Long time no see, so here's a Loooong one.

So my mom came to visit...

DUH DUN DUHHHHH!!!!!

In the past, the news that my mother was coming to visit would reduce me to tears. For hours, if not days. It is so stressful for me, because the whole relationship is just soo thoroughly fucked up.

It wasn't too many years ago that I decided I just needed to grieve over the fact that I had no functioning Mother, per say. Be sad about it and move on.

I was sad.

I moved on.

Then she came to visit.

It's hard. I can't just tell her not to come, because she needs to see her grandbabies and they need to see her. She needs to see me. It reassures her. I, on the other hand, spend the visit on tenterhooks wondering what kooky thing she'll do next. Because she is kooky, and not in the cute too-many-cats kind of way. She's kooky in the tells-stories-and-believes-them kind of way. In the she's-so-borderline kind of way.

She gets it from her dad.

But that's besides the point. The point is that I go most of the year living in my happy mental suburbia, but when she visits I'm plunged into this wacky amusement park where I'm forced onto a roller coaster I DON'T WANT TO RIDE.

Example.

I decide to leave her with the Boy and the baby for an hour while I go to a Doctor appt, in part because taking the baby would make it obvious that I don't fully trust her, and I don't want the hooplah such a revelation would bring. I come home to find that she's tried to give the baby tylenol. Even though I told her yesterday that the baby didn't need it. Even though we've talked about how the baby doesn't like "tastes". So the woman who can't see well dosed fruity flavored stuff into a cup and poured it into the baby's mouth, who proceeded to gag and barf. All this because the baby was rubbing her gums.

But I responded with, "It's no big deal", because in the grand scheme of things it's not. Then I saw the red smear on the bottle nipple and realized she'd given the baby children's strength liquid. I knew that things were probably ok, because it's actually more dilute than the baby drops, and she barfed anyway, but I did get the serious look and voice whilst I dug out the bottle and asked if that was, indeed, what my mom gave her. Then I had to ask how much she gave her. To which she responded "I'm a nurse. I wouldn't give her too much. I'm a nurse." She showed me how much she gave her, and I asked if she was sure. That's when she started to cry.

Here's my perspective:
Mom tells stories all the time. She tells you what she feels, not what happened, so if she feels like she gave her a tiny bit, that's what she'll say, but who knows how the hell much she really gave her.
Yes, she used to work as a nurse. I would expect a nurse to know the difference between children's and baby strength, and to call a Dr or pharmacist to get the correct dose for whatever she's using. I got out the baby stuff and did the math to make sure Peanut would be ok, and the dose Mom says she gave would actually be half of what Peanut would actually need.

Here's her perspective:
She wanted to pull some kind of a rabbit out of her hat during her visit. Do something for me that I couldn't do for myself. She doesn't believe she can be loved for who she is, she has to give people reasons to love her. She figures that she can give Peanut some Tylenol and make her happy and calm (she thinks it makes babies sleepy). I'll come home and say, "Look at the blissed out baby, how ever did you do it?" and she'll say "See, I told you! I gave her tylenol. You were wrong and I was right" and then I'll love her because she's so wise.
Instead the baby pukes, the grandson worries, the daughter comes home and hints that you may have poisoned your grand-daughter, and then totally dismisses your claim to fame as a nurse. It's all gone to hell in a hand cart.
You cry.

So I assume the role I always do with her at times like these- that of the comforting mother. And I pat her back, and I say it really isn't a big deal, no one got hurt, and I'm not upset. And I make a big deal out of not being upset, and trying to find things to do with her that will cheer her up. And it works, in the sick, fucked up way it does.

This was the big fiasco of the visit, but there were numerous small strangenesses that even Boy noticed.

And it's not just her. After a visit with her I notice how alike our voices are. And I wonder if I'm stretching the truth ever at all. If I seem to be losing my faculties at a steady, slow rate. If, in short, I'm turning into my mother.

She wants to come back for another, longer visit, since this one was so short. I don't know how I'd manage. For the first time in nine months my milk production was reduced because I was so stressed. Moving a month after the baby was born didn't do it. Getting the house ready for the mother-in-law's visit didn't do it. Living in this messy house didn't do it. Just knowing my mother was coming for two days was what reduced my milk output by 30%.

