Hmph.

I have a gazillion posts to write, about Drs, and chicken guts, and trash picking and I don't know what all.

Instead, I will divert your attention with this. I can't watch it enough. I think it's the cutest thing, like, ever, and hope that our girls will grow up like this.

Yep, Moon Unit, or Pook, as we've taken to calling it, is rumored to be a girl by the sonographer. Boy is outright sad. Simon is taking it well. Peanut doesn't know she should be pleased that Team Girl has won.

Cockaboody to you too,
ephelba

Just thought I'd share.

Best news I've had in a long time.

Most disgusting thing I've seen recently.

Best recent site find.

Good waste of nine minutes you may or may not have, but will spend anyway because you're procrastinating, aren't you. Look at the archives if you need more than 9 minute's worth.

ttfn,
ephelba

So,

Boy goes into the kitchen and asks, "Can we put the silverware back in the drawer now? The mice are all gone, we haven't caught one in days."
At which point, he opens the drawer to find a dead mouse.

Keeping her silverware on the table,
ephelba

A First

Yesterday I met up with someone I hadn't seen in many months, and they noticed I was pregnant. I'm at that stage where you feel, and look, more fat than pregnant. You don't feel particularly glowing either. She knew just by looking and it made me feel good.

I have the sneaking suspicion I am going to end up gaining more weight than I want on this one. With Boy I had about 10/15 lbs to lose. With Peanut I had 30 lbs to lose, which was a cinch, because it was all water. I ended up losing weight by the time she was done nursing (if you can call it that). I think this time I'm going to end up with some reserve. I'm bound and determined that this kid is going to nurse really well in the good old fashioned belly-up-to-the-bar way, so by the time he/she's done maybe the weight will be off. We can but hope.

Yesterday I read someone describe how easy their pregnancy was. They attributed it to their vegan diet. Ha. The truth is they were either young, or in shape, or both. I am not as young as I once was, and I'm not in shape. I keep meaning to get in shape here soon, because it does make a world of difference. It's just hard when you're so damn tired. Of course, if i were in shape I wouldn't be as tired, right? And around, and around...

Regarding our plagues- The mice seem to have sworn off pepperoni. Either that, or we're fresh out of mice. The baby's bites are healing up quite nicely. Apparently drool is an excellent salve- She is a walking slime monster right now. Poor thing either has allergies or a cold, so she's dripping from the nose, then she has three teeth coming in, which makes her drool like a basset hound. She wanted to kiss me the other day and it was very, very hard to let her do it. I end up nearly as slimy as her chin because she likes to use me for a kleenex.

Which is all to say, nothing much new here.

Oh! Except my best friend ever is, like, getting married this weekend and stuff. I'm not there because they're doing the eloping kind of thing. Hooplah will commence sometime in the future. Simon and I are still trying to think of something lovely to do, because we like to put things off till the last second (not!).

Going to bathe,
ephelba

No more wondering

"I could, of course, just throw them in the trash, but that doesn't seem right somehow. Point the first - I get squeamish wondering what's going to wander off the carcass when it cools...."

What wanders off the carcass when it cools is fleas. I'm expecting frogs from the ceiling and a sink full of blood any day now.

We've lived here with our furry dogs for a year without getting fleas. We thought it was one of the best things about living in NY- they don't have fleas. Then, about a week or so ago, the poor Peanut began getting bitten up when she was asleep. We couldn't tell if it was mosquitoes or fleas or (clutch the pearls) bedbugs. We just couldn't figure out why we weren't being eaten when we sleep right next to her. Still haven't figured that one out, but we did catch an actual flea, so the mystery of "Who's eating my baby" has been solved.

The trick is what to do about them without filling our house with poisonous fumes. We decided to put Frontline on the dog and stick her in the crib, then let the baby sleep with us for a night. That lasted half a night because DAMN that baby wiggles. Didn't she or us get any sleep till I put her back in the crib. Must have done the trick though, because she hasn't been eaten up since. Now we're trying to decide what to put down for the batch of fleas that will be hatching some time soon- round two. Normally I would do something boric acidy/diatomaceous earthy, but neither one turns out to be a good idea around a sleeping baby (toxicity and silicosis). We've read some interesting things about mint, of all things, and something called Precor. I'll let you know how it turns out.

