Lovely warm.

I broke down and paid the ridiculous price for a Queen sized heated matress pad today. Have you ever slept on one? You crawl into bed expecting that horrendous full-body cold-sheet-freeze, and instead of shivering you experience the delicious sensation that "somebody's been sleeping in my bed, and they got it all toasty before they left". Yummy.

I have issues with staying warm though. Namely, I can't manage it. I wear a sweater all the time, try to keep slippers on my feet and have begun wearing a hat indoors, and yet I still haven't gotten warm. Maybe long johns... I can't help but think a body shouldn't have to go to all this trouble to stay warm inside the house. I guess a body doesn't have to if it's a rich body, but our bodies can't afford to buy more warm, so there we are. And actually, my body is the only one that shivers. So we're good. I can't complain whole heartedly.

I remind myself of this many times a day. We've got two craptacular computers, two craptacular cars, and we live in a somewhat craptacular apartment, but I try to keep it in perspective by reminding myself of how many people have no computers, cars, or even decent housing. How can I bitch when we've got more food than we can eat?

Trying to tuck in an entry at the end of the day results in a piss poor entry. Methinks I'll try to blog earlier tomorrow,
Done for today, and how,
ephelba

My son, the perfectionist

is DRIVING ME MAD! MAD I SAY!! MAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!!!!

He'll play two notes on his trumpet. One will be wrong. He'll slam something and say to himself, "Jesus it's two notes!" He'll try again, and if he fails, he'll say "What's wrong with me? This is awful? I can't stand this!" He may try again, or he may spend the next FIVE MINUTES calming himself down, or better yet, working himself up into a fit that ends up with him crying on his bed, apologizing about how Weak he is and carrying on about how stupid he's being.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

Because it's not like I haven't been trying SINCE HE WAS IN KINDERGARTEN to teach him to relax, acknowledge that these things take practise and accept that he's just going to have to get it wrong for a while before he figures out how to get it right. Years, YEARS, I say, I'VE BEEN TRYING FOR YEARS!!!

So I calm him down, and we go over how he's still practising how to relax and let things go just like he's practising trumpet, so if he makes a mistake and freaks out he's just got to let it go and try again. Inside, I'm thinking JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT'S A LITTLE NOTE WILL YOU GET OVER YOURSELF! I'm also dying a little inside, because YOU ARE THE SWEETEST LITTLE BOY IN THE ENTIRE WORLD DON'T YOU DARE THINK THESE AWFUL THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF!

It's worn me out. Times like these you wish you could pop their little skulls open and adjust the gears inside directly. I never know if I'm getting anywhere. Why does he still do this after SEVEN YEARS of "learning to cope" lessons?

Going to bed,
ephelba

Too tired to blog

so I'll write something more tomorrow:)

Much Better Now

I have gone through my usual worship ritual, and the Internet responded by informing me that Peanut had low birth weight, not very low birth weight. The difference? In her case, 300g, but also an improved outlook. There is a direct correlation between birth weight and likelihood of developmental delay, low IQ, sensory impairment, and psychological problems. So she's more likely to have issues than a 7 lb baby, but less likely than a 3 lb baby. It also helps that she's a girl, white, and born to a married woman who has health insurance.

I've also done some reading in the baby book put out by the American Academy of Pediatrics. She's on the low end of normal in gross motor and language development, maybe just behind normal, but at least in the same neighborhood as the ballpark. She's dead on in social and fine motor development. She plays peekaboo and can find objects hidden by a blanket, so those parts of cognitive development are ok. The ones that are dependent on language aren't there yet, but we've still got time.

I think. Because the book isn't very specific on the when these things should happen. I will do more looking on the Internet and see what I find. All the reading I did last night and this morning has reassured me that she's probably going to be ok. At least I'm not freaking out anymore.

On a more entertaining note, the Doctor prescribed iron drops for her, which we are to slip into her bottle morning and night. Knowing how she feels about Tastes I was dubious, but after an initial ugly face she drank it right up. Boy and I were curious what it tasted like, so we each tried a dropperful.

The initial bouquet is lemony, almost yummy. Then other flavor notes take over; bitter, an overtone of nasty nasty bitter, and highlights of metallic bitter. The best part? The aftertaste just won't quit. You can't wash it out of your mouth. Eating something doesn't completely expunge the taste either. We didn't resort to scraping our tongues on the carpet, but we were tempted. So explain to me how the girl who can't stand the taste of apple sauce swigs this stuff back with no problem?

Delighting in the wonders and mysteries that are my family,
ephelba

Easier Said Than Done

I wonder if I feed her enough. Or if she's had low iron her whole life and it's done something. Or whether we're stimulating her enough. I see an obviously developmentally disabled woman leaving the grocery store hugging a sack of potatoes like they're a life raft whilst someone says "You're doing a good job Karen" and I think there is absolutely No Fucking Way that's going to be my daughter.

Is it?

What if there's something wrong and there's nothing I can do to fix it? What if there's something I can do to fix it and I don't know what it is?

Going to seek hope from my personal god, the internet,
ephelba

Peanut Worries Us Again.

We tried a new Doctor. To sum up, she said she thought Peanut was devlopmentally delayed.
Well then.
It is hard to be in the place we are in right now. There is no way to tell if she's going to ride the Short Bus or if she's just going to walk a few months late. Of course, we couldn't love her more either way. We, personally, think she's behind in her gross motor development, but since her fine motor and social development is on schedule, maybe it's no big deal. Thankfully, my insistance on getting her into physical therapy is good, because the therapist had already suggested things to do to strengthen her leg muscles. Hopefully she'll catch up a bit. Otherwise they're thinking that she'll qualify for early intervention sevices at a year.
And really, getting those services would be ok. Because it's just a way to give her what she needs.
As I watch her right this moment, the whole issue seems moot. She's rolling around like a perfectly healthy, happy six month old. This, of course, is the trouble, since she's nine months old.
As I told Loon, I am just going to decide not to worry about it. We won't know what the deal is until she grows. I can stimulate her and help her with her excersizes, otherwise there's nothing I can do.
So. There's much I have to say on the topic, but I'm off to bed.