Simon says we'll just have to be creative and think of a reason she can't stay. I know that would be wise and fair to us, but so help me I just can't say no. Her feelings will be hurt, bad, and I won't be near her to pick up the pieces. She needs to see her grandbabies, and she needs to feel loved by me. All I can hope for is that it was stressful for her too, and she'll think twice about a longer visit.

Be grateful for all the healthy relationships you have, I know I am.
ephelba

To Textbook or Not to Textbook

The great thing about homeschooling is that you can try and overcome the shortfalls of the mass-produced pseudo-education that is Public School. It's also the difficult thing.
Example:
Boy would be doing gaining very little new knowledge in science this year if he was at the local school. I decided that if he was going to stay home, we could attack each of the major sciences one year at a time and give him a meaningful bite of each.
Unfortunately, there is no box you can buy that comes with "biology" ready made for a sixth grade student. There isn't even a decent textbook.
So I tried scoping out some sites for Boy, printing some stuff out, then setting him loose. This worked Poorly. He retained some major concepts, but doesn't feel confident about it. It's as if he doesn't know what he knows. Most minor concepts went past him completely.
Fine.
So we'll approach it again, but differently. I'll make up a text, thereby gleaning the important facts from the chaff for the Boy. He can read, do the activities and questions at the end and Bob's your Uncle.
I've been working on this for days. There are plenty of pictures, lots of info, meaningful activities.
And yet, there's no helping the fact that it's a little dry. A lot dry, in places. I can't help but think that in doing the extracting for him, I've sucked the life out of the whole process. Where's the discovery and exploration? Where's the following of interesting topics?
It ain't here.
Maybe there's a happy medium. Maybe there isn't. I have the feeling that I'm reinventing the wheel. Somebody must have gotten this right already. Maybe if I read the right education journal I would discover it. I know how to guide kids through things that are more general- beginning math, science, reading. It's what to do when you've got a very specific goal in mind that baffles me. How do you guide and facilitate exploration when you've got one outcome in mind?
I'm done for tonight anyway. I got the computer moved into the main living area, which means Boy can have more free time on the computer, and I can pump without having to confine Peanut or make Boy watch her.
Yay me!

Doing the best I can,
ephelba

Patting Myself on the Back

It makes me feel worthwhile to see what I've accomplished written up in a list. Sometimes, even when I've been going non-stop all day, I feel like I haven't made progress, because my entire to-do list isn't done. That's when a been-done list helps to make me feel better.
Today I:
* Pumped every time I was supposed to
* Cut Boy's hair
* Vaccumed the living & rumpus rooms
* Cleaned the kitchen
* Washed bottles
* Washed Peanut's clothes
* Caught up on Blogs, moved addresses to Google Reader
* Posted here twice
* Made a To-Do list
* Went grocery shopping, Booze buying, vitamin getting and dinner picking upping
* Washed the dinner dishes
* Watched some Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
* Put a Star on the calendar
* Made Tea for tomorrow

Now then. There's my proof that I'm not a waste of flesh. I know this in my brain, but somehow it doesn't feel true when my to-do list is as long as it is. Send good thoughts to Simon, who is long suffering and very supportive. I sure do love me some Simon.

Going to recharge for tomorrow's resounding defeat of my to-do list,
ephelba

Hippy Mom's Club

So, as you may or may not know, every month I attend a meeting of the local Holistic Mom's chapter, or as our family likes to call it, the Hippie Mom's Club. It is a breath of fresh air, but unfortunately it feels like I'm holding my breath between meetings.

It's funny, I had quit thinking of myself as an introvert until I met Jo. She moved to the area a few months after I did. We took the kids to a park the other day, and she mentioned that she felt like she was starting to find her friends here. I was in awe. I've got three months on her and she's the first person I've gone anywhere with. She's one of the few people I want to go anywhere with.

There are hippie moms that I'd like to hang with, but it's awkward. I feel like a little kid saying "Can you play?". It doesn't help that I can't imagine why they'd want to play with me. By which, I'm not saying "Oh, I have no self esteem, Wah!" I suppose I'm likable enough. It just seems like the other moms already have friends and a very full life. "I know our kids aren't anywhere near the same ages, and I know you're terribly busy with your volunteering, and of course your busy social life, but could I trouble you to leave your GORGEOUS house and come slum it in my rather unkempt shabby-chic apartment for a cup of fair trade coffee? Because I don't have a car, and it's rude to invite myself to your house anyway, but I thoroughly enjoy your company." You can see my discomfort.

