Perfectly Normal: We Do Normal... Perfectly!

Silly, I know

2009-12-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

I know no one reads this anymore, but I can't let Bison Shepherd Pie be the very last post ever. I just can't.

So.

Do I do normal perfectly? Not so sure, but I do try!

Today's 'cupcake gathering' was the perfect example.

I had the boys invite two each friends from school. I then invited my neighbors. What I didn't anticipate?

Well, maybe if anyone reads this blog, and actually wants to find out... I might write it.

At least though, Bison Shepherd Pie isn't the last post!

Mmmm Bison Shepherd Pie

2008-11-19T15:06:00.000-08:00

I've got a thing for Shepherd's Pie, and I'm always trying to mix it up. Just like Rachel Ray. Only not as perkily.

One of the problems in my house is that for great Shepherd's Pie, you normally need left over roast, lamb, beef, turkey or er, Tofu, if you're a vegetarian.

Please, though, I wouldn't suggest trying to make it with Tofu.

The point is, we never have left over meat. Ever. I've got two hobbits,carnivorous husband who must have red meat or he'll die, and a growing daughter who shares her father's love of red meat.

But, I was inspired today.

Three things happened.

One) Paula Deen made some mouth-watering Shepherd's Pie.
Two) I have Bison
Three) I own a crock pot.

Sooo, we can't have Shepherd's Pie tonight, but tomorrow, it's all good. Here's my take on my recipe, using some of Paula Deen's twists:

Ingredients:
Mashed Potatoes (Mash em yourself, and be sure to use Russets)
Frozen Peas
Frozen Carrots
Frozen whatever vegetable you want in place of peas/carrots
Seriously, ANYTHING goes
Cooked Bison Roast
Bisquick mix (thanks, Paula Deen!)

Day One:
So, take your bison roast, dump it in the crock pot. Add a cup of liquid (I used coffee) and a beef broth cube.
Put on low.
Cook on slow for 8-10 hours.
Let cool. Shred. Refrigerate until time to make the pie.

Making the Shepherd's Pie:

1) Mash the potatoes (Potatoes, butter, 1/2 cup of sour cream, you know what to do)
2) Put mashed potatoes in bottom of baking pan.
3) Layer bison roast that has been sitting in the fridge just waiting for the day you didn't want to cook much.
4) Cover with vegetables.
5) Pour Bisquick over the vegetables.
6) Bake until done (everything is heated and bisquick looks like a yummy crust)

This is a yummy idea. Trust me. And to prove it, when it's all done, there will be photos! And if you don't like Bison, well, there's pork, beef, lamb, venison, turkey and sausage!

Saving Money

2008-11-19T08:15:00.001-08:00

I have three jobs. Two of them are kind of crappy. I keep them because the main job doesn't pay on time, and I can't exactly buy groceries with "no, really, the check will clear tomorrow."

It's kind of sucking away my energy to blog, but the real mojo-killer is the fact that I'm freaking lucky to have ANY job in this economy, let alone a patchwork quilt of jobs that lets me stay home with the little man. But at the end of the day, I have very little energy for creativity.

All of my creativity is going towards keeping the grocery bill under control. When I started food shopping for me and the mate in 2002, I spent fifty bucks every two weeks. Now less food is over a hundred every two weeks! And in 2002, if it wasn't finished and ready for the microwave, I didn't buy it. I kept dog biscuits in the kitchen canisters, because I sure as hell never bought flour or sugar. Not just any dog biscuits, either, the meat flavored brand name biscuits.

So I am totally cranky about my Mature Adult Virtue costing more money. Stupid economy ruins everything.

Here's what we've done so far:

- Cut the non-grocery items. Man, I did not quite grasp how much non-food stuff I was buying at Safeway until I stopped. Firewood, food storage, greeting cards, kitchen gadgets - all of it marked up to the rafters and unnecessary to boot. These things still occasionally jump into my cart, but I glare at them until they jump back out. I mean, a doodad that will dice a whole onion with two chops would be so awesome. However, it is twelve dollars we do not have, whereas I do have a set of knives.

- Coupons and club cards. I've used these for years, but it's amazing how much awesome you can get if you're diligent, and ONLY buy things you would have bought anyway. My mate and I love hot links and kielbasa. When the club card has a buy one get one free special, well, that's what the freezer is for. And the dogs don't seem to give a damn that their biscuits are generic or purchased only with half off coupons.

- Costco. I still need soap and laundry detergent, and if I'm not buying them from the grocery store, they have to come from somewhere. After surveying the options (Target, Walmart, Costco), Costco won. You need to be strong, and out of three trips, I've only made it out with JUST the items on my list once. A friend called it the Four Hundred Dollar Milk store. You go in for milk, you leave with a TV and a fake fur blanket. I comfort myself knowing that I haven't done too badly - my impulse grabs were tubs of pumpkin bisque soup that ended up serving as eight delicious hot lunches for five bucks, and a pumpkin cheesecake, twelve servings for eight bucks. But random pumpkin purchases aside, the membership fee has already been worth it in terms of the savings on a lot of staples - paper towels, TP, potatoes, detergent, bread, cheese, rice, beans, cereal, cooking spices, and pasta.

- Use less crap. I thought I was pretty good - I use plastic grocery bags as trash can and diaper pail liners, and when I've got a good stock of bags, I use canvas sacks to shop with - and not ones I bought, either, ones I collected over years of being a swag magnet. I use sponges instead of paper towels unless the thing I'm wiping up is totally disgusting, like dog pee. Clothes are not necessarily dirty after being worn. Toilet paper... you know what, there are some things you just use as much as you need to use. Anyway. I thought I was good, but you can REALLY go far without any lifestyle sacrifices. Sandwich bags can be reused. Baby food jars can store a lot of things. Tupperware bowls that leak are good toys. My grandfather used to chant "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." I thought he was nuts. I was wrong.

- Learn to cook. This was the hard one for me, the queen of "microwave for two minutes, stirring after 45 seconds." My husband is a brilliant natural cook, something he didn't know until I gave birth and suddenly it was cook or starve. I had partially stocked the freezer with Let's Dish food, but the baby was two weeks early. But he's got a long commute and I don't, so I feel better if I do the bulk of the food prep. I totalled up the costs of microwave Indian food and realized we simply couldn't keep doing it.

I'd been taking baby steps - baking squash, stir fries, jambalaya, cookouts. Last week I went TOTALLY INSANE and tried making chana masala from scratch. And, um, it was awesome. It was one million times better than the frozen chana masala (nine dollars, two "entrees"). There were six servings. Admittedly, buying the spices and making tamarind puree was a little steep in money and time, but I've got enough stuff on hand now to make this dish several dozen times over. All I'll need to buy now for each new potfull are the dried chickpeas - under two dollars for the size bag I need.

It's funny, but I was feeling really bitchy when I started this post, and now I'm feeling terribly accomplished and fortunate. Who knew it would take a recession and a baby to make me grow up?

He made PBJ

2008-11-12T10:23:00.000-08:00

It's not a big thing, really. He's almost five. He's asked a few times beforehand, and I believe in self-sufficiency.

It wasn't the sandwich, dreadfully mangled, that got to me.
It wasn't sticky grape jelly on a little hand clutching a butter knife.
It wasn't the patience he exhibited moving the jelly from the jar to the bread one small, tiny bit of jelly at a time.

It was the enthusiasm, the excitement, the smile, and the commentary.

Look mom! I'll get the Peanut Butter and Jelly! and off he went to the refrigerator.
Is this the jelly? He asks, holding up a bottle of Masala paste.
No.
But this is the Peanut Butter?
Yes, but the jelly is on the next shelf up.
Oh, this isn't jelly. I'll put this back.

Then it was his getting the stool, so he could help.
And he was talking to me about it. About how he could make his peanut butter and jelly and use the butter knife, and just spread the jelly, but it's not coming out a lot, he explained. So it was taking some time.

Just this one, dull moment did it. One small thing in a day full of small things.
My little boy and his little hands and his big enthusiasm.

And I just wanted to hug him tight, and kiss him, and say oh, my boy, but I didn't, because it was just peanut butter and jelly, and that's not what he wanted anyhow.

So I said 'good job' and ruffled his hair, and watched him as he took off with his sandwich.

Teeth In The Right Wrong Order

2008-11-06T13:28:00.001-08:00

There's a little chart that says when teeth come in, and in what order.

Tragically, I cannot read.

I thought it was bottom middle (got them), top middle (got them), bottom lateral incisor, top lateral incisor, canines, molars.

When our son just lost his SHIT in the middle of the night two nights ago, we did the routine we call "running the checklist."

Gas bubble in need of burping?
Diaper?
Cold/hot?
Anything pinching or poking?
Wants milk?
Wants to be walked?
Any new swollen spots on the gums? (Please note, on this last one, he's been resisting our fingers in his mouth, so we only check the spot where teeth are supposed to be cutting through next.)

Nothing worked. When I offered milk, he bit the holy ever loving crap out of me. He was so exhausted that he was screaming with his eyes closed and his head buried in Daddy's neck. He finally collapsed, utterly worn out, being rocked in my arms.

Last night he slept like an angel, but today he was a fussbudget from the minute he whined himself awake, and who skipped his morning nap. When I went to fetch a mercifully happy baby from his afternoon nap, I took advantage of the giggles to play with him. With his mouth wide open, I saw it.

A big lateral incisor... on top? What? That wasn't next! And from the size of it, it must have cut through... two nights ago. Oh. Some Tylenol or ice might have been nice instead of, oh, letting him suffer.

No wonder people have two kids. You just desperately want to raise a kid without screwing up the way you did with the first one.

Tips for an Easier Christmas Morning

2008-11-05T12:46:00.000-08:00

The dreaded wire-ties. If you have a child and have bought them a toy from a regular store, you know why I dread wire-ties.

My inlaws like to buy Fisher Price toys for my daughter, particularly the Little People. That's great, and they're fun toys, but it's usually very frustrating for my daughter because she'll open the present in 5 seconds and then have to wait 45 minutes for me to actually remove the product from the twist ties, wires, strings, cardboard, plastic and reinforced steel that toy companies use in their packaging.

Seriously, what is the purpose? Was there such a rash of shoplifting Little People that they have to practically glue them into the box now? On Christmas Eve when I'm frantically wrapping all of the presents I thought I could get ready in under an hour (ha!) I have been taking presents out of their packaging so that the magic of Christmas morning isn't interrupted by needle-nose pliers and a blowtorch.

There are a couple of ways you can avoid having to do all of the unpackaging yourself:

1 - Amazon Frustration-Free Packaging! Yes, there were already so many reasons to love Amazon, and now here's one more. They are on a campaign to reduce packaging for the products they carry. This year they have a very limited number of toys and items that will come with minimal packaging. If any of these things are on your shopping list I hope you'll buy them from Amazon to send a message to manufacturers.

2 - Buy secondhand: someone else already did all of the unwrapping and assembling. I know a lot of people don't feel it's right to give a child a second-hand toy as a gift. Some of my friends have said that it would make them feel like a bad parent, or like the child might think they didn't love them. I think that's so interesting. Because the kids I've known don't care whether something is new or not, so long as it's all there and looks good and works. And if buying second-hand means mom and dad have money to spend on MORE presents, they're even happier.

Not only are these both great ways to save yourself a lot of unhappy Christmas morning (or Eve) unpackaging, they both eliminate some of the holiday waste destined for our landfills.

I'd love to hear any other tips you have for avoiding the wire-tie blues!

Long Live the Retail Season

2008-11-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

It starts with Halloween.
It ends with the January sales.

All hail the Retail Season.
Happy Halloween.
Halloween is over.
Long live Halloween.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Merry Christmas.
Christmas is over.
Long live Christmas.
Happy New Year.
New Year is over.
Long live New Year.
Happy January sales bonanza.
January sales bonanza is over.
The retail season is dead.
All hail the retail season.

Amazon Giveaway Winner!

2008-11-02T19:57:00.001-08:00

Well, I procrastinated this all day because I was scared the random number generator would give me a super high number and I'd have to count comments all the way up to 500. I finally bit the bullet and generated the number - it was 139. Luckily, right after that I noticed how to collapse the comments so they were in a big easy to read list. And THEN I re-sized my window so it was 20 comments long and it wasn't hard to count at all.

Like you care though, right? You just want to me to say the winner so you don't have to figure it out yourselves. The winner is Linda of Another Piece of the Pie. I zipped over there to check out her site and she did such a fun drawing, writing all of her entries onto cards and then pulling the winner out of a jack-o-lantern.

After I saw that I wished I'd drawn our winner out of a pumpkin. I'm afraid I'm way too perfectly normal (meaning not nearly as fun or creative) for handwritten notes or jack-o-lantern drawings though, at least tonight.

My husband decided to whisk the sleeping baby off my lap earlier tonight and stash him in his crib where he would remain conveniently asleep until his (meaning my husband's) Plan A was accomplished. Unfortunately, whisking and stashing are not high on the baby's list of things he likes to do, so Plan A backfired and resulted in an hour of crying, inconsolable baby.

Since my Plan A was hold the sleeping baby on my lap while I wrote for a quiet hour, I didn't interfere. After a (very frustrating for him I'm sure) while, he returned the baby to my lap and vanished into some other part of the house, probably to work on plan B which I imagine is watch football and mope.

But let's not talk about moping husbands. Let's check out Linda's site which looks like another blog I'm going to have to start following. Maybe she can use her prize to buy that super cute kitchen for her daughter.

Thanks everyone for participating in our contest. I hope we'll see you again soon here at Perfectly Normal!

Christmas shopping the Halloween sales

2008-11-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

I went in to Target this morning to pick up some discount Halloween decorations for a party next year. (Look at me being all optimistic and organized, haha.)

When I got to the Halloween section it was just crammed full of Halloween kid costumes all marked 50% off or more. My 4-year-old's FAVORITE thing in the world is playing dress-up. It was like the discount Christmas shopping jackpot! She'll be getting costumes to dress up as Batgirl, an angel (which with a veil can also be a bride), a flapper dancer, a(nother) princess, and Cleopatra.

She was actually there shopping with me, and we had such a great time trying all of the costumes on her. I wonder where she learned her vain strut, hair flipping and self-preening. It couldn't possibly be from me.

After trying on so many costumes I had to get just one for her (I managed to buy the rest of the presents on the sly without her noticing). She opted for Daphne from Scooby Doo. Which, I should add, she wore for the rest of our errands today and is insisting on keeping on tonight for dinner out.

Happy Halloween, now lets talk turkey

2008-10-31T12:59:00.000-07:00

I know, I should have the decency to save this post til after Halloween. But I can't.

Because, it's funny, and real.

Thanksgiving is coming up.

It's Hubby McRed's FAVORITE holiday because it contains two of his favorite things in the whole world: a Turkey Feast, and Football.

I know this, I've known this since I met him.

So you'd think with both his parents (divorced and remarried each) living here, we'd be in for two Turkey dinners... a Turkey Bonus Feast... something... but alas, no.

His mom is having the holiday in early November, and, decided to do... HAM!!!! He was horrified. He despises ham.

The other ones? They do a fancy Turkey feast. Homemade stuffing with walnuts, fresh green beans mixed with asparagus, but no green bean casserole, a 'turkey roast' that's lean and nice, healthy gravy... there won't be one 'bad' thing there. All the food will be fancy. Hoity Toity Turkey. Hoity Toity Feast.

"I'm not going."

"What?"

"I can't go. I can't go there. I NEED Turkey, with stuffing, candied yams with too many marshmallows, green bean casserole, and NOT with the crappy low-sodium soup and NOT with fresh green beans. And piles of gravy. Piles and piles of it. I can't go and give up my Turkey Feast, I don't want healthy, good stuff. And I want leftovers. We can't go. You have to find a way to explain I can't go because I hate the food. I'm sorry, but you have to do damage control."

Well. I may not be able to get the PR job I'm most certainly qualified for, but it doesn't mean I don't know how to use my mad damage control skills in times of crisis.

The best damage control is preventative.

"Okay honey, look. Here's what we do...

"We go to your moms, and have her make you turkey cutlets, so you can eat.
"We tell your dad and step-mom you'll show up.
"The Sunday BEFORE Thanksgiving, we'll have our own feat. We'll do you up a Turkey, in the oven, with pan gravy, while you watch football all day. We'll buy bagged stuffing without walnuts, do mashed potatoes with way too much butter, candied yams with too many marshmallows, and green bean casserole. Even a pecan pie."

"You'll do this for me?"

"Yes."

"And I can have leftovers for a whole week!"

"Yes.... now, so... it's a big meal... do you want to invite any of our friends?"

"WHAT? And give away my TURKEY FEAST?!!!?!?!?!"

'No dear, of course not..."

My Little Commando

2008-10-30T22:16:00.001-07:00

After my 4-year-old got home from preschool today I sent her to change into play clothes. The school clothes aren't really nicer, but they are all either brown/pink and they are for cold-weather. By sorting them like this and keeping them in their own drawers, she actually wears outfits to school that are season appropriate and sort of match.

This little trick helps me avoid confrontations like the one we had to have over the outfit pictured here on the right, which was deemed (by her) appropriate to wear out shopping.

In any case, after I asked her to change her clothes she showed up with a new outfit in hand and proceeded to change in front of me. I don't understand why she prefers to change in the room I'm in, but I don't question these things.

What I DO question is why she went to preschool this morning without panties on. I had no idea until she changed her pants that she'd gone commando. Does this mean we're going to have to start doing panty-checks before she leaves the house?

I can't even imagine what kind of clothes issues we're going to have when she's a teenager.

My Wedding Dress...

2008-10-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

...zips up.

BOOYAH.

It's a silly tradition, I put my wedding dress on at some point on my wedding anniversary. Last anniversary, I was five months pregnant and wasn't zipping up anything except an oversized hoodie.

Okay, so I can only hold my shoulders in one specific posture. But can't I blame that on temporarily enlarged nursing breasts? I mean, as soon as I'm back to flat chested fabulousness, it'll be zipping up and down like a toddler on diet cola. Probably.

I'm not trying to lose weight. Whenever I try to lose weight I put on five pounds. I'm not trying to diet, either. If someone gives me a bag of Cranberry Moose Munch, clearly there is a divine hand pushing it towards me.

I'm also not trying to care that things are just in new places. Like back fat. Why do I have these two little flaps of pudge on my back? I didn't carry the baby on my spine in some kind of camel's hump. And saddlebags. I'm sure I didn't have those before I had the baby, and again, I didn't have pregnant thighs, but there they are, little pony express bags.

But as promised... nine months up, nine months down, not counting ten extra pounds. How long did it take you to lose that last ten after your baby? Did you ever lose it? Do you really care, deep down, as long as your old clothes can zip?

My Brain Is Cold

2008-10-29T05:33:00.001-07:00

The house was freezing last night, and the wind was blustering like crazy. This morning, the entire outside world was glittering with frost, and the birds were fluffed up into feather puffballs in the trees.

So when I went to get the kid ready for his walk, I went Stone Cold Mama. Socks. Thick, lined pants. Long sleeve onesie. Sweatshirt. Fleece slippers. Once all that was on, I wrapped his legs in an afghan, and stuffed the resulting burrito into the bunting I'd already installed on the stroller.

(Side note about his bunting: You see it in ads being used on the car seat bucket. We used it on his car seat when he was a newborn, but we realized that at the speed with which we raced from the car to wherever, we might as well skip it. I felt kind of stupid for wasting the money. However, it's really nice to have on the stroller - a blanket that can't be kicked off and is always tucked in - and the velcro openings are so flexible that it works on all of his strollers.)

Then I popped a fleece lined knitted hat on his head, tucked a scarf around his neck, zipped him up with his hands inside the bunting, and went outside.

We promptly came back, so I could put on shoes.

Amazon Giveaway

2008-10-28T06:53:00.000-07:00

It's a week of giveaways over at Bloggy Giveaways and we want in on the fun! We're giving away a $40 giftcard to Amazon just in time to use for holiday shopping or maybe a fun splurge for you.

All you have to do is leave us a comment and you're entered. Easy!

If you want to score an extra chance to win, subscribe to the blog and leave another comment saying that you did.

For a third chance, you can do anything you want to give us a shout out, whether it's a link on your own blog, a Stumble, Digg or Twitter, adding us to your blogroll, whatever you want. Just add one more comment letting us know what you did.

This giveaway is open until midnight EST on Saturday, Nov 1. We'll pick a winner at random and then contact you by email to let you know you won, and we'll post who the winner was as well.

Good luck! And once the contest is over and you are recovered from entering so many giveaways (I know I'm exhausted anyway!) we hope you'll stop by Perfectly Normal again.

What's In YOUR... Diaper Bag?

2008-10-21T16:56:00.001-07:00

This was a thread on a mama message board I was reading today. Here's what I posted:

For errand running, I have a nifty little thing that looks like a large wallet or a small purse. It unfolds into a changing pad, and has a pocket for a diaper, a few wipes, and a clean shirt. For the baby, not me.

For occasions when I'll be gone for half the day, away from running water, or out to a restaurant, I have a diaper bag. It contains:

Four diapers
Wipes
Clean shirt
Clean socks (the "heel strike into poop" is his best karate move)
Two small toys that only come out at restaurants
A plastic grocery bag
A flannel receiving blanket (it's a blanket! It's a burp cloth! It's a DESSERT TOPPING!)
Hand sanitizer
Hat
Pashima (acts as a second blanket, a nursing cover up if he gets too distracted to eat properly, or, when artistically draped about my person, covers my leaking personal bits and/or baby hork and/or pee spray)

Now that it's cold, I keep a little sweater in there as well as the clean onesie, since he's a thousand times more likely to spill or spew on his sweater than his shirt. One of the side pockets has sanitary napkins, lip balm, and nursing pads.

And of course, I never carry a purse when I've got the diaper bag - I just transfer my cell, wallet, and a little travel hairbrush over to the outside pocket.

Me? Attachment parent? Co-sleeper in Denial?

2008-10-21T06:31:00.001-07:00

"I don't believe in attachment parenting," I explained to Rainy. "I envision my two boys clinging to me perpetually."

"You so do believe in attachment parenting, it's what you do, and you're so in co-sleeping denial," she said.

Co-sleeping denial.

I thought about that, at 2 a.m., when my little Bear stretched out his legs into my back. He had started the night falling asleep in our bed with his brother, Turbo, and then, after they fell asleep, Hubby McRed moved them to their bed. Around midnight or 1 a.m., little Bear came crawling into our bed. Usually, within the hour he's followed by Turbo. It's the rare night only one shows up, an even rarer night none show up til morning. They do it so often that it's very common for me to not wake up when they show up, only to find them in the morning, the cause of my aching lower back and drooled-on pillow. One will take my side, and the other will shoo Hubby McRed over and take his side. Usually, it's Turbo on Hubby McRed's side, and there is often a little altercation, whereas Grumpy Hubby McRed tells Turbo to go to his own bed if he doesn't like it and Turbo tells Grumpy Hubby McRed to just scooch OVER.

