Dead Dog

We had to put Mabel to sleep yesterday, or, as Boy prefers to tell it, we killed our dog yesterday. Either way you phrase it the dog is dead.

There is something profoundly disturbing about watching the life leave a body, even if it is a dog's life. One minute it's your dog, the next minute it's just a body and the dog isn't in it any more... If you've been lucky enough to not have to witness this yet, maybe you can't understand it. I don't know how else to put it. All I know is that there comes a moment when you're petting the body and you realize there's no one in it any more and you feel like the rug's been pulled out from under you.

Boy was in the vet's office and he wanted to be there for Mabel, but I wouldn't let him stay. I told him I didn't think anything good would come of it. It is very, very sad to have a dog one minute and not have one the next, but it's a whole nuther world of hurt to watch it happen. As it was he spent two whole days crying- the first because she was sick and likely to die, the second because she did. I can't see telling him to buck up and not be sad. He should be sad. Then again, I can't see making it worse. Hopefully he won't end up in therapy because I wouldn't let him stay when I had them kill the dog.

Guilt is rather narcissistic, I think. Indulge me this once, please. I feel guilty because when Mabel passed a bladder stone two years ago I took her to the cheap vet. Because he was cheap. I told the cheap vet to manage things cheaply. He didn't do an xray, but he did determine the stones were struvite stones. I asked if we should change her diet, and he said to feed her a vegetarian diet, which he would be happy to sell to me.

A vegetarian diet.

For a Dog.

I looked it up and found that although the vegetarian diet can actually be a good thing for some conditions, this was not one of them, so I kept Mabel on her current diet. What I should have done was more research. I should have googled "struvite medical treatment canine" like I did last night, and I would have learned that her treatment was grossly inadequate. Of course, another option would have been to take her to a real vet and spend some real money on her, but I didn't do that either. The net result is that two years later my dog suffered and died from a treatable condition.

So now we're down to one dog. One sad little Lucy, who is strangely clingy and follows me everywhere, not just to the kitchen. I still say the wrong things, like "Take the dogs out". I still expect to hear two dogs barking.

Mostly I miss Mabel's intelligence. Mabel had intention. She had moods, most of them good ones. She could be silly, or hyper, or giddy. She could be cuddly (rare) or calm or lovey. If you wanted to know the meaning or sheer joy, you could set her loose in my Aunt's yard to chase the birds. She'd tear off, go into that "Bunny Run" where both the front legs go out at the same time- now That was a happy dog.

Lucy isn't the same. She's more like a very smart guinea pig. She doesn't have moods so much as modes- food seeking, in which she follows you into the kitchen and hoovers the floor. Heat seeking, in which she stealthily works her way into your lap with out you noticing. And comfort seeking, in which she finds the softest thing in the room to curl up on, and if it isn't soft enough she'll fluff it with her paws. Frankly she's cold comfort right now. I almost want to go get another dog.

Alright. I'm done playing Captain Buzzkill and the Bring Downs,
ephelba

Crazy Making, or How To Make The Perfect Purchase

Step 1: Google reviews for the type of item you had in mind, say, for instance, "Camcorders". Discover that you need to be looking at how many chips the camera uses to record light, how good it is in low light, and of course, price.

Step 2: Try to find a camera that has those features. Read fifty million "10 Best Camcorder" reviews on fifty million sites, frequently discovering that the review is two years old.

Step 3: Thinking you have THE camcorder, Google the specific model and read some more Expert reviews. Discover that a Key quality is lacking in the model you've chosen. Go back to Step 2.

Step 4: Having found a camera with the qualities you desire, begin to read customer reviews. This will undoubtedly lead you to discover that your camera is HATED by the masses. Go back to step 2.

Step 5: Decide you don't care what the reviewers think, you can live with a certain Camcorder because someone on one website said it didn't suck, and it's cheap. Now focus on finding the cheapest price. Google the product name and model number along with the word "Buy". Google will return a million websites listing the same three prices.

Step 6: Google the item and a low-ball price. Google will return a list of cheapskate forums where everyone is talking about how they paid $100 less than anything you've seen the camcorder for, and how they're all jealous of the dude who's bragging that he bought it for $50 less than that.

Step 7: Begin to try to get the camera at the uber-cheap price. This involves skinning a chicken at midnight on the full moon, but you're hard core! It is important to spend several hours on this step, especially if your goal is to make yourself crazy. After pursuing many, many strategies for getting The Super Deal, discover the camcorder is All Sold Out. Everywhere within driving distance. Since the final step in all the strategies is usually taking advantage of the brick and mortar store's price matching policy, this means you're screwed.