May all the news you get today be good,
ephelba

Strange

I am in a funny mood, probably brought on by lack of sleep. Therefore, this post will be odd and disjointed.

Thing 1 - I love Marlys. She rocks hard. Scroll down to the comics and check out "Your Toys".

Thing 2 - Speaking of toys, I want to make toys for the baby, but I can't figure out what I should try to make them out of. I like the flexibility that Fimo offers, but it doesn't stand up to much and I'm not sure I want her putting it in her mouth. Cloth is safe, but I feel like I need to be an engineer to figure out how to piece together what I have in mind. Wood would be perfect, if it weren't for the fact that it takes a long time to carve. Ideas? Anyone?

Thing 3 - Hindu gods are cool. I bet more people would be Christians if Jesus had three sets of arms and an animal head.

Thing 4 - I'm going to have company today. My house is not spotless. I am going to grow a little by deciding that this is ok. The company came and I really enjoyed having her over. I did not obsess about the state of the house. Yay me.

Thing 5 - If you are going to dribble glue on your counter in an accidental kind of way, dribble something white that says "Washable!" on the label, not something that says "Toughest Glue on the Planet".

Thing 6 - Wouldn't it be ironic if I started a campaign against commercialism, then made a mess of money selling t-shirts with anti-commercialism messages on them? Bet it's been done.

Thing 7 - I ordered a set of flip books from Snapfish thinking they'd be just the thing for xmas. As in, they would actually be a gift. They've arrived and have turned out to be more of a stocking stuffer. The good news is we got one set free what with all the sales they've got going.

Going to say goodnight now, the randomness is over,
ephelba

My two cents on breastfeeding.

Esereth left the following comment the other day:

I have a breastfeeding question and you are the mama to ask.

Hospital book says that if you switch babe from boob to bottle they are likely to stop taking boob because it's harder to get food out of than the bottle.

Did you find that true and if not how did you avoid it?

I'm a little bummed that I'm the only one who will able to feed Smudge when she comes.

After the third paragraph of reply I realized what I had was not a comment, but an entry, which follows:

I have never had the breast feeding experience I wanted. First there was Boy, who had no interest in the boob whatsoever when he was born. A lactation consultant at the hospital helped us out until he got the hang of latching on, but once we were sent home I was on my own. I thought I had read enough about breast-feeding, but it turned out I didn't even know how much I didn't know. I'd heard about La Leche, but the idea of going to a meeting where all you talked about was boobs and their juice seemed beyond weird to me- how could there be enough to say to fill an entire meeting? So when Boy's growth started slowing, and feeding became an issue, I consulted his Doctor.

Here's my first piece of breast-feeding advice: Do not, under any circumstances, ask a Doctor how to fix a breast-feeding issue. Ask a La Leche Leader. Call a Lactation Consultant. If their advice doesn't help, call Another Lactation Consultant. Doctors aren't trained in how to facilitate lactation. They don't talk to Mothers Daily about nursing, or see in person the hundreds of variations on the theme that nursing is. They tend to give poor advice with utter conviction because they attended a conference once.

I was 20, worried, and thought the Doctor knew what she was talking about. In the end my milk supply dwindled, Boy lost weight, and we switched to formula.

Then along came Peanut. She knew exactly what a nipple was for, but she couldn't get it in her mouth. She was born with an abnormally small chin, and my big gumdrop nipples could not be stuffed in her mouth far enough for her to latch on. Several lactation consultants agreed that what we should do is have me pump breast milk for a while, feed it to her with a bottle, then switch from the bottle to the breast. We thought this would take a few weeks.

It took several months for her mouth to grow enough for the nipple to begin to fit in her mouth. I believe we still could have made the switch, but I wasn't diligent enough about practicing with the nipple shield, supplemental feeder and accompanying hooplah for Peanut to get the hang of it. Maybe finding another lactation consultant after we moved would have helped. Maybe nothing would have worked because Peanut can be particular about such things. Who knows. All I know is that breast-milk is good for babies, and if I have to bottle feed it to her for another three or four months I will.

It is my personal belief that Peanut did not have nipple confusion. There is much debate on this subject, because there have been studies done that say there is no such thing as nipple confusion. Ask a LaLeche Leader and she will probably tell you there is. I used to work in a daycare with babies who drank breast milk from the bottle there, then went home to nurse. In all honesty I think it depends on the baby. Peanut is very sensitive to tastes and textures and had definite opinions on which method she preferred. Other babies could care less. I think the advice that makes the most sense to me is to wait until nursing is well established (seems like I heard two months) before introducing the bottle or pacifier.

I did go to some La Leche meetings, where I was the only one feeding her baby from a bottle. I was made to feel very welcome. I discovered there is a ton of stuff to be learned, even if you've read all about nursing. There is plenty of content to fill a meeting with.

Which leads me to my second piece of nursing advice: Find a La Leche group before your baby is born. Pregnant Moms are welcome, and if you have a question in the middle of the night after the baby arrives, you'll feel less weird calling somebody you've already met.

If you're lucky, breastfeeding will be a breeze from the start. If you're not lucky, you'll be worried sick that your baby isn't getting enough milk at a time when you're tired and stressed anyway. This is why people switch to formula so soon after they come home.

My third piece of advice: do not buy any bottles or formula before the baby gets here, and do not accept any sent home with you by your hospital. If you get worried about your baby's intake, the formula will seem like the perfect solution. You can't be tempted to give them formula you don't have. Babies don't die because they don't nurse well when they're brand new, but when you're sitting there with a crying baby who won't latch on you feel otherwise. It's natural. If this happens to you, call someone who can help (see above), don't make a bottle. After the baby gets the hang of things you'll be soooo glad you did.

