd marketing and public relations guru, a creative website designer, a meticulous accountant, and a regulatory and legal expert. It is not easy. Expect lots of work and 16 hour days (make that 24-hour days if an animal is young or ill). Expect no days off. Vacations are a thing of the past. Expect lots of expenses and very little profit, if any. Expect to weep when you’re brought an animal in crisis and to weep even harder when one passes away. It is not the life most people think we lead when they see us beaming at the microphone.

So, why would anyone chose to be a wildlife educator? We live for those fleeting "miraculous" moments. We are driven by that instant when you feel the audience has connected with you and you just know you made a difference in their understanding; when you see that glimmer in a child’s eye and you know you’ve touched their heart; when a formerly shy education animal unexpectedly demands an audience’s attention and actually basks in their applause; when you receive letters of gratitude from people who tell you what endearing memories you’ve created for them and what a difference you’ve made. These miraculous moments are what we live and work for, and they make all the bad and ugly moments fade in comparison.