Step 8: Repeat step 5, but scroll to the bottom of the page and click the last "o" in Google. On this page will be a little known store that still has the camcorder and is offering it for almost $100 less than the worst prices you've seen.

If you aren't already crazy, go back to step 2 and repeat until you are. That is, of course, unless your goal was to buy a camcorder. If you meant to buy a damn camcorder DO IT NOW! DO NOT SPEND ONE MORE SECOND OVERTHINKING THIS STUPID PURCHASE THAT YOU'VE ALREADY SPENT HOURS, HOURS, DIDDLING YOURSELF OVER!!!

Going to buy a futhermucking camcorder, tra-la, tra-la,
ephelba

More Randomness

1) At age thirty something I am finally beginning to appreciate "Round Mouth" singing. That is, opera, some choral music, etc... I can tolerate the women, and sometimes I even enjoy hearing a choir. There's no helping the men though, they just sound silly. The vibrato sounds like the fakest laughing ever. Give me another 30 ears and I might warm up to it.
2) Even though it's only 20 minutes long, you should bother to rent Harvey Krumpet. It is amusing. I am especially fond of the crazy mother's burbles.
3)We just watched Mysterious Object at Noon. This is a movie that proves that a degree from film school doesn't mean you really know how to make a movie. The premise is that the film makers travel through Thailand and get locals to complete a story "Exquisite Corpse" style. They don't do much of that though. They enjoy taking tiny peeks into the local's lives, but don't much with that either. It had lovely bits and pieces in it, enough to keep you watching, but not enough to satisfy.
My favorite person met was an older lady who starts telling the story of a dream her father had. Then she tries to get the film maker to have a beer. Then she can't remember when she got the beer, she'd traded some oranges for it, got it from the village elder, but was it yesterday evening or afternoon? She finally realizes she's forgotten what story she was telling. She laughs with complete abandon. Both Simon and Boy say she reminds them of me; I'm flattered.
4)The Peanut crawls. This, combined with her compulsion to eat all things fuzzy/dirty on the floor, promises to keep me busy this week. It is a huge relief, as we were worried she might not crawl for a month or more, if ever. She is also pulling up on things, yet another normal thing that normal babies do in their normalness. Oh yeah, she's normal and a bag of chips.
5) JK Rowling has announced the title of book seven. This brings home the fact that it is nearing completion. My family loves the series. It started out as a fling, but after the third re-read it got serious. It's gone past that now. We know all the flaws intimately. In couple-stages, we're at the point we're planning retirement together and have given up on the seat up or down argument.
6) My son put the decorations on the tree all by himself. He was briefly injured by a dried puffer fish that my mom gave us several years ago. And now you gain a little insight into who I am and how I got to be that way; I was raised by a woman who hangs dead fish on her xmas tree. Now I am that woman. Go figure.
7)I loathe the Boy Scouts more with every passing meeting. They just had a Christmas party that everyone, even the lone Jew, was welcome to attend. I pointed out to Boy that maybe this was a bit icky, and he went off. The Boy Scouts can't do anything right in my eyes and he should just quit.
OK.
Seriously, I had used the word "Icky". We ended up having a huge family discussion, complete with intervention by Simon, because of it. Super-Bitchy-Mom strikes again.
I can't let it go, but apparently I shouldn't have brought it up.
Fucking Boy Scouts.
8)I apologize about the quality of the writing in this post. I am tired. The Peanut sleeps pretty well, but she wakes up three or four times a night just for fun. I get lots of sleep, I just don't get it all in a row, and I suffer for it. I'm constantly word hunting. I get the suckers cornered pretty good (the canine quadruped thingy there) but I have a hard time actually spearing it (dog).
Hey! I made a whole entry without bitching about Christmas!
You'll have to do it yourself,
ephelba

Things that Confuse me:

1) Syriana. Does this stuff really happen? Is this supposed to be a warning? Is the take away message that you can get electrocuted in a pool? If you aren't touching land, then doesn't that mean you aren't grounded and you're ok until you try to get out of the pool? I know, I know, that's exactly how the movie confused you too.


2) If you design a bottle brush, shouldn't the brush handle fit inside the opening of the bottle?

Maybe it's a "No Scratch Brush" because you can't reach the inside of the bottle, much less scratch it.