Part of it, too, is that although I am rather slow to make friends, I make a very good friend. Extremely loyal. A friendship, to me, is similar to a marriage, in that I fully intend for it to last the rest of my life. I don't enter into these things lightly. Which is not to say I don't have acquaintances. I do. I've got several acquaintances in my neighborhood- people with whom cups of sugar are indebted and the like. We're friendly enough. What I don't have in this locale are the kind of relationships that sustain you. The kind of people you go have fun with. The kind of people that support each other when trouble is afoot.

I do have some people in mind. I just have to be patient with myself. And creative. I will find ways to get together with people and I will relax a little until I do.

After the last hippie mom's club meeting I sat around with two other moms and chatted. One of them has the same name as Loon, and the same lovely dark curly hair, and a similar way of being reserved around new people, so mayhaps I'll call her Lune. The other is a super cool hipster mom whose profession is being an artiste. Ummmm. I guess I'll call her Betsy. So anyway, Betsy and Lune and I sat there for a good half hour after everyone else had left. Lune and I feel especially trapped right now. She, because she has three little ones, two of whom are nursing, and I, because I have one little one and no car. All three of us were wondering how on earth mothers in the past managed to keep their houses clean when they had little children, because we were pretty sure they'd be shocked at the state of our houses. Everyone always mentions that the older children were supposed to help with the younger, but what about when there weren't any older children yet? And I've always thought that we were meant to have our mothers around to help when the children were little, but what about the frontier women who had left their moms behind? We tossed around the idea that they just let the kids cry. Right now, this is what is hampering Lune and I. We can't get away from the baby without there being tears. So we carry the baby. What's that? Use the sling, you say? Ever try to wash a sink full of dishes whilst your baby reaches for every yucky thing in her ever widening radius? Better yet, see what happens to your back when trying to load a washer and/or dryer while you've got a 14 lb baby hanging off your shoulders. Yes, for me there is nap time, which is a whirlwind of activity when I don't use the time to take a nap myself, but Lune's kids don't nap. Yipes! I often ask Boy to help, but I feel guilty about doing that too much. He is not the Daddy, and I don't want him to feel burdened. I do believe it's fair for him to help. I don't think it's fair to ask him to raise the baby, and I'm constantly worried that I ask too much of him.

After I left the meeting I had another thought about the frontier moms. It occurred to me that they didn't have the kind of space or the quantity of things to clean that I have. Admittedly, they had other chores to make up for it, but I think that if you've got an outhouse, two dresses total (One of which that rarely gets worn), one room with a dirt floor and maybe two beds between six people, you cut down on the housecleaning dramatically.

Given the choice, I suppose I'll stick with indoor plumbing and many, many clothes.

Apparently I've chosen the Dirt Floor option, though.

I did make headway this week. I have all the windows in the living room sealed up for winter. Our lovely rug is finally laid down, the curtains hung up. Many things have been hauled into the attic. Laundry has been washed. Dogs have been washed. The kitchen is still trashed, and I'm dying to get this computer moved into the main living space, but one thing at a time I suppose.

I'm thinking about making a banner for this site. I was tossing around the idea of the iconic pointy black hat, maybe a pair of bright red boots that would make Nanny Ogg proud. Then I saw a little sign that said "I have flying monkeys, and I'm not afraid to use them!", which made me think that cute flying monkeys were in order. However, my affinity to Witches includes those from places other than Oz and I don't want to categorize myself too strongly. Maybe flying monkeys wearing red boots. Flying red boots? Monkeys in pointy hats? Unbuggered hedgehogs in red boots watching monkeys fly?

Guess I'll have to work on that some more,
ephelba

I knew I should have taken pictures...

So I took Peanut to see the Dr. He said "Let's wait a few months and see if it gets better".
W
T
F
?
You mean, till she's a year old and the damage becomes more difficult to fix? So I say to him that I'm worried about what is causing it, and I don't want the facial asymmetry to become permanent. He says something, in a questioning voice, to the effect of "I guess physical therapy could help."
I am not feeling happy with my Dr at this moment, no siree. I say, to Zoe, "Shall we do that then?" Which is his cue to say "I suppose we can get her in to physical therapy."