On a completely different note, Boy had a friend come visit all the way from Michigan. Since it was on the way back from the airport, I took us all to a place called Howes Caverns. Sadly, it was just me and the boys, because everytime the tour guide said "And what do you think this stalagmite looks like" I had no one to whisper "Something from Good Vibes?" to. And really- they all looked like something from Good Vibes. There was a whole room whose ceiling was covered with formations that can only be described as cl1toral hoods. Seriously. I tried to take a picture because I knew you wouldn't believe me, but it's remarkably difficult to take a picture in a dark cave. Suffice it to say, the whole damn cave was a festival of the phallic and yonic rocks.

The boys spent their time glued to the tour guide like, ummm, a sticky thing to something porous (I'll think up an analogy later- pregnancy is really hard on the brain). Every time the group moved they'd run and push their way through if necessary just so they could be next to her again. Every time she asked if anyone had any questions, they'd think one up. Every time she showed off a formation they'd stand fascinated in awe, oblivious to the fact there were twenty other people waiting for their turn to stand fascinated in awe at nature' propensity to spend ten thousand years making a giant penis. I'd have to move up and shoo them on. I think they were in love.

All right. Time to get on with things.
Ever so glad "Yonic" is a real word,
ephelba

Meeses

For the first time in my life I have mice. I mean, I don't have mice running up my pants or peeking out my cleavage- no, I mean to say, there are mice in my house that I don't keep in a cage. A week ago Simon found a chewed up ketchup pack in the back of the silverware drawer. After much investigating, we decided we must have a mouse.

Do you realize the full extent of the horror? A mouse was hanging out in our SILVERWARE DRAWER! WHERE THE SILVERWARE THAT GOES INTO OUR MOUTHS USED TO LIVE! LIVE WITH THE MOUSY FEET TAP DANCING ALL OVER IT!!!

So.

I bleached and washed and hoped it was an old event that we just hadn't noticed. The next day- gasp- the damn mouses had been WALKING AND SHITTING ON MY COUNTER!

Oh the outrage. I can't communicate the outrage I felt over someone shitting on my counter.

So.

I hied me down to the Family Dollar and bought me some snappy snappy mouse traps. Boy was aghast that I wouldn't drive down to the Walmart and buy a live trap. I'm trying to avoid the devil's store, so I refused to budge. I did, however, feel slightly guilty that night as I set out the snappy traps with peanut butter bait. The poor, cutesy meese.

That night I got up to pee and realized that a mouse could be snared at that very moment. I felt strangely like a kid at Xmas. The genuine suspense- was there a mouse waiting for me?

Nope.

Nor the next night either.

There were, however, more turds. Upon closer inspection it was discovered the bastards had licked the peanut butter off. I no longer felt the guilt- this meant war.

So.

I tried cheese. Jammed it on there hard and went to bed. That night I got up to pee and- lo and behold! Xmas! I heard a mouse clacking around on the floor wearing a trap for a scarf. I woke Simon up, and we watched it breathe for a while. Simon came up with a plan- he'd take it out, hang his arm over the edge of the porch and shake the trap briskly, thereby breaking the poor mousey neck. In actual practice, what happened is that the mouse flew out of the trap and sailed into the night.

So.

I left the remaining traps out, thinking it was going to come home any minute now to finish the cheese. But the next morning - HORRORS! - there was an entirely different mouse in a trap!

I felt so dirty. I didn't have a mouse- I had mice. Gave me the shudders. Mousey feet all over my kitchen and I hadn't even known.

So.

Simon decided the thing to do was tie pepperoni onto the traps with string so the mices really had to work at it to get the stuff off. At which point we caught the third mouse. THE THIRD MOUSE! THE SECOND TO DIE IN THE SILVERWARE DRAWER! It was like the silverware drawer was some kind of mousey night club.

So.

Another night passes. The Santa of Traps left no gifts, so I began to relax. Maybe we'd caught them all. After all, how could so many mice be living here without us noticing? They leave a trail of turds like cars leave exhaust. If we had so many mice, wouldn't we be swimming in turds?