My last piece of advice: nursing isn't meant to hurt. If it hurts you, the baby probably isn't latching on correctly. Seek help!

You live, you learn. I can't be bothered to feel guilty about it anymore, but I do feel sad about the nursing that didn't happen. There is nothing so sweet, and I didn't get to have that experience in full with either child. I will have to settle for knowing that, yet again, I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.

Cuddle with 'em if you got 'em, (babies, that is)
ephelba

Told you there'd be Pictures

The Bag Hat is complete. Behold.

Everyday you wear this hat is automatically a party day. Somehow this hat reminds me of the Fraggles, or Dr Seuss. Boy even likes it, which says something. Generally he thinks I dress Peanut like a clown, so I assumed this Look would send him into a tirade. Instead he said it's her cutest hat yet. I think he's just in awe that you can take yarn and turn it into an actual item of clothing. It blows his little mind.

On another happy note, Peanut and I won a prize! Honorable mention here.
If I was savvy I would have listed my flickr account in such a manner as to not give away the names of myself or my children, and then I could have one of those cute buttons on my blog that shows my flickr pics. Alas, I am sub-savvy and am scared to link to it because there are Crazy people in the world. Suffice to say, Peanut is one of those sleepy babies. See if you can recognise her.

On my merry way,
ephelba

In which the Baby eats.

My baby has finally decided that she might deign to eat things besides floor lint and the dog's rawhide. For a month now she's been Very interested in what we eat. She enjoyed chewing on a chicken bone and sucking on a peach pit. Well, enjoyed in her cautious way. Chewing, tasting, freezing, staring at the offensive taste maker, rinse and repeat...

It's not that I wouldn't give her food that isn't normally considered kitchen waste, it's just she hasn't learned how to swallow solids yet, since she can't get past the taste of things. Anyway, since the chicken bone went over well I got a jar of turkey and a jar of chicken and sweet potato baby food. Last night we gave it a try. She grabbed the spoon and put it her mouth, at which point she froze. There was a taste. She did a little mini gag, but she swallowed instead of letting it fall out of her mouth, so we decided to try the sweet potato stuff. At this point she was a little spooked. She put the spoon to her mouth very slowly, then stuck out her tongue to taste it. You think I'm making this up, but I'm not. She decided it was ok, and put it in her mouth. She made a face like she'd been fed battery acid, but then she did her bouncy thing which signals happiness, so we tried another bite. This time she actually opened her mouth to welcome the stuff! I have decided that she really is going to eat food, and not have to get care packages of boob juice sent to college.
What a load off my mind.

Not that I don't enjoy pumping. Wait, I don't enjoy pumping. I am sick of pumping and bottle washing and the whole shebang. Heartily sick. I showed the boob to the girl the other day in the hopes she might suddenly decide breastfeeding is cool. She poked the nipple with her index finger and made a dubious face. She was fascinated, though, much as I am when I see a person whose face is disfigured. After a while she progressed from poking at it like it was a beached jellyfish to grabbing it like it was a pile of money. Finally she put it in her mouth. She froze, which is a sure sign that it had a Taste and a Texture that did not please. That was it. If I get it out now she pokes it a little and then studiously ignores it. It's her equivalent of sticking her fingers in her ears and humming "I can't hear you!".

On other fronts, she is becoming motile. I chose that word because she reminds me of a bacterium- she can stop, turn/tumble, or go backward, which is similar to how bacteria move through the world. My little Chromatium. This works for her, although Simon says he doesn't want a baby that rolls, he wants one that crawls. Somehow I feel very relaxed about whether or not she crawls, but whether or not she eats gets me all uptight.

Although really and truly I'm not too worried about either one. I know she'll turn out ok in the end, we just have to be patient.

Later gater,
ephelba

New! Improved!

Writing an entry every day may not be such a good idea- I have nothing to say that can be said quickly.

Here's something for you to do instead...

Enjoy!
ephelba

Three! Three Posts!

So my son says to me "Did they have the Internet in the 80s?"
When I tell him "No" his little Brain is Blown.

Do you feel old yet?

I have wasted my day- took the Peanut to physical therapy, then came home and napped for two hours. My husband is the best husband ever, EVER, because Peanut decided to skip her morning nap, so he took charge of her and let me sleep.

I pumped and then went online. Which is where I am now. The dishes aren't done, the recycling is still stacked on the porch and Walmart awaits. The only interaction I've had with Boy about school was going to be VERY negative, so I asked Simon to rescue us, and he did. I feel like a waste of flesh.

So. This is what happens when you post everyday, you get tripe.

Oh! Actually, I do have something for you; yesterday we watched the Aristocrats. Netflix gave it a love it/hate it review, so we were nervous, but it turns out we loved it. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.

The joke is filthy, and part of the fun is making it as filthy as possible. Boy was at Boyscouts, and when he came home we put the movie on pause so his ears wouldn't melt and fall off. He asked what we were watching, and when we told him it was the movie about the joke, he wanted to hear the joke. Which we couldn't begin to tell him. So he says, "How bad could it possibly be? 'A guy whips out his penis...'" , to which Simon and I respond by laughing, because half the jokes Do start that way.

I really enjoyed the laughing, and decided our Netflix queue didn't have nearly the amount of stand up comics on it that I need. I have remedied that.

Go put some comics on your list! I'm going to run errands and rescue my day,
ephelba

That's two, two posts! Bwah ha ha ha ha....

I can crochet. A little. I have a hat pattern that involves a single stitch and very little counting that I have used twice to good effect. I decided to make one for Peanut, which I intend to put a cute tassel on top of so I can pee myself at her cuteness. The pattern is basically a flat hexagon top that continues straight down, sort of like a can. As I am crocheting it, however, I am peppered with Simon asking me if it's going to be a tamoshanter, and Boy asking me how I'm going to make it round.

Sigh.

It didn't help that my first attempt was way too big. I was worried it wouldn't be big enough, or that the cotton yarn I was using would shrink, so I made it big enough for Simon. At this point, strangers were giggling when I said it was for my baby girl.