3) If someone suggested that you take an entire paycheck, buy gifts for everyone you know all at the same time, wrap the gifts in paper that's a huge waste of natural resources, get your house in tip top shape, redecorate it, stock it with homemade goodies at random intervals throughout the month, then top it off with a day spent cooking in the kitchen, all during the season when your family is most likely to be fighting colds would you say "That sounds like the most wonderful time of the year!", or would you say "What a stoopid idea! It'll never catch on."
"Christmas leads to stress, stress leads to beer, beer leads to pissing. Celebrate Christmas and piss away your month you will. "
Maybe I'll leave the dark side and try Channakuh. Hannaka. Channukah.
Maybe I better make it Kwanzaa, because I can spell that.

Spreading my usual Christmas cheer,
ephelba

In which I admit I'm crazy.

A while back I began having dizzy spells. And shortness of breath. And sometimes chest pains or headaches, but most worryingly, a general wooziness that made me think I might pass out cold. After one rather long lasting spell, I decided to go to the Doctor, and since there were no appts available I was sent to the urgent care.

Here's a confession: I was scared to go, because I was afraid they wouldn't find anything wrong, and they'd think I was crazy. I waited until the symptoms were so bad that I was just sure they'd find something. How could I feel this bad, and they not find anything?

They did an EKG. They took x-rays. They took blood. They listened to my heart and lungs. They didn't find anything wrong.

The Doctor was so kind. He didn't say I was crazy. He didn't say I should relax and forget it. He said I should see my regular Doctor so we could get to the bottom of it.

I did not make an appt. I did not want to go through more tests so they could tell me nothing was wrong. I figured at some point it would get worse. I would actually pass out, or some symptom would become visible and then I would have something tangible to show a Dr.

But the good Dr was thorough, and my Doctor's office called me and told me I really should come in. So I did. And my Doctor looked at my tests, and he looked at me, and then he had me hyperventilate on purpose. Did that feel like my woozy spells? Yep. Then he had a diagnosis- I was having anxiety attacks. But, says I, I didn't feel anxious and panicky when they happened, just woozy. He said that's why it's a disorder.

Recap for the ironically impaired: So I delayed going to the Doctor because I thought they'd think I was crazy, then I went to the Doctor and found out I was crazy.

I have been exploring this notion carefully. I would prefer not to go on meds, seeing as how I'm a walking milk bar right now. Can I control my crazies just by thinking different thoughts? I'm apparently so stressed that my body is having unhealthy reactions to it, but my conscious mind is unaware. Would I feel better if I got my conscious mind to recognize the stress I was apparently under?

I have been trying this for about a week now. I have discovered that I am mainly worried that I just can't get everything done that I need/want done. Therefore I have been trying to get help when I need it. I have also been trying to be my own cheerleader, reminding myself that I can do whatever I set my mind to. I'm getting into new helpful housekeeping habits, and am trying to sucker the guys into some too. It appears to be helping.

I feel ashamed though. Simon gets stressed, but he doesn't have anxiety attacks. Lots of people are stressed and they aren't freaking. I feel weak and lame. Broken.

Perhaps if I can get my act together without medicine then I can call my brokenness fixed? Instead of thinking of myself as weak, I can call it a momentary weakness?

Of course, when I think of other people who have problems with anxiety or panic attacks, I know their troubles are much worse than mine. Their problems are valid, and chemically/genetically based. And totally not about weakness. Their problems are real. Their problems are nothing for them to feel guilty about, only I can do that.

Hey, I don't have to be rational, because I'm crazy - remember?


Doing just fine, really,
ephelba

Is it really that difficult?

So Weds I was expecting my period, and when it didn't arrive I looked at the calendar and realized that Simon had his surgery during the "danger zone" and was out of commission, so there was no reason to worry.

Today being Friday, I began to worry.

I peed on a stick. The stick said "No worries".

So I looked at the calendar again, and realized I was off by a week. I've been off by a week for a week. Which means we thought we were out of the danger zone when we technically weren't.

So now we worry.

Actually, we don't worry much. Looking at the actual days that things actually happened we figure we're ok, but Simon was distressed that I could mix up a thing like that. He said "Don't you women know how to keep track of these things from birth? At any point shouldn't I be able to ask and have you answer 'Two weeks and one day ago'?"

If I were that person, I wouldn't have two kids right now.

Seriously. I can not be trusted with my own fertility. I can't count and I can't remember crap and if we don't end up with another surprise baby it will be Such a miracle.

Tell me you believe in miracles,
ephelba

Well shit.

I've been following the whole James Kim thing pretty closely. I was rooting for him hard, and when I heard he had died I was just, I don't know what I was. I've been telling Simon for two days that if it's us, he has to stay in the car. Tonight I added "It's just so sad" to the litany. I was sure James was going to make it, because the whole thing seemed like a made for TV story. How could it not end happily?