Apparently not, because last night we caught number four. And you'll never guess which trap he went for.

So.

The top drawer can be our mouse drawer, and the silverware will remain on our table, me thinks. It's handy.

On a more gruesome note, we're beginning to have quite the pile of dead mice beneath our porch. With the first and second mice we thought the ants would clean up the carcass before it was a big deal, but if we're going to catch mice every other day it's going to get embarrassing. I suggesting throwing the dead mice harder so they land in the big evergreen in the neighbor's yard. Like a macabre Xmas Tree. Alternatively, I could toss them on the other neighbor's roof for their cats.

I could, of course, just throw them in the trash, but that doesn't seem right somehow. Point the first - I get squeamish wondering what's going to wander off the carcass when it cools. Point the second - It doesn't seem right to just throw a critter away. True, the critter needs to die, but that doesn't mean it deserves the indignity of being trashed. Not that I'm going to bury it or anything. It just seems more right to leave it out for the other critters to eat.

wondering how hard one has to chuck a mouse to get it to land on the roof,
ephelba

What should I be doing?

I told a friend that I would help her come up with a logo for her business. I have an idea of what she wants, and I thought I'd surprise her with a linocut. And then I got all excited and had to run to the art supply store right then, even though dinner wasn't made and my dad is coming in two days and the house isn't clean.

Loon and I were talking the other day about the role that creativity has in our lives. It has a restorative function that I somehow forget about. Then I get a chance to make something with my own two hands, and damn if it isn't fun. Not that my life is grim. Far from it. It's just that I don't often have the space in a day to make things. I think that this family is going to have to change that.

Simon likes photography, and printing, and has taken all sorts of art classes. I think we'll have to find the space for him to do some of that. It just makes your life go by smoother when you get to spend some happy time making a thing. I suppose it keeps you from cackling.

Of course, today I was thwarted. The only art supply store around here is Michaels, or so I was told. Michaels thinks that two blocks of rubber and a brayer constitute a selection of "Block printing supplies" that are worthy of their own sign on the aisle. So. Called an artist friend who said there was someplace else to try in town. If that doesn't work, I'll have to go online, but what I really want to do right now is feel the satisfying slip of the knife through the linoleum. I want the glee that comes when you watch a piece of art being born in your very hands. The surprise of meeting it- the unexpected beauty it has, even though it was your idea and you're the creator.

I'll just have to wait.

Waily waily,
ephelba

How Christians frequently piss me off.

I belong to a homeschooling yahoo group. A big deal is made about how this group is for secular and Christian homeschoolers both. From my perspective, this group is for the Christian homeschoolers, and we secular homeschoolers are "welcome" as long as we suck up the Jesusy-God bullshit and say "Thank you" when we're done.

Ok.

Maybe it's not that bad.

Usually.

The messages in the group are usually about homeschooling, but the God-y-ness is everywhere. Fine. This group is for everyone, Jesus freaks and all, and if they want to talk about how they fit prayer into their school day between every lesson, yippee. I'm sure there are MANY people on the list who are dying to hear about it. Feel free. And if they want to put up messages about the content in books or movies, that's great too. More info about things you spend money on is all good, even if you're telling me that- gasp- this movie doesn't show the proper respect for televangelists. I don't care, but it's thoughtful of you to share.

But why oh why do they insist on telling me what I like? Why oh why do they always assume everyone on the list is a Christian? There was a message that said "This article will make you proud you're a homeschooling mamma!!!!" I read it. It was about how pitiful Hillary is, and how homeschooling mamas are great because they submit to their husbands and would never think of themselves as feminists and their faith in God keeps them strong and blah blah blah.... And then I had to shower. But afterwards I posted a reply that said "Or it will make you throw up in your mouth a little bit. To each their own." Because what made me mad was not that the article had a different viewpoint than my own, nor was it that it was put in my inbox. It was that the post-er had assumed that I would love it. It's the difference between the subject line reading "Article you will love" (the actual subject line) and "Article about Homeschooling Moms". Hell, I probly wouldn't even have been bothered with "Interesting article".