I had another plan for a hat, an original design modeled after a hat she already has. This one would be made like a bag, with two tassels on top like ears. I decided I'd pull the first hat apart, use the yarn from that one to make my bag-hat and solve two problems at once. Simon said it was like the second hat was the inverse of the first, since it was made from the can hat's unraveling. If they touched, they'd disappear.

Of course, the menfolk, lacking my vision, now have two hats to mock. Again Boy is baffled at how I'm going to make it round, and Simon likes to say things like "You know her head isn't rectangular, don't you?".

I will prevail. Just you wait. There will be pictures.

Going to wash me, the dishes, and try to crochet faster than the baby pulls the stitches out,

ephleba

Nabloblahblah

I'm not a slave to fashion, but I have decided to give NaBloPoMo a try. It is true that all the cool kids are doing it, and it gives me an excuse to say "But I have to go online, I've got to blog EVERYDAY!", but mostly I could do with a little challenge in my life.

That was a joke.

It's not like I am challenge-less. I have challenged myself to try to like New York, even when I feel like Sundance arriving in Bolivia. I have challenged myself to keep my house relatively clean, because the whole fam-damn-ily likes it that way and I don't leave the house to work. I have challenged myself to stay one step ahead of Boy in the homeschooling, because things just work soooo much better that way. I have challenged myself to make my baby some hats, because I love cute baby hats, and gosh-darn-it, I can do that. I have challenged myself to write on my daughter's blog once a week, my son's a couple of times a month.

Which reminds me, ever go to 43 things? There are a few sister sites that are fun too. Some of those online places you can lose yourself in.

Also, I decided to do this too late to get on the official list. I am doing this anyway, just for me. Maybe next year I'll get my rear in gear in time.

Going to meet a goal,
ephelba

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

Tired Typing

It's always a bad idea to type tired. You might as well be drunk, and we all know that doesn't work well... I just have many things I want to say, and I don't want to neglect the blog, so bear with me if I'm less than smooth.
Went to see the Dr the other day. Nurse Practitioner actually.
I was a little scared to have this appointment, because I'm always afraid that they're going to tell me I'm a hypochondriac and I should get over myself. I told myself that I would just present the facts, and any reasonable medical professional would look into them. So I told her that my side still hurts, even though I had the gall bladder out Two Years Ago. She agreed that I have waited a reasonable length of time for the pain to go away, and said that it was probably just scar tissue from the surgery. We'll do imaging and go from there. I said, assuming it is scar tissue, aren't we done? I mean, if it isn't going to damage me, why bother to treat it? And she said that pain is not ok, and that we will try to get rid of it.
I'm just so pleased. And not just because she doesn't think I'm nuts. Also because secretly I was worried I had some dread disease. I knew it wasn't likely, but I feel like I have more to lose now than ever before. I can't stand the thought of not being able there for my peeps. I'd lay there at night with this slowly worsening twinge in my side thinking "That which ye fear will come upon you", then telling myself not to fear the twinge. It seems so silly now, like when you were little and scared of a noise, then you turned the light on and returned to the land of the rational.
It's late.
Gotta pump.
Don't let the bedbugs bite,
ephelba

Welcome to my world

I know, you've been waiting on tenterhooks

ASIDE:
Wow, could this be the first aside since I moved to Blogger? Methinks it is. I'll have to make it good.
Ok. So here's a personal pet peeve. When people say "Tenderhooks" when they mean "Tenterhooks". Or "Peaked" when they mean "Piqued". Or it's and its, they're and their, then and than, and any misuse what-so-ever of 's.
I do, sometimes, make the last few mistakes. I am very ashamed when I do.
THAT'S BETTER:

to hear how Boy's camp out went. It went well. Not too much rain, and not too cold. He played well with others. He ran around in the woods. He got his clothes incredibly filthy.

Speaking of filthy, I have to admit that me and my peeps have been a little under washed lately. I feel guilty about this occasionally, when I havenothing else to feel guilty about, but then I read the comments on this entry. I feel better. I'm apparently not the only mom with voodoo hair. I'm also not the only one who sleeps in her clothes or lives in her pjs.
I really miss having long hair, because although it got greasy, if you hadn't washed it for three days all you had to do to be presentable was pull it back. Now it's simply impossible. I'd wear a hat, but it really makes it hard to tell I'm a girl.
Simon went to see an ENT doctor. This is great, because he's had a permanent case of the stuffies since I've known him. The Dr put him on a handfull of drugs and said if that doesn't work there's always surgery. A modest improvement has been made. This, of course, means he can smell now. Which means that showers may become more of a priority. There was a certain security to be had in knowing he couldn't smell me.
Of course tonight we were laying in bed and he says "What do you smell right now"
"Nothing. What do you smell?"
"Last night's soup."
"Nope. AH HAH! NOW YOU KNOW! SEE HOW IT IS? NEXT YOU'LL BE SAYING IT SMELLS LIKE ASS!"
This last comment made by me, because I am prone to noticing odd smells at random times. They can usually be discribed as smelling like butt. But Boy and Simon always insist there is nothing smelly in the air at all. That I'm imagining it. Like people do that, just imagine smells. HA! The stink's on the other foot now, isn't it!
On a comletely different note, Peanut has taken to watching Weebl and Bob. Which really isn't for kids (see the one about Pie Stains, very funny), but Peanut enjoys very much. I swear she recognises the screen. She fusses until the cartoon starts, then watches in silent awe. Actually, she likes some other cartoons too, but Weebl and Bob are a sure thing. Sometimes I worry she'll end up talking like them. I guess the good thing about that would be that no one would know she was saying "Hot Piss!".
I think that's all I have to say right now. I did get another love letter from our favorite Jew-hater, but a discussion of that will have to wait. I have to pee.