But we didn't start this way. They were in bassinets by our bed and occasionally in our bed for the first three or four months, then it was the crib. It wasn't until we turned the cribs to toddler beds that suddenly, we had nightly visitors. At first, like all parents defending their territory, we resisted. We would get up, carry them back to their bed, determined to have our own space. I mean, we only have a Queen! But they'd come back. And stealthily. They'd be quiet, and crawl in the center, where at 4 a.m., when we found them, we were just too tired to move. Or, on the edge of the bed, teetering precariously, clutching their little blankies, looking so cute and fragile we'd make room for them, lest they fall and hit their cute little heads.

I concede the point, we're co-sleepers, in denial.

But what about this whole 'attachment parenting' thing?

I found a blog that defined it finally. This blog was a totally random find, but it defined attachment parenting.

Attachment parenting is the backlash against uber-independence in our younger kids. Independence is great, but not for a four year old, not really. There's nothing wrong with keeping our young kids close to us. It's how families were meant to exist: in close proximity, where the young can be protected, nourished and nurtured, where they can feel safe, and the parents can grab them if you know, a sabre-tooth tiger came along, or big huge Vikings with axes... close proximity was key to a family's survival, but it also provided the children the basic needs they have for safety, love, nourishment and security -- the very needs that, when met, create a strong core of self, a foundation where great independence can be built, where they can then, on this foundation of love, safety and security in youth, build their own character, and forge their own lives, and go off merrily knowing that at the center of their being is the strength of their family.

Attatchment parents carry their babies in slings for, like, EVER. Well, I toted Turbo in a sling, while bouncing Bear in his bouncer with my foot. I took turns holding them in my lap when I worked part-time from home, at the computer, and yes, even while 'relaxing' and playing games, they were on my lap, occasionally causing my in-game character to, well, die. So yes, I am a big believer in that. I lugged my boys around forEVER. Ask my friends. Or any of my neighbors, who've seen me carry both boys at the same time. They were always, and still are, close to me. If I sat on the couch, I'd get mobbed by my twins, and my elder was often referred to as Klingon, as in 'Cling-On' for all the times she was also physically attached to me in her younger years.

Attachment parents extend breast-feeding. I didn't, but I would have liked to. But for the most part, I fed them while holding them, and did breast-feed for, oh, well, a bit....

Non-violence toward children -- well, duh.

I also didn't do pre-school. I felt there wasn't a real 'need' for it as long as they were getting social interaction with other children. They got tons of that. Now, they are in pre-kindergarten, and the lack of former pre-school's hasn't affected them in the least. In fact, most parents comment to me on how well my sons play with others, with each other, and how well-mannered and behaved they are (for the most part, they are after all, four year old boys).

When one of our sons are sick, he will spend an extended period in our bed before we move him to his own bed. It's so we can monitor him, his breathing, his fever, and it isn't until we're satisfied that his fever is down, his breathing is regular, and he's able to sleep, that we'll bring him back to his bed. (Of course, he does return to ours, so it's rather silly to move him, but hey..._

As for television? Oh sure! DEFINITELY! But, not a lot. And no commercials. Only mom-approved shows. And lots of trains. I concede more attachment parents probably let their kids watch less television than I do, but we do truly limit our kids television to about an hour a day... I know I know, they don't even need it, and we work on it, but, remember, I'm in denial about my attachment parenting and co-sleeping, so there.

So, yes. I guess Rainy's right.

Mesh Madness

2008-10-17T06:58:00.000-07:00

I got a mesh feeder, despite mixed reviews from my friends. Hey, it was on sale. I wasn't overly excited about it, given that the boy has no interest in self-feeding. Also, he's really not terribly oral. I know some babies put everything in their mouths, and he'll give some things an experimental chomp, but the default move for him is grabbing and thumping, not grabbing and biting.

Also, I'm afraid to give him chunks of anything with more texture than an avocado. And he is his father's son, and hates avocado. If the moment of his birth wasn't seared into my brain forever ("you forget the pain of your dainty bits stretching beyond all recognition" is a total LIE, just so you know), I would question his being mine. How did I make a baby who doesn't like avocado? Anyway, I'm nervous about choking, and I'd feel better about letting him try more stuff if it were in something safe like a mesh feeder.

Oh, my goodness, but this is the most fun thing since putting peanut butter on the dog's nose. Not that we did that more than once and we're very, very sorry, please do not tell me how horrible I am.

The first thing we tried was carrot. I keep carrots in the fridge, so they're nice and cold. This one was peeled, which seemed to help him figure out that the end result would have the same smell as the stuff in the jars.

You would not think someone with three teeth could damage a carrot by much, would you? Listen, wolverines do less damage to weak, drugged cows tied to a stake.

He made these little "narf narf narf" noises, and had this vaguely feral expression on his face the whole time.

Next we tried apple ("honey crisp" apples from the farm stand). He loves applesauce, so we figured this couldn't go wrong. The look on his face at the crispy crunch noise that his three teeth made was priceless. I was a little surprised that two tiny chunks of apple could create enough liquid to soak the onesie from the neck all the way to the waist of his pants. But he was thrilled.

The next night I gave him some refrigerated apple. He was totally uninterested until it warmed up, and then he dove on it like a starving jackal dives on a discarded hamburger. All that was left in the bag was the peel.

We took him to the pediatrician yesterday, and I mentioned our adventures in mesh feeding. She told me to try... pickle.

What?

She swore up and down that she'd never met a baby who didn't adore a dill pickle. She said she recommended cold whole ones for teething.

All we had at home were dill slices for hamburgers. But I popped two of them into the bag, and handed it over.

He grabbed it with a gleeful shriek and bit down. Clearly he had been expecting fruit or vegetable - you know, the only stuff besides breastmilk that he'd ever eaten in his life? He took it out of his mouth and looked at it. Tried it again. Stared again. And then he went to freaking TOWN. He managed to get every molecule of pickle out of the bag, too.

Try it!

What Would It Take To Make Breastfeeding the Norm?

2008-10-07T15:45:00.000-07:00

I've posted before about breastfeeding, and how it's okay not to be all delirious with joy. I mentioned in that same post that La Leche League kinda bugs me. However, as part of my job today I was explaining that in order to win a fight, you must establish your position as the norm, and the opponent's position as substandard. It helps if your opponent's position really IS substandard.

Then I remembered I GOT that from LLL. It was an essay on making breastfeeding the norm.

I haven't changed my mind, by the way. I ended my last post on this topic by pointing out that formula isn't rat poison. If you really tried breastfeeding (REALLY tried, with support and helpful books and lactation consultants), sometimes you still gotta choose formula - and you have the right not to feel guilty about it.

But you have the right to feel angry about not being allowed resources to learn, and the time to do it. I was talking with another friend today about how our society fetishizes motherhood, but only if the mother in question asks nothing of society in return.

It took THIRTY DAYS for me, a brand new mother who had never seen regular breastfeeding, and only two friends in the universe who'd even tried, to establish a nursing relationship that didn't make me want to scream. It took longer to figure it all out, to learn the holds and the positions, to learn the baby's cues and my needs, to find our rhythm. As a consultant who works from home, I had to be back at work after three weeks, but I didn't have to disrupt the nursing process. I had the luxury of being able to offer milk every time he asked for it, and this developed my supply and our trust in each other.

He was four months old before I had to leave him for more than an hour.

You think I'd still be exclusively breastfeeding my eight month old without all those advantages? I don't.

And yet maternity leave is six weeks long if the mother is lucky. She can have three months if she's willing to go a month without pay. Any woman who suggests that a European model is healthier for the infant, for the mother, and for society is a scumwad pinko commie who wants higher taxes and to eat bonbons at the expense of the working man.

My breastfed infant will get sick less often. He and I will both have long term benefits that have accrued from nursing. If we only consider our lessened impact on health insurance premiums, we've given back to society the money it would have taken to pay me for a real maternity leave. If I'm spared the various cancers that breastfeeding wards off, society could have taken the money it would have spent on the treatments and given my husband another week to get to know his son.

Breast is not best - breast is the norm. And parenthood is not a fetish, it's a societal benefit.

The current financial market situation explained to children

2008-10-06T21:27:00.000-07:00

...and Chicken Little ran into Henny Penny... Henny Penny, Henny Penny, the sky is falling the sky is falling....

Fear of Flying, Vanquished

2008-09-30T08:48:00.000-07:00

We went to visit Gramma and Grandpa. I would normally call them "Mom and Dad," except that I no longer exist for my parents. My function is strictly to accompany The First Grandchild to their home, and then allow them to snuggle him and pinch his fat little cheeks.

If you think this bothers me, you did not see the speed at which the mate and I raced for the door and out to a restaurant sans offspring.

Unfortunately, Gramma and Grandpa live a four hour plane ride from here. The prospect of flying with a baby horrified me when we first contemplated the matter. I am told I screamed bloody murder from Bangkok to LA as a six month old, and I was pretty sure karma was going to kick my ass and use my eight month old as the foot.

But it went pretty well, as it happens. It helps that the flight home was absolutely packed with infants and toddlers - count 'em SEVEN rugrats under the age of two within five rows of each other - so when our little miracle decided to see if the Shriek button went to eleven, no one even noticed.

Here's what we did:

- We did not buy him a ticket. Instead, we took his birth certificate to the airport and got a "non ticketed passenger document." That's the airport term for "lap baby." In hindsight... we should have shelled out the dough for a seat. He finally started sitting unassisted a few weeks ago, and as you know, any time they learn something new, that's all they want to do. Sitting on laps is for babies. We spent some time standing in the aisle so he could have the seat.

- I wore him in the Ergo from the minute we got out of the car until the final, preboarding diaper change. That got him all warm and relaxed, instead of amped up and ready to party.

- I skipped a feeding on the ground to make him hungry in the air. Wearing him and walking around distracts him. It doesn't work for long, but it worked long enough that when I offered him milk as the plane was taking off, he hit it like a starving trout on a handtied fly. Between the Ergo and the milk overload, he was out for ninety minutes. And if he noticed his ears popping on the way up, he didn't say anything about it.

(Bonus tip: Wear nursing pads. The pressure changes cause even my non-leaky breasts to squirt.)

- I told our seatmate not to worry about noise, because I was going to be nursing the baby. I asked the person in front of us to please tell us if his seat got kicked, because we were teaching our son not to kick seats. This was to establish a friendly connection, lay out our plans, and let them know that we were doing our best. It certainly pre-empted any angst.

- Restaurant toys were in the seat pocket. We have three little toys that only come out at restaurants, so they're always super awesome fun. The mate fastened his wallet leash onto one of them for bonus fun.

- Everything is in fact a toy. Crinkly peanut packets are swell toys. So is a partially flattened water bottle with a few peanuts inside and the cap screwed back on. I'm not ashamed to admit that the flattened, rattling bottle was my dog's teething toy of choice. That's how I knew it would work for my son.

- Trips to the galley are great fun. Also, gleeful shrieking and gabble are cute in the galley in a way that they are So Not Cute in your little narrow coach seat across from another baby who has finally fallen asleep.

- As soon as the pilot said he was descending, I started nursing. Again, if he noticed his ears popping, he didn't mention it.

A Food Confessoin

2008-09-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

I love raw eggs.

Well, they might as well be raw. I like my eggs so undercooked that there's barely a thickening of the coat on top of the yolk.

If my white isn't slightly less than firm, and my yellow isn't running like a river over my toast, it's cooked too much.

Yes, I eat dangerously.

Brilliant dinner ideas!

2008-09-24T17:10:00.000-07:00

During the week, you'd think a mom who stay home would have time to cook dinner.

HA!

So, for those moms who don't stay home, and who do stay home, and who live in a constant state in between home and somewhere else, here's my latest brilliant idea!

It always involves the crock pot, mind you. The crock pot is a great invention, whoever thought of it deserves to be sainted.

Anyhow, we always do a Sunday Crock Pot Chili, and then eat the leftovers another night.
So, on Saturday, I can prepare a crock pot meal and NOT eat it... then, I have two weeknight meals in tupperware in the fridge waiting for the day when I realize it's 5:30, and I've just BEGUN to think of dinner.

Anyone else have any better, or good, easy dinner ideas that don't involve processed foods? :)

Wall Street -- why moms should care

2008-09-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay that sounds a bit funny, doesn't it?

Moms should care about Wall Street. Everyone should care, and I believe most people do, but we're in a watching state. We are aware of the giant catastrophe that is our financial sector, we are aware that it got this way only because of gross mismanagement, greed and incompetence. And we're about to give the industry 700 billion dollars. But, this post really isn't about Wall Street.

It's about what moms should take from this financial garbage heap we're in. It's about how to shape our children's future, and how we need, some of us, to reconsider how we handle our money.

We need to rethink how much we give our children. We want them to have all the best, fun stuff, we want them to enjoy the luxuries of modern technology -- from Ipods to MP3 players to lap tops to game consoles -- we want them to enjoy the clothes they own -- designer clothes, pricey tops, the 'in look,' we want all of that for them. Maybe it's not so good for them, though. Lets face it, one of the top target markets are our children. Yes, our children! Not the moms who shop for them (and any dads that may) but the children themselves.

Maybe, just maybe we should take that power back. Now, I'm not saying this is going to save Wall Street. But it just might save our children. Which, in turn, might save America, because it's our children, with the financial lessons we instill in them (or don't instill) that will one day be working on Wall Street.

Lets look at what our children do to earn their extras. Lets look at the financial responsibility we place on our children (be honest, I know some people do marvelous jobs of teaching their children finanical responsibility, but if alll of us moms did, frankly, companies wouldn't be targeting our children). Lets teach them now, the lessons that we keep getting slapped with by our government, Wall Street, and our own financial habits.

Lets teach our children to take care of their finances now. Lets redefine American consumerism. Lets not be such blatantly easy targets for corporations to market stuff we don't need or even really value. Then, when our children grow up, maybe, when the ones who go to Wall Street get there, they will take with them sound financial principles taught in their own homes.

What do you say?

And, now, returning to the topic of Wall Street, do you think they could spare about 15K for me? You know, maybe one of the jerks who got us into this mess could take a 15K hit on what is sure to be a whopping compensation package funded by us, the taxpayers, and just hand it over to me. Since we're stuck with helping them stay comfortable as they leave Wall Street. And, just one more small thought... could we exile them from Wall Street, and put restrictions on how much money they are allowed to handle? You know, to keep them from jumping right back in and destroying our financial markets some more?

Planets aligning in perfect pet harmony

2008-09-15T22:04:00.001-07:00

Something has happened in the cosmos.

Something strange. Something... a harbringer, a sign, a message from the Creator of the Universe itself...

and we'd all be fools to ignore it.

My cat, the vicious old fart, and my dog, the crazy spastic gal, are co-existing on the same floor as I am...

This can only mean a few things...

a) The earth has tilted on it's axis slightly, throwing off my cat's inner hate beacon.

b) the third horseman from the four horseman of the apocylypse is about to arrive, shortly followed by the other three (but don't panic, they have to make it through customs first)

c) the lion has laid down with the lamb, which can only mean d will occur.

d) a comet is going to fly really close to our planet and set us into an early ice age.

Yes, it's that big.

Dear children,

2008-09-15T07:38:00.000-07:00

I am asking, begging, no, pleading with you...

Can you please wake up in the mornings? Is it so hard?

Why must I grab the foot that is hanging over the loft bed and shake, pull and prod it just to get a response? You must get up preferably at 6, at least by 6:30, and go to school at 7 every morning five days out of the week. You would think that you'd get up naturally, or with a little less prodding.

And Bear, why, why must I cajole you out of bed? Why do you need to come crawl into our bed in the morning before you will even entertain the idea of waking up. I'm not even sure you open your eyes on the way to our room. Why must I spend so much time convincing you getting out of bed is a good idea?

Now, Turbo, you are my exception. And I hate to mention you, because you are like the sun. You rise every morning, bright eyed and cheery, ready for anything... school, gymnastics, the hordes of Attila the Hun, anything... and Ipromise you I am not complaining or whining one bit. But I just ask one small concession. Before you inflict your cheery, bright-eyed gonna go tackle the day gleefully attitude on me, could you, you know, let me have some coffee first?

6-day old pajamas

2008-09-14T19:24:00.000-07:00

I am tempted not to post this, even though we try to write honestly about the ups and downs we encounter as we try to be good moms. Here goes. See those brown stripy jammies my baby is wearing two posts down as he happily chews on the rubbery lid of that medicine dropper? I haven't done laundry this week AND I changed him out of those tonight. TONIGHT.

So my mind is racing. Did he wear those jammies for 6 days in a row? Did he???

*think*
*think*

*LIGHTBULB ON* I remember! I for sure had him in a stripey shirt and overalls on Friday. Thank goodness. 3 days in same clothes IS acceptable, if not desirable. 6 days and my brain starts to melt.

I was gone all day yesterday and my husband had the kids on his own. Maybe he picked the jammies up out of the hamper (I mean off the floor, who am I kidding) and decided they would be fine. Maybe I even did it last night, I was very exhausted.

This is in direct contrast to his sister that changes her clothes at least 3 times/day.

He'll Cry More If He's Homeless

2008-09-12T06:11:00.001-07:00

The title is a mantra in our household, and as with most kinds of whistling in the dark, it doesn't always keep the hobgoblins of fear away from us.

I work at home. Not just the work of a household, but the kind of work that has deadlines, that depends on other people and has other people depending on it, and that brings in money. In order to do this work, I must be accessible for certain hours during the day, and I need a several hours, usually in a row, in which I can concentrate.

Sometimes I think my son would be better off in daycare instead of with a mama who can't always play with him when he wants to play. He used to jabber away with mock conversations, but he hasn't done that in weeks. Is it because I'm not paying him the attention he deserves? Am I not talking enough, responsive enough, smart enough to handle both him and a job? Daycare with all the stimulation and other children must offer advantages over and above what his constantly typing mother can give him.

Eye contact is the big one, of course. Lack of eye contact is one of the early warning signs of autism. He was never fascinated by my face, even as a tiny newborn - but I had to go back to work when he was three weeks old. He was in my lap, or beside me, the whole time. Still, my focus was on the screen and the keyboard instead of his sweet face. I know rationally that I did him no harm. Probably. But it doesn't keep me from breaking out in a cold sweat when I can't get my wide eyed son to look at me.

We nurse on demand in this house. But I feel like a cow, and from the first week of his life he has hated nursing in my office chair. Anywhere else, he's happy as a clam, and it seems to me to be a reasonable concession. But good lord. I'm bored just sitting there getting milked, and daytime television strikes me as a horseman of the apocalypse. So I've always had a book open during nursing. And now I'm wondering - have I taught him that he's not important enough to focus on? Is that why he gets upset after a long day of not having my full attention?

I know he hates the home office, some days - he'll cry and cry in the office, but the minute we go to another room everything is fine.

I do everything I can. I write these posts when he's napping. I try to schedule conference calls for naptime, or at least a time of day when he's usually happy to watch the wind blowing through the trees. I hold him on my lap when I'm doing research. I try to play on the floor with him for a few minutes every hour that he's awake. We go for walks every evening. The Perfect Husband reads dozens of stories every night. We cosleep. And yet I keep hearing the refrain "not enough, not enough." I look at his smile, I hear his laugh, and I think, my god, who thought I had the chops to get this kid to adulthood with the same perfection he had when I got him?

I have to work. TPH says "he'll cry more if he's homeless," and it's true. My friends whose babies go to daycare say I'm lucky I'm home with my son, my friends who don't have paying work say I'm lucky to have professional gratification and success. I am lucky, a hundred ways, I know that. But there are still days where every choice feels incomplete and every decision feels wrong.

Why I Like Infant Tylenol for Teething

2008-09-09T20:43:00.000-07:00

Linkin In

2008-09-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

So,

It is near nigh impossible to get a job without networking. I only know other moms and people who work in other states. Oh, so how oh how can I network?

Well, Hubby McRed gets about a gazillion e-mails a week from his LinkedIn account (okay, more like three or four a month) inquiring as if so and so from such and such a place could 'connect' or 'network' or 'chat' with him about various things involving employment.

So I updated my linked-in account with actual relevant information, besides my trite 'dude, I like to write stories about made up crap' statement I wrote back when I didn't care, and now, I am waiting to see if there is an anti-networking curse upon me that is blackening my soul slowly, day by day, or if LinkedIn can be my key to networking in a life that otherwise is networkless...

And no one need worry, Rainy, I won't be holding my breath. I'm not honestly sure what I"m doing, so I'm just doing it. But I admit to a bit of curiosity, while acknowledging that I still have to hone my network profiling skills and 'key word' usage...

I'd Rather Have An Exclamation Point

2008-09-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

For the last couple days, I've been desperate for salty crunchy things, I've been feeling a little bloated, I've been short tempered, and as I gaze at my beautiful, practically seven month old baby who is the light of my life and the apple of my husband's eye, I've been thinking OH HELL NO I'M NOT HAVING ANOTHER ONE, IF I AM PREGNANT AGAIN I WILL GO INSANE.

Well, the good news is I'm not pregnant.

What's sad is that I had totally forgotten that menstruation was even on the options list of things my body could do.

I remember being twelve, and desperately hoping I'd get my period soon, so I could sigh weakly, float to the nurse's office, ask for some Tylenol (this was the Dark Ages where they didn't need a signed waiver and your mother's name written in blood before you could get Tylenol from the nurse) to ease the pain of "my time of the month," and wear the little belt I'd read about in that Judy Blume book you had to read if you were a twelve year old girl.

When my period finally came, I was completely disgusted when I found out belts were decades out of date and I was going to wear a peel and stick thing that felt like a diaper.

I have not enjoyed my menses since. When it ceased, and I realized we had in fact made a baby, I was thrilled about not having a period. The main thing I was looking forward to about breastfeeding was not menstruating. In fact, I demand a refund from my uterus. I'm still breastfeeding all the time. I have a twenty pound seven month old to prove it! No, I can't say "exclusively breastfeeding," we give him smushed fruits and veggies now, but trust me when I say the nutrition is still entirely from my dairy bar here. He's eating tops a half jar (the small size) a day.

In the face of that, why am I back to snarfing pretzels (delicious, perfectly crunchy salty pretzels) like they were manna from heaven?

NOT FAIR!

The Price of Lunch

2008-09-01T13:33:00.000-07:00

If you haven't been in America recently, you may not have noticed that food prices have gone up. Of course, most of us had noticed it, way before the media kindly pointed it out for us, but one thing that is really affected by it, of course, is school lunches.