Of course, afterward, someone posted another inspirational article about how faith gets us poor women through our school day, but with the apologetic preamble "I am almost afraid to make the post but will give it a try and hope it is well accepted." It isn't the posts, dumb asses! If it's about homeschooling, plop it up there! Just don't tell me what to think about it. Sheesh.

Of course, this doesn't come naturally to many Christian types, because every Sunday they're told how right they are and how wrong everyone else is and how they need to tell everyone else what to think and how to believe. No one tells them to trust that people have the common sense to figure out their own spiritual beliefs. No one tells them to respect other opinions. No one says to live and let live. No, all the good Christians must proselytize, and if that doesn't work, they have to legislate everything from who can marry to what can be done to your own body, and it's all so that everyone in America, regardless of religion, will have to behave like Christians.

Pant, pant, pant...

Sorry to go off like that. I needed to rant a little, because I realize that the yahoo group is not the appropriate place. Mercifully, this is, because it is my place. This means, oh Christian ones, that if I have offended, go back to your own place and rant about me there. I can stomach no more Christianity today.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only "secular" homeschooler there. I'm pretty sure I must be the only Atheist, because no one else ever bitches. Also, no one else ever posts things like "simple explanation of evolution found here" or "teach your kids about culture jamming" or "free screening of An Inconveinent Truth tonight!". I was thinking about this and feeling very Cartman-esque .

The trouble is, there is no similar group where I do feel at home. So then I thought- Aha! I'll quit bitching and make my own Yahoo group, and if the Christians try to join I'll say they have cooties and I didn't want to be their friend anyway- I mean, umm, I'll quit whinging and make what I need. Then I looked at the people in my address book and realized that I know about 10 people that might be at all interested in such a yahoo group, which means that maybe one person would actually join.

This was all going on yesterday and the day before. Today I'm feeling like I just don't care. I can't even get interested in the blogs I usually read- it all seems vapid somehow. Blah blah blah, me me me, my opinion matters, I happened.

Maybe I'm starting to cackle.
ephelba

Zofran is my friend.

Sill queasy, but I'm doing much better. I've made dinner twice this week, and even took a shower! Yay me!

Have you ever been sick or recovering from something for a really long time? It's like you've lost your glasses weeks ago and are trying to muddle through without them- you don't notice details, you don't do your best, you just try to get through the house without stepping on the pets. Then, when you finally do feel better, it's like you've found your glasses, and when you put them on- whoa boy. The house is a mess, you've been ignoring the family, the laundry has been transformed from a chore to a continent. That's where I am right now. The dear family has been keeping things afloat whilst I lay on the floor and moan, but they've got other things to do too. Moon Unit may never live down how much he/she put the fam through in these first few months.

During the worst of the morning sickness I broke down and asked the Dr for drugs. I was expecting permission to try Benedryl, honestly, but instead he prescribed Zofran, which I prefer to call the Magic Pill. It truly is magic. You can tell, because it costs much more than gold, about $20 for 4 mg. I figure it's made from leprechaun hairs or eunuch sperm or some such. You dissolve the little pill on your tongue and ten minutes later you're starting to feel better. You still feel like crap, and you can tell your stomach is rebelling because it still does its twisty things, but you don't feel Nauseous. It's the difference between laying there trying not to cry, trying not to puke, and generally wanting to die, and just laying there feeling like crap.

When they called and told me what they were prescribing me, the conversation was oddly short and somewhat one-sided. "We're prescribing you Zofran. It works very well. Where do you want us to call it in?". They did not say "We're prescribing you a powerful drug for an off-label use that hasn't been tested on pregnant women." Being the geek I am, I went online and looked things up before I got the pills. I decided to go ahead and take it anyway, based on lots of anecdotal stuff I read. Still makes me nervous. And it makes me doubly nervous when I think of how much my Doctor was taking for granted- that I would want to take a drug for an off-label use. Seems like a pretty big assumption to me.

But there's not a lot of choice around here. There are four practices, and I have already decided that two of them thoroughly suck. Of the two that are left, one of them won't even consider VBAC, so there you are. Decision made.

VBAC. There's a fine kettle of fish. I have no idea what I'm going to decide to do. I want to give birth the old fashioned way without any additional risk of uterine rupture. That I'm sure of. Since that's not possible, I'm unsure about the remaining options.