Talk to you soon,
ephelba

Boy Scout Update

I couldn't leave well enough alone, so I took Boy aside and explained my last niggling problem with the Boy Scouts. And I went to the NPR site and looked up what Randy Cohen (check out Oct 31, 2004) had to say, and made Boy have a listen.
At first Boy said "I might as well quit to make things easier.", which I took to mean, "I might as well quit to make you happy". So I said no, I just wanted him to know what was going on. I have to admit to being a little torn up by Randy saying "And you have to wonder about parents who let their children join...". I told Boy I wanted him to go camping with his friends and I wanted him to have fun, but that I didn't want to support discrimination. Boy said there couldn't be that many gay people who even wanted to be in the scouts, and I said it didn't matter. The problem was that they weren't allowed. And when the truth came crashing down, Boy cried, because just like me he wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
I felt like the world's biggest shit. Boy is saying how his friends get to go and they never even bother thinking about stuff like this, but if he goes it will be in the back of his mind. And how he'll be wondering if he's weak for joining even though he knows the national group is doing something wrong.
In the end I told him I'd already paid the dues, and I wasn't prepared to ask for them back, so since the damage had already been done he might as well go have fun. It's not like they were going to go commit hate crimes or anything. I can't imagine the subject will ever even be mentioned. It's the principle of the thing. When the time comes to pay our dues next year, Boy can make a decision for himself with his eyes wide open. The shine will have worn off, and maybe I'll have found enough other social avenues to take the sting off it.
But then I wonder what I'm teaching the Boy. It's ok to do the wrong thing if the right thing hurts?
Sometimes, honest to God, I wish I was stupid. I wish I and my children were stupid and we didn't think about things and we blundered through life doing the things that made us happy and buying the things we liked without guilt over the political implications of our recreational pursuits and whether small asian children made our clothes. It must be nice to drink a cup of coffee without feeling guilty if it's not fair trade. Unfortunately I have the personality type that believes there are rights and wrongs and I should pursue the right for its own sake. Apparently Boy has it too.
It wears. It wears and sometimes you don't feel rewarded. No one thanks you for reducing our reliance on foreign oil and pesticides by buying used clothing. If you're a child you get ragged on for wearing second hand jeans. And any warm fuzzies you get from buying organic corn are wiped clean away by the price of the stuff.

Wow. Ok, I didn't set out to have a bitch fest, but frankly it felt good.

Have you ever read "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" by Phillip K Dick? In it, people can change their mood with a remote. I believe I will now switch to mood 134, "content with the nature of her existence and really pleased to be going to pump breast milk".
Later,
ephelba

Boy Scouts

I've been opposed to the boy scouts for a while now. I think the religious aspect of it is icky, and I don't want to support an organization that excludes openly gay men and boys. If you ask me, it's a club to teach boys how to be the All-American-Stereotypical-Man-Complete-With-Bigotry-And-Religious-Intolerance.
But in our neighborhood it is one of very few ways for Boy to get some social interaction. Boy's friends invited him to join in a fit of neighborliness. I didn't have the heart to say, "No, my son can't go because I support human rights.", and I really couldn't say "No thanks, we don't believe in a deity.". Around here both of those statements are like saying, "I like to eat babies raw, I sleep in bat blood, I fornicate with dogs, and I LIKE IT!".
We had a long family talk about the religion thing, because the boy scouts make you swear you'll do your duty to God. And if you can't swear that, don't bother to join. So Boy was torn. How could he swear on his honor if he didn't believe in God? Simon and Boy came to the conclusion that they hadn't defined "God", therefore a comfortable loop hole had been left in which Boy could rest his conscience. Simon went online and saw that there are, in fact, Buddhist boy scouts. If they could swing it, Boy could. This is what the men folk have concluded, and Boy is happily making plans to camp as we speak.
I, however, am still wrestling with my conscience. Because the bigotry has not been addressed, has it? Simon says this is an opportunity for Boy to change things from within. I don't know. I feel like I'm not standing up for what I believe in. Maybe I should call the ethicist on that NPR show. I feel like a sleaze ball wimp for letting Boy join, but I'd feel like a big asshole if I told Boy he couldn't join so I could be comfortable on my moral high horse.
Sigh.
Boy is going on his first camp out, though. It will be raining all weekend. Raining and cold. On his first camp out. Yep. I'm already a nervous wreck. What if something happens to him? What if he's miserable and rude for the entire trip? I wish his first camp out was one that Simon or I could go on with him, but that won't be this weekend. I'll get back with you on Sunday and let you know how it went.

On the Peanut front: Peanut cut her first tooth on Wednesday! Yay!
Still not into new tastes, but I was reassured to hear from One Tall Momma that her kiddo didn't eat till they were 11 months old. It helps me relax.
My milk supply is taking a turn for the worst. I'm taking a "nursing vacation", only with pumping instead of nursing. The idea is to pump like a mad woman every couple of hours. All day and night. And drink lots of fenugreek tea. And pump some more. We had thought that if my milk supply ran low we'd just feed Peanut some formula. In fact I was putting a bottle of formula in her mouth when the thought occurred to me that maybe she wouldn't like the taste. She took a suck and froze. Like she'd been zapped or something. She took another sip, like, "No, really, this is a bottle, right? 'Cause I know how bottles taste...". Then she took it out and looked at it, like, "The hell?". And that was it. She wouldn't drink any more. So we're taking a two-pronged approach. We spike some of her bottles with formula to get her used to the taste little by little, and I'm pumping like crazy to get my supply back.
I'll let you know how that goes too.
Gotta go pump (big surprise),
ephleba

Hate Mail!

I just got my first ever piece of hate mail. Hate email actually. See, I joined a Yahoo Group for homeschoolers that was open to secular and Christian homeschoolers alike. Then I got this in my inbox:

John 14:1-17
1) " Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me. 2) In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 3) And when I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. 4) And you know the way where I am going." 5) Thomas said to him, "Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?" 6) Jesus said to him, " I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me. 7) If you had known me, you would have known my Father also; henceforth you know him and have seen him."

