Sunday, January 28, 2007

Same shit, different cycle

I used to type all my entries in notepad, then cut and paste them into Diaryland, because I had an old pc that puked frequently. It delighted in waiting until I'd put a fair bit of effort into an entry first. Then I got this Mac, and I've been freely typing away in Blogger with nary a worry. Of course, the "Firefox has unexpectedly quit" messages

Who? Who doesn't expect it to quit? Because it ain't me. I am dead certain it is about to quit any second now, and am thoroughly nonplussed by that stupid error message.

are increasing at an alarming rate, and I lost an entry today. And an email. And one of those thingys you put at the bottom of someone else's blog entry. Comment. Whatever, you knew what I meant.


Back to typing in Notepad.

Of course, notepad "Unexpectedly" quits too, so I may just be up a creek. Surprise!

What the hell was I typing about? I can't remember because I'm tired and nursing and apparently milk is made out of Mom Brains. Yum.

Oh! I remember...

Ok, so I have been shopping for a new birth control method lately. "New" would be anything other than saying "Oh shit" or "Whoopsy!" EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH. I'm frankly scared by the thought of leaving copper up in my hoo-hoo for ten years at a time, because (don't laugh at me) I worry it worsens Alzheimers. There's conflicting research that it either slows or worsens the progression of the disease. I don't want to get an IUD put in and then find out it's rotting my brain. There are progestrone ones, but I tend to get side effects from the hormonal birth control. I was on the ring, which gives you about the lowest dose of estrogen possible, and for my troubles I got a permanent set of brown splotches on my face, a diseased gall bladder, a loss of sex drive, and - oh yeah- A BABY. I'm staying away from the hormonal stuff.
Which leaves things you put on or in. Which is what I'm supposed to be using now. Which I forget to do. Which makes me think I should just go with the copper IUD. And around we go. I have no fucking clue what the hell to do, other than put in a reminder on my Yahoo calendar so that it emails me every month to say "Now would be a good time to use a condom, genius." Starting next month. Because this month we've already fucked up, see?

The thought of a third kiddo still scares me stiff. We talked about going to get the morning after pill or getting a copper IUD put in now, but we agreed the idea was icky. At the time we couldn't put our fingers on why, but I think I've got it figured out since then. Simon and I are parents. If the sperm has romanced the egg, the result is, in effect, our child. Making my uterus uninhabitable for it feels like we're harming our child, which we won't do. We'll give it a fighting chance. Of course, if it misses or bounces we'll have a beer and call it day, but if it sticks... well, you can't imagine the love it's going to get.

Going to "Add an Event",

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Comments I haven't left on other people's blogs...

Alot of the bloggers I read are pregnant right now. They like to kvetch about people asking questions about their pregnancy, about the baby's sex, names, about how people like to fondle the Belly. They are mightily offended.
I haven't commented because everyone needs a place to vent, but I'm baffled by their offense. If you came into work with your arm in a cast, wouldn't you expect people to ask "What happened?". You would, because your injury would be very visible, and presumably your coworkers care about you, at least a little. And having brought the subject up, they would ask questions about how long you were going to have to wear it, etc, because that's what people do. It shows they care. You will, of course, get tired of answering the same questions, but you wouldn't say "It's none of your damn business!". In fact, if you came in and no one mentioned it or asked for details when you pointed it out you'd probably feel hurt.
Are people supposed to notice your pregnancy and not say anything? What is left to discuss if they can't ask about due dates or the baby's gender or even names? "I see you're pregnant! Good luck with that." Or maybe "You'll get over it."
And as for the whole touching the belly thing, I never had anyone rub my belly without asking first. I understand that other people have much higher, thicker and generally more substantial boundaries than I do, so I wouldn't bother to consider rubbing someone else's belly, but I completely understood when people asked me. Pregnancy is awe inspiring. There's a baby in there, and the fact that you can feel the little life riding around in there just blows your mind.