Well, I have a whole lot of catching up to do on house work. You can imagine.

Catch ya later,
ephelba

Update:
Simon pointed out that he did do laundry. It is entirely due to his kind attentions that any of us have had clean clothes. It is entirely my fault they're all in baskets in the laundry room and we can't find the clothes he washed.

Also the Doctor says they don't approve drugs for pregnant women because nobody can sort out the ethics of drug trials when a fetus is involved. He says it's all off label use. I'm not sure about the word "all", but I concede the point.

Meta Update:
If you're pregnant and trying to decide if Zofran is safe, the cold hard truth is that nobody Really knows for sure. A large experiment is currently being performed on our babies by us and the the Doctors who write us the scripts. The only reassurance I can give you is that, in my case, so far, the pills worked wonders and the baby was born happy and healthy. You have to make the decision that's right for you. Welcome to motherhood.

If you're not pregnant, and you're reading this wondering if Zofran gets you high, please fuck off.
Thank you, that is all.

Fun fun fun!

Am morning sick. How bout I meet you back here, oh, say, after the first trimester? Either that, or when I reach the point that a day when I feel like crap isn't the best day I've had in weeks.

This too shall pass,
ephelba

Party

Simon has wanted to have a party for the past four days. Four days ago I was laid low, LOW I say, by the consumption of spinach (not e-coli or anything scary like that) and today was the first day that eating didn't feel like being knifed. So. Today we partied. We ate Chinese and drank caffeine free pop and talked about the good things that having another baby means.
I am pregnant. One of the reasons Simon wanted to celebrate was because it is very hard to wrap our brains around the idea. There is no physical proof yet, just the knowledge that there's a little tiny person in my belly.
This stage in my pregnancies is marked by me deciding on a moniker for the little bugger. Boy had no nickname that I recall- I just thought of him as the latest set of names I had picked out. Two and Three were Curly Beans, but I don't think of this one as a Bean. Four was gone before I had a chance to call myself pregnant. I thought about calling this one "Icy Eight Special K", but today's favorite is Moon Unit. I know it's a girl's name technically, but it would work for a boy, don't you think? Actually I should call it "The Last Hurrah" because the tubes are getting tied. Mother of three is plenty.

So far everything has been textbook. I got blood drawn tonight, so we'll have some numbers tomorrow. Honestly I'm scared because until week twelve things are titchy. Peanut spooked us. She taught us all the milestones. Week 12 is the first break- your odds of carrying to term are pretty good if you make it this far. Week 20 is the half way mark. Week 21 is the earliest a pre-term baby has survived (new record). Week 30 is when early babies have a decent shot at making it. Week 38 is full term.

I'm at week five. One more week and we have heartbeat.

On a completely random note, our visiting dog farts. Our dogs never did fart, but then we don't feed them kibbles and bits.

Bits of what?
ephelba and the moon unit

Obsession

The first person to invite me into her New York Home was a mom of one of Boy's friends. I was hunting for Boy and she was barbecuing and she asked me to stay. I've gone over a grand total of three times in the year we've lived here, not because we don't get along, but because I'm slow. I don't want to bug her, and I haven't put any effort into figuring out how to get together without wasting her time because she's a mother of four.
Now she's the mother of three living children, and one little guy who died at the age of five. He got sick and died in the space of a day. Perhaps it was the flu. Perhaps it wasn't.
It is all I think about all day; what they must be going through, what could have happened, what needs doing in their house, etc. I sent Boy over with a note to tape to their door saying we'd watch their dog, since I knew they'd be having lots of family over and their dog is a barker. This morning we went over to get the dog, and even though I barely knew her kiddo we hugged and cried.

I got Peanut squeezed into the Drs office for her second flu shot today. Raw milk suddenly seems like a bad idea to me. I won't be going back to the UU Church until, maybe, June. Every time I leave the house I spend the drive planning ways not to bring germs home with me. Boy wants to walk down the street to go play with friends like he always does, but what with the snow storm and all I can't feature him walking down the dangerous road by himself.

Boy asked me if I was turning into a nut job.