I've already cut costs down food-wise by shopping once a week by a list, and only for meals and snacks. I hardly buy prepared foods, because they are expensive. My kids don't get junk food for snacks, because I want them to eat healthy. The benefit to that is I don't pay crazy high prices for food that's bad for you anyhow. I occasionally think it'd be nice to buy organic, but not so nice that I'll fork out the extra bucks for it.

But school lunches? Well, now I have another reason to continue making my kids lunches at home. First, you can buy hot lunch at school, but it adds up to about $2.25 a day for my daughter. That doesn't sound too bad, and it's not if you're only feeding one kid and they're not snacking out of the vending machines loaded with junk food (another post, for yet another day).

It's far cheaper to make lunches at home, and throw in the home-made snacks -- all brandless trail mixes, fruits, home-made muffins and bars and granola. I rarely do store-bought anything for snacks anymore, because of basic economics. For the price of a bag of granola, I can buy all the ingredients and make five bags of homemade, for the price of a dozen muffins, I can make a dozen dozen muffins, and so on. It's just economical to spend an hour on Sunday baking snacks for the week.

So have higher food prices affected what you eat/your kids eat for lunch? What do you do for your kids lunches and snacks?

Actual Chat Excerpt

2008-09-01T06:20:00.000-07:00

[17:46] Sanya: Oh, speaking of grossness immunity, I got human feces under my fingernails, didn't notice, ate a bunch of grapes, noticed the poop, and just washed my hands.
[17:47] Sanya: Then later I was cleaning myself off, the paper tore, and I scrubbed my hands for at least a minute while I gagged.
[17:47] Sanya: And the boy doesn't have precious baby poopsies, he shits.
[17:47] Sanya: We started giving him fruits and veggies a couple weeks ago.
[17:48] Lahdeedah: roflmao
[17:49] Sanya: So why does my own shit bother me, but the boy's crap under my nails make me shrug?

How Lahdeeda Spent Her Week

2008-08-30T08:59:00.001-07:00

Warning: This is long... a bit winding... a bit of a long conversation to no one in particular. And I apologize for being windy and long today.

Few things are more scary than having a very sick child. There are worse feelings than the feeling that SOMETHING is wrong with your child, but you don't know what. There is that brief period of time, when you're watching your child, the time between a niggling sense of something and action, where you decide that something just isn't right... the fever is lasting too long, the cough is wrong, he's looking funny, something... just...something... then you make the decision and call or bring them in.

Now, he's fine. He's home and happy, and we're very happy he's home. But, you can understand, how scary it is, when your child is sick, and you have to make that decision to bring him/her in.

I didn't make the decision Monday night. He had a cold and a cough most of the weekend, starting on Friday, along with his brother. He played outside just fine Monday evening. On Monday night, he broke into a fever. He seemed a little uncomfortable, but he was sleeping, and sleeping is good. He was breathing a little fast, but nothing that registered as dangerous, though I noted it. He settled down with the Tylenol, sucking his fingers like he does.

I didn't make it Tuesday morning. He got up and came downstairs by himself, and got a sip of juice. He asked for breakfast, and decided not to eat it. I took his brother to gymnastics and kept Bear with me. He cried at Target. But he didn't have a fever.

I made it Tuesday afternoon. Bear had watched a show while Turbo ate lunch. He got up, brought over his blankie, and sat down on the floor by the stairs in front of me, indian style. He looked up at me with a slow, sweet smile. I remember it, the sitting down and the smile, because I wondered why he just sat down. Then I realized, it was because he was too tired to go upstairs. So I carried him upstairs, gave him some Tylenol and checked on him. Continuously. Something was just not right. I laid down next to him and listened to him breathe. He'd already had Tylenol, but he still was hot, still breathing fast. I counted his breaths. 61 a minute. I pinged a couple of my friends online about it at the same time I called the nurse. I left a message, but by the time I hung up the phone, I was getting ready to take him in. I wondered idly why I even bothered calling, but it was good I did, because she reinforced my concern, and said to bring him to Urgent Care. She also told me the urgent care in their building was linked to the pediatrics. So I knew to bring him there, instead of the one closer to my house. It's only a ten minute drive, so no real time was lost. She also told me they were seeing a 'lot of this' in peds.

I picked up Drama Girl at school on the way, it was dismissal time, and dropped her off at the entrance to our neighborhood. She walked to the neighbor's. I took Bear straight in, there was no traffic, and once there, we didn't even wait. After two breathing treatments I called Hubby McRed and told him where we were. After some chest x-rays, the urgent care doctor called the on-call pediatrician. He wanted to have us admitted and need the on-call peds to do it. The good news about the chest x-ray were they showed no pneumonia. The bad news was, the chest x-rays looked good, but that only made them meaningless. His oxygen levels were too low, and he was struggling. He was very sick, the dr. said, and he didn't treat clinics and labs, he treated patients and symptoms. Despite what the x-rays showed, Bear was struggling for breath.
I called Hubby McRed. Change of plans. We're going to the hosptial. Come straight here. The on-call peds called in orders. For us, the hospital is right across the street from urgent care. Very convenient. They gave us an oxygen tank. Bear was too tired to even walk. I'd been carrying him everywhere. He threw up on Hubby McRed. Not much, just a bit of liquid acid from his now-empty stomach.

But he was still sweet. And, still smiling at everyone. And when it got too much, he cried a little and I held him. Turbo had his stuffed bear. He explained to everyone how very sick his bear was, and demanded they take care of it.

We didn't have to wait long to be admitted, either. In fact, I was just beginning to fill out admittance paperwork when they called down that they wanted their patient upstairs now. Hubby McRed went upstairs with our little Bear while I filled out paperwork.

When I went upstairs, my little Bear was in a big bed, with oxygen tubes in his nose. They didn't look scary. He looked scary. Scary sad. Scary sick. A respiratory therapist was taking a good long listen at his lungs.

They told me they were treating it as though he had an asthma attack.

When the on-call pediatrician arrived, he reinforced that. He told me he had an asthma attack, a pretty bad one. He said when my normal doctor visited tomorrow, we should discuss preventative type treatments, especially with the seasons changing toward winter. He said they were going to watch the crud in his lungs to make sure it didn't become bacterial. It was just viral, and the viral infection is what triggered the attack.

That was all Tuesday.

On Wednesday, the doctor visited and said essentially the same thing. By now, Bear was sounding much better, and was talking. He still didn't have a lot of energy, but he sure was drinking a lot. This was the day I mostly forgot to eat. It was Hubby McRed's turn to spend the day and night with Bear, and he took Bear to the playroom, following him around with a little oxygen tank. He said that was nothing, compared to the guy following his daughter around with the IVs. I brought Drama Girl to visit after her dinner. I took Turbo to a neighbor's. Turbo was exhausted.

On Thursday morning, the doctor told Hubby McRed, not until Saturday. He did good most of Wednesday, but Wednesday night, his oxyen levels went down. But, on Thursday afternoon, he perked up. He got energy back. We spent most of Thursday in the play room, he just wanted... out... of... that... room. By Thursday night, he was running up and down the peds ward, breathless, but so much... better.

It was then the nurses told me it looked good for taking him home on Friday.

And on Friday, after a long week and an interminably long wait that lingered well into the noon hours, we finally got our papers...

Bear is home!

Yay!

We have a nebulizer, and a follow-up appointment, but most of all, our little Bear.

How to Raise Kids That Can Say No

2008-08-28T18:29:00.000-07:00

Sanya asked what I'll do to keep my kids from smoking. Honestly? I'm already working on it.

The trick is to start now to stack the deck in your kids' favor. Teach your kids by your own example. Don't say, "Do What I Say." Make a commitment to live how you want your kids to live: "Do What I Do." Give them a sense of identity as part of the family that doesn't do 'those things.' And surround them with friends and adult confidants that will be there later when they need it but won't come to you.

The only way I know how to do this is how my parents did it. They took us to church every week as a family. But not only did we go to church, we lived religion at home too. We had a night each week dedicated to spending time together as a family. We prayed together. My friends were mostly church friends, and my church leaders were friends too.

I know the idea of joining a religion to keep your kids out of trouble is not incredibly attractive! There should be more to conversion than that. But I grew up in a religious (not fanatic) home, and I know it's what kept me out of trouble. My siblings and I didn't smoke, drink or try drugs during high school or college. I even remember when my folks were trying to get my brother to stop watching R-rated movies and had to give them up themselves.

Here are some things you can start doing now, whether you're active in a church or not:

* Find other parents that have the same values you have, that have kids the same age as yours. Church is great for this, but maybe playgroups or gymboree classes or things like that could help you find families like yours too.

* Get together frequently and encourage your children to make friends with this group. Continue to augment your group of friends with families that you think will be good examples and support to your child.

* Give your child freedom now to make choices, and let them suffer the consequences when they make bad choices. They need to learn early how choice and consequence works before the consequences are the serious kind they'll be facing when they're older.

* Spend time together as a family doing fun things, and also use this time to teach your family a system of moral values.

* Live those values yourself. If you don't want your kids to smoke, you don't smoke either.

* Set long-term goals as a family regarding what kind of family you want to be, and then constantly encourage and help each other achieve those goals.

* Don't forget that even the best parents that do everything they can still end up having kids that have problems. All we can do is our best, and then never give up and keep loving our kids no matter what.

Of course, it's really easy to say this stuff now. I was also a great parent before I had kids. So ask me again in 10 years how I'll handle these things. ;)

Do As I Say, Not As I Did

2008-08-27T18:23:00.000-07:00

I quit smoking in October 2002, after just short of twelve years of the cancer sticks. I didn't smoke a LOT for the first two years, but once in college I got to a pack a day pretty fast. I never wanted to quit, either. I wasn't one of those whiners who hates herself. I enjoyed every minute. I loved the rituals, the accessories, the friendships, the easy camaraderie with other smokers. It calmed me, soothed me, gave me an excuse to bail from bad situations or linger in pleasant ones.

And frankly, it was an image thing, at least in college. I had a leather jacket and a zippo and I didn't give a damn if no one asked me to dance at clubs, because I was Mysterious and usually ended up with someone else being Mysterious. If I didn't hook up, I didn't care that much because I could spend the rest of the night carousing with my best friend, the one I met at orientation because we smoked the same brand. Playing pool was more fun. Darts were more fun. Road trips, work breaks, sanity breaks, all of them were better with cigarettes.

I should mention that I was a complete idiot about this. Some families have the genetic luck to be less than susceptible to cancer and smoking related illness, but I am not from one of those families. Ever see someone die of emphysema? I have. Not pretty. I smoked anyway.

My parents certainly didn't smoke, approve of smokers, encourage smoking, or in any way suggest that smoking was cool. They disparaged smoking and smokers from the moment I was born. I smoked anyway.

When I left The Horror (aka my ex), and into my first Very Own Apartment, I decided it would be a non-smoking apartment. I smoked on my patio, but never inside. I used to claim I didn't know why, but actually, it was because The Perfect Man didn't smoke. I knew my habit stunk like Satan's underwear marinated in elephant crap, but until the Perfect Man, I didn't care. So I steam cleaned and Febrezed my beige couch (and it turned out it was white with pink and blue flowers), washed all my bedding, and kept my sweet vintage ashtrays outside.

Then I noticed my dog choking up wads of brown phlegm.

She had always lived with chain smokers. The three years prior to the apartment were spent with four of us sucking down the coffin nails in a tiny unventilated basement. (You see how the couch turned brown.) I realized to my horror that second hand smoke was in fact BAD, that trapping other life forms with my smoke was bad, and that I'd done it to a helpless little beagle.

I guess that planted the seed. I still didn't want to quit, and I still don't understand how I quit cold turkey that fall. But I did. Haven't had a single puff since, because I'm pretty sure I can't quit a second time - and I'm pretty sure that if I were the type to have a single ciggy with a beer and stop, I wouldn't have smoked a pack a day for a decade.

Now I look at my beautiful son, with cancer on both sides of his family tree, and parents that border on OCD sometimes, and I think... well, I don't think anything, because I freeze in raw panic. I joke that my non-smoking, non-drinking, never even TRIED drugs husband is going to have the talk with the boy, but that's a copout.

What will I do? What did YOU do?

I Had a Brilliant Post All Ready

2008-08-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

I had a post in my head last night, all planned out and everything. However, I was in bed when I did that planning. As an experienced writer, I long ago learned to keep a notebook and a pen by the bed for such occasions. Last night, I opted to just try and remember the post instead of reaching three feet across the bed and possibly touching the land mine, I mean my son.

You see, he was asleep.

Prior to that moment, he had not been asleep for nearly sixteen hours straight.

Those of you shuddering in sympathy agony obviously have a baby.

The night BEFORE last, my husband and I were dancing around the bedroom like idiots, because our son achieved a milestone previously reserved for the greatest and strongest of our entire species. No other baby ever achieved such magnitude, no other parents ever experienced such exultation. His first tooth came in. And by "came in" I mean "half a millimeter of enamel was above the gumline."

The miracle, of course, is that he didn't cry. He wasn't feverish. He appeared to cut that first tooth completely effortlessly. And then yesterday happened.

He woke up cheerful, and when the first naptime came around, he was still cheerful. He had his milk and drifted peacefully away. I was downstairs writing when we heard him chirp... twenty minutes after falling asleep. Uh... usually that first nap is two hours. We didn't worry - we were on our way to Grandma's house for family time, and that hour long car ride is good for catching up on naps.

Only he didn't catch anything but the view from his car seat.

We tried putting him down for a nap three times during the visit, as he got steadily more and more cranky from exhaustion. All attempts failed, although each time we snuggled up, he nursed greedily. His cousin was peaceful and charming, and our shrieking, squalling, red faced rageaholic was looking even worse by comparison. Finally, we bailed. He seemed to fall asleep before we hit the end of the driveway, but every time I checked the mirror, his eyes fluttered open.

"Mama, for god's sake, I'm wiped out, help me," ran the entreaties from his baggy eyes.

As soon as we got home, we did the bedtime routine. No dice. We fed him sweet potatoes, took a walk, sang songs, offered chilled teething rings, rocked, danced, and left him alone (the latter being a trick that almost always works when all else is failing). Through it all, he cried, and made the sign for "milk" over and over.

"I do not think that means what you think it means," I said to my desperate son, considering he was frantically making the sign WHILE ATTACHED to my breast.

At 11:30 PM, despite his not appearing to be in pain or particularly chewing on anything besides my nipples, we threw up our hands and gave him a shot of infant Tylenol. I snuggled him up and let him nurse from the side I'd been "reserving" for two hours just to make sure there was something there.

At 11:33 PM, I had my brilliant blog post idea. Then I looked down.

You wouldn't have reached for the notebook either.

Potty Training Tips

2008-08-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

Now that I've told you not to potty train your kids too early, let me give you a couple of tips that made all the difference when I potty trained my daughter. They won't work for everybody, but they were the right thing for us.

First of all, don't over-praise. The more you make a big deal about potty-training, the more "power" the child has and at that age they'll use every bit of power they can get. If they know you want them to do something, there's a good chance they won't, just to be contrary.

I did try letting her wear just underwear for a day. That lasted about an hour, until the first accident. She pointed at her puddle on the floor and ordered me, "You clean it, Mama." Um, right.

What actually worked much better was putting her in snug fitting leggings over her panties. When she had an accident the leggings absorbed everything. Then when she told me she needed a change I told her, "Just a minute," and pretended to ignore her for about 5 minutes. She hated the feeling of the cold pants and didn't even want to move. Instead of me making a big deal about it (she loves any attention, even negative), I just told her she needed to wait until I could help her.

Try expressing some doubt in their ability. Kids love to prove us wrong. My trick was to get her stuffed animals talking about it. The bear would tell the bunny, "I don't think Olivia is big enough to sit on the potty." And the bunny would tell the bear, "I think she can get up there, but I'm SURE she can't go pee-pee."

This next trick STILL works for me. She loves to race, so all I have to do is say, "I'm going to go potty FIRST," and then I start running for the bathroom. She practically runs me over trying to get there ahead of me.

And now that I've said all that, I'll just reiterate the best tips: Don't start too early, and take your time. Having a potty trained child isn't any less work for you as a parent, it might even be more. So don't rush it, just follow your child's signals and keep reminding yourself that we all figured it out eventually - your kid will too.

The Potty Training Secret

2008-08-20T11:28:00.001-07:00

There are a lot of "sure-fire" procedures you can use to potty train your kid. Here are a few of my favorites:

"Feed your child lots of salty foods like pretzels and chips so they will be extra thirsty and drink a lot, and then make them sit on the toilet every 30 minutes. They will experience success and like it, and VOILA."

"Don't let your child wear a diaper, just let them run around au naturale in the house. S/He won't want to make a mess on the floor, they'll just automatically want to go use the toilet. VOILA."

"Don't leave the house for one whole weekend and spend the entire time doing intensive potty training with sticker charts, potty training books and movies, and positive reinforcement. By Monday: VOILA."

Yes, they all make it sound that easy. Like you just have to follow a simple plan for a very short period of time and "TA-DA," you will have leaped the hurdle of potty training in a single bound.

I'm going to let you in on two secrets now.

1 - It's almost never that easy. There will be puddles. There will be pee running down legs into shoes. There will be such horrible, terrible things I am not even going to tell you, but even your imaginations cannot dream up the depths of the grossness.

2 -

Before I get to this second one I want to make sure I have your attention. NO ONE is going to tell you this but me and it will change your whole life for the better. Pay close attention now...

2 - Wait to potty train. Yes, I just said it. WAIT. Stop trying to train your 1.5-year-old. I know you want to brag about your potty-training prodigy, but seriously, just wait.

No one tells you what things are like post-training, so I'm going to share a few of our horror stories:

- Pulling over on the 4-lane freeway to use the portable car potty on the side of the road. The wind from the passing cars sprays the pee all over mom's legs, the car and the child.

- Standing in line at an event bathroom, no one will let us go ahead, while toddler has an accident on the floor.

- Every single dinner being interrupted with, "I have to go potty!" and then assisting on wiping as needed while dinner sits on the table. (And yes, I try to make her go before-hand but, "I don't need to right now!"

- Laundering the carseat over a dozen times thanks to accidents where we're stuck in traffic or no where near a bathroom when she announces (for the first time), "It's about to come out!!!"

- Having to use public restrooms all over the country, pretty much every time we go shopping or out to eat. I have been in so many gross bathrooms.

So now you know the secret. I know when you've got a kid in diapers you just want to reach that holy grail of potty-trainedness. And I know sometimes diapers are gross and inconvenient to change. However, you'll still be wiping that bum for years after you've potty trained the kid. Don't be in such a rush to make yourself a victim of your 2-year-old's every potty whim.

Diapers are tiny little miracles. Appreciate them while you can.

The Rosetta Stone

2008-08-19T17:58:00.000-07:00

The books assured me I would know my child's cries in their infinite variety. And as a good mother, I would read the eloquence of his tears and ride like an avenging angel to his rescue.

Yeah, well, six months later, I can tell you what the "tired" cry sounds like, because it's so much more keening and desperate and heartbroken than the other cry. Uh huh. "The other cry." As far as I'm concerned he's only got two. I'm desperate for him to learn to talk.

The other cry has tiny variations, but today, staring at this small person who has taken the place of my baby, I had an epiphany. His other cry means just one thing - "I have seen the status quo, and lo, large and powerful life form hovering nearby, verily it sucks monkey testicles. And I say unto you: Cause a change to occur."

Seriously. Besides "tired," what else is there? He's hungry, he wants someone to make it so he's not hungry. He's bored, he wants someone to entertain him. He's overwhelmed by the noise of the Stargate episode we're watching, he wants it turned off. He's tired of the bouncy seat, he wants to be moved to the toy car. He's squishy in the pants region, and he wants to be cleaned off and dried. Whatever "it" is, it's something he wants changed and he lacks the power to change it.

This is why half the time, it doesn't matter what he actually wanted, being picked up and bounced makes the crying stop. It's change, and that's all he really wants. I feel like I understand him a little better.

I still can't wait until he learns to talk and blows my theories to bits, though.

The First Day

2008-08-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

The first day of middle school was yesterday.

I suppose I'm okay.

It started out fine, with me just waking up like normal.

Then I looked in the mirror and realized, are those lines, ETCHED in my face, my lines? Is that my skin? My FACE?

Then I went and grabbed some coffee, pretending it was bad lighting.
Drama Girl was already up and dressed. It was the FIRST day of MIDDLE SCHOOL after all.
She'd been nervous all weekend.

I packed her lunch, answered questions about the vague memories of middle school I have, and made sure she had everything she needed.

Then we drove to school. We live in one of those places where it's more than a mile and a half to walk, there's no bus service, and while it's probably fine to walk, if you want your kid to actually get to school on time, you need to drive them.

So I drove and entered the 'kid drop off lane.' I hadn't bothered with make-up, I mean, it's not like I was getting out, and figured it'd just be a quick drop-off, go home, have more coffee kinda thing. This school's drop-off lane extends out onto the main road and works pretty much like the pick-up/drop-off lanes at the airport, only there's only one lane, and inside every vehicle is the same picture: parent driving, child in passenger seat.

It dawned on me, as I waited in line for my turn to drop Drama off, that I had a daughter in middle school. I remembered a scene from Buffy, where Buffy's mom is dropping Buffy off at school to have her day, her life... and it hit me... I'm not Buffy. I can never be Buffy now, either.

Not only am I not Buffy...
I'm Buffy's mom.
Those etched lines in my face. The skin that doesn't look dewy or glowy without product. The fact I have a middle-school daughter. My complete indifference to my morning wardrobe.

Buffy's Mom.

While Buffy was out slaying vampires and having all sorts of experiences in life, her mom was driving her around. She was the chauffeur who showed up at the most inconvenient times. The one who grounded her from life, lectured her on morals, punished her for breaking rules...dressed in fairly frumpy clothes.

Not only am I Buffy's Mom, I can't even PRETEND to be Buffy anymore, because, sitting in that car lane, letting my Middle School daughter out to have her experiences, I realized, I'm her limits, I'm her structure and order, her place to go when the world is too much, when the middle school students turn into zombies and vampires that are out for her blood and want to eat her brains, I'm the one she runs to, not to fight them, that's her job, but to hide from them for a while, and to make annoyingly healthy snacks. And if I dress too clever, or too fashionably, and I'm too cool, well, that's not okay, not that it's ever happened.

And not only am I Buffy's Mom, but even Buffy, well, how many middle schoolers know Buffy?
I'm old too!

I think, if perhaps I had just worn make up this morning and jeans, to drop my kid off, instead of 'ahem' loungewear, I'd have not had quite a severe reaction. If perhaps I had gotten up, thrown on some product of some sort, felt a bit spiffier this morning, than I would have been fine.

But, looking at all those spiffily dressed kids, with their long hair and 'pretending to be grown up' 'tudes, well, it had an effect. And as I dropped my kid off, she melded into that group, and I knew, that at that moment, when she melded, I disappeared into that black hole where all kids imagine their parents go during the day.... since parents, and Moms especially, don't actually exist once the child leaves their presence.