Then I saw a post where someone used their cell and took a picture of a lady who, well, let's just say when she got dressed that morning she chose poorly. And yet, the blogger said she had looked in a store window and admired the view, apparently reassured by her too small jeans and tacky clothing.
Have you ever heard someone with a tin ear try to sing? It's incredible. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have believed it possible. The person I heard could carry a tune just fine, but hadn't even the barest notion that she was carrying it in a completely different (and unharmonious) key as the accompaniment. She couldn't tell. It was like being color blind. I think some people have this trouble with clothing. They see an item of clothing on someone and they like the style, so they assume that it will look good on them. Even when they look in the mirror and see evidence to the contrary, all they recognize is that, "Yep, those are those awesome jeans that I like". Not "I should have chosen jeans that come up past my ass crack, or at least my underwear." Bless her heart.

Then tonight we heard about a lady who died from water intoxication after trying to win a contest at a radio station, and I just couldn't fucking believe it. Even though a woman called into the station and told the DJs this could happen, they laughed and said the contestants signed waivers. Nice. And when the lady began to show symptoms did they say, gee, maybe you should call a Dr? No, they said it was her body telling her she needed to barf. She called in sick to work, laid down and died. I just can not get over it. Firstly that this many people haven't heard of water intoxication. Secondly, that the ones who had heard of it didn't insist that the contest was a really, really bad idea. Lastly, that NO ONE THOUGHT TO CALL A DR AT ANY POINT! It just makes me sick. People die every day from war, famine and plague, but somehow death by ignorance and stupidity bothers me more.

On another note, spent a lot of time reading about Peanut's little chin (micrognathia). Turns out she has several symptoms of a kind of dwarfism. Well, except, as Simon so helpfully pointed out, she's not a dwarf. Phew. One less thing to worry about.

There are many scary things that a little chin portends. We have lucked out, in that none of them are things she'll have to face, but I begin to understand why it was such a big deal when she was born. All I really wanted to know was whether I should be doing something about the little chin right now. I think the answer is probably not, but for once I have done the research before I take her in for her checkup, like a good responsible Mommy.

Going to bed, like a good responsible Mommy should,

Saturday, January 13, 2007

How to Turn into your Grandmother:

Step One: Don't use a dishwasher. In my case, I totally would if I had a functioning one, but I don't, so I don't.

Step Two: Somehow manage to seem to wash dishes continually all day long. Actually I usually only wash twice a day, but there was a time in my life I could go for several days without washing the dishes. That time is way over. I didn't do the dishes the other night before I went to bed (you wouldn't believe how tired I was), then the next day Simon was helping me catch up. He said it had to have been three days since I did dishes, because look at all of them! To which I replied Nope, just one, welcome to my world.

Step Three: Start thinking about dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon. What you're going to make, how long it's going to take, what to do with the leftovers... Because you want it to be ready when your husband gets home. You do. Really a lot. Which sounds so 1950's housewifey, but the simple truth is that life is smoother when you can get the dishes done early. The dishes are best washed after dinner is over, as opposed to before (they're already clean) or during (your family goes all whiskey foxtrot tango). Therefore, the earlier you eat, the sooner you can clean.

Step Four: Redefine your relationship with foods. When you were younger, food was yummy or not. Now it agrees with you or it argues. Examples - Pizza: some quabbles in the form of heartburn, but otherwise ok. Grapefruit: disagrees most vociferously the entire time it's visiting. And it doesn't stay long.

Step Five: Truly believe in your heart of hearts that a crocheted/knitted anything makes a terrific gift. Know that maybe the person receiving the handmade whatever doesn't make things by hand and won't necessarily recognize what a labor of love it is, but decide you don't care. At least you don't use acrylic yarn.

Step Six: When you drop something you didn't mean to drop, say something like "Sugar" or "Snap". "Fudge" is ok, but seeing as how it does make the mind run toward the "Shit" that anyone else would have said, it's the word of last resort. Alas, I say "Shit" as much or more than I say "Sugar", but I'm trying.