I want a Dr who, at the least, excuses his/herself, looks up torticollis and its causes, comes back and does a thorough exam, then sends us off for treatment. I have no idea if this guy is blowing us off, or if he really does know that the torticollis will resolve itself. I know he is trying to please me by ordering whatever I ask for, but I would like a little more assurance that he is the Doctor and he knows what he's doing. I feel like I'm having to be the Doctor. I can't be a Doctor. There's too much I don't know.

Then I begin to feel sorry for this guy. He's nice enough. What if he loses all his patients because he's so.... quiet and... withdrawn? Seems like a waste of Doctorness. Maybe it's just me. Maybe other patients love him. I hope so, because I really don't wish him ill.

Going to bang my head on a wall,
ephelba

Bad Mom

So for the past few months, Simon and I have been saying, "Doesn't Peanut tilt her head a lot?" We also ask "Do you think it's a sign of a dread disease?". I've noticed that her face isn't symmetrical. We asked the Dr about it, and he said if it didn't get better we'd send her to an opthamologist.
It didn't get much better, but I felt a little weird bringing it up at the last appt. The Dr didn't notice it, after all.
Now I googled "infant chronic head tilt" and it's pretty plain that she does have something, although it's not a dread disease. It's called torticollis. There are several causes. I'm not sure what hers is, but I'm damn sure I should have said something to her Dr, because I read that if it's not corrected by about 1 year of age, the facial asymmetry can be permanent.

She's only 8 months old, and I've already fucked up hard. Sometimes I think about having another kid and it just wears me out. Other times I think I shouldn't because I'm not a good enough mom.

I'm just going to have to do the best I can to get things fixed. I will be a bulldog on my daughter's behalf, and make sure she gets what she needs. This is not about me looking like a neurotic mom, it's about my daughter's neck.

I will forgive myself for not doing something sooner. It isn't a very bad case, and I honestly thought she'd grow out of it. I will be glad I looked it up eventually and got things rolling. I can even be glad that we were already doing some of the things that we should do, like making her look to the left. It could be worse.

On another medical front, Simon is going to get his nose fixed. He's got nasal polyps. Nasal polyps suck. It's like having a permanent cold; always stuffy, frequently headachey, usually unable to smell... Since I'm still smarting from being ignorant about Peanut's problem, I googled the sam hell out of nasal polypectomy. You bet I did. Read a lot of abstracts.
ASIDE:
They use a survey to measure symptoms of patients called the Sino-Nasal Outcome Test, or SNOT. You think I just made that up. I didn't. You can't make this stuff up.
ANYWAY:
I feel prepared, now that I know the usual procedures, major and minor complications, and circumstances under which they're most likely to happen. Want to know something funny? Simon can't have sex for 7 to 10 days afterwards. Not that we get off sticking things up each other's noses, but his blood pressure has to stay low so things don't bleed. He hasn't mentioned this yet, but when he finds out he won't be amused.

I'm so glad we have health insurance. Right now the $15 copay is starting to hurt because Simon, Peanut and I all have a mess of visits lined up. Can you imagine if we actually had to pay the entire bill? Actually, what would happen is we wouldn't go to the doctor at all, and wouldn't be getting any treatment whatsoever. It would be cheaper. This way is much better, even if it does cost more.

Wish us luck,
ephelba

Random Musings

Poopydigs posted a fun thing to do, you go here and they generate a celebrity look alike for you. Of the ten results I got, only One was a woman.

Actually, I think I look the most like James Spader, but it gets cut off on the blog, so here's a one on one:

Not that I haven't been "Sir"ed when I was eight months pregnant, wearing a skirt and sporting boobs the size of my head, but it's still a bit of a bite to find out even computers mistake you for a guy.
But it's not my day. My computer puked and deleted all my bookmarks. Yes, ALL. And yes, DELETED. It was not as thoroughly groomed as my Netflix list, but it is mourned none the less.
Also, I have a roid. Too much info, I know, but there it is. My bottom is very sad now.
I was planning a trip to the drugstore for roid cream, and since Boy has been chewing his fingernails to nubs I thought I'd get some bitter stuff to put on his fingers to get him out of the habit. Then I imagined going to the checkout with roid cream and bitter apple. I said it would look like I was trying to stop licking my butt. Simon says that's not funny, but it made me laugh.