A word about the Olympics

2008-08-16T10:48:00.001-07:00

I'm jaded on the Olympics.
I don't know what did it.

I wasn't bothered that the fireworks display was 'fixed up' so it'd appear brighter and bigger.

I was annoyed, but not all that surprised, given China's nature, that they pulled a bait-n-switch with the endearing little girl that lip-synced at the Olympics.

But the Chinese girl's gymnastics team did me in.

Nobody really believes these girls are old enough to be in the Olympics. They don't look 16. They look like the pre-pubescent 13-year-olds everyone suspects them to be. And it's not that they won the gold in the team events that upsets me. It's the aura of deceit that the Chinese are pulling, an aura that other nations and the Olympic Committee is helping uphold. The age on the passport is the only thing that matters, and they are holding to that caveat as an excuse to not investigate the allegations that three of the members on the Chinese gymnastics team may be too young.

Are we really surprised though?

This is a nation that starts training before the kids even get to be kids. They live in training camps and faciilties and their entire lives are sports. It's not enough to be good, they have to be great. And if, at 13, a girl can win the gold, what is it to change the age on a passport in a nation who's government is involved in every aspect of an Olympiad's life? If a 13 year old is better than a 16 year old because she is lighter, limber, less 'mature' physcially, than what is it to change a number?

I think our girls are great. They are world-class, and I think they can hold their own against girls a few years younger, but the truth is, it's not okay, and it's not right, because we don't let our 13 year olds compete for very good reasons. If we're keeping our best athletes home because they aren't the correct age, is it really 'okay' to let other nation's get away with it?

And, if it isn't (which it's not) why won't the Olympic Committee do something about it, investigate it, find out the truth?

They won't, because in an event that is supposed to have nothing to do with politics, politically, it would be a huge slap to the Chinese if it's found they lied, and politically, slapping the host-nation of the Olympics isn't a good idea.

And that is why I'm jaded on the Olympics.
Because this Olympics, more so than any other, is all about the politics.

The Chinese girls who are most likely too young to be performing will win their medals. The American girls who win their medals will pretend to not have an opinion about whether or not the girls were too young, because it IS all about the competition for them, but it will be in their minds... what if they got to compete against the 16 year olds....

In soome sports we'll dominate, in others, we won't, and Phelps will be hyped up for being the most winningest athlete ever, (he's part merman, didn't you know?), and the Olympics will fade from our minds as fast as they dominated our television screens, but the sour taste that the aura of deception the Chinese left won't fully fade.

It's just a reminder that this nation is a nation who shows you only a careful mask. What you see is never what you'll get. I think it'd be good to remember the olympics for the future... because the Chinese are becoming big players in the world. It would be wise to deal with both the mask and what is behind it as well.

School Shopping -- a nightmare

2008-08-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

Did you know the only difference between Justice for Girl's Jeans and Arizona Jeans are one has an extra wave thingie on the back pocket?

Seriously.

There is nothing more nightmarish than back to school shopping, and I started early. But today, the Friday before the First Day of School, I had to go out... in the unseasonable rain and even more unseasonable cold, to Justice for Girls, J.C. Penney, and the grocery store. It was mad chaos. First, Target has the cutest shoes, but nothing at all, LITERALLY nothing at all, for any girl who is above 8 years old. We left empty handed.

J.C. Penney had their lovely buy one get one for $1 sale which comes in handy when you have twins, but their shoe selection for kids is, and has always been, very dismal, at least at the shop I went to. Turbo and Bear talked (begged) me into Star Wars Lego T-shirts, the most unpractical and unnecessary clothing item I purchased. It's summer, they've got TONS of t-shirts. But I did end up with cute shoes.

But the hordes and crowds were out. Nobody seemed to be buying a lot, but everyone was out today buying... something. It didn't help I had to do groceries today as well.

All I can say is it's done, I'm glad of it, and Drama Girl and Turbo and Bear aren't getting a piece of clothing unless absolutely needed, in December, when it begins to think about snowing, because if I think about how much I spent on clothes that will get stained, ruined, ripped, and outgrown by December... lets not think of it.

Dear Snarky School Counselor's Secretary... regarding an IEP

2008-08-13T19:58:00.001-07:00

My daughter has an IEP. She's had one since she was 9. I just would like to clear that straight up.
I am her parent, and I like to be involved. I'd also like to make that clear.

I understand you were in the middle of chatting with your BFF about adopting poor children overseas, and I'm sorry to hear that Ukranians are no longer adoptable, and I realize I'm interrupting your most interesting conversation, at 10:45 a.m. during your workday.

It's just that, when I asked you to take a message for the counselor because I wanted to touch base and have a short conversation with her about my daughter's IEP, you seemed to misunderstand me.
Somehow, you believed I needed a lecture on IEP Process 101.
You explained to me the IEP process, the same one I've been working with since Drama Girl was 9, but thank you kindly, for assuming I never actually bothered to read her IEP. But you didn't take down my message.
You then proceeded to explain how the special education teachers and regular teachers and principles from both schools all met together to have a nice little chat about my daughter and her IEP. I already knew this. It's mandated by law that I receive notice of and invitations to all IEP meetings and reviews, and I'll be damned if I never miss 'em.
I'm sure it surprised you, what me being a parent, and all, that I was disrupting what you perceived to be as sound process.
Anyhow, what you clearly should also know, since you know so much, is that last year, your counselor was in a foreign country, and didn't make my daughter's IEP meeting. Neither did I, although I did send an e-mail and discussed beforehand with her current teachers what I felt were important things that hadn't been dealt with before. The fact your counselor was absent is the reason I'm sitting in your office smiling through teeth that really want to gnash you to precious little bits, trying to get you to give me a piece of paper so I can deal with someone I really need to deal with.

That was all I wanted -- a simple piece of paper so I could write a note to the counselor requesting a brief chat about the transition.
I understand that you are a process person, so clearly caught up in the process that it never occurred once to you that all the while when you were discussing meetings about MY child with counselors and teachers and special education helpers you neglected to mention me, the parent. You seemed to think I was an unnecessary complication. My presence or involvement in the matter unnecessary. Your precious process handled it.
And you still didn't give me a piece of paper.

Well, Snarky School Counselor's Secretary, I'm afraid you've given me the impression we'll be seeing a lot of each other these next three years, so let me start all over and reintroduce myself properly.

I am a mother of a child with an IEP. I care about her education, the help she's getting or not getting, and what goes on during her day at school. I am an involved parent. I am not satisfied with any process that involves my child, specialists and teachers, but not me, the parent. You'll be hearing from me fairly frequently. Try to be less snarky. Oh, thank you, now, for finally giving me the piece of paper. Don't think to toss it. If I don't hear from a counselor soon, I'll be calling Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday... you get the idea.

P.S. By the way, regarding your precious process, let me assure you, no one can spin in and out of process, paperwork and red-tape than someone who's worked ten years in government. I know what process is. It's why I'm damned if I'm going to leave my child to it.

Being Crafty, oh and Curious Dragons

2008-08-13T13:20:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take a crafty person to be crafty.

Take my chore chart, for instance. This masterpiece is functional and crafty, but messy, but a huge success.

But I want my sons' room to be crafty. Turbo and Bear deserve a crafty boys room. They just do. They want one, too, desperately. I can tell, it's in their eyes. Trust me. It's really for them.

Anyhow, because I know deep in their hearts what kind of room they want, I'm giving it to them. They want a blue room, because they asked for blue. They want airplanes. They love letters. They want cool cube shelves to put the wood cars and trains and planes they paint on display. They want a mom crafty enough to do all of this.

They got me.

So, here is craft no. 1 of the boy's room.

Craftily painted wood airplanes that will fly along the walls amongst craftily painted wood stars.

Witness Exhibit A:

The first of five airplanes hand painted. Cost of plane -- $1. Cost of reusable paint -- $8.

(The stars are only 25 cents)

Before:

And After:

The little mistakes won't be obvious when hanging on the wall! It's just good ole crafts paints and cheap paint brushes!

Stay tuned for next weeks' installment: Painted letters that spell out a silly math wordquation.

Oh and btw, for those curious about curious, open-minded dragons who could just as easily be really confident with themselves.... Fleming was created at a pottery studio. Remember, I'm not crafty, and I'm not really good at oh, painting neatly... or doing anything neatly. I like to think it gives my creations 'character.' Anyhow...

Meet Fleming.

I am not so much pink, as rose.

I am most definitely mysterious.

But most of all, I am Magnificent...

Fleming, The Magnificent!

... and curious... oh so very curious....

Fretting

2008-08-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

Here are some things that I still worry about, even though on this second time around I feel like I should know better:

1 - Obsessive/Compulsive type hand and wrist twisting
2 - Still can't roll over at 7 months
3 - Isn't sleeping more than 5 hours at night
4 - Head sweats so much it makes wet spots on my clothing
5 - Excessive ear wax

Oh, I know that nothing's wrong with him, but sometimes I'll see him twisting his little hands for an hour, or flipping his tongue around in his mouth like a crazy man, and I have a twinge of fear. Not a "mother's instinct is usually right" twinge, but an "Oh no, they were RIGHT about the vaccines and what have I done to my baby??" twinge.

Luckily I'm both too busy and too tired to actually pursue any of these panics. But I don't make fun of moms that are worrying about something that seems insignificant to me. I suspect it's a hormonal imperative for mothers to fret, and according to my mom, it never ends.

In Its Proper Channel

2008-08-13T05:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Perfectly Normal Ladies,

Why do new parents talk nonstop about poop? When my baby is born next month, I'm not going to bore my childless friends to death talking about waste.

Uh huh. You and every other innocent that ever walked through the shoals of pregnancy.

But you have to make this vow. Everyone does. I did, my mother did, and her mother before her did as well. We were all going to be sparkling conversationalists the day after birth, and we certainly wouldn't go on and on about our child's obvious brilliance and beauty, LET ALONE fecal matter.

The very strongest among us even keep this vow for a week, maybe two. We have read extensively about meconium, and we chuckle gently as we explain to our spouses that greenish black tar is perfectly normal for infants. When it becomes "mustard seed" in appearance, we smile tolerantly as we assure the teenaged cousin changing his first diaper that it's natural.

However, when it becomes green and gooey, almost taffy like, no vow will stop us from racing to the internet, asking if our offspring is the victim of some kind of intestinal plague. Even if the internet is reassuring, we will still ask every single parent friend we have for further points of data. At lunch. In front of the childless girl. Sorry. It's the circle of life, my friend. The only way out is to not have kids at all, or for that matter, pets.

Finally, bear in mind that during baseball season, baseball fans talk about baseball. And for a new parent, it's always poop season. Between blowouts, texture changes, color changes, and strange smells, the infinite variety never grows stale.

For instance, blowouts. Some people think they're caused by diapers that are the wrong size for the infant. The factor in question is "volume." A diaper may fit properly, but be unequal to the infant's output ability.

My mate and I believe there is another cause. We call it the channel effect, or "up the chute." The crack between the baby's butt cheeks acts like the veins in a leaf. The capillary effect sucks the poop right up and over his tailbone in a fountain of feces. Of course, you don't realize this has happened until you pick up the baby, and it squelches out over the top of the diaper, and soaks though the onesie. Actually, you might not realize it even then, until the disgusting slop seeps through the sleeve of the nice hotel-quality lounging robe you got for a Christmas present, the one you stopped wearing when you realized you'd created a life form that throws up all the time.

But maybe your baby hadn't horked in three days so you thought it might be safe, so you were wearing it as you waved your husband down the driveway, holding his son so the last thing he saw on the way to the office would be his gorgeously attired wife and his heir learning to wave bye bye.

Oh, you were so wrong, but hey, at least you got the onesie off without smearing poop in the baby's hair. And this accomplishment is so much harder than it looks that you must tell your friends, and indeed, the ENTIRE INTERNET.

Needles

2008-08-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

The boy turned six months old over the weekend. (Woo! End of SIDS danger! Show me a girl who tells you she isn't secretly holding their breath a little bit until this risk is past, and I'll show you someone who didn't do any pre-partum reading on the topic.) And that meant it was time for his six month vaccinations.

This topic is the one above all others driving me insane. I believe there is zero evidence proving that autism is caused by vaccines, mind you. But I do wonder, with cause, what long term evidence we have that THIS many vaccines in such a short period of time is safe. Some of these vaccines simply lack any long term studies (at least, any studies available to the tenacious layman with internet access and a library card). I am concerned, with good cause, about the "inactive ingredients" in vaccines. Finally, I don't quite understand the reasoning that says a one size fits all vaccination schedule is a good idea.

The temptation not to vaccinate was not strong for me, however. This is a small world, and with easy, affordable global travel, all kinds of creeping awfuls are just one trip through an international terminal away. Even though the northern outpost of hell isn't quite as cosmopolitan as the town I was living in, we still have an international community hailing from places with drastically different approaches to public health. And I hope to teach my son to love travel, to love exploring, and to not be afraid of people.

I still have to look out for this one little person. I declined the Hep shot given at birth. He wasn't going to run into any hookers or dirty needles that week. I am holding off on chicken pox until I can no longer refuse due to school entry requirements - I'd rather he just got the chicken pox. We are not getting flu shots in this house for more reasons than I can list here. And even my pediatrician thinks the rotavirus vaccine is strictly a profit maker for pharmaceutical companies.

I've read all the books recommended by the anti-vax crowd. The science in most of them is... weak. However, there is no thoughtful rebuttal that doesn't require equal leaps of faith.

But my grandfather suffered for more than eighty years from post-polio syndrome, and he was considered lucky. Measles and mumps are more serious than chicken pox, and those vaccines have survived the test of time. And modern horrors like Hep, Hib, and the pneumo-nasties make me glad there is better living through chemistry.

We're still doing a delayed schedule.

2008-08-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

Fresh Eggs, Ten Grand a Dozen

2008-08-07T06:01:00.001-07:00

I saw this link on CNN, and it raised some mixed feelings.

I considered selling my eggs, once upon a time. I was fairly desperate for money (trying to get out of a relationship with The Horror) and my buddy W. was constantly going on and on about selling sperm being a terrific part time job. Yes, he said job. He's a darling, but sick in the head.

Unlike the women in this article, I didn't even pretend that it was about Helping People Achieve Their Dreams. I was looking for five thousand dollars. The procedure for the donor involves pain, being so overloaded with hormones that PMS looks like a frolic through a Disney cartoon, and a remote chance of damage to one's own reproductive organs. Five thousand dollars seemed about right.

Now I'm on the job hunt again, only this time I've got a six month old boy. The stakes are higher all the way around. The economy is a mess, and I'm even more of a specialized employee than I was the last time I was looking for work. But I'm much less picky this time around. My son is going to have everything. I don't know how to explain it, because I don't mean "every toy he ever wants" or "every whim indulged," and god knows I don't mean "social success and popularity" because I'm the last person on earth who can show him those tricks. But I want him to have everything, just the same. And being underemployed after two relocations in one calendar year is not a good start.

The stakes are higher in the egg business, too. I am now in possession of proven, defect-free fertility, in an age where diagnosed infertility is on the rise. Fees don't top out at five grand, they top out at ten grand. And although I spent the first six weeks of his life wondering what the hell I'd done to my life, I now look at this sweet boy industriously chomping on his own fat toes and think, my god, what would I be without him? Selling eggs (my rose colored vision does not extend as far as pretending that I'd donate the eggs and be paid for my time) doesn't seem so horrible.

Well, except that I think it is.

I suspect infertility is on the rise because the first generation of people conceived with technological assistance is breeding. Well, trying to breed, and failing, because Darwin and Mother Nature are not flouted with impunity. Evolution does not care about dreams and desire. Either you can pass on your genes (the entire purpose of reproduction), or you can't. The ones who can't die out. Period. Compassion, wishful thinking, and technology postpone the inevitable.

The discussion on this topic invariably gets watered down by a lot of soft hearted people waving wallet sized photos of adorable urchins, accompanied by the shrill cries of "You're saying THIS BABY doesn't deserve to exist!" Um... no. The argument has nothing to do with particular babies, with chuckable chins and dimpled knees. My heart can break for someone who wants a baby at the same time that my head understands why it shouldn't happen.

Of course I know about wanting a baby. It took months to succeed at creating my own particular baby, and I spent those months wondering if there was something wrong. That wondering shook me at a fundamental level. The fear of being defective, broken, an evolutionary dead end is something you cannot possibly understand until you experience it, but let me assure you the fear is total. My husband and I agreed before we started that, should we be unable to conceive naturally, we would accept the judgment of evolution and not fight it. I believe this was the only rational option, and yet there were nights where I thought surely it wouldn't hurt to get some tests done. Identifying the problem wasn't the same thing as using extraordinary means to solve the problem, right? I was well on my way to total rationalization when we found out our son was on the way. Oh, I understand the temptation of seeking treatment all too well.

Despite the question of infertility looming large in my mind, I don't think the answer is to create life in a lab, not yet. We don't know enough about the all the variables, why some embryos live and others die. We don't know why some women bear children as easily as a Pez dispenser pops out candy and others die trying. All we've succeeded in doing is pushing off the reproductive defects onto the next generation, and in so doing, we've done harm to our species.

If I were to sell my eggs for ten grand a dozen, I would be contributing to the problem. I'm an organ donor, says so on my driver's license, but this isn't the same thing. And I think paying ten thousand dollars for eggs (and fifty bucks for sperm) is an ethical disaster. It seems to me reproductive donation should be more like kidney donation if it must be done at all - the donor should be known to the recipient, and there should be no money changing hands at all.

Bearing a child is not a right, and fertility is not a matter of justice.

Book Review: What To Expect When You're Expecting

2008-08-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

If you go to a consignment sale of children's items, you will find one billion copies of What To Expect. My private theory suggests that the reason for the abundance is because everyone secretly hates this title. My own antipathy for it began with the insipid cover and only got stronger.

Informational: 5/5
Dad-friendly: 1/5
Hippie stuff: 0/5
Fun: 1/5

Unlike some pregnancy books, where the author's agenda is hanging its ass right out where you can see it, this one seems so innocent. It just wants to help you! It just wants to give you The Facts! It only wants what's BEST for you!

The first clue that something is askew is the section on fathers. It is ten pages long, out of 475. It is condescending. (There's a bit about how sometimes men find that after seeing their child emerge from their wife's vagina, they may be freaked out about putting Mr. Happy in there. This is a real problem for a number of couples. This book's response? "The father begins to realize that the vagina has two functions, equally important and miraculous." Really? How helpful! Not!) It is entitled "Fathers Are Expectant, Too." I love that little "too." It's so petulant sounding. It whines about not getting enough attention. It pats the daddy on the head and gives him a treat.

And when you dig through the rest of this omnibus of all things dreadful (the blogger Matthew Baldwin calls it "the Book of Fears"), you realize it's just as creepy and paternalistic towards the mommy. For instance, according to this book, it's not a good idea to go to a birth center as opposed to a hospital because complications requiring medical intervention occur 20 to 30% of the time.

Between one fifth and one third of all births *require* medical intervention? How did the human race get this far? Please understand, I reviewed the facts and chose a hospital birth myself. But this kind of fear mongering is irresponsible and not backed up by science or data. More on that in a future review.

The diet section alone causes more neuroses than a roomful of spiders. "You've got only nine months of meals and snacks with which to give your baby the best possible start in life... Before you close your mouth on a forkful of food, consider, "Is this the best bite I can give my baby?" If it will benefit your baby, chew away. If [it's for you], put your fork down."

AAAAAACK. Holy guilt train, Batman! What this book doesn't tell you is the margin. If you're 90% likely to have a healthy baby even if you eat nothing but Ring Dings, does this diet take you to 99%? Or is it as I suspect... eating all that chard takes you from 98 to 99? Whoopty doody. Let me tell you, last fall, two thirds of the Perfectly Normal team ate salad and lean protein and didn't even keep chips in the house lest we eat an entire bag in one sitting. We also met once a week and sucked down Arby's as if Arby's would vanish from the earth without our support. Our babies are beautiful, and six months later we're almost back to our prepregnancy sizes and shapes. The other third of Perfectly Normal had TWINS four years ago and if she ate any kale I'd die laughing.

Sixty three pages of this volume are devoted to things that could go wrong. Remember, ten pages for your partner. Y'all, you are a hell of a lot more likely to have a partner in baby making than chorioamnionitis. You are also a hell of a lot more likely to get some kind of infection in the hospital than you are to wind up with any other kind of infection (according to the hard data available), but the book doesn't go into THAT.

And that's my point about the "All Things Horrible" section. A book that is purportedly an overview of pregnancy and delivery, soup to nuts, cannot include everything. The dividing line between the stuff that gets cut and the stuff that gets posted is necessarily the likelihood of the stuff in question. This book has an agenda, and that is to suggest that pregnancy is dangerous and requires the oversight of trained professionals every step of the way. This book does not want you to walk away thinking that it's natural or normal. Only by constant vigilance can you emerge on the other side with a healthy baby and intact dainty bits.

That is just such obvious crap that only someone who has been reading What To Expect could possibly believe it. In fact, that's my problem with the whole book. Simple observation will tell you that this book cannot possibly be telling you the whole truth. But when you're pregnant, and you want to do the right thing because you're already a good mom, it's easy to lose perspective.

Skip this piece of fear mongering guilt laden crap. Better omnibus volumes will be reviewed in this space over the weeks to come.

Patience is its own reward

2008-08-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

What? Huh?

That generally was my reaction whenever my mother explained about patience being it's own reward. Patience, she said, was one of the greatest virtues.

When it came to patience, I was not, and still am not, the most virtuous of folk.

The thing is, patience in everyday life is rarely rewarded, thus the saying patience is its own reward.

But what is patience's reward? Well, patience.

Take today for instance.

I decided to be cleverer than normally is good for me.

I would rush into Michael's on the way to picking up the boys from their swim camp at the YMCA. I had 25 minutes to get to Michael's, pick up something I knew EXACTLY where it was, get in the truck, and go get the boys. PLENTY of time.

Of course, you know what happens now.
One cashier. One customer. 300 separate pieces of scrap book paper. A cashier incapable of saying "300X item." Customer using $100 bills to pay.

I exhibited patience the entire time the customer in front of me was doing her thing. After all, she had a right to buy all the stuff she wanted. It wasn't her fault I was in a hurry. I even exhibited patience with the cashier... until...

...she needed someone else to look at the bills. Okay fine.
...she needed keys to get change. Fine.
..."I'll be right back, I need to return these..." Um, not fine. The entire time I've been standing there patiently, her first act, to reward my patience, was to leave.
...Oh, excuse me... as the phone rang... that was her second reward, rather than letting the other non-busy cashier who was faster, and politely ignoring the phone, get it.