Having said all this, I don't mean to imply I'm feeling old. I don't. I'm just surprised to find myself doing these things that I thought were vaguely silly when she did them. However, there are just some things I never will do, such as dry the dishes (that's what the dish drainer is for), touch something nasty with my bare hands (I know hands can be washed, but still), or eat liver (eeew).

Going to wash something,

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

In which Friends come and go.

Loon and her lovely M drove all the way from Michigan just to come visit. It is very humbling to have a friend do that. We did not go out on the town, undertake trendy shopping excursions or take in the sights. We did go to the Salvation Army, make some wicked good chicken and rice, trade x-mas presents and generally fart around.

Simon said it did him good to see me that happy. I felt very happy indeed, but I didn't realize there was such a difference between my normal state and a Loon-is-coming state.

Then, of course, they had to go back home. It took all of, oooo, maybe an hour, for me to have a melt down. I am pleased to report that I didn't belittle anyone or say anything hurtful to anyone, but I did stop traffic by yelling that I was going f-ing nuts and I couldn't take anymore f-ing noise and somebody better turn off at least two of the f-ing radios that were going at the time. Loon said she had friend hang-over too, and had griped a little about having to read directions and drive at the same time. I am treating the symptoms by listening to the mix cds she made for me. A lot.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, right on the heels of the friend hangover I have come down with PMS for the second or third month in a row. In the past it was an occasional event. These days the evilness moodiness starts three or four days in advance of the "moon cycle". Maybe it's because I'm nursing and I need more calcium than I'm getting. I keep meaning to do something about that, but then I bitch at the Boy all day non-stop and realize that, oops, I didn't bone up on my calcium this month either. Can you not do homeschool for a week because your mother is PMSing? Really I think that would be best for everyone. Unfortunately I don't think I can pull it off with out major loads of guilt. I'll just have to try to get by with chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Yeah, because, umm, chocolate has magnesium, which, umm, means you absorb more calcium, which means it's medicinal... yeah, that's the ticket.

Going to get my fix,

Thursday, January 04, 2007

What I've been up to lately.

Loon is coming for a visit! Hooray! I have been making her Xmas presents today, seeing as she's coming tomorrow and I am the mistress of procrastination.

I have also been rearranging. Simon says it's because Loon and her beloved helped me move in, and I don't want it to look like I haven't done anything since then. I think it's because I'm too excited to just pick up a little. A quick pick up isn't grand enough, no, I have to rearrange half the house. At least half. Hmmm.

Also, Boy got Super Mario Bros for xmas, so I have been busy discovering the wonders that everyone else my age has already got memorized. I didn't have TV when I was Boy's age, and most "secular" things were banned from the house, so I am still playing catch up on some things.

As a freshman in college every song I heard was new to me, so I would be like, "This music is AWESOME! Who is this?" And everyone would be like, "Umm, seriously, it's the Beatles". Or CCR, or Jane's Addiction or The Police or They Might Be Giants. Didn't matter who it was, I hadn't heard of them. I did listen to the radio in my car once I hit 16, but if the one station we got didn't play it, I hadn't heard it. The station played bands that printed their T-shirts on black poly-cotton. You can understand why my musical diet was lacking.

Simon thinks Lucy is depressed. I say she's always slept that much. I'll admit she realizes her Pack has changed. It's a good thing I'm a SAHM because I think she'd freak if she were to be left all alone all day after four years of hanging with Mabel. I take her with me in the car to run errands, and today I was one of those nutty ladies with her dog in a bag. "Just trying to keep my dog sane, pay no attention to the dog in the bag..." She does get more attention these days. I don't think it is because she gets Mabel's share. I think it's because we miss Mabel and she's the closest thing to a real dog we have.

Which sounds awful. I love Lucy, I really do. I get a kick out of watching her nearly pop when she hears Simon come up the stairs. I love making her happy by saying "Go for a ride?". You couldn't believe the glee. And yet, it is really is more like having a genius of a guinea pig than a dog.

I have plans to make her a doggie bag. By which I mean, a bag for her to ride in, not a bag in which to keep the bits of her we were too full to eat.

going to impersonate an Italian plumber,