I can't help it. When I imagine what's going on for their family, I imagine us going through that, and the truth is that it is just sheer dumb random luck that has kept it from being our nightmare instead of theirs. How could I not go a little nuts?

Going to wash my hands,
ephelba

My Picture

Urg. I don't like it, no sir, I don't. I wouldn't have added it even, but I asked to get in on two thousand blogs, which means I needed to have my picture up, and that's the only one I have.

I look at the ones other bloggers have and am rather envious. I like the ones that look like the person was holding the camera themselves. I'm also partial to ones that people have drawn. Abstract pictures are good. I'm not partial to ones that are of the children of the blogger. I wouldn't go so far as to say I dislike them, but it's like meeting someone for the first time, and instead of them saying "Hi, I'm Bob" they say "Hi, I'm Timmy's dad". Whatever.

Glamour Shot looking photos weird me out. The ones where the hair is being blown in the wind, or the ones that look like they belong on a book jacket. A little too much effort, perhaps. The saddest, lamest ones, though, are the ones like mine. The ones that say, "I cropped my face out of a family photo because I have no photos of myself by myself." It makes me feel un-artsy. And small. I would like to think I am a little artsy and, ummmm, medium (?), so I'll really have to do something about this. I'm tired of cringing when I leave a comment.

On another note, we got Simon the Firefly box set for his birthday and are enjoying it mightily. We watched all the episodes when it was on TV, then rented them all on netflix. Each time we watch an episode we discover anew how great the show is and how much we really, really enjoy it. It is splendidly clever. This is a show I would recommend to people who don't normally like sci-fi, because I can't imagine anyone not liking this series. Anyone whose company I enjoy.

I told Simon I wanted a Jayne hat and a Dr. Who scarf. He laughed. I asked if he wouldn't wear a set, and he said not if I was wearing a matching set next to him.

We have an appointment with Early Intervention about Peanut tomorrow, and one with a geneticist in Albany coming up. The latest Dr says there is enough stuff to be worrisome, and it's worth doing. I'll go along with that. I am not really worried though, because in the end I chalk all the weirdnesses up to the low birth weight. It just makes sense. Then again, I'd hate to find out I was wrong and wasted valuable time. So. To Albany we'll go.

I am scoring some raw milk tomorrow. A friend is going to hook me up. Sounds like I'm freebasing lactobacilli, doesn't it? It's slightly more legal than that. I am strangely excited about the idea; I haven't had any before. We drink so much milk around here that our milk habit has actually affected our budget. We're lucky to live someplace where raw milk is actually cheaper than store bought organic. We'll be saving $7 a week on the milk, and if we make our own butter and yogurt we'll save even more. Yay!

Which is all to say I have nothing to say. Which is the third post in a row, and it's not even Nablopomo.

Because I'm a blabbertwat,
ephelba

Blabbertwat

I'm thinking about making it my new username. Whadda ya think?

going to be a know it all,
ephelba

Racism

Boy read The Cay recently, and, being basically lazy, I looked up a discussion guide to go with it. During the search I discover the book has been both lauded as an anti-racism teaching tool and a heap of racist dung. So I look into it a little further and got sucked into a whole alternate universe. Did you know To Kill A Mockingbird is racist? Do you know what's wrong with Snowy Day?

The Cay is racist because it is written from the perspective of the white boy, and the white boy didn't change enough. To Kill a Mockingbird has Negroes (I use this word here because the critique I read used it) whistling past graveyards, a maid who really is a "happy slave" character, and a phrase that goes something like "lies as black as that boy's skin". Snowy Day isn't culturally specific to African Americans, Africans, Caribbeans, or anybody else who's Black.

I was shocked.

Now I have to decide if I agree with these assessments, which brings up a whole mess of questions. I have to know what racism is to decide if I think something is racist. There seems to be no hard and fast definition or too much consensus on the topic. It has something to do with stereotype, and denial and power. The best I can come up with so far (after much reading online) is that racism is when
1) a person in a position of power says that
2) someone who isn't in power can or can't do something
3) on the basis of stereotypes for the race of the person in question.

Sorta.