So, then of course there was her snarky attitude, her simpering smile because she had seen me glance at the time a few times (well, I had to, didn't I, I was running late and needed to decide if I had time for this, or if I had to drop it and run) and had apparently decided to be snarky. I could have moved to the next register when it opened up, but I mistakenly thought she would understand that she had a 'long customer' and be courteous and fast. Whatever.

What I wanted to say was,

Listen cow, (even though she had no spots and didn't moo once) could you you know, speed it up?

Then I thought:

Wow, if it had been a cold winter's day and a cashier made of molasses rung me up, it'd have been quicker.

Kay, Snarky Molasses Cow, do you REALLY need to return the keys RIGHT THIS MINUTE seeing as I'm the ONLY one here and the other woman is FOUR rows down?

So as I was walking out the door, rushing, really, because now I was running late, I thought, this world just doesn't reward patience.

But patience rewards us with patience.

Because, at the end of the eternally long check-out process with the Molasses Cow, I realized the problem wasn't her, it was me.

I expected her to not BE a molasses cow. Truthfully, nothing I could do or say, short of setting fire to her, could make her move faster. Oh, I could grumble at her, stamp my feet, sigh, huff, puff, and look around for the Speedy Gonzales Cashier, but that's about it.

Anyhow... clearly, all of those behaviors are self-defeating. She's still a cow made of molasses ringing up your order, and arson isn't worth the aggravation.

I was really just mad at myself.
Mad, because I've encountered the Molasses Cow before, and had forgotten about her.
Mad, because I knew I didn't REALLY have time to run into Michael's, and it was my own damn fault.
Mad, because there really isn't anything you can do to a Molasses Cow, even a snarky one. It wasn't her fault (though I could have done without all the efforts to keep me waiting even LONGER just because I looked at my phone a few times) she was a Snarky Molasses Cow (I may be preaching patience, but I'm a bit bitter, so forgive me). She was what she was. I should simply have left for Michael's earlier, or gone after I'd gotten the boys.

The truth is, by the time I got in the truck and realized snarky cows made of molasses are unchangeable, I was no longer mad. I realized the truth. I wouldn't have cared if I had gotten there earlier, or after picking up the boys. By not exhibiting patience, by not leaving early or waiting for later, I was rushed, and it made me cranky. Because the world doesn't reward patient people, or people who are in a rush either. In fact, the world doesn't reward anyone. It doesn't care.

If I were more patient, the entire, above incident wouldn't have happened. Oh sure, she'd still be a snarky molasses cow, but it wouldn't have bothered me. I wouldn't have been in a rush. I'd have been able to chew the cud with her if I wanted.

So I left, with a great deal more patience than when I arrived, and every red light (and trust me, they were ALL red) served as amusing little pointed reminders that I can be as late or impatient as I want, the lights were all going to be red and it'd take as long as it took to pick up the boys. I chose to be patient, and sang to the radio.

Patience's reward is patience.

Roast Your Veggies Peeps

2008-08-04T17:36:00.001-07:00

How how how do we ever get our children to eat their vegetables.

We boil em.
Bake em.
Puree em.
Disguise them in dips.
Bribe em.

But, have you tried roasting them?

Take your cookie sheet and dump some chopped potatoes on it, red or white will do. This sounds familiar, right? Usually you dump some rosemary and garlic or some other spices on it.

But have you ever tossed oh, other things in it?

I take a cooke sheet, dump a few chopped potatoes on it, and then toss in whatever vegetable I have on hand. I mix it up, too, so there's usually three or four vegetables in there.

Pour some olive oil on it, just enough to coat, spice however you like, and roast til yummy. The key is to make sure the oven is hot enough, 450 at least.

I've gotten everyone to eat vegetables this way. Things my children eat without questioning now, when using this method?

Well, lets see, I've done:

Potatoes
Onion
Garlic
Green beans
Asparagus
Brocolli
Cauliflower
Zuchinni
Squash
Carrots
Parsnips

I mean, ANYTHING goes.

Gardening For City Girls

2008-08-04T07:16:00.000-07:00

I love making things grow. I'm the coworker with ten million houseplants, the neighbor with an extra two hundred tomatoes, the crazy lady skulking by your curb carting away the spider plants you have so thoughtfully labeled "free to good home."

Unfortunately, having been a workaholic of some degree for the last decade, I'm also strictly a container gardener. The whole of nature is pretty much defined as "stuff I planted" and "stuff I didn't plant there and must therefore be removed."

Here in my northern outpost of hell, I have been trying to come to terms with nature. I have allowed certain things to just stay in my yard to see what happens. Some experiments have gone very well - beautiful pink trumpet shaped flowers erupted from the funny little green weed under a shrub. Some have gone very poorly - my purple thistles did my heart good until I realized that thistles go dramatically to seed. My entire yard is covered in tiny thistle seedlings despite my removing two shopping bags full of the damn things every week.

There is one lovely plant I've been nurturing for months now. It's really very ornamental and I'd been considering digging it up, potting it, and taking it inside.

Over the weekend, I pulled up a Weed Listing (http://www.ppws.vt.edu/weedindex.htm) and started trying to figure out what everything is.

It turns out I have been nurturing a ragweed plant.

Some women aren't cut out for rural living.

Book Review: The Expectant Father, by Armin Brott

2008-07-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

I read more than fifty books about pregnancy, birth, infants, and breastfeeding. This wasn't pregnancy-induced psychosis; I did the same insane research thing before I went to Florence, bought a Miata, got married, etc. I got a library card at age four. I believe that if it's worth knowing, it's in a book somewhere. I distrust the internet. However, if you're willing to trust the internet and you're pregnant/considering pregnancy, allow me to be of some use to you.

If you're going to read just one book about being pregnant and giving birth, the most useful one I can recommend was written for your male partner: Armin Brott's The Expectant Father.

Informational: 4/5
Dad-friendly: 5/5
Hippie stuff: 4/5
Fun: 3/5

Honestly, a lot of the pregnancy books out there are horrific. You have to wade through a ton of insipid fluff about glowing, and biological destiny, and madonna-and-child flavored horse manure. It almost makes sense that the best pregnancy book would be targeted at a male. No male in his right mind will tolerate guilt trips disguised as sacred vessel worship. Also, no self-respecting man is going to read pages and pages of thinly veiled snark at his expense about how men don't do chores unless females fool them into it.

This book assumes that a real man wants to be part of the process, is slightly disturbed by the process and trying to hide that, and would like to knock out the assigned reading in a couple of nights of bedtime page turning. This book suspects that the man holding it may be skimming, and might reach for it at a later date thinking "Hey, didn't that stripey book say something about mood swings?"

It's short, well-organized, kicks off each section with bullet points, assumes that the reader is intelligent, and covers just about everything you find in much, much larger books aimed at women, without hysteria or scare tactics. The advice is practical and simple. Emotional issues are covered without the kind of condescending- towards-females nonsense that other "for the father" books are prone to spewing.

The author is a bit of a sensitive new age guy. In my household, we did not make plaster belly casts, we did not take photos from bizarre angles, and we absolutely did not play special music to the belly. My mate did lean over and whisper "CHEVROLET" at my bulge at every opportunity, lest his son and heir come out a Ford man, but I don't think that counts as the kind of belly worship the author hints at having. Also, in my household, the placenta is considered medical waste, so I knew my mate had reached the page about saving the placenta in the freezer when "WHAT THE HOLY HELL" erupted from the left side of the bed.

But in terms of a solid overview, written sensibly by a man who assumes the reader is an interested partner? Two thumbs up.

DIY Baby Food

2008-07-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

First of all, don't be in too big of a hurry to start your baby on solids. What babies need is milk or formula, and their little bodies aren't developed enough until they're 4-6 months old to get the benefits of anything else.

I like to joke that a baby's ready for solids when they watch you eating with such hungry eyes and drooly mouth that you feel guilty.

Baby food doesn't take much to make. You just need some cooked food or fresh fruit, plus a liquid - like formula or breastmilk. Look at the food combinations on store jars of baby food for ideas: Sweet potato and apple, peas and carrots, turkey and squash. Here's my (our) favorite recipe:

Tropical Treat

1/2 ripe avocado
1/2 ripe banana
1/4 C yogurt or 1/8 C breastmilk or formula

Blend ingredients together until smooth.

I like to mix them in The Magic Bullet. Yeah, I know, what's with the name, right? But I like it for making smoothies and baby food.

Once I'm done blending, I put the extra in an ice cube tray and freeze it. After it's solid, I just pop the little baby food cubes out of the tray and double bag them in labelled ziplock bags I keep in the freezer until I need one. Each portion is about an ounce of baby food, and I usually thaw it by putting it in a bowl which I put in some hot water.

I got my favorite baby food recipe out of this cookbook for kids. A friend of mine gave it to me at my baby shower, and I've used it for 2 babies and it's really been great. She's got recipes for newborns through toddlers with fun ideas for finger foods, snacks and crafts and tons of other parenting tips.

You don't have to be a supermom to make your own baby food, but you'll feel like one when your baby gives you this kind of reaction:

Cause and Effect

2008-07-29T08:27:00.001-07:00

Here's a bit of reality about living with a husband and/or children.

Here is a list of causes, followed by the effect they have, which is never the intended effect, and possible solutions.

Cause:
You've JUST made your bed, and have even straightened and fluffed the pillows.
Effect:
Your kids are now jumping and rolling on the bed.
Intended Effect:
The bed would stay made.
Solution:
Scream like a banchee and scare children away.

Cause:
You've done all the dishes and put them away. You've done so many dishes, there's nothing to put in the dishwasher, it's empty. The counters are cleared, why, you may have even wiped them down.
Effect:
Your husband, sensing your momentary joy, comes walking down the stairs with a pile of bowls, glasses and sliver ware higher than his head. "I found these, too!" he says, happily, "They were buried under computer parts!"
Intended effect:
The dishes were finally clean, the kitchen shiny, and you were filled with so much elation you were considering going fully to paper plates, or at the least, sit down and read a book.
Solution:
Growl that you're not doing 'upstairs hidden dishes' and make him either a) take them back or b) load the dishwasher himself. (Don't be surprised if he chooses a) Consider going to paper anyway.

Cause:
All the laundry in the house is done. Even the linens. You didn't even realize you had linens.
Effect:
Your husband tosses mounds of dirty clothes on the floor by the door. "Look what I found! They were under all the dishes that were under the computer parts!"
Intended Effect:
The laundry was done. That NEVER happens. You were going to have a celebratory drink or three.
Solution:
Sigh. Admit defeat. Laundry is never done.

Cause:
Your sons' room is clean.
Effect:
They are so happy with their clean room they dump all their trains and train tracks and proceed to build the uberest train track ever.
Intended Effect:
They manage to keep it clean for an hour, at least!
Solution:
Stop cleaning sons' room. When you need to vacuum, sweep toys off to one corner.

Cause:
Your tween's room is clean.
Effect:
You wake up. Your tween's room is never clean. You're just dreaming.
Intended Effect:
Your subconscious is trying to get you to clean your tween's room.
Solution:
Tell your subconscious to harp on something else.

Cause:
You take a bath.
Effect:
Your family is pounding on the door with various emergencies ranging from 'I need a band aid for my imaginary owie' to 'where are all the clean bowls because I want ice cream' (check under your computer parts...) to 'can't I have some mommy time?'
Intended Effect:
You take a bath and revel in the peace and quiet of bubbles.
Solution:
ALWAYS lock the door. Turn on the fan. Put cotton in your ears. Sing loudly.

Countdown to School

2008-07-28T08:28:00.000-07:00

Where I live, we are at the 15-day countdown to school... mind you, to school, not the end of summer.15 days left until school. Drama girl will enter sixth grade and the first year of middle school. My sons will enter Pre-Kindergarten.

Now, the one thing about my children, they don’t handle change very well. In this house, the kids live by Routine, and we all suffer if Routine is broken.

So, here’s my list of things I’m doing to prepare the children and myself for… gasp… Not Quite Fall But Back To School…

Wake up for school, now –
Gone are the sleeping-in days. Drama Girl is getting up at 6 a.m. to prepare for her 7:20 a.m. start time. It gives her little under an hour to eat, shower and dress before she rides her bike to school.

Second batch of school shopping this week –
I mentioned I already bought her some school clothes. This week, we’ll go pick up some more jeans and a couple of tops. Spreading out the school clothes shopping means she doesn’t pick out bad fashion choices she’ll hate in three months in ‘back to school’ mania. It’s also cheaper. Welcome to my world.

Chore chart, this week –
In our house, everyone’s schedule is going to change radically. By getting all the kids used to the ‘before school’ and ‘after school’ routine (minus someone’s homework Bwahhahahah) now, it won’t be such a shocker when they go. The boys earn ‘points’ (poker chips) for good behavior and, as of this week, doing certain chores. The points collected at the end of the day turn into stickers. After so many stickers, they get a treat. I know it sounds complicated, but believe me, it’s easier than any other method I’ve seen or tried.

Better breakfasts’, now –
I’ve read the Healthiest Kid in the Neighborhood and I recommend that book for all parents. Gone are the pricey cereals that, even if they are the healthiest on the block, only last two days. Enter oatmeal. Every morning, my children get a nice helping of Quaker Oats oatmeal with a bit of milk and maple syrup or brown sugar, or honey, or fruit… you get the idea. I will also add other breakfast to break it up, but I’ve established oatmeal as the staple.

Ban soda –
and lets just not talk about my current issues with Diet Coke. To be quite honest, my lust for cold, carbonated chemicals comes and goes.

Math refresher –
this is probably not Drama Girl’s favorite, but when I approached her with the idea, she wanted to do it. See, she has a problem with mulitplication. Mostly, it’s because the schools she went to teach three different ways to do mulitplication and division (don’t get me started) and it just confused her. So during her normal ‘homework’ time, we’ll be doing 30 minutes of multiplication and division facts. If your kid is weak in any area, and you have time (i.e. you don’t work) I think this is a great way to both help strengthen the weakness, and get them ready for well, homework.

Doing dinner – a pure Mom thing –
I have been making dinner using my favorite cookbook at some point between 6 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. and occasionally earlier, using whatever I had, or the phone to call for pizza. But for the after school and bedtime routines to work, I need to have a consistent meal time that’s early enough for everyone to have some down-time. So enter the ‘make dinner’ time. Consistent, every day, and pre-planned. I do really well with this, so it won’t be too hard. I just need to start now. Our meal times are at 6 p.m. every night.

Bedtime no ifs, ands, ors or buts about it –
Now, even in the summer, everyone in this house has a standard bed time. We’re quite obnoxiously boring about it. I don’t even allow the children to deviate much on the weekends. Drama Girl gets maybe an hour extra on the weekends. Healthy Sleep, Healthy Baby pretty much agrees with me on bed times. Turbo and Bear are in bed at 8 p.m. Now that they are in pre-K, I will roll the bedtime back to 7:30 p.m. Drama Girl is in bed at 9:30 p.m. Last year, she was in bed at 9 p.m. and lights out at 9:30 p.m. But last year she could sleep until 7:30. This year, she will be in bed at 8:30 p.m. and lights out at 9 p.m. If you do one thing, I suggest this be it. A routine bed time does wonders for parental sanity. Oh, it’s good for the kids too.

So, what am I missing?

What essential Back-to-School preparations should I be making that I’ve left out?

No Longer Gunning For Last Place

2008-07-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

I belong to a few mommy mailing lists. I can't quite bring myself to meet up with any of them in person, though. There's this competitive streak that runs through a lot of the stay-at-home moms, and it's hard for me to cope with.

For one thing, I can't compete in the Gracious Hostess category. I'm working at home, and not only can I not whip up cheesecake from scratch because of conference calls and deadlines, but I haven't even finished unpacking. From a move in March.

The Endurance division is also a killer. I adore Pick Your Own fruit and vegetable farms, I love nature walks, and trips to the zoo make my heart sing. But the schedules posted by these groups call for spending four hours or more per activity! Working at home makes these outings impossible for me, but even if I was as free as a bird, I wouldn't go. Four HOURS? If you pick fruit for four hours, you're not an agritourist, you're a migrant laborer.

But those are pretty minor issues, really. The real stumbling block is that in the Competitive Motherhood race, I'm still sitting in the starting gate.

Oh, sure, I huddle in the corner of the internet with my friends muttering things like "all babies have their own timetables" and "he'll be able to roll over before school starts." Also, Lah and Rainy, both experienced mothers, assure me that the one list I belong to is filled with lying liars who lie. After all, the women on the list have five month old babies are standing, getting ready to walk. Their two month old babies are rolling over with wild abandon. Their seven month old babies have twenty word vocabularies, and their two week old babies smile and laugh. Their three month olds have multiple teeth that chew a variety of organic foods. (Note to my fellow first timers - whiles some of that is possible, it is all unlikely, especially if reported for a majority of babies in a small group.)

My son (24 weeks old) apparently exists entirely to make the other mothers on this list glad that at least their baby is not in last place. He smiled at six weeks, and laughed at three months. He is fascinated by books, and squeals when several favorites appear, but since we have been reading to him every night for 22 weeks now, it's less literary genius and more habit. He is not yet imitating the sounds we make. He "sits" and "stands" with his hands clutching ours for dear life. He is not interested in solid food, and he has no teeth yet.

But yesterday, he rolled over from back to front. And then a few hours later, he looked at his daddy and distinctly made the sign for milk. When I came running in response to the triumphant paternal bellow, I thought perhaps the daddy was crazy, because the baby wasn't making his little hungry fish face, he wasn't fussing, and he'd just eaten two hours before. But then he made the sign again, and when I offered him milk, he dove on it like a piranha and sighed a peaceful sigh.

The boy's clearly Ivy League material.

Never Say Never

2008-07-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

A few years ago when my first child was still an infant, I was visiting a friend with two kids. Her son was a few months older than my daughter and I saw my friend pat his diaper to see if he needed a change yet. Then she said, "There's a little pee in there, but I'm going to wait until there's more."

Oh, I was in such self-righteous, mortified shock. Waiting to change a wet diaper?? And then later I was such a snob. I remember telling my playgroup of first-time moms about it, and everyone gasped and said they would never do that.

I SO do that now though. I feel like it's such a waste when I change a light diaper, and am so proud and thrifty feeling when a diaper is totally saturated.

There are so many things that I thought I'd never do. I'm embarrassed sometimes about how snooty I was about them too. Things like:

- store-bought jars of baby food instead of home-made
- Co-sleeping
- Saying, "No" too much instead of using positive words
- I leave my 3-year-old unattended in the tub with the door open so I can hear her for her once/week bath (I always said I'd do daily baths). I make her sing so I can hear that she's okay.
- Sometimes when my husband is working late I call ahead for a pizza and then when I run in to pick it up I leave the kids in the car. (I fret mightily about this one, but the walls are windows and I can see the car the whole time and it's under 2 minutes that I'm gone.)
- I let my baby play with pens from whatever institution I'm at - the bank, the gym office, the grocery store, the hospital. Disgusting, I KNOW! And I didn't think I would ever do that, but I do.

Of course there's the binky dropping, and while I'm not at the stage of washing it off every time, I do still at least eyeball it for visible contamination. I'll never be one of those moms that just tells the kid to pick it up and put it back in.

Or will I?

At this point, I never know just what "terrible" thing I'll do next. I haven't done the child "leash" yet, for example, but instead of viewing them with horror now, I find myself admiring how practical they are.

What have you done as a parent that you swore you'd never do?

Twilight

2008-07-24T06:48:00.000-07:00

I hate to digress from the baby-talk on this post, but I no longer have babies, just a couple of four year old runts and an 11 year old who's the at the event horizon of the black hole of attitude.

So I had two choices, I could think about my daughter growing into a teenager and all the parental angst THAT particular line of thought brings about. I could write about my sons and their desire to drive me crazy, what between Turbo's "Don't Kiss Me Mom" rule and Bear's daily morning sour puss, there's a lot of insanity. Then we could go straight into why it's not a good idea to jump from the coffee table to the couch or why you can't wake mommy up at 5:30 a.m. I'm sooo SOOO sorry, but then, there was another choice.

Vampire or Werewolf?

If you are a female above the age of 15 and you haven't read Twilight, well, what planet have you been on? Get thee to a book store now, and don't give me 'feel good' stories about how you'll pick it up at the library. Every Teen Girl in America has already snagged all the copies. Go, read it, realize it's like, totally Romeo and Juliet and a bit Heathcliff (even if you haven't read Wuthering Heights, you HAVE to had read the cliff notes version) and more modern, only without sleaze.

So, for the rest of us.

Vampire or Werewolf?

Edward or Jacob?

Peach cobbler or Apple?

Oh sure, Vampire seems the obvious choice, because we've been conditioned by society to find Vampires sexy and attractive, and Werewolves furry and hungry. But, it's just not the truth. So look beyond societal portrayals of what Vampires and Werewolves should be, give it a fair go, and reconsider.

Bella is torn between Edward, the Cold Marble Vamp, and Jacob, Hot Soft-n-Furry Werewolf, although she doesn’t realize she’s torn. Teenage girls are notoriously oblivious to their hearts.

But the saga gives me the opportunity to consider, by merits, which, really is the best lover.

Consider the Vampire. Cold, marblesque and calculating. Top of the predatory food chain. A loner, mysterious and dark. These are appealing characteristics that attract the danger-lovers in all of us, but think about the nights. On a cold, long, dark night do you want to be cuddled up next to a cold, hard, dead body? In this particular instance, I would choose the Werewolf. Who doesn’t want to snuggle up against something hot on a cold dark night? And if that hot happens to come in the shape of a wolf-rug, well, hey, all the better.

But that brings into consideration another problem with Werewolves. They are ferocious. Then, Vampires are as well. The difference is that with a Vampire lover, the worst that could happen is your lover accidentally drinks all your blood and turns you into a vampire, too. You’d have an eternity to hold that against him. It’s like, an ‘I win shut-up' card. He accusing you of only dining on young male models and actors? Well, if he didn’t DRINK ALL YOUR BLOOD, you wouldn’t have to dine on anyone. With a werewolf, well, he can in the heat of a moment mistake you for the tastiest dinner he’s ever had. You could potentially lose a limb.

So both of them can kill you. There is a difference though, a key difference. The Vampire is constantly trying to NOT drink his lover’s blood. The Werewolf only has to worry about losing control once or twice.

This is why the Werewolf is more attractive. Think of it. Dogs are domesticated wolves. A Werewolf is semi-domesticated, a cross between man and wolf. So when your lover is in wolf mode, some obedience training can go a long way in assuring you won’t ever turn into your lover’s midnight snack. Vampires, from what I understand, mythically, are notoriously hard to train.