Taking my tender ass to bed,
ephelba

This Week in Homeschooling

Monday was going to rock hard. I had pulled together an awesome project for Math, History and English. Printed and stapled. Ready to roll. As we started the school day I whipped out the Math project and it went over very well. Boy was impressed with it- his mission: to measure out a quarter of a mile with a device of his making. We haven't finished yet, but it turned out to be the perfect project, hard but not too hard, relevant, engaging. I'm very pleased.

A few minutes into the day we get a phone call from Boy's friend, asking if he gets the day off. WTF? For what, I ask. For Columbus day, he says. I'm thinking, no, no way. Today is going to be my best day so far, and I hate Chris Columbus. I ask Boy if he really thinks we're going to be celebrating Christopher Columbus, bringer of death to the Americas, and he says he guesses not, so we're back on track.

But as we make our way through the problem, I start sneezing. And not just any sneezing. Fits. I've never before thought I'd sneeze till I puked, but I was getting worried. I decided it might be something in the trash molding, so I tied the bag up and set it outside the door for Boy to take out later.

As we made our way into the history lesson, things only got worse. The lesson didn't suffer though, and Boy was getting the gist of what I was shooting for. Last week he asked why we bothered to study history at all, which sent me into a rage. I came out of it with a lesson, oh boy oh boy, a good lesson. We started with what happened in Tianamen Square, and about how today's students at Beijing University don't even know it happened. Then we went on to a study about how little history American college freshmen know. And I finished it with a dry essay on why people should study history. This was a more than one day thing, of course. I had thought things were going OK. Today we got to part where he answers why he thinks he should study history, and he throws the same crap at me, about how it's useless, as if he hadn't read yesterday's essay at all. So I spent the morning lecturing about history's importance, giving examples, etc. until he finally "saw the light". Not that he ended up needing shades, or anything, but I finally got through to him.
I think.

In the end, the truth is I can't make his learn it if he doesn't want to, and I freely admitted that, but I asked him if that's really what he wanted. He assures me he does not. I said that if he wanted different books to read, or different projects to do, or anything, he's welcome to it. We will find other things and ways to learn. To say that history isn't worth learning, though, is a shame and an untruth.
Look for an essay by Boy on the topic next week on his blog.
I've already strayed pretty far from my original topic, but since I'm way over here in left field, might as well enjoy the view. Have you seen Boy's Blog? It's at http://weaslestomper.blogspot.com/. And no, I'm not making a link because the little bugger has stattracker and I don't want him to find my blog. You'll just have to copy and paste if you're interested:)

To get back to my story, we were moving on to English when I decided I was truly suffering. I called my Dr, who said there was nothing I could take. Nothing at all. I don't believe it, but I decided not to take the Claritin I had been eying just in case.

I barely paid attention to Boy as he dug into the essay Simon found about why Harry Potter is a loser. Boy sure sunk his teeth into that one. He was outraged, and produced a pretty good opinion piece in a jiffy.

Lunch was a blur. Boy ate something. I ate something. I sneezed.

After lunch I decided I could care less what happened. I was soooo miserable, with my nostrils of fire, teary eyes and numbing fatigue. I decided we'd walk to the post office, then I'd try to take a nap with Peanut and Boy could do some Spanish or trumpet without me.

And since I was feeling sorry for myself, I thought we'd get some ice cream. (Simon is saying, Hey!, right now, but it's ok, because...) Horrors! The ice cream shop was closed! Arg! No Ice Cream for You! I stumble down to the post office with Boy to discover that the Post Office is closed too! Fucking Columbus. So we trudge back to the family dollar, where I pick up some kleenex.

Back at home the BABY WON'T SLEEP. Nope. She won't.

So I decided to get started on dinner and muddle through anyway. Simon comes home and tells me to take a Benadryl, for Christ's sake. I do, but it only makes me more tired. I end up pumping early and going to bed at 7:30. Simon is an angel, and says he'll put the Boy to bed, etc. All I can think about is how many days it's going to take for whatever is making me sneeze to quit blooming.