Among other scriptures. It was very long, and I don't want to cram it in here. But the verses were picked to be a lesson in why now would be a good time to become a Christian, seeing as how the end of the world is near.
So I posted this:

I do not mean to be rude, or to hurt feelings or make a big stink, but
what in the wide world of sports does this have to do with
homeschooling? I was so happy to find this group, especially when I
read this:
"In years past there has been a horrifying division between religious
homeschoolers and nonreligious homeschoolers. Neither side has been
very nice to each other to our shame. When we began ******* (edited, obviously), we wanted to change that. We longed for a place where all homeschoolers, no matter what their backgrounds, would be welcomed with open arms in a safe zone of acceptance. Over the past two years, I believe we have
become that place."
(from the message titled "**** **** leaders intro")
Am I in the wrong Yahoo Group? I assumed that I would find info about Christians looking for Christian ways to homeschool, and others
interested in more secular versions of homeschooling, but I was pretty
sure it would be more or less about homeschooling, not proselytizing.
I am confused.

Again, I don't mean to offend, I'm just asking: If I am looking for a
homeschooling discussion sans pressure to become a Christian, am I in the wrong yahoo group?

And someone put up a post saying the scripture was just a bonus you got when you joined the group, and the moderator wrote and said, Whoops!, that shouldn't have been there, and I felt reassured. Then I got this:

Well, Just like the restoftheHook-nosed, Hymie, no-good-for
nothing-Jew-bastards everywhere else on thisplanet, you scream at the very mention of Jesus. You got Him kicked out of public Schools, American Government, and now you want Him off the internet.
Just another sign of His soon return. This time He's gonna send you
and your father the Devil to the lake of fire. John 8:44.
And we both know that you aren't really a "Jew" Rev. 2:9 and 3:9.
Get some practice being a lamp shade.(sic)

I know that trying to argue with this person is like pissing in the wind, but I couldn't help myself, so I wrote this:

Dear James,

I am completely baffled as to where your complaints and insults are coming from. The inaccuracies abound. I hardly know where to start.

I'm not a Jew. I believe you've made the assumption based on my last name. It is Armenian. Many, many, many Armenians were put to death on the basis of their Christianity, and I feel that to pass this error by would be an insult to their memory. Feel free to research the Armenian genocide and become enlightened.

I do not want Jesus kicked off the internet. I thought I was joining a yahoo group that was not for Christians only. When I got your first e-mail I was puzzled. So I posted the following:

(Here I quoted the message I'd posted...)

I did not say that I wanted Jesus off the internet, or even this Yahoo Group. I just didn't want pressure to become a Christian. As I explained in an email to another member,
"If I were to see a recipie posted, or a funny poem, or someone saying they liked a book, that would be neighborly of the person who posted. It's like they're saying, I liked this, maybe you would too. And if someone says "Pray for me", or "Where's a good church?", or "Who knows of a biology textbook with a creationist viewpoint?" that makes sense too, because people are asking for what they need. It's all good. But when someone says "Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me." and "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me." that's different. That's proselytizing. And it may seem like a cherry on top to you, but it felt like a slap in the face to me. And I could choose to pass it by, but I was honestly confused by the welcome with the one hand and the slap with the other. So I figured I'd just ask. It was awkward, seeing as how I'm new and all, but I was really confused. "

I did not ask to be witnessed to in your first email, and politely asked if proselytizing was what this Yahoo group was about. You've chosen to witness to me, again, about what being a Christian is about. Apparently it is about sending insults to people you don't know, and hating Jews. It may shock you, especially since you've made it so appealing, but I think I'll pass.

I'll also pass this email on to the group moderators. I am, yet again, confused about the nature of this yahoo group.

And there you have it.
I'm probably showing my ignorance, but what is that lampshade reference about?

Going to practise,
ephelba

Jeopardy

The other day boy and I were going to the library. He asked the following questions:

"What is today?"
"What is Tehran?"
"What is the theme song to the Bob Newhart Show?"

Yeah, sometimes thoughts are like that.

In Which Peanut is a Stinker

Peanut doesn't like to eat. This is a picture of her tasting cereal for the first time:

It looks remarkably like the last time she tasted cereal. There have been many cereal events between, and yet she still hasn't gotten used to the taste. For that matter, she hasn't gotten used to any taste. I tried applesauce with her, at which point she actually barfed. Ever since then I haven't gotten her to shut her mouth and swallow so much as a single spoonful. She makes a face, then opens her mouth wide and waits for the offending taste to dribble out. I wait a few days, hoping she'll forget, then try again. I'm beginning to despair she'll ever eat. She's 7 months old, for crying out loud.
Loon gave us a little bag on a handle that you put food into. The baby sucks on it and strains the food into their mouth. Unless it's my baby, who gums it until she notices there's a flavor, then studies the handle for a while before flinging it away. And if you try to put it into her mouth she purses her lips! Oooooo! Willful! Today I squeezed some grapes into a little bowl, stuck my finger between her gums so she couldn't block me, then spooned the juice into her mouth. Oh the faces! At least she didn't cry. Or barf. Maybe juice is the way to go, I'll just put it in a bottle . Ha ha ha. What a mean trick. I know that's what she's going to think, that I've played a mean trick on her and ruined a perfectly good bottle. At some point she's got to get used to the idea, and I don't see how she will unless she gets practise. And since she seems to be progressing from just letting it dribble to actively pursing her lips, I'm running out of ideas.
Boy wasn't this difficult. Although I suppose he's making up for it now. Simon and I had a long, long, long talk with him last night. We reached the conclusion that Boy was upset because the guest was beating him soundly at his own games on his own turf, and if he could beat Boy at everything, what was the use of Boy? Boy feels like he has no value if he can't be the best at something. Which is very sad. I remember feeling this way myself at points later in life, and having to come to grips with the fact that people have value simply because they are alive. I've always hoped I could impart this knowledge to Boy before it hit him in the face. I thought by telling him that comparison is bad, and that there will ALWAYS be someone better than you at whatever you're doing, he would take it to heart and ride smoothly over that bump in the road. Apparently not. He knows it in his head but he doesn't feel like it's true, and I don't know what to do about that.
Can't figure out how to look it up on the Internet either, which is my usual way of hunting down things I don't know.
Going to deal with my life now,
ephelba

I can't take ANY MORE !!!!