Not to mention, you can have a relatively exciting but somewhat normal life with your werewolf. I mean, they don't change THAT often, and it's not like they can't hold down a decent day job in construction or shoot, even walk out in the sun with you. And he still has the protective abilities some might crave for in a Vampire. A ampire can only work the night-shift. If you don't find a financially smart one, you're gonna be the bread-winner while he dozes all day, and you'll hardly EVER see him in the summer. Even if he is a 'day-walker' sort, his best moods are at night. And forget about being 'friends' with his friends. Vampires make short-term alliances. Not to mention, some of those 'friends' may view you as a future source of nourishment. Where a Werewolf is emotional and passionate, capable of feeling and oh, living, a Vampire's emotions take decades to bring out. You could spend the better half of your life trying to re-teach humor to your mate.

As much as I love the idea of the Vampire, realistically, I think Werewolves would make better long-term relationship material. Vampires can be a drain, literally. At least you can go to a Werewolf party without being considered the entrée, and you know you'll never freeze on a cold dark winter night, or find yourself the beverage of choice at a Vamp soiree.

As for Edward vs. Jacob? Well, Edward's got the control thing down, the gentleman thing, but is it really a good life for Bella, to constantly be 'protected' and taken care of and told what she can and can't do? With Jacob, who, admittedly is childish and petulant, at least she has 'fun.' I mean come on, when, with Edward, has Bella ever been able to just let her hair down and do something for the fun of it? I'm just saying... I mean, hey, I like Edward as much as everyone else, I just think he's the summer lover you end up having to ditch for the crazy fluffy guy...

Not to mention, with Jacob, Bella gets to keep her heart beating...

Breastfeeding - Give It Thirty Days

2008-07-23T14:51:00.000-07:00

To continue with a variation on a theme Rainy mentioned yesterday, allow me to provide for you the essence of no less than four books entirely about breastfeeding and easily three dozen books with chapters on breastfeeding. Here it is, stripped of the Madonna imagery, the propaganda, the drama, the guilt, and the science:

Try it for thirty days before you give up, because for a lot of people, it kind of sucks until then.

Oh, sure, there's a little more to it. For example, the basic latch. All the books emphasize how much of your dainty bits have to be shoved into the gaping maw of an infant, and you still won't do enough shoving without advice and help from either an experienced mama or a professional consultant. In the hospital I never ever fed him without calling a nurse to come check my latch. And afterwards I had Rainy help me, and I had 24/7 advice from another dear friend, and I still had trouble getting the hang of it.

And certainly the pain aspect gets underplayed. It hurts at first for a lot of people. It certainly hurt ME. The second week was the worst. He was constantly nursing in order to jack up my supply, but neither of us had the technique quite down, so I was chafed and tender and ready to sob whenever he wanted to eat. I DID sob more than once. Lanolin ointment helped, but not with the pain. He would take 20 minutes or more per side, and you know how the books say most new babies need to eat every three hours or more? That's measured from the start of one feeding to the start of the next. So if you feed the baby at 1 PM, he will again want to be fed at 3 or 4 PM. Never mind that he didn't detach until 2 PM.

Oh, and my good gracious, but the books are all so filled with lies about how fulfilling and romantic it is for every good mother. You can be a good mother but not feel like you've achieved bliss. I felt like a cow. A trapped milk cow, who had to sit in one posture in one place for most of my waking hours while an unappreciative unresponsive little squaller sucked my poor dainty bits into raw hamburger.

Because I have a job, I started using a pump relatively early so the baby would learn to take a bottle as well. That was week three. And I got darn little milk from it, with my sole consolation being that it hurt less than the baby's jaws of death.

This was all run of the mill breastfeeding stuff, too! I didn't get mastitis (like a virus with fever and pain, but for your boobs), I didn't have engorgement, I didn't have cracked or bleeding nipples, I didn't have supply problems either over or under. Once I had a plugged duct, but I just followed the advice in one of the books and it was clear in a day. Still, overall, I would have to say that on Day 28, I felt that breastfeeding sucked so hard it could have removed the paint from my car.

And the La Leche League people, well, they mean well, but with some of the groups, there's more than a little judging going on. And the last thing a new mom needs is judging. Also, their literature makes breastfeeding into a holy calling. I'm very suspicious of holy callings. Besides, no way could I make it to meetings in those first weeks. I couldn't figure out how to leave the house, let alone go to a meeting full of strangers. I was in pain, and tired of sitting up all night every night, and wondering why anyone would ever bother.

BUT THEN... Day 29 of the thirty day trial arrived.

I'm not kidding, Disney birds practically flew around us. He got big enough that we could nurse lying down, and Mama Cow suddenly started getting a lot more sleep at night. He got efficient enough to get a whole meal out of me in a few minutes, without my arms or behind getting numb. He figured out how to get the milk without gnawing, to the point that I see the pump now and cry because it hurts literally a million times more than he does. When I do pump I can get three or more ounces per side because my supply is so well established. We go anywhere, do anything with no fuss or muss or mess. He never has to wait for me to prepare his food, I just feed him the instant he's hungry. His food is free and I never worry about spoilage or bad ingredients. He's fat and healthy.

He smiles at me during feedings.

So... yeah. Give it thirty days. And get help from a woman who exclusively breastfeeds her baby. And if you give it thirty fair days, and decide that you want to use formula? It's not rat poison. Go for it. Save the guilty feelings for something really awful, like the fact that you're going to dress your baby in clothes too silly to put on a miniature poodle.

What Babies Want

2008-07-22T23:20:00.000-07:00

With so many baby products on the market, if you're a pregnant mom there isn't enough time to sort through it all, let alone get to the store to buy it. Not to mention that most of us can't even afford half of it. Don't worry though, you aren't a bad mom if you don't have the latest and greatest of everything. Babies really don't need that many things.

Babies need: SLEEP.

No one tells you that during those first couple of weeks most babies wake up if they aren't being held. Don't feel bad or worry that if you hold your baby while she sleeps that you'll never get her into her crib. Hold her, and fix in your memory how it feels to kiss that sweet little innocent head while she sleeps. My most used piece of baby gear is our giant rocker/recliner. It reclines almost flat and the arms are supportive. I think I spent the first month sleeping in it with the baby on my chest.

Swaddled babies sleep longer because they can't flail around and do that random face smacking thing. I think they feel safer and it's a more familiar feel to them to be swaddled. People tell me their babies don't like being swaddled or they can get out of the swaddle. Well, your baby can't get out of this blanket, and I personally believe that babies do like it. Too bad we can't ask the babies and settle this once and for all. My advice though? Give swaddling a chance.

Babies need: NOURISHMENT.

If Cylons can do it so can you!

Your body provides custom, free, portable, sterile, CUTELY PACKAGED meals for your baby. I know some babies don't take to it right at first, but give it a chance and get help if it doesn't come naturally. This is something most babies can learn if you help them, and it's so worth it.

Some frivolous but valid reasons to breastfeed:
Ease (lazy factor): You don't even have to get up.
Mommy brain: When you forget the diaper bag, you've still got food for the baby.
Time: You don't need to wash or mix bottles, or shop for formula.
Sleep: After a month or so you can feed your baby while you BOTH sleep. I swear.

If you are scared of trying to go back to work and pump, you don't have to be. Once your milk is well established you can have someone give your baby formula during the day and still breastfeed in the evening, during the night and in the morning. Your body and your baby will adjust.

Babies need: A HAPPY MOM.

You spend so much time getting things ready for when baby comes home from the hospital, get a few things ready for yourself too. Good pads and granny panties, one-handed snacks like frozen yogurt, cheese, muffins, granola bars and fruit - prunes, you'll need 'em. :) Lansinoh nursing pads and comfy clothes. Bring home that big water bottle from the hospital, and grab an extra squirt bottle too (it's great to keep at the changing table to squirt on washcloths for baby wipes).

A few other favorite baby things are:

Skwish toy. If I could only have one toy for my baby, this would be it.

It has wooden balls connected by rubber bands. It makes a nice sound, is fun to chew on, is easy to hold onto, and doesn't put out an eye when the baby smacks himself with it.

A Snap and Go stroller . It's $60ish and you just snap your baby carseat in and baby faces you. I LOVE it. When they grow out of that, follow it up with the 8 lb. $100 Maclaren Volo stroller that folds down so tiny you can fit it anywhere, plus it has a strap so you can carry it over your shoulder when your 2 year old insists in walking "my SELF." It doesn't recline, so you can upgrade to a slightly heavier stroller if reclining is important to you. (I could just eat up that chocolate color. NUM NUM NUM!)

Pacifiers.
Yes, it might be kind of tough when they're 2 or 3 and it's time to give them up. But really, isn't it worth a few sad nights if you can have something for a few YEARS that will calm them down almost instantly? We all have our own little dirty secret comforts. Let your baby have a binky. It doesn't make you a bad parent.

Play-time.
Our first and favorite game is changing diaper KICK time. I take the diaper off and the baby starts kicking. I start giggling, and the baby starts laughing and kicking harder. Sooo much fun. Sometimes I forget, but then I'll be changing a diaper and the baby will kick both legs so straight and then look me in the eye and laugh.

Journaling. Yes, that belongs on this list, because if you don't write about your babies now, you will forget. Write about how they smell and what silly noise they made and how it feels to hold them and how you felt the first time your baby smiled a real smile at you. You think you can't forget it, but you will. If you don't have time for a journal, print out these beautiful pages and make notes like, "She laughed at the cat today and tried to grab his tail." Or, "During his nap his lips were moving. I wonder if he dreams about me."

Good luck to you all. Every family is different, and you know (or will discover) the right things for your baby. Just follow their lead and don't let all the baby products get between you and your little one.

Test: booster seat

I Don't Even Want To Think About The Google Ad For This One

2008-07-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

I almost don't want to make this post. Automatic ad keyword sensing is a blessing and a curse, I tell you.

My mother in law, blessings be upon her, calls it a birdie. Since my girlhood nickname was "Bird," you can imagine how I feel about that.

My mother calls it a peepee. Lots of other people do, as well. Witness the PeePee TeePee, for example.

Most people don't want to call it by its name, as evidenced by the many people who snicker at names like Peter Johnson and Dick Cox. I know a Dick Cox, actually, he's a nice guy.

But I swore that I would use its proper name, as I do for all his parts. I sing "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes." I tell him that I'm going to kiss his knees, and hold his hands, and wipe his chin.

And yet somehow, today, during the cleanup of the epic poop, I said in a high sing song voice, "Hold still, I gots to clean the poop off the winkie!"

Winkie?

WINKIE?

Did I say winkie?

I am not going to be the kind of person who says winkie. I refuse. I have standards to uphold.

I carried him outside to get the mail, chanting "Penis penis penis. It's a penis. Penis penis penis."

That's when I saw the meter reader. Man, my dogs are USELESS at this guarding thing.

Okay, Okay, I'm Up

2008-07-19T03:17:00.000-07:00

This morning, I awakened at oh dark thirty hearing a smell. I realize one cannot technically hear smells, but that's the truth of it. One of the dogs was walking around, but there was also no jingle noise, so I deduced the dog in question was the younger beagle. (The older beagle had gotten her ponytail holder off.) This deduction was most unfortunate, because it meant I couldn't just slink back into dreamland with a clear conscience. The younger beagle is the one wearing diapers.

Yes, my auxiliary dog wears a diaper at night, for the same reason your toddler wears one at night. Despite being let out twice in the hour after eating, she doesn't always crap in the yard. She's holding it JUST IN CASE we violate all tradition and rationality and go for a midnight stroll. Of course, come 2:00 AM, she's about to explode like the crap bomb she is, and does it inside. Since most dogs will not willingly get crap on their fur, we put her in a diaper. She then holds it until we wake up between 7 and 8.

This morning, however, she must have really had to go.

So I got up, took her outside, took off the poop-filled diaper, and left both it and the dog outside. The dog, I eventually let back in, but the diaper was going to wait until I was awake.

On my way back in, I realized that one nugget of processed kibble had fallen out the leg hole onto the family room floor. I picked it up with a tissue, flushed it, sprayed bleach on the violated tile, wiped it up, and went back to bed.

Well, I would have, but my husband woke up, realized I wasn't there, and got up to help me deal with whatever had happened. We laughed for a few minutes, and then fell asleep.

Okay, I meant to, but even though the baby had enjoyed his 2 AM feeding as usual not too long before, all the activity convinced him that he was hungry for his dawn feeding NOW, thank you. So I snuggled him, and let him have it. Normally, I drift right off during this process. Normally, he lets go of the nipple when he's done having milk, instead of remaining attached like a barnacle on a shipwreck.

For some reason, this morning he wouldn't let go. So while I drifted off for a few minutes, I woke all the way up in the millisecond it took me to almost roll over and realize I was still attached with the kind of suction reserved for shop vacs and call girls. I detached my little suckerfish, but wow, I was insanely awake.

I had managed to convince my nipple that she would recover when my beloved son reacted as you would think to having an unusual number of feedings in the wee hours on top of not having taken a crap in the previous 36 hours. It was actually a magnificent sound. It was loud, rumbly, long, and ended with a gurgle. He was still deeply asleep, of course, with a face like an angel. But those diaper sounds are a blowout waiting to happen. My husband woke up, but I was already vertical, so I whisked our offspring to the changing station.

Barely containing the avalanche of crap, I got the child clean. I turned my back on him to dispose of the ten pound Pamper. That was when I got hit in the back with the patter of pee. He hasn't peed on us in two months, so at first I didn't even know what it was.

I used the dry part of my nursing bra to mop up the counter. My socks blotted the bathroom rug nicely. The towel the boy was lying on was done for, though, so I scooped up the little guy and replaced the towel one handed. After I finished putting on the clean diaper, I realized he was really, really awake and thrilled to see me. I put him next to his daddy, who was thrilled to see HIM, while I went and threw the rugs into the washer.

I was going back to bed when I saw the crap nuggets that had escaped the dog's diaper... and landed on the carpet, which means I can't bleach the area after picking up the poop. Now I have to get out the Spotbot before I can set my bare feet on that section of floor.

Now I'm half naked, damp, awake, and I'm hiding in the office. It's only just now dawn, but I can't deal with any more excrement today.

Actual Conversation About Health Care

2008-07-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

[16:10] Sanya (explaining why I don't see the point in going to the doctor yet): He's had a cough for five days. But he's five months old. There's nothing they can give him. I've just been nursing him more and letting him sleep longer.
[16:10] Lahdeedah: that's all you can do
[16:10] Lahdeedah: if it gets really bad steam him
[16:10] Lahdeedah: and serve with butter ha ha ha

Before anyone calls CPS - his cough is much better than it was. Probably because I take him into the bathroom while I'm taking a shower. Also, the trick of dribbling breastmilk into the teeny little nose in order to loosen up the boogers really works, and he doesn't scream unlike his performance over the saline drops.

Not Sleeping Checklist, Part 1

2008-07-16T11:05:00.000-07:00

Is your precious angel not sleeping after a good feeding as nature intended? Give him ten minutes. He may be unable to sleep because of the sensation of an impending crap so mighty that nations will tremble before it.

Bonus advice: Change the child as soon as the post-pooping rumbles have died away before he falls asleep. Mine passes out as soon as he's done, if it was in fact a giant crap keeping him awake. Then I wind up staring at him, trying to decide if the never wake a sleeping baby rule should be violated. I know I should, or else use a hose to clean him and the bouncy seat at the end of the nap. But he looks so peaceful that I just end up blogging about a rhino stampede-halting stench.

The not-so-trained-sorta-good-dog

2008-07-16T07:09:00.000-07:00

I had high hopes for obedience school.

I was sure I would come out, Master of Crazy, the family dog.

She would sit, down, stay and, shoot, even roll-over, on a word or a look from me... one raised eyebrow and on her haunches she goes....

So she sits. If she knows that nothing will happen until she sits... but she's willing to wait it out... EVERY SINGLE TIME. You know, in the case that I slip up.

She can lay down.... but she's crankier about it and tries to do it in half-measures. And she'll stay/wait, if we're in the house and she suspects that I'm holding food.

Forget good doggie behavior outside. Oh sure, bicyclists and joggers often thank me for holding the dog back, and she patiently waits until I let go, so she no longer looks like a manic rabid hunting dog looking for some cyclist leg meat, but she still hasn't graduated from the gentle leader, which on her isn't really gentle since she pulls anyhow, especially if there's a bird, squirrell, cat, leaf, or butterfly to chase.

And jumping? I can only suggest that if you come to my house, bring chicken and toss it. It distracts her, and will help the training program with jumping.

But the thing is, despite her stubbornness, despite her successful attempts to pit her patience vs my consistence (I DO try) and despite her complete lack of willpower where food is concerned, (no training can successfully stop that dog from snagging left-out pizza on the table) she's a GOOD dog.

She doesn't bite the kids. She's jumping on them less and less. She's even curbed her nippy tendencies (she's a cattle dog, what can you do) to a large degree. And her eyes? And her waggy happy tail? And how she follows Turbo around with her little tug o war toy? And how she loves his bed? And puts her head in his chair? And her utter contentment with the bone? And how she jumps up and rolls on her back in your lap (until she gets bored of your lap and leaves)? And her futile and misunderstood attempts to befriend the cats? And how she paws you ONLY if she DESPERATELY needs to tell you something?

Precious.

Disgusting

2008-07-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

Crash course in tear ducts - in the corner of your eye, there's a drain. It allows your tears and assorted bits of bacteria to drain into your sinuses instead of out and down your face. That drain is covered by a membrane in unborn babies, and in many, many born babies. Until the membrane pops, tears and bacteria have nowhere to go, so the baby has constant giant gluey eye boogers. Some pediatricians will give you antibiotic ointment, which does clear up the goop... but instead your kid looks like you smeared vaseline on his eyelids. And the minute you stop using the ointment, the goop comes back. You have to decide if it's worth it. The only actual solution is time - my guy had his tear duct pop open the day he turned sixteen weeks old. In very rare cases, at around one year old, kids may need surgery, where a doctor basically takes a wire and pops the membrane.

The reason I want to be sure everyone knows about blocked tear ducts is because without that knowledge, you might look at pictures of me for the first four months of my child's existence and think, ew, does she realize her sleeves are covered with boogers? It was gross, even if they were not true nose goblins. Wherever my son's face would rub against my shirts, he would leave his eye boogers behind. In my daze, I would sometimes not know if I had changed my shirt that day, but all I had to do was look at my upper arms and the truth would stare up at me in a crusty green stripe.

I have managed to find something more disgusting.

Today he has a cold - coughing, snuffling, the works. He is of course nursing a little extra, as nature intended... but when he mashes his nose into my breast, and then pulls off, he is leaving his boogers behind, adorning my nipples with semicolons.

I love every bit of him, including his excretions, but this is ONE STEP TOO FAR.

The Next Step

2008-07-12T07:23:00.001-07:00

Congratulations me, I have a masters. Toss the confetti, ring some joyous bells, and light the sparklers.

Now, the next step...

I've done this before, toyed with the 'going back to work' thing. I've looked occasionally, and would go through spurts of a month or two where occasionally I'd get bites, but mainly, nothing.

I have learned a few things though, and hopefully, when I do it THIS time, it will be different....

First, overcoming the 'I stayed at home' thing: I'm re-ordering my resume by skill vs. by time except for where a higher degree is preferred. This does two things: In the first case, it disguises the four-year gap where I stayed home. In the second case, it explains the four-year gap as me going back for more education (if they don't do the math, which they usually don't on first glance, they won't figure out it was a 2 1/2 to 3 year degree).

Second, I'm changing my career focus. Forget Public Relations. I've never been successful in finding employment in this field, to the point where I'm beginning to harbor a deep resentment for the field, after all, it's the one I worked in for ten years, the one I actually got my degree in... but after all this time, I'm beginning to take the lack of PR job bites personally so p'shah, it isn't working, it hasn't worked, and there's no reason to suddenly believe it will work. (Yes, I know it's irrational to take rejection personally, but when you train and educate yourself in a field for so long, I think you're entitled to just a wee-bit of irrationality). Good-bye PR. We probably wouldn't get along, anyhow. Hello business management.

Third, it's time to just keep at it. And avoid all the horrifying economically dire news going on in the nation. It makes things harder, but it's not an excuse to stop trying.

So wish me luck, because one thing I did decide after receiving this shiny new degree, is that I will make it pay, I will leverage it, and I will (eventually) be employed. And yes yes, I know I am starting out in a new field, so obviously I won't go 'back' to where I was, but that is what the degree is for, to make it easier to re-enter at a decent level.

This moment of optimism brought to you by someone who hasn't had enough coffee yet to face reality.

Bad News For Squirrels

2008-07-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

My boy has not had a good day. The part of my brain that thinks EVERYTHING is my fault is saying it's because I left him yesterday. Yeah, I'm a bad mommy, I left bags of pumped (and bleeding to death would be more pleasant than pumping) breastmilk in the fridge and left the baby in the care of his utterly devoted father. Where the hell does this guilt come from? Does it just float around looking for someone to splatter?

But seriously, I went to a strange city, rode public transportation, spent hours in a crowded airport waiting for a delayed flight, and spent a few hours in a flying tube with a closed ventilation system. Who knows what nasty germs I brought home? It's all my faaaaaaaault...

Anyway. The boy barely napped all day. He got tired at the right times, but every time he started to drift away...

JINGLEJINGLEJINGLE. Freaking collar tags.

One or both beagles would get up (JINGLE), stretch each leg (JINGLEJINGLE), lick a furry crotch (JINGLEJINGLEJINGLE), sneeze (JINGLE), and then have a good shake (JINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLEJINGLE).

If I take the collars off, that's when someone will leave the gate open and the dogs will take off and try to get back to Virginia, away from this northern outpost of hell.

However! After the last jingle jangle outburst, I went after them both with ponytail holders. Their collars are silent, but they are still identifiable. I am a genius!

The squirrels disagree. At least the fat one that used to own the side yard is bitterly resentful of the new Stealth Beagle.

Times Like This

2008-07-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

Working from home has its ups and downs. One of the downs is my daughter spends more time watching TV than I'd like. Another is that it's so much harder to leave work "at work." In the evenings and weekends the computer is always taunting me with all the things I need to do.

This morning I experienced one of the ups of working at home. I'd put the baby down for his morning nap, and then peeked in about 10 minutes later expecting him to be asleep. He was still quietly looking around his room though. So I picked him up and cradled him, walking until he fell asleep. As I kissed his sweet little head and put him back down in his crib I felt so lucky.

Yes, maybe my job is being not-so-subtle about wanting me to come back to the office, and yes, maybe my house is a wreck, and yes, sometimes I feel guilty and think my daughter would be happier spending her days playing with other kids.

But now and then there's a moment like this and I know this is the right thing for us right now.

Notes On Cosleeping.

2008-07-08T05:54:00.001-07:00

This post is to make me more efficient. I feel like I answer the same dozen questions over and over, and while I'm glad to answer them, I don't always have time. This way I can hand out a link! So, in no particular order:

Is it safe to cosleep?