Which brings me to the whole stereotype thing. Because stereotypes are a little like myths- dig deep enough and you find a truth that's been abused. I'll pick on the Irish, because they're white. The stereotype is that the Irish are drunkards, yes? It's a stereotype, and we know the truth is that all Irish people aren't drunkards. Some are, some aren't. And yet, I had a group of Irish friends when I was younger, and the amount of booze they consumed on a regular basis was astonishing. Simply amazing. They would go to bars full of other Irish people who were putting back amazing quantities of beer, and they would drink lots of beer and sing. You think I'm making this up, but I'm not. Now, if I write a fictional story that includes Irish folks in America who drink a lot and sing in bars, is that racist? If I was Irish and I wrote that story would it change things?

(Updated) I have been stewing on this and I think it depends on some things. It would make a difference if I was Irish. It would make a difference if I said or implied the Irish were drunk because they were Irish, not because they were young and going through a phase and also just happened to be Irish, as was the case with my real world friends. Although, honestly, I wouldn't go near that with a ten foot pole because it would be so damn easy to miss the mark and perpetuate the stereotype.
(End of Update)

Here's a real life dilemma: I read a blog where a parent asked for advice on introducing her kiddo to spicy food. I put in my two cents, then suggested a few sites where I thought people who may have the same issue might be found, namely Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead. Am I a racist? I am a member of the majority, which means I meet the first condition. How about the second? I have suggested she go to the blog homes of Asian or Indian people to see what they think. So I'm saying that Asian and Indian people can give advice about hot food because they eat it, yes? So I meet condition two. But, I didn't say that she would definitely find the answer there, and I didn't say that everyone who is descended from Asian or Indian folk eats spicy food. But have I implied it? And if I did, does it matter, because what's so bad about spicy food? And why didn't I direct her to a blog run by Latinas (if that's even the right word to use)?
In truth, what I was thinking was that the yummiest, hottest chicken I have ever eaten what made by someone who was visiting from India. I was thinking that Indian food is known to be spicy, as is some Chinese and Thai food. I was thinking that it made more sense to ask the question in a forum run by people from these cultures than one frequented by people who think Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich is hot.I was thinking she mentioned her in-laws were Thai.
I wouldn't have done this if I thought it was racist, but in the end I guess it doesn't matter what I think, because I'm white. It matters what Asians and Indians and Mexicans and Filipinos think. Doesn't it?

Does it matter that I try not to be racist? That I read Kimchi Mommas and Turbanhead to broaden my own view? Does intent matter?

(More updating)
Rosie says she didn't intend to be racist, and basically asserts that she wasn't. She is wrong, I'm pretty sure. It feels like what she did was racist. When I apply my test she meets conditions one and three, but I don't know if she meets two. What was it that she said (or implied) that Chinese(?) people could or couldn't do? She doesn't speak Mandarin, or Cantonese, or any Asian tonal language, so she used poor judgement and executed a poor imitation of what she thought those languages sound like. Which sounds like I'm defending her, which I'm not. I'm not saying she should have done that, I'm saying I don't understand how it fits the definition of racism. Poor taste, rude, insensitive, stupid, trashy, yes, but what is it that she's saying Asian people can or can't do? Do I need to change my definition of racism? I suspect that I don't understand what she did. Or maybe racism is just the wrong word, and prejudice or the like is what I'm looking for.
Maybe I'll ask some of the people I read to help sort things out. People with better brains than mine, and perhaps browner skin.
(End of Updating)

Honestly I don't know what to make of all this. I am in the process of walking Boy through this mess, but I haven't found my own way through it yet, so it's hard.

I have found many interesting sites and discussions. I'll post them later, my real world life will suffer if I blog any longer.

going to pee,
ephelba

What I am doing when I should be sleeping.

Watching stuff like this:

Far Out!

Ok, actually I was looking for stuff for biology while I was pumping, but when I found this I couldn't look away. For eight minutes and some odd seconds. It's like, Sesame Street goes to grad school, gets high and tries to explain what it's been studying to some chic it hopes to bed. Or something like that. You'll see.

I have decided I need to figure out a way to blog using the dance idiom,
ephelba

Grumpy

I am out of sorts. Not the true PMS seether type of thing. Just generally grumpy.