Boy has a friend over. I've just lied and said that Boy and I have chores to do, so said friend will have to leave. The truth is I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!!!!
Boy is being a shit. He's jealous of his friend. He's bossing him around and generally being an ass because he desperately wants to be better than his friend at something. Or for himself to be more knowledgeable about something. Or for something to go his way. I'm embarrassed and sickened and I've had a million talks with the Boy in the past 24 hours and I'M THROUGH!

I'm tempted to ground the Boy for the rest of his life. I think it will make my life easier if Boy never plays another board/video game EVER EVER Again! I'll certainly NEVER EVER let Boy have a guest over, because it was embarrassing. EMBARRASSING!

!!

!

But I know that all these things would accomplish would be to lower Boy's self esteem. They would not address the problem, and therefore the behavior would be unlikely to extinguish. I don't know what I'm going to do, but it won't be coming down on Boy like a ton of bricks.

I'll probably have him go on about things he likes about himself, and things other people probably like about him. And we'll carry on for a while about how comparison is the work of the Devil. The Key to Unhappiness. After that I'm a little lost. Because I want to walk him through how his behavior looked from my viewpoint/ his friend's viewpoint, and there will be tears. Honestly though, it was bad. Maybe tears are called for.

I'd like for him to gain some skills in mastering his emotions. Feeling jealous, but then letting it go so he doesn't act jealous. Getting over himself without a lot of negative self-talk or stuffing his feelings away. How do you teach someone to do that?

I know not. This is parenthood at its most frustrating. When you have a thing you know needs to happen for your child and you don't know how to do it.

Wish me luck,
ephelba

Scribble much?

So for the subject of Art this year, Boy is going to focus on drawing. We're using a text called Drawing for Older Children and Teens. I'm very excited about it.
The first exercise the author has you do is scribble on typing paper, with markers or whatnot, along to music. The purpose is to lighten up. To get you in touch with drawing as an expression of your feelings. To show you how to let go of your need for drawings to be representational or pretty or just so.
I was convinced Boy would have a hard time with it. He has a million self imposed rules about how drawings are supposed to look and be made.
Boy howdy was I wrong. He scribbled with glee for almost an hour. He actually giggled at points. I haven't seen him enjoy himself that much in ages. Perhaps ever. He just scribbled with wild abandon and laughed.
Hope the rest of the projects live up to the opening act.

On another note... I was looking at my site tracker and am baffled. Maybe you readers can help. Apparently someone from Medellin, Columbia checked out my blog by way of this blog. If you read even just the title of the blog, and you know me at all, you will realize that this blogger and I have very little in common. I seriously doubt they linked to me, and I surely didn't see a link. Also, this person visited for 0 seconds. So how does this statistic get created? What does it mean? I am so confused.

Feeling un-savvy,
ephelba

Spiders

There's a simply huge spider in my window Right Now. And we watched it eat a fly. It did that spinny thing with the fly between its legs just like on Charlotte's Web.

This should endear it to me, as I hate houseflies. And somewhere deep, deep down, there's a Buddhist in me waiting to become enlightened, and it says the spider should live.

The rest of me says the spider must die, because otherwise it will crawl down and lurch over to the bed and TOUCH ME while I'm asleep and unprotected.
Urgh.

So I put it to you, my readers, should the spider die? Be evicted (which is probably a death sentence too) or left alone to lurk in the corner where I can keep an eye on it.

Comment button to your right,
ephelba

PS
The last time I had a nightmare that made me sit up screaming, it was about a spider that touched my face. I really did scream. And I think I flailed a bit, and maybe hit Simon on accident a little.

I crack me up.

I thought this was pretty funny.
And yes, we Oopsed again. I'll get back to you in two weeks on that one. Simon gave me a hickey, and I have no idea how in the heck I'm going to hide it, it being too hot for scarves.
As for the Zoe O's, we bought a case of twelve. We're on box seven. They taste a little like fish. Nuff said.
Me write bad when tired. Going to bed now.
Ephelba

How it goes..