Yes, assuming you aren't drunk, high, or into giant heavy fluffy comforters that your infant cannot kick off. The deaths attributed to cosleeping almost always involve a "parent" (quotes used intentionally) who is too drunk or stoned to know where he or she is located in time and space. Seriously. Don't take my word for it, don't take the word of the morons leading "separate sleep" campaigns, just look up the stats and decide for yourself. That's how I made my decision.

Why do you cosleep?

Because I like sleeping. Right now I have an exclusively breastfed infant, and I sleep from 11 to 2, and from 2:15 to 7. Occasionally it's 11-5, and then 5:15 to 7. That break in the middle is to get the baby his meal. I don't sit up, I don't wake up 100%, and I drift right back into slumber. I'm not sleep deprived, I'm fully functional, I work at a full-time job, and I have lots of energy to keep my house, if not CLEAN, then SANITARY.

What about... er... um...

Living room.

Really?

Yeah.

No, seriously, what does your husband think?

He wasn't sure at first, because he was worried about smushing the baby. And to be fair, when the baby was teeny tiny, not really strong enough to kick or otherwise alert us to problems, we had him sleep in one of these dealies. The sides are high enough that the little man was safe from his giant fumbling parents. By around five weeks, we stopped using it. We all had more room, and the little guy was perfectly capable of indicating his preferences.

These days, my husband looks at us, sighs blissfully, and says "it's so awesome seeing my family all safe and snug with me." Bear in mind that my husband is the kind of guy who hears noises in the night and jumps up hoping to kick an intruder's ass. He also checked the baby's breathing approximately one million times in the first week. Now he's down to half a million. If the baby was in another room, my husband would wear a path in the carpet going back and forth all night.

And although no one ever asks, let me say that I would not have made the decision to have the little man in bed with us (or ANY OTHER MAJOR KID DECISION) without my husband's full buy in. I respect the idea that people feel so strongly about something that they're willing to go against their mate, but I think that's a hell of a way to run a marriage... and the kid will eventually leave, whereas the spouse is in theory for a lifetime. Just my two cents.

Is a pillowtop mattress safe?

It depends. We have one. But it's not a very deep one, and we use a tight mattress cover and tight sheets, so the kid can't sink into it.

Did you remove all your pillows and blankets like you're supposed to?

No. HOWEVER - I rarely sleep with a pillow, never have, so mine are pretty much just wedged at the top for reading-in-bed. And as I said, for the first five weeks he was in a little nest, and we kept our big comforter tucked in too low to pull over him. Now that he's bigger, and the temperature calls for a light coverlet, we tuck him in right along with us... but only after he demonstrated he could kick it off. He can and does.

How do you keep from smushing him?

Do you fall off the bed? No? That's because you know where the edge is even when you're sleeping. I am an extremely deep sleeper, and yet somehow I wake up every morning at the exact edge of the bed, because in my sleep I have encountered my offspring and instinctively moved away from him.

Also, he kicks like a mule when you're in his space. We tested this once when he was deeply asleep and we were awake.

Are you into Attachment Parenting?

Well, after reading a whole lot of studies and books, and talking to parents I respected, I thought breastfeeding sounded like the best and most convenient food, a baby carrier sounded like the most efficient means of hauling the kid around, and sleeping in the same bed sounded like the best chance for us all to get our sleep. I didn't realize it was a philosophy until afterwards.

Where does he nap?

Depends. If he's sleepy but not cranky, I put him down in his pack and play. If I've missed his signals, and he's gone into overtired cranky mode, I take him to the big bed and nurse him down, but I try to get up while he's still awake. Only at nighttime do we all get into the big bed and stay there.

When will you move him to his own bed?

If he's anything like his parents, he will not be able to sleep smushed up against another person. My mate and I were thrilled to discover that we were both the "hug, snuggle, kiss goodnight, and then roll over into personal space" types. Nothing's worse than a personal space sleeper being married to an all night snuggle sleeper.

We are seeing signs of his being like us (in this respect, anyway) already. As a tiny infant he would cuddle to sleep, but he stopped doing that several months ago. He loves to snuggle, but only when he's awake. If he rolls into one of us at night, he either rolls away or protests until he's moved. He has started to occasionally miss the middle of the night feeding. So, when he starts consistently missing that feeding, we will start using the crib.

What would you suggest for people who would like to cosleep?

A king size bed.

Okay, seriously - I use a large flannel receiving blanket spread under me and the baby. In the event of baby hork, leaking breasts, copious drooling, or overloaded diapers, it's faster and easier to whisk off and replace the flannel than all the sheets. Protects the mattress, too. We've only had a few incidents, but better safe than sorry.

What would you say to people who think cosleeping is dangerous?

Do your own research instead of relying on advertising slogans and received wisdom.

What do you think about people who choose to use cribs from birth onwards?

I think that most people ultimately do what is best for their families, and if the best thing for a family - parents AND kids - is a crib, bring it on. There are plenty of perfectly good reasons to choose a crib - but cosleeping being dangerous is not one of them.

Mexi-Chicken Salad

2008-07-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

This is a bastardized version of Chipolte's chicken salad and a mexican skillet meal. It's super easy, super refreshing, and, without Chipolte's awesome fattening ingredients... super healthy.

Chicken breasts
chili powder, salt and pepper
black beans
corn
lettuce (I like green leaf, but use whatever)
salsa or pico de gallo

Spice the chicken breasts liberally with chili powder. Add a dash of salt and pepper.
Broil the chicken.
When done, cut into bite-size pieces.

In individual bowls (or a large platter, however you prefer to do it) layer the ingredients.
First the lettuce.
Then corn.
Follow with black beans.
Top with salsa, or pico de gallo.

YUM.

Last Night

2008-07-02T06:53:00.000-07:00

This morning around 4am my daughter woke me out of a sound sleep to tell me she was going potty. Fine, fine. I sent my husband to deal with it, since I knew the middle of the night baby feeding was just around the corner.

In my sleepy haze I bleared at the clock and realized it was past time for the baby to be hungry. He should at least be lifting his two little legs high into the air and slamming them down on his mattress. I bleared over at him.

Very Still.

Suddenly I was wide awake. I listened, but could only hear the sound of bathroom tinkles. I reached over from the bed to the cradle and gave the baby a poke. Nothing. Not a stir.

Panic Rising.

I sat up and reached down and felt his cheek. Not just cool. Cold. And he still didn't move. This is where I literally felt my own heart STOP. I put both hands on him and gave him a big shake.

He took a great big breath and groaned a sleepy little baby sound.

Thank God.

I sometimes fret that I started having children so much later than I wanted and I'll have less time with them than if I'd started earlier. Last night just scared another 10 years off my life.

WFMW: Potato Packets

2008-07-02T06:41:00.001-07:00

I cannot possibly top Rainy's pie. I can, however, attempt to make HER drool. Since I'm conceding the sweet category to her, I shall attempt the savory category.

(I love grilling out. A lot. The only thing I want for my birthday is a T-shirt with a picture of a grill and the legend "If You Can't Stand The Heat, Go Get Me a Beer." Well, that and a kabob basket.)

This makes enough potato goodness for four people, and as you'll see it scales well.

2 red potatoes, skins on, cubed
1/4 vidalia onion, chopped
Garlic salt, lots
cumin, little
lemon juice, enough to dampen the top layer

Mix everything in a bowl. Pull out a square of heavy duty foil, fold it in half, and loosely fold the sides in to make an envelope. Spoon in a fourth of the potato mixture and throw in a dollop of butter. (See, Rainy, I cheated too.) Fold the top in.

Take your foil envelopes to the grill. If you have already cooked the meat, bury the packets in the coals. If you haven't, lean the packets along the sides of the kettle, facing the coals, and turn them around every so often.

If you're using a gas grill, I ask you, why do you think you're grilling out when all you've done is move your stove out to the deck? NO POTATO PACKET INSTRUCTIONS FOR YOU.

The key to "doneness" is the smell. If you can't smell them anymore, you're burning them.

WFMW: Chocolate Ribbon Pie

2008-07-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

I wish I'd taken this gorgeous photograph. But when I make this pie it doesn't sit around on a plate long enough to be all gussied up for photos.

I always promise people I will give them the recipe, and then I never do. I either secretly want to be the only Bestower of Pie, or else I'm just too lazy to write it down and send it. Probably both.

But tonight I'm feeling a little crazy, I'm up way too late because of packing for our trip, and I need a good recipe with 5 ingredients or less for today's "Works for Me Wednesday" blog festival. And oh HOW does this pie ever work for me. You have to make this pie. Today. (That includes you Sanya.)

Here's what you need:
4 oz cream cheese, softened (half a brick)
2 cups and 1 Tablespoon of milk
1 tub (8 oz) whipped topping, thawed
1 prepared chocolate flavor crumb pie crust (6 oz or 9 inches)
2 packages (4 serving size each (the small box)) instant chocolate pudding and pie filling

Beat cream cheese, 1 T of milk and 2 T of sugar in a large bowl until smooth. Gently stir in half of the whipped topping. Spread over crust.

Pour 2 cups of milk into a large bowl. Add pudding mixes. Beat with wire whisk 2 minutes (mixture will be thick). Pour over cream cheese layer.

Lick the bowl. If you have children, fight them for the bowl licking rights. YUM.

Refrigerate 4 hours or until set. Just before serving, spread or dollop remaining whipped topping over chocolate pudding layer. Garnish with shaved chocolate if you can resist eating it long enough to decorate it.

ENJOY.

(All right, I know some of you want to call "shenanigans" on me because you are much too clever to let me sneak those 2 T of sugar past you. Yes, there is a tiny little 6th ingredient. But really, what's a little bit of sugar between friends? I simply could not deny all of you this wonderful pie over a Mere Smidgeon of sugar. And frankly, one time I made it without the sugar for a diabetic friend and it was still great. So if you are going to be a stickler about 5 ingredients, consider the sugar OPTIONAL.)

The Dog Master

2008-07-01T07:18:00.000-07:00

When we first got this:

There were requests from Turbo and Bear that we send it right back and get a cat.

Bear is still on the fence, I catch him staring wistfully at the neighbors' cats... and hiding from the dog with our cats upstairs...but Turbo?

Where does Turbo stand on the fence?

Well... he's become the dog master.

One day, I found him training her to 'sit.' Then he progressed to 'stay' and when she gets too jumpy, he turns his back on her. He's not afraid of going near her, keeps his distance from her little nippy teeth and enjoys chasing her and trying to get her to play fetch. It's not just her, either. It's EVERY dog. Uncertain, testy old aussie shepherd? One look from him, one soft spoken 'sit' and it's on it's rump. Mouthy monstrous weimaraner? Down, and down it goes. He isn't intimidated, but he isn't stupid about it. He 'gets' that he must be alpha. He's all of four. He's uncannily good with being alpha... Fear him, but never mind that. The thing is, is most favorite thing to do, most of all, is to play a controversial game with this dog that children are discouraged from, especially with nippy dogs like this, and that children this young shouldn't be playing at all, on account of the fact dogs are bigger. I first discovered him doing this when I couldn't find Turbo or Crazy. He'd shut her in his room, and I only needed to follow the sounds of laughter and happy play sounds to discover them in an illicit game of... Tug.

These pictures are candid shots taken when I discovered him starting and playing this game... without my approval, of course.

And the killer thing, the most amusing thing about all of this? Is, at the end of the day....

Turbo... won....

Too Late

2008-07-01T06:49:00.000-07:00

One thing that I could really improve about myself is my "too late" attitude. If I don't get an early enough start on something, I have a tendency to write the whole thing off.

Some examples:
Too late to homeschool, because my oldest is almost in preschool and I haven't picked out a curriculum.
Too late to lose weight and be the fun, skinny mom.
Too late to have a discipline plan that works, because my preschooler is already whiny and entitled.
Too late to get promoted at work.
Too late to have any more kids (I'm 34).
Too late to clean the house for our vacation tomorrow. (true)

Okay, I know you see the flaws and ridiculousness of some of the things on my list, because I see them. But sometimes it just seems like my life is racing by me at 100mph and I keep missing it. I have this fear that one morning I'm going to wake up and my daughter will be 16 and my son will be 13 and it will be too too too late.

I did find some peace this weekend though. I was taking pictures of my daughter telling secrets to her little brother. When I saw this picture I could see what a little girl she still is.

Maybe it's not too late after all.

Now I Know. And Knowing... Is Something.

2008-06-26T14:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, I am fully convinced that free range eggs are superior. To be clear, I am speaking of eggs coming from chickens who do whatever chickens do when they aren't being minmaxed by their corporate overlords. "Access to the outdoors" either means "a small doorway is left open for a few minutes a day" or it means "the kind of old fashioned chicken coop you're picturing in your brain, overly influenced by reading Charlotte's Web one too many times." The thing is, you cannot possibly know which it is without personal access to the chickens.

And I have moved to the absolute edge of outer Mongolia, so much so that there is one farm stand REALLY close to my house, and several farms within ten minutes of driving. There's even a dairy nearby where I can order milk. Delivered by a milkman. In glass bottles. Gosh, any minute now someone's going to come down the street whistling.

(If I sound bitter, it's not because I don't like Mayberry, because I do. We've eaten corn and fruit from that farmer's stand. We love the wildlife in our yard. I just hate having to schlep over an hour for really good Indian and Ethiopian. And while shopping online has its charms, I like looking at stuff before I buy it. Sue me, I'm a suburbanite.)

Anyway, despite all this proximity to produce, I only know of one place that sells eggs that will let me see the chickens. It's 45 minutes north of here. Now, I buy a half dozen eggs, make biscuits with two of them, and forget the other four until they hatch inside the fridge. Little satanic hatchlings, judging from the sulfur smell.

Only an idiot would pack up an infant and drive 45 minutes for six eggs, four of which will probably go bad before they can be consumed, for a minor bump in nutrition.

I'll let you know how they taste.

WFMW: Cradle Cap Solution

2008-06-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

Here's my no-fail cradle cap removal method. First you have to buy a special shampoo at the store called T-Gel. This doesn't smell like baby shampoo, because it's NOT. The T stands for Tar. Pick up a fine tooth comb while you're there.

If you are intrigued rather than mortified at the idea of putting tar-in-shampoo-form on your baby's head, you're ready for the next step. Once you get home work some oil into the baby's scalp. Baby oil is of course the first choice, but I've used olive oil too. Massage it into the cradle cap and let it sit for a while. Better still if you do this in a steamy bathroom.

Strip down you and the baby and hop in the shower together (with the T-Gel and comb). When showering with the baby remember he is VERY slippery, especially once you start rinsing out the oil. When you change your grip on him make sure your other grip is already tight. It doesn't hurt to get dad in there too for an extra pair of hands. Tell him to MAINTAIN FOCUS.

I suppose my cradle cap removal plan could be done in a baby tub, but I think the shower steam is part of the magic. I also usually cradle the baby in my arms so his head is back and let the shower water do a really good rinse on his head, which is harder to do in a separate tub.

Now, put the T-Gel on his head, careful to keep it out of his eyes, and lather up. Next, use the comb to work under the layer of cradle cap. It should be flaking off really easily. Let the stubborn parts soak up some more tar while you work on easier parts. There should be gross little flakes all over. EW. Sometimes it's such a mess I have to rinse and re-apply the T-Gel.

This shouldn't hurt the baby, btw, just keep the shampoo out of his eyes. It's not runny and I've never had a problem with it. One cool thing with the water and T-Gel is it turns the cradle cap really white so you can see where it all is and go after it.

My little guy had a fully covered head of cradle cap and after one of my special treatments (it took 3 applications of T-Gel) I got rid of all of it and it didn't come back. Hope this helps!

Tools of the Trade

2008-06-24T17:32:00.001-07:00

Every trade has its tools. Every worker relies on these tools to complete their jobs. Carpenters have hammers and drills, painters have easels and brushes, I, as a stay at home mom, have my own tools of the trade.

Meet Jose.

Dodge Durango, Gas Guzzler, Carrier of Cargo, Deliverer of Children.

The boys named him Jose. He may be big, but he’s a city-car, not a commuter. We mosey about in Jose and he rarely ventures more than 20 minutes away from home base.I rely on Jose. A lot. More than I want too, lately.

He’s a very important tool in my trade. Without him, there would be no summer half-day sports camps, cello lessons, theater classes or trips to the resevoir, the dog park, ice cream shops, coffee stops and general errand-running that include boring things like well, groceries, appointments and dull trips to the hair-cut place.

The thing is, this tool is great, but lately, I've had to use it. A lot. And it's tiring. Oh drop Drama off at Cello, drop the boys off at their camp only to turn around and pick up Drama again and then get the boys, because the times are staggered so that there's only an hour between each class. Then there's the errands, the appointments and the things I need to get done between the morning chauffering and the afternoon chauffering, because yep, Drama has theater and Turbo has swimming and Mom has discovered that all these 'things' mean she spends more time getting in and out of the vehicle than she does doing anything else. Think of it. Two four-year-olds, a spastic 7-month-0ld puppy and an eleven-year-old. Just getting into the truck takes 20 minutes.

I actually left the house this morning before my husband left for work. This of course, was an adjustment. I had to show him how to lock the door. He's never actually worked the mechanism before.

And it's not going to get better.

Which is why from July 11 to August 18th (the first day of school) Mom and Jose are going on their own personal shortened vacation, and the children will be stuck doing what most of us did when we were kids in the summer: whining about how bored they are. I figure it's the perfect time. Summer camps will be out, and we can focus on the REALLY FUN THINGS like painting Drama's room, reading some good books, and shopping for Back To School Clothes. There will be one month of No Organized Events Unless Related to Back To School shopping.

This sounds awful to some parents, but to me and Jose? It's four o' clock Coronas on the common green time.

I figure it's JUST enough of 'doing nothing in the summer' time to make school appealing.

Not that I'm counting the days down or anything like that.... not yet anyhow!

Another Confession..

2008-06-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

My beautiful boy was born with a head of silky brown hair. The middle strip was the most luxurious, but he definitely had a full head of hair. As the weeks have gone by, his head got bigger, but he didn't get more hair, so it looked thin and stretched. The mohawk stayed, though, and given Daddy's college mohawk, we were all much amused.

But then it started to fall out. Worse, the reduction in hair revealed the final stages of cradle cap. Given Mama and Daddy's chronic dandruff, we were not amused.

The second worst thing is that when I peel off the bits of cradle cap, I'm finding seven or eight strands of his baby hair stuck to the dead skin.

The worst thing is that I'm removing the skin so I can keep the hair in a teeny envelope for his scrapbook.

Playing God

2008-06-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

If, after reading my last post, you were worried about the little mama bird returning to her nest, I have to admit I was a little worried too. But later that afternoon I spotted her sitting there, all tiny and maternal. There's something about watching a bird sit on its nest that warms my heart. I'm sure it's because I attribute human emotion to her.

I imagine her in a state of hopeful, optimistic anticipation. She may not be having baby showers or painting nurseries, but there must be some love for her eggs in that tiny mama bird's heart, right?

I noticed this morning she wasn't on the nest, so I took a peek in, and here's what I saw.

An interloper!! The big white speckly egg looks nothing like the mama bird's own eggs. So where did it come from? A friend of mine at church told me about this bird. It never builds a nest. It just watches for other birds to build nests and then lays its eggs in with their eggs and lets a surrogate mama feed and raise its birds. Most times the smaller original birds won't get as much to eat as the baby bully bird, and will die. There's a term for this whole situation: Brood Parasitism.

Brood Parasitism is the only way the bully bird reproduces. It's not like she's an extra lazy version of her species. She's just figured out how to free up more time for foraging for food, flying around, and basically - make a living/surviving. And guess what? It's working for her. While the bully birds are thriving, the little mama birds are on the decline.

So which way is the right way? Do I let the bully bird's egg stay in the nest? Does her baby have less a right to be cared for than the original babies? It would seem that even in nature not all moms are able to care for their own young. Some of them have to go out and work while someone else raises their babies. Does it make me a hypocrite if I remove the egg that doesn't belong? Or do I let the little mama bird get tricked into neglecting her own babies?

Why must I be having all this bird drama???

No where did I read anything about where the father bully birds are during all of this.

The Battle for My Yard

2008-06-20T15:04:00.000-07:00

My yard is fighting to turn back into forest, and this is the first spring/summer I've been (semi) home enough to show it who's boss. It's slow going, but I put my foot down about a few things. I arranged to have our rotten tree chopped down and hauled away (by redneck ninjas) and I made a new little flower bed in front. I replaced a bunch of half dead shrubs with flowering perennials and I planted our raised garden beds.

The next thing on my list has been the grass. My front yard is actually starting to look like the forest floor. Our 2 huge oak trees drop acorns all over it, plus there's moss, mushrooms, wild violets and other random weeds crowding out my ever thinning grass.

A couple of months ago I started saving Tru-Green coupons and I bought a big bag of fertilizer/weed killer and one of those broadcast spreaders you assemble yourself.

Thank goodness I haven't gotten around to dousing my yard with all those chemicals! Over the past week I discovered a little frog hopping across my yard. My daughter was so excited to hold him. We put him into our garden and set up a little shady spot for him with a cool whip container of water. I haven't seen him since, but I hope he's hopping around back there somewhere.

Then today a tiny bird exploded out of one of our shrubs. I looked and sure enough there was the tiniest little nest in there. Hopefully I didn't scare the mama bird away for good with my picture taking. I also discovered a nest of baby birds in the beams supporting our upstairs patio.

No way am I going to fertilize my yard now. I guess the forest wins this round, but I feel like the real winner. And hey, my yard might not be very grassy, but it's green! Now I just need to get my daughter excited about the great outdoors:

Confessions

2008-06-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, I haven't showered in two days.

FINE. THREE.

Been doing a lot for work, baby's got me on my toes, blah blah blah.

I am only sharing this because it's the only way to explain why I am not wearing pants at 1:27 PM.

See, the beauty of consulting, and working remotely, is that I'm at work the minute I sit down. There's no two hour process of "getting ready." I wave goodbye to the Perfect Husband, feed the baby, and start typing.

Today, I realized that my jeans from yesterday should not be worn again or they will run away on their own. I have a clean pair, but tonight is date night and I will need them. Putting three day butt into clean jeans isn't okay, because if I do that, I can't wear them for more than one day. I need to shower first. I will shower as soon as the baby naps.

Well, okay, when the baby takes his NEXT nap, because I need to finish this spreadsheet for a presentation.

The doorbell just rang. It's my neighbor, the one who always looks so together and charming. She has earrings on at 7:10 AM to take out the trash, for crying out loud. There's only one spot in this room where I can't be seen. I'm sitting in it, frozen, and pantsless.

For this I went to grad school.

Is the 'hood quiet?