The next morning I wake up... strangely snot free. Perfectly normal. Not one sneeze. All I can figure is that whatever it was really was in the trash, and now that it's out of the house and the dust has cleared I'm fine. Go figure. Simon says he can't believe I let the trash fester till it made me sick. Ok, but it wasn't full and it didn't stink, so why not wait to take it out, really?

Sure do have a reason now, Boy Howdy.

We're still coasting on the lessons I had ready. I'm so pleased with myself. If I can just keep it coming, we'll do alright.

Going to pump, eat lunch, and generally get on with my life,
ephelba

All my free time

I really can't imagine when I think I'll be doing these things, but I've been collecting ideas over at 52 projects. It is a hotbed of creativity.
I went there to get some ideas for thoughtful gifts I could make for people on the cheap. There was some of that, but not much that will be ready by this xmas.

I hate xmas. Honestly, who's the genius who thought it would be a great idea to give everyone we know a gift on the same day? You'd have to be a Rockefeller to be able to afford it. If you ask me, gift giving is what birthdays are for. You celebrate everybody one day at a time, and you make it good. If you must celebrate a winter holiday, make it about the food. But that's just me, Scroogy McScroogster.

I suppose everyone will end up getting peanut brittle again.
And they damn well better like it.

I hadn't meant to put up an "I hate xmas" entry, I meant to put up a "Isn't this site cool" entry. Check out the "What's your project" page. Also the 52 Figments page is good for inspiration if you're in need.

On a "My husband was right all along" note, last spring when we moved into this apartment, we set the thermostat for 70 degrees. I had never had radiators before, and attributed the lovely warmth to them. Why doesn't everyone have these, I wondered. They made the place seem so much warmer than 70. I had never been so happy in the winter. Then we got the bill, and woe was us. And we decided we would never be able to set the thermostat above 65. Ever. And we weren't sure we'd be able to afford that.
A month ago we set up Simon's xmas present from last year- a clock that tells you what the temperature is inside and out. And today, when I realized the radiators had come on even though I had it as low as it would go, I said uncle and turned the thermostat up to 70. At which point I was again amazed at how great the radiators work. Until I saw that it was 75 degrees in here.

Oh.

Boy says, is 5 degrees such a big deal? You can tell he's never paid a gas bill, huh.
Also, Simon is going to be shouting "Aha!" because he kept saying "There's no way this is 70." while I kept saying "But the thermostat says it is!"

Must admit I have things that need doing,
(like waiting for Simon to read this and gloat:)
ephelba

Update:
Simon has read the post, and says I don't do justice to exactly how right he's been. He's been very right, folks. He must have observed it couldn't be 70 a hundred and a half times, and he was right on each count:)

Hilarity ensues.

Boy is taking an acting class. Nothing grand, mostly it's children being told to Project and the like. They are doing a lot of improvisation though. Boy was saying he wanted some more practise at this, so I thought I'd go online and look some exercises up. I found a very interesting site where they talk about improve exercises. They said that frequently improve sessions turn into silly fests where people throw out random ideas to get the audience to laugh. This is because a) you get instant, pleasant feedback. And b)something about power and the audience that I forget, and I can't find the site again, so we'll skip this one for now.
The point is, laughter is a big positive reinforcement. If you try something that isn't funny you don't get immediate feedback about how well it worked. You act silly and get a big yuck, well by jove you're going to end up making with the silly.
Who in the audience would complain? Laughing is good. Why not ask the actors to make us laugh?

I used to read a blog by a Lady Leroy. She started her blog with no particular aim in mind, but quickly discovered she could make people laugh. Then her brother got sick with leukemia, and eventually died, and she felt squashed. She didn't feel comfortable being sad in the same place she used to entertain people. Eventually she gave up blogging to live her life privately.

I watch Boy struggle with this already. He wants his improv to be funny. And he wants his homeschooling blog to Entertain his readers. I spent half the afternoon convincing him that the blog was about his schoolwork. It is a place to display what he does. It is about him, not his audience.

I feel the push myself, sometimes, but I decided early on that this blog was not for entertainment. This blog is for myself. It is a place to think, and explore, and record. It is for my children and their children, so they can understand more of their own history someday. It is for my audience too, so they can either say "Yeah, me too!" or "Huh, I hadn't thought of it like that."

Of course, sometimes funny things happen on the way to the bank, and who am I to deny it?