Pretty good, actually.
Homeschooling, that is. I haven't killed Boy yet, and have only been tempted twice. Biology has been going really really well, because I found a great lesson online. I'm hoping that maybe I can do that the whole year- decide ahead of time what the topic is and then find a lesson online that someone else already went to the trouble to perfect. I just hope there are enough good lessons out there.
Now that I think about it, I wonder if I could do that for history and the like too.
Duh.
I'll have to look into that.
It did take me a while to find a lesson I was happy with. I wonder if it would save time in the long run. Maybe I would get quicker at finding lessons once I'd been doing it for a while.
But I digress. Boy starts out doing math. Then he reads for history and English, which gives me time to take a nap with Peanut, because she and I haven't slept well lately. She's teething, and not being one to suffer in silence, she cries and moans in her sleep. Boy never did that. He was such a happy baby. Always smiling, and if he did fall or bump something he looked at me to see if he needed to cry, and if I smiled and said "Whoopsy!" he wouldn't. Not so with Peanut. Oh no. The other day she rolled over and bumped her head on something. She screamed and screamed. I really mean she screamed, not that she cried loudly or wailed. Screamed. Everyone came running to see the blood. So you're thinking she's a bit of a drama queen, but I think it's slightly more than that, because she wouldn't roll from front to back for several days afterward. Refused. Laid on her tummy and wailed till someone else rolled her over. And all of these protests include real tears. I swear I didn't see tears in Boy's eyes for years. I just don't know what to make of it.
But I've digressed again! Sheesh. When I wake up we do something about lunch and Boy takes a break, but it's not like he really needs to because he's been reading something he wanted to read for the past hour. After lunch we've done Spanish and biology, which have gone very smoothly. Honestly, I don't know how I'd do this without the Internet though. Well actually, I guess I'd have to spend money. Quite a bit of money, for courses and texts. As it is, I've spent nothing so far. I do want to spend some money, but I want to be sure of what I'm spending it on first. It's nerve wracking to fork out $300 on a course you've never even seen. Not gonna do-er.
Boy practises his trumpet and he's done. Which is a little awkward, because New York dictates that he has to be in school for six hours a day (not counting lunch). I don't think that's fair. He doesn't have to walk between classes or go to his locker or have attendance taken- he should get to cash in on all the time he gains, but NY says no. Simon says I should work up some creative accounting. Which I suppose I may do at some point, but it isn't really necessary. We can totally fill up the time. I just don't think it's fair that we have to.
I also don't think it's fair for NY to tell me what subjects to teach if Boy does well on his tests. If I drop the ball I can see putting me on probation and dictating things to me, but until then I think I should get free rein. I guess some people here rely on the fact that there is very little oversight actually given to homeschooling. Plenty is mandated, little is done. So some parents do whatever they want and figure they'll get away with it. I'm a little nervous about that approach. You never know when it'll bite you in the ass. I'd rather bitch about it but do it right.
I've signed Boy up for an acting class. He's such a ham. It's just the thing, but it means I'll have to get up with Simon at 3:30 to drive him to work so I'll have the car. Simon says "Boohoo", but he goes to bed before I do.
I should go, the Peanut stirs.
Ephelba

Things I've been meaning to say.

I've been meaning to tell you about Peanut's baby shower. And Boy's broken bone. And my mother's last visit. And maybe a bit about families and love.
And I'm putting this down here now so I won't forget, because I can't write now because I have to pump. And wash bottles.
If Simon was here, he'd say "Of course you do." It is rare that he gets a moment alone with me and I am not on my way to go pump. Pump pump pump.
It is cool to have breast milk in a bottle though.
Reason the first: You always know how much she drank.
Reason the second: Feeding her in public is never awkward.
Reason the third, and most awesome: You pump more than you need to feed her, which means you lose weight.
And I just thought of a fourth: You are required to take a guilt free break four times a day.
Ok, I really do have to go pump.

Take to you soon,
Ephelba

Yummy

Chocolate espresso malt balls.
Mayhaps you think "Yuck".
You have obviously never tried one, because they are the yummiest thing man has ever made. I would never have spent money on them myself, but luckily for me Simon is an adventurous sort, who brings yummy things home and then tries to hide them from me. In his sock drawer. Which is silly, because I'm the only one who ever puts away the laundry. He probably thinks I didn't know about the Cadbury bar that was there last week. Ha! I had a Twix bar in the kitchen cupboard for two weeks!
But I stray far, far away from the topic at hand...
They are a lovely deep dark brown. Rather large-ish to fit in your mouth. There's a thin glossy layer that takes a second to dissolve, and sometimes you can slide it off into a shuddering pile with your tongue. Then the full rich chocolatey flavor come out, and you can't believe anything could taste this chocolatey. More chocolatey than the chocolatey-est chocolate. That, my friends, is the espresso talking. Oh yeah. Sometimes I can't help myself, and I just bite bite bite bite and it's gone. Other times I let it dissolve until I'm left with the strangely crystalized malt center, which I chew delicately with my front teeth. Either way it is very hard not to reach for another.
I know that sounded like an ad. Which reminds me- at night on the local NPR station they play old radio programs, like "The Great Guildersleeve"- and all of them are sponsored by some company, which reserves half the program for its own promotion. My favorite is Miracle Whip. Boy do they lay it on thick. Did you know it is the BEST SALAD DRESSING EVER? EVER! IT'S TRUE! EVER! THE BEST!
You probably have to be there.

I'm going to leave you now, and go eat me a malt ball.
Yum Yum!
ephelba

Finally

I've been trying to post for two days now, and life just keeps getting in the way. But the good news is:
*My house is cleaner than it's been since we moved in. Yay me!
*Every night the dishes and bottles have been washed before 10 pm. Which is awesome. Last night it was 8:00 and the baby was asleep and the dishes were washed and there was nothing pressing to do, so I sat on the floor with Simon and played Pente for a while guilt free. It felt decadent.
*I think I have a good start on Boy's schooling. Enough for the first day, at least. Hopefully the first week. I've found some textbooks online for History and Spanish. The internet Rocks. Hard. So does the library.
*Under the heading TMI, Simon and I have been very good about using birth control, so there shouldn't be another big scare for at least one more month.
*I'm trying to get a couple of moms together who are into secular homeschooling. I've found a Yahoo Group of local homeschoolers, but it's dominated by the Christiany types. That's fine and all, but for social pursuits I'd like a network of more likeminded people.

Yesterday we went to the farmer's market, where we ran into no fewer than 5 other people from the Hippy Mom's Club. We all stood in a circle gabbing. By "We" I mean everyone else. I simply didn't have anything to say, since my children weren't in the library's spanish program, I don't know how to tie a maitai, and Simon isn't a professor. I didn't feel left out exactly, just quiet. I like all those women very much. I wonder how I looked to them. If I seemed strangely quiet. Was my hair messy? Back in Ann Arbor and Ypsi I felt like this sometimes, but usually I felt more like I had my feet under me. Even if I was meeting new people I was more self assured than I am here. Maybe moving cuts the rug out from under you. I don't have any history here. I don't do anything here. I don't know anyone or any place. It's dizzying.

Sometimes I think we should settle here. There's good land for growing things. It's cheap, too. Surely time will warm me up to this place. Other times I think my heart is tied to Ann Arbor, and no amount of time will change that.

Going to bed now.
Go play Pente...
ephelba