2008-06-20T07:05:00.000-07:00

We have a small 'hood, but it's a nice 'hood.

It's made up of a decent mix of folks, and a pleasant amount of children of varying age ranges. This means my pre-schoolers have friends to hang with, my daughter has kids to be hooliganish with, and I have moms to chat with. We have lots of dogs, too. We have people who have no children, people who have no dogs, and people who have children, but no dogs, or dogs but no children. Don't even get me started on the cat owners.

On a weekend night, the common area out back becomes alive with the sounds of people grilling, making a fire, chatting and general life. Kids are out playing games, running around, doing hooliganish things, people are laughing, dogs are chasing dogs, or lolling about, the grass in the circle, and it's fun, lively and least of all, quiet.

Not to say it's noisy, it's not, not by any means.

But it's not quiet.

It's the sound of people living in the summer. Oh come round here in the fall and winter, and it's as dead as any other place where people hide out when dark hits at 4 and there are school events and shows to go to. But the summer and spring brings out the life in people.

So when I was talking to my neighbor about our new neighbor, she said the new neighbor asked if it was quiet 'round these here parts. When my neighbor explained about the weekend life, the new neighbor said 'Oh, I was hoping it was a really quiet place.'

Well, it's not noisy...

When Bad Design Happens To Good Babies

2008-06-18T08:21:00.000-07:00

There are two groups that are constantly targeted with pure crap, with the assumption that we'll buy anything at an inflated price if it makes our hearts go SPROING. (It's only fair, every ad running during football season uses as its premise that men who like sports will buy anything if it makes something else go SPROING.) Anyway. Those two groups are "brides" and "new moms."

The sheer amount of overpriced dreck that was flung at me as soon as I made it known I was planning a wedding could have drowned a whale. Caterers doubled their prices. Bakers tripled them. Stationers hid all the stylish options and coated every invitation with unadulterated twee. Rented halls threw in white twinkle lights and tulle banister wraps and called it a Wedding Package for four times the cost of, say, a retirement party. And don't get me started on the shoddy construction of nearly every dress I saw. I guess charging five hundred bucks for a dress with unfinished seams is rational considering the wearer is so irrational that she's paying five hundred bucks for a dress she'll wear once.

After my wedding, I dusted off my hands thinking I was done with this marketplace weirdness.

Oh, I was SO WRONG.

Stuff for babies less than six months old falls into two groups. Group one - designed by someone who has actually met a human infant, and is aware of the sheer amounts of unpleasant bodily fluids generated from every orifice. Group two - designed by people who think "oh, a teddy bear, mommies looooove teddy bears."

For the record, I have bought a wedding dress. And I also have dressed my child in an outfit I knew was a bad idea as soon as I realized the sleeves were tailored with no stretch. I don't know what that says about me, but probably nothing good.

This outfit tricked me. The long line of front snaps (creating a large head opening), the snap crotch (diaper access), it said convenience. In practice, it was like trying to put a tuxedo on an octopus. It combined the annoyance of a pullover outfit with the nitpickiness of snaps. But it had a teddy bear!

BSG addict

2008-06-17T07:20:00.001-07:00

Okay,

In most ways, I'm like most sane people.
And some sane people, like me, are slightly addicted to Battlestar Galactica.

I lock my children in their rooms and send my husband away, sit down, and ignore everything and everyone for the show.

I've obsessed only slightly about who the fifth cylon is, and have tried to restrain my slight and only-human ire at the other fan (but not addict, I wouldn't call her an addict) I know because she always TiVo's it and is never caught up. I not-so-secretly think all non-fans are missing out on some of the greatest television ever, well, televised. Don't even get me started about how it's sci-fi. It is so much more than sci-fi.

And the only thing I can think about today, to write about, as I mull over the chances of my being the fifth cylon (I mean, so cool, don't you think?) and mull how I hate having to wait more months now before the final BSG episodes show up (those mini web-episodes are as filling as mini-snack packs) I'll give my list of who I think the final cylon could be, because well, that is what BSG addicts do. But, to give it a slight twist, here is also a list of who is NOT the fifth cylon:

In no particular order:

Not Cylons:
Baltar (I mean, seriously, but I do admire his love for himself)
The doctor
The lawyer
The baker, butcher and candlestick maker can also be ruled out
Gaeta
Adama
Roslin
Starbuck (cuz duh they said so)
Tom Zarek (could the fifth cylon really be so extremely power hungry? I think not)
Cally (clearly not)

Cylon Contenders
Lee Adama (it could be!) but I swear I heard the unboxed toaster correct a human and say that four were in the fleet
Zak Adama (this would be both kind of neat and a let down at the same time)
The ship itself (that would just rock)
Someone found on earth that is unknown. (This actually makes the most sense, but then, how would that cylon actually get them there if said cylon was on earth).

Now, at this point, Rainy, you must stop reading, because this contains spoilers to the last episode before the break, which you haven't watched yet, which is why I'm posting about it rather than gabbing about it to you.

As you can see, my list of cylon contenders is very short. It's because the last cylon is so important, that it wouldn't be someone trivial.

It would be someone motivated to get both the cylons and the humans to earth. The ship itself has been working toward that end, orchestrating things so that information is given at just the right time. Who could that last final cylon be that could send the signal to the four cylons that the location to the earth has been revealed and draw them to the altered viper now that the Cylons were with the Galactica? Also, unlike the other four cylons, this cylon must know it's a cylon, because of the pervading sense that 'something' is controlling events and circumstances to lead these groups to earth. It'd be hard to imagine that the fifth cylon is as clueless as the other cylons. So, who is everywhere on the ship, but nowhere to be seen on the ship? Well, the ship certainly.

Okay it's very likely it's a person. For all we know, Zak Adama is hiding on the ship running around fixing things. It could beLee, but then you have to explain how everything is being orchestrated so well. The fifth cylon has to be playing a part in getting everyone to earth, including taking the cylons, who, btw, have also decimated their race. Isn't it a strange coincidence that there's only one Galactica and one Base Star?

Hmm. Things to ponder over the next few months.

Note The Date

2008-06-16T08:49:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I got my pre-pregnancy jeans back on.

In related news, I was grilling brats for my husband's Father's Day Dinner, and stared at them in fascination while the cooking sausage swelled and strained against the casing. The meat seemed to undulate, and the juices pulsed, and when I flipped them with too much enthusiasm, the casing surrendered and sprayed grease everywhere.

A Wonderful Father

2008-06-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

I don't want kids, he said, on one of the early dates.

Well, that's a deal breaker for me, I replied in a light tone of voice while my stomach turned to lead and sunk through the floorboards of the '86 Celebrity. I don't know if I want kids, but I do know I want the option.

He didn't answer for several days. He really thought about it. And he came back and said, well, I'm willing to consider the option with you, someday.

A few years later, after several rounds of discussion, I said, I love you forever and I won't end our marriage over this, because if I can't have your kid then I don't want kids at all. But I think if we end up not having a kid, I'll be unhappy for a very long time. I want our kid, with my brown eyes and your sweet smile, and my words and your art, and our music.

He didn't answer for several days. And he came back and said, well, let's see what happens.

A few months later, as he held our dog and comforted her during a storm, I said, you're going to be a wonderful father... in February.

It didn't take him a few days to react this time. It didn't take him until February to polish the parenting skills, either. He was always the things that make a wonderful father, protective and strong, wise and caring.

And our little boy has brown eyes and a sweet smile, one he only gives his daddy.

Feeding Time

2008-06-13T06:06:00.001-07:00

I have to go on a business trip next Tuesday. I'm leaving on the 8 AM flight, returning on the 6 PM flight. I have a freezer full of wee milk bags. Daddy's taking the day to work from home. Everything will be fine, except for the part about my living heart ripping itself out and leaving its lurching, bleeding tracks on my pantsuit. Oh, and pumping milk in an airport bathroom.

We gave the boy a few bottles months ago in preparation for this day. We haven't done it since because I am so, so lazy. (Rainy is my hero in this regard. Before spawning, I read a lot of books. While immersed in Breastfeeding Propaganda, hearing all about the deep spiritual bond I would naturally form with my semi-divine offspring and how he would never weep and be a gazillion times more brilliant and eventually save the whales from all the empathy he would suck out of my nipples... while I was freaking myself out with all this pressure, Rainy calmly said, "I breastfeed because I'm lazy. I can't be bothered hauling around all that stuff or getting up in the middle of the night to mix things." I almost died from the sheer sanity of it all.)

But because I've been too lazy to pump more that what I needed to in order to build my freezer stash for the upcoming trip, he's had very few bottles since the introductory weeks. We decided we'd better make sure he still remembered how, after a panic a few weeks ago where he wouldn't take the fake nipple until he was really hungry. So, last night, I pumped right before he would normally feed, and Daddy administered the milk.

However, I forgot to warn the mate of certain... changes to the feeding routine.

Baby: (flips head around looking at the ceiling, the dog, and the bookshelf)

Daddy: (chasing baby's mouth around with the nipple)

Mama: Oh, that's normal.

Baby: (sucks frantically for two minutes, then pops off to complain)

Daddy: Son, what's wrong?

Mama: Oh, that's normal.

Baby: (sucks greedily, while emitting UHLUHLUHLUHLUHLUH noises)

Daddy: What the hell?

Mama: That's perfectly normal.

Baby: (digs tiny claws into stomach flesh)

Daddy: YEEARGH.

Mama: Yep, that's normal too.

Poetry, a thought

2008-06-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

Rainy suggested poetry be read, the classics --
not trivial childish nonsense.

Emily Dickenson wrote some seventeen hundred or so --
not trivial childish nonsense.

Some passages I did read, Dickenson to Drama Girl --
perfect says she, read them at night.

They are the greatest lullabies.

Your kid has a cell phone?

2008-06-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

Yes. She's 11. And cell phones happen. Plus, she's been bugging me for one for like, agggeeess.

Mainly, it's because I need her to call me when she gets certain places, and many places don't have pay phones anymore, and, seriously, who carries dimes and quarters? It used to be there were pay phones everywhere, and everyone had change wallets, or at least pockets of change. Now, we have debit cards and cell phones.

Due to the dearth (my we do love alliteration) of pay phone booths and public access phones, we, (and by we I mean me) chose the Tracfone.

First, every other pre-paid phone I looked at charged daily access fees. Not bad for an adult without a cell phone plan, but she's 11, and I only need her to call me briefly every day to let me know she's at the library. So that means, using Verizon's phone, even with their new plan, the one they charge you only on days you use the phone, well, I'd pay $20 a month for a two minute phone call, and that is apart from the pre-paid airtime I'd need to buy.
For less than that, I could just add her to my own plan.

The entire reasoning behind a pre-paid phone is so I don't have to pay a monthly charge for a phone that isn't going to be used as much as, say, mine. Nor do I want to allow her to spend hours gabbing incessantly to her friends on my dime.

No, the cell phone is for emergencies, to call me up when she arrives or is leaving somewhere, or to ask if she can change her plans mid-plan. Or to generally annoy me. I don't want to pay a daily access charge for a phone calls that last under a minute.

I chose the tracfone because the phone only works as long as you have purchased airtime, and you are only charged for the airtime you use. There is no monthly fee, no daily fee, no access to the network fee, no, it's just, you bought two hours of air time, you get two hours of airtime. think it's the perfect phone for kids, although it isn't a bright shiny phone.

To make up for it's lack of cool colorness, I let her buy a phone charm from target. Seriously, a pink crystal skull. I didn't even know these things existed.

I can monitor it (the phone, not the skull) online, purchase her minutes online, keep track of her minutes online, and the phone itself is a decent flip-top Motorolla that while not as cheap as I'd like for a kid phone, will last a heck-n-crap longer than the other cheap phone she briefly owned.

I completely blew off Kajeet and all other kid-specific phones as an option because there are easier, less expensive ways to help a child manage their cell phone, and frankly, I have a hard enough time managing a real budget, never mind a 'split phone time' budget... however if you want to utterly control your child's phone life, the Kajeet is a good option that the media just adores...

In my opinion, kid-friendly phones are nice, parental gimmicks that allows cell-phone companies to exploit both parents and kids. I concede the 'parental shut off' of the phone is nice, but I feel at the 8-14 year old age range, it's just as easy to take the phone away during study time, and all schools forbid cell phones in the classroom anyhow, so there's no need to manage it during the school day. But then, I also feel cell phones shouldn't be put in the hands of children in elementary school, because children in elementary school are rarely outside parental supervision.

Of course, if you absolutely must be victimized by kid friendly phones, and do want one, there's a bunch more to check out, like Firefly, or Disney's.

My tween wanted a real cell phone, though, and I wanted total control of the account. This is why I chose the tracfone. Nice, simple, real and easily manageable since the account is in my name, and if she wants to chat for two hours, she's more than welcome to buy her own airtime.

But, to be fair, if you're thinking of buying a prepaid cell phone, check this place out, it reviews all the cell phone plans out there.

If you think I'm insane for getting an 11 year old a cell phone, well, but gee, all the other kids have one....

...and just today, she's off, wandering two blocks of downtown all...by...herself...without...parental...supervision...

Mommy needs her to have this phone just as much as she wants it!

Anyone Have a Spare Lightning Rod?

2008-06-11T08:16:00.000-07:00

I've been encouraging my pre-schooler to say her own prayers. I listen to them and prompt now and then when she squints up at me with the, "Mom, what am I thankful for again?" look.

Last night she caught me off guard though. We were past the "I thank thee's.." and working on the, "Please help me's..." when she said, "Please help baby Xander snort like a pig again."

I love this kid.

You Know What's Awesome? Part 1

2008-06-10T10:03:00.001-07:00

Bibs. Terry cloth bibs. I'm not concerned with protecting his clothes. It's 98 degrees outside and we can only afford AC if it's set to 80, my kid is naked except for a diaper. No, a bib is a teeny towel hung around the reason I always need a towel, so I don't have to spend an hour trying to find the towel. While he rubs cheese into his own ear.

I look 30? HA!

2008-06-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

The Store Incident

A brief crash course on youth and aging.

Babies represent total youth.
Old people represent total aging.
Everyone in between represents some youth/aging categories.

People around the ages of 16-25 and occasionally 30 can sometimes often look very young. In fact, this is why people who look 30 are carded, despite the drinking age being 21. There comes an age, however, and this age varies for people, and can be from 25 to 35, when it is simply impossible to be mistaken for well, the more youthful 16-25 age. Young skin, the kind that needs to be carded, is dewey, soft, there's less lines, few if any age spots, nary a blemish lest that blemish be acne. They look innocent, no matter how hard they try not to.

Then, at some point, the cumulation of your life builds up and explodes onto your hands, your face, your neck, everywhere visible, and thankfully, places not commonly visible. There are lines, deeper with the passing years. There's a harshness, oh you may look warm and friendly, but innocent, HA. And all these lines, marks, spots, the depth of your eyes, the way you walk, no longer in a cocky lackadaisical way, but now in a purposeful way, mark you. And your cocky has long since morphed into confidence, which, even in a grocery store you can't be bothered doing. It doesn't take confidence to buy milk, so why bother. No, there is an age where you can no longer pretend to be any other age than Adult.

I have always looked younger than my age. I probably still do. I have hit the Adult phase, though, and haven't been carded for anything for the past five or six years, and only sporadically for years before then, and this is with the 'card those who look 30' rule. You see, by no imagination, not even great imagination, could I ever be mistaken for 21, unless alcohol is involved, on the part of the cashier.

So imagine my surprise when, the one day I've like ever ever ever left my license (some of us are paranoid) home, I get carded. Seriously. On the upside of the thirties, way past dewey skin, with enough character in my face to never be viewed as remotely child-like, I get carded.

And you know what?
I was annoyed.
I was annoyed because if you happen, strangely and luckily, to be a woman in your upper thirties who still looks 21, you'll have been so used to flashing your ID that you'd probably not buy alcohol without it. But, if you haven't been carded for six years, never mind that you go to the store daily and that everyone at the store knows you, and has never bothered carding you, than you know that the cashier is just being a snot.

And you know what?
I called her on it.
She told me without my ID she couldn't sell me beer.
And I acted annoyed, not mad, but I did say 'I understand, it's your job,' but then I said, in a snippish, snooty mom voice, "Do I really look 30 to you?"
I said 30. Because as I said earlier, by no stretch of any sober imagination, could I look 21. I could, if you have poor eyesight, pass for 30. But not 21. And she knew it. She was sticking to the '30' rule, like a snot.

She sold me the beer.
I didn't even think of it as a victory, or a HA. I thought of it as more a wasted conversation because some cashier was being a snot, and really, do any of us really have time, at our age, to put up with snottery?

In the end, I believe it was the Adultness of my irritated tone that did it. If I were younger, I would have argued, protested, and been confrontational.

Instead, I was snooty.

The Grill

2008-06-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

Being a blog hog...

The Grill

We went to SuperWalmart (shh, I don't want to hear it, it's cheap, we're broke, I'll take the high road when I can afford it) and found Hubby McRed his father's day present: the grill. Charcoal, for taste. (Seriously, whatev). He thought it would be nifty if I put it together for him. I agreed, because I'm an agreeable person by nature. If you asked me to change the weather pattern so the hurricane wouldn't hit your vacation spot in the Bahamas, I'd say, 'sure.' The feasibility of what I'm agreeing to is never an issue. I'm a CAN DO woman!

Lets briefly go through my 'put shit together' list.
Wal-Mart (save it) computer desk cart: facing wood panel put on backwards.
Target (hee hee) antique cottage deskwith matching chair: put together with supporting structures on backwards.
Pier One, six-piece wood night stand: screws stripped, table legs somehow crooked... there's a slight artistic lean to it, I think...

You see where this is going? I hate to be stereotypical, but I DID fail 7th grade carpentry...

I did make an attempt, but honestly, the diagram was confusing, the sun was shining, people were talking to me and the children were.... somewhere. Sooo... after Hubby McRed's three hour nap, he woke up to see me, with all the grill parts outside, stumped.

Well not stumped, I passed "stumped" two hours and 53 minutes ago, he found me socializing. See, I had mis-read the instructions, and couldn't figure out how to put two pieces together that seemed already together...

He did try to be grumpy, but after I went through the list, he gave it up, and instead focused on my whole 7-minute attention span for putting things together, at which point, I informed him that since I'd never actually been very good at putting anything together, it's a bit ridiculous to expect me to suddenly be able to put things together. Once mechanically disinclined, always mechanically disinclined, so I say.

And, the unspoken question: what would you do without me?
The unspoken answer: have it delivered and assembled for a mere few bucks more.

Duh.

Moral Dilemma Inna Vacuum

2008-06-09T08:06:00.000-07:00

I have a horrible ex-boyfriend, because really, horrible exes are like cars with oil leaks, experimental hairdos, and deranged roommates - everyone's got to have one in their past. Anyway, one of his more minor faults was that he rarely listened to me, and when he did listen, it was just so he could prove that his judgment was superior.

"Minor fault." Man, I'm so glad I have a son; I would seriously spend the entire next decade worrying about how to explain to a daughter that "disrespectful dismissive asshole" is dumpworthy, considering that I spent five years with that guy. With a son, I can leave the conversation to the Perfect Mate.

Anyway, for Christmas one year, The Horror got me a gold-colored watch. With my money, since he was chronically unemployed. Only, I don't like gold. I never have. Everything I have is silver, stainless steel, silvertone, white gold, platinum... see the trend? When I was asked what I wanted for Christmas, I said "A silver watch."

He got me a gold one because it was "better looking." So I spent Christmas morning oohing and aahing over an unsuitable watch (because Nice People act like it's the thought that counts, and it is, except when it's passive aggressive garbage), and the next year turning my wrist green wearing this watch, so I wouldn't have to deal with the Wounded Puppy Face.

Now, Perfect Mate, the one who got me a silver ring after we'd been dating for two months based entirely on his observations of what I actually wore... he wants a Dyson vacuum cleaner. He does all the vacuuming in this household. He specifically asked for this brand for his birthday. He never asks for anything.

This vacuum cleaner is more than five hundred dollars and appears in the middle of the Consumer Reports ratings range. Even if it were the top of the chart, I'd still die inside at spending that much on an appliance. My first CAR wasn't that much. Rainy and Lah are no help helping me break this deadlock, because Rainy feels the way I do about five hundred dollar vacuum cleaners, and Lah HAS ONE.

I'd have already bought the top-rated, half-as-costly Sears vacuum cleaner, if I could have rid myself of the suspicion that this is a gold watch in an appliance box.

Reading and Nursing

2008-06-07T18:55:00.000-07:00

Lahdeedah, Sanya and I do a lot of instant messaging during the day which led to my most recent embarrassing moment (I say "most recent" because there are a LOT).

Lahdeedah was just chattering up a storm and I was reading, but not really responding because I was trying to nurse the baby and he was being a handful. I reached over and picked out a short message to her to let her know I was listening.

im reading n nursing

I looked up and realized I'd just typed that into my WORK chatgroup! A group of single guys and one single girl who were horrified, I'm sure, considering the hush that fell over the chat room. I didn't even get teased for a mis-message like I usually would. Just awkward silence. I squirmed and wanted to start prattling nonsense to make my mistake scroll away, but I figured that would just make it worse. It seemed like years before someone started talking about work stuff again. And of course Sanya and Lahdeedah had a field day over it.

On the days I'm at work I usually pump in my office which doesn't have a lock. I'm waiting for the day that someone ignores the sign on my door and walks in on me.

With my history, it's inevitable.

Speed Limit

2008-06-06T06:36:00.000-07:00

You know how the cops rarely write you a ticket for going ten miles over the limit on the freeway, but they nail you for twenty? My body has a speed limit. It used to be that whenever I saw a certain number, I'd just stop having seconds. Okay, I'd have seconds, but not thirds. I'd use smaller plates. I'd drink more water. And I'd drop down, still speeding mind you, but the cop would roll his eyes and let me go, waiting for a real scofflaw.

Then came my offspring, and the whirling lights, and the cop said, "Did you know you were going 52 miles over the limit?"

YES. I KNEW. IT WAS HARD TO MISS.

Everyone lies about how much they gain during pregnancy unless they are among very old friends. R. and L. know about my 52... miles... but it took me ten minutes to decide it was okay to just say it here. I don't know why. My mom gained sixty, her mom gained 55, maybe this is just how much weight my body needed to gain to make a good baby. Maybe 25 pounds is only doable for annoying stick people. Why does it matter so much? Whose body is this, anyway?

I wrote that last night. This morning the scale said I was only going 21 over. Immediately my brain went into justification mode. "Wow, that's only 12 miles faster than my previous top speed, I'm doing fine! Let's have us a little snacky snack to celebrate. And none of this yogurt or fruit nonsense. Let's have a quesadilla! With sour cream! Ugh, not that light stuff, REAL sour cream. And guacamole!"

Thank goodness the siren went off when I opened the fridge.