Nothing much funny happened here today. There was plenty of laughter, though. Simon and I started the day tickling each other. Alas, this is a one sided affair, since he is hardly ticklish, but he giggles when I try to tickle him. Later, Boy nearly peed himself laughing because he snuck into the living room and Booed me but good. Got an actual scream out of me. My first reaction was to kick his ass into next week, but I laughed instead and he rolled on the floor with glee. And Peanut thinks anything is funny if you do it twice. I spent the evening making her giggle by kissing her forehead. Then kissing it again. And again. And once more again. Both she and I think that if something is funny once, it's especially funny the fiftieth time.

It was an especially productive day. Laundry, dishes, and shopping were done, in addition to the assembly of some shelves.

And a star will be going up on the calendar.

All in all, I'm pooped.
Going to bed satisfied,
ephelba

Things are getting away from me...

Ok, so do you remember being in middle school, and during gym class you had to run laps, and one day you were running and on every step, so help you god, you tooted a little toot of a fart and you couldn't stop it, no matter how hard you clenched? Remember the horror, the desperate hope that no one heard you?
Do you know the game Dance Dance Revolution? (If you do, maybe you think you know where this is going, but you're wrong.) It's a video game where you dance on a control pad on the floor in time to the music on the video game. Today Boy had a friend over, and I'm bopping around with Peanut whilst they play. Boy, being in a friendly mood, says, Gee Mom, why don't you take a turn while I hold the baby.
So I take my place next to Boy's friend. I'm standing there in jeans and a sweatshirt, but my dark secret is that I'm wearing no bra. Not that I'm thinking about this, because I'm getting my groove on. Then, as I take a little hop, I hear a little "Slap" that is my boobs splatting back into their accustomed place.
And I'm horrified. Did Boy's friend hear that? I'm thinking not, so I try to surreptitiously arrange my arms so they corral my wayward breasts, but Horrors! there it is again. Every time I had to hop a little there was the softest "Whap!" when the girls landed.
So help me, I almost wish I'd had the galloping toots instead.
Going to get a bra,
ephelba

How I Want to Die

Esereth has put out a call for writing ideas, and since it's October, I thought up the creepy one titled above.
Not that most of us get to choose, but I do have preferences about when, where and how I'd like to die. If get my druthers, I'll be old enough to see my great grandbabies, but not so old that somebody else is wiping my butt. I have a terrible aversion to tiredness, and I imagine that's how it feels to be truly ancient and withered. Just tired all to crazy. On the occasions when I've been in nursing homes, I've been obsessed with how tired you'd have to feel to stay in bed in that place instead of saying "This sucks, I'm outta here, see you when the bars close."

That said, I love my family very much, and am terribly greedy to see as much of their lives as I can manage. Peanut can't crawl yet, and I'm trying to figure out how to convince her to live near me when she has babies of her own. I need to be near my grandbabies. Say she's 30ish when she starts, that makes me 60ish. No sweat. And if I want to make it to great-grandbabyness, I suppose we'll have to rely on Boy, so if he and his kids both make babies at 30, that'll make me 80ish. Do-able. 80 is the new 60.

As to Where, I have more preferences about where I don't want to die than about where I do. Don't want to die underwater. Or in space. Or anywhere cold. Or dark. That leaves what, Arizona?

As to how, I have definate preferences on that subject. I don't want to die of any exposure to inertia. This eliminates car crashes, bullets, things falling form airplanes, me falling from airplanes and the like. I don't want to die from anything slow, wasting and painful. Who would? No surprises really. I think a stroke in my sleep would be the thing. The question is, where do you go to put in your order?

Because people die everyday all the time from completely random weirdnesses. Stingrays stabbing you in the chest, E. coli in your spinach, slipping on your walkway... religions are founded because it is simply crippling to try and wrap your brain around the fact that everything that is important to you can get snuffed in a snap. It has become more difficult since Peanut, but I truly do try to just Let It Go. This is the stuff from which neurosis are made. Life is huge and lovely- you want all of it, to stuff it in our mouth till its juice runs down your chin- and you have no control over when it ends. You have to accept that it could happen, and walk out the door anyway. Eat the spinach. Take a walk.

I'm passing on swimming with stingrays.

Gotta go get while the getting's good- Peanut is asleep and I'm dying tired,
ephelba