Small things give me headaches, which is new to me. I always thought that was the sort of thing that only happened in the movies- who knew? I was walking to the car and slipped in the snow a little whilst holding the baby. Excitement! Then, Headache! I got the bill for my student loans after I had made a payment but before they had recorded it. Excitement! Then a headache that lasted quite a while.

Maybe it's the latest pregnancy scare. Or the whole trying to figure out a good budget thing. Sometimes it feel like it's about getting the dishes washed and dinner made. Maybe it's all of the above.

I don't think I've belittled anyone today, or said anything hurtful, but the menfolk know I'm cross. I love my menfolk so much- I really don't mean to vex them. Wish I knew what the be in my bonnet was so I could swat it.

Piss in my Wheaties. Sand in my tw*t. Nose out of joint. Panties in a twist.

Yeah.

Going to wash things.
ephelba

What your Nanny/Babysitter Does and Doesn't Do

1) He/She probably does love your child. They won't do anything that they believe will hurt your child.
2) She/He probably does go online, make phone calls, listen to the radio or maybe even watch TV while she/he is "On the Clock". Good ones do this when the bambino is napping. They do this because it keeps them from going crazy. You are a parent, and you should (hopefully) understand the insanity that sets in when you haven't related to another grownup in days.
3) He/she keeps their eye out for things to do with your child that will be interesting and developmentally appropriate, but they don't plan the day's activities like a school teacher would. Yes, yes, your child is their job, but maybe a better way to wrap you brain around it is to say that they are being paid to be the mother for a little while. (This may be an unpopular thing to say, especially given the whole row going on between Meridith and Melissa right now. But still...) This is more true of nannies than daycare providers, perhaps, because nannies may have to clean the house, do the laundry, and get the groceries in addition to raising a baby, as opposed to raising a baby, and another baby, and another baby.... The point remains, watching children involves a lot of actually watching children. Watching children play, watching children eat, watching children play some more. The caregiver does provide stimulation, food and a running commentary (for the littlest folks), but this watching is more in the form of continual glances than a hawk-like stare.
When you're at home with your child do you say "And now we're going to play this:" and do you hover over them and put yourself in their every exploration? I assume that your child's day is a string of explorations undertaken with you in the wings, and that games or songs the two of you do together are strung in the mix randomly and naturally. And while you're hanging out to make sure she doesn't eat the dog or try to climb out the window, your mind wanders. You find something to do until she needs you, because otherwise your brain would go numb. Your nanny is no different from you in this regard.
4) Being a Nanny is akin to being a mother, but it is most like being a Single Mother. No one is there to get the door for you if you're in the middle of a diaper change, watch the baby while you pee, pick up the groceries for you on their way home. They're running your house for you by themselves. Most single moms are doing all this with no money, so a Nanny gets a break there because you are providing the cash, but emotionally it is very similar. It can be stressful and lonely. This is why some Nannies want to talk about themselves when you come home- she has been The Provider all day, and she's ready to switch modes. One would hope she doesn't take this to extremes, that she understands your priority is (rightfully) the child and gives you those juicy details first and freely. But given half a chance she'll probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know about her digestive system or her cats because she needs to talk to somebody about something other than Goodnight Moon and Cheerios.

I wrote this with Nannies/Babysitters in mind, more than Childcare Center Providers. It's a different world when your job is raising 8 children. It is all children all the time, but you are working with other grownups, which helps. You don't have to worry about shopping with children or cleaning the house with children, because you do all that when they leave (generally). And if you want to pee there's someone else to give you a break. You still get sick of Goodnight Moon and Cheerios, but you have coworkers to be sick with. It's hard, but it's different.

I don't know what possessed me to write this. I guess I'm bothered by the stuff I've read lately about parents expecting more of their babysitter than they do of themselves. Probably because you pay a nanny but don't pay a Mom. I can see that. Still. I have been a single mom, a nanny, a daycare provider, a married mom, a working mom and a stay at home mom, and to those who grouse about the humanity of their nanny, I say "Get Over It".

going to get less grumpy,
ephelba

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

ASIDE:
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.
EXPECTING IT TO QUIT EVEN NOW:

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.

So.

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",
ephelba