There's something reassuring when you hear about something like this and it turns out well. Like maybe there really is a God, or at least some kind of rationality to the universe. And there's something especially devastating about this kind of tragedy happening to such a lovely family, something along the lines of "it could happen to you" I suppose.

Some dear friends of ours, who we always thought of as the loveliest couple, split up just before we moved out here, and for weeks after we heard about it we'd exclaim "I just can't believe it" at random intervals. It wasn't our divorce, but it was truly upsetting for us. Same Cool-Hand-Luke effect I guess. We want somebody to succeed because it would mean that we could too.

It's just so sad.

If it happens to any of you, stay in the car, k?
ephelba

Another Installment of TMI

Since I've moved here to bloggerland I haven't posted a wild and woolly TMI entry.

ASIDE:
By which I don't mean "Trainably Mentally Impaired" or "Tolerably Messy Igloo". Usually, when I use it, it means I'm about to discuss my girlie bits. You have been warned.
AWAY WE GO:

I recently did something to my nethers, and even as I was doing it I thought "I have to blog about this, because, really, this is funny". Or at least, one day I'll look back at this and laugh. Even so, I was scared to write about it for three reasons.

Reason the first: I wrote an entry about Peanut not wanting to breastfeed, and got hit by a perv off of Google who was looking up "Gumdrop nipples". Shudder. I want to avoid that sort of thing, really, but if I write up a whole entry about my nethers it would seem that I'm inviting it. To this end, I will rely on informal names for my girlie bits, or else I'll use the * for all the vowels in the word. K?

Reason the second: This blog is being written with my grandchildren in mind, and I cannot imagine there will ever ever be a point in their lives when they'll want to hear about Gramma's snatch. That said, there are lessons to be learned from what I've done. I'm just going to have to hope they'll read it if they're ready and skip it if they aren't. Hi Grandkids! Love Ya!

Reason the third: It is weird to discuss this on the net for anyone of any gender to read. I usually pretend that it's just us girls reading this, because mostly it is, but there's nothing that says it has to be. And even if it is just us girls, ummm, it still isn't the kind of thing that I'd normally bring up in polite company. Good company over pinot grigio, totally. With that in mind, maybe you should go get a drinky before continuing, no matter what gender you are.

But this entry isn't supposed to be about whether or not to write an entry, it's supposed to be a story.

So, once upon a time there was a witch. She wasn't too good, and she wasn't too bad. Sometimes she wasn't too bright, either. Actually, the problem wasn't that she was stoopid, it was that she wasn't scared to try new things, even if she should be.
The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad felt a little hairy and itchy in her nethers, and suddenly an idea occurred to her. Why shouldn't she just shave the damn hairs off? The more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed- it would be a nice surprise for her husband.
So the witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad got into the shower armed with only a razor. She thought she could just, well, sort of shave at the bush thingy a little here, or well, maybe if she came at it from another angle it would...

Here's what it would do. First, it would clog up the razor. Duh. At every stroke. Also, maybe not un-surprisingly, it would hurt.

The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad decided a new tool was called for, so she dripped water all over the bathroom floor as she hunted down some scissors. She hacked off most of the hair as short as she dared and tossed it into the toilet, which looked nasty. Nasty! And she thought what a shock the next toilet user would have if she forgot to flush, which is when the first reason not to shave your p*bes occurred to her: What if her son came into the bathroom right at that moment and noticed? How would she answer that question? How would it be asked? Could a more awkward situation be imagined? She decided that since her son tried to give her more privacy than she had ever asked for she would probably be ok. She'd just have to cover herself strategically if there was ever a need, because this shaving was going to happen. Wasn't it going to be such fun to show her husband her naked tw*t?

So she returned to the shower, liberally applied shaving cream and tried again. This is when the second reason not to shave occurred to her. It hurt. It still hurt even with shorter lubed up hairs, and it hurt a lot. It hurt like trying to hump sand paper. And yet, this was going to be worth it, she was pretty sure, so she kept at it.

She imagined her skin would be silky smooth. In practise, she was finding her skin felt like it could be mistaken for shark hide. The problem was that region involved is not flat. It was, at best, curved, and at worst, folded. Picturing men pulling the skin tight over their jaw, she attempted similar maneuvers. If she slipped there would be a nick. She really didn't want a nick. She imagined the hijinks that would ensue when her husband came home and braved the worst.

Oh, if you could have seen her. The little mangled hairs were flying left and right. The shower floor looked like it was made of wooky fur. The hairs ended up on her cheek, her shoulders, her boobs, everywhere but her nethers. Even funnier, when ever she tried to brush them off, she simply planted three more. They weren't hairs, they were hydras. Eventually she reached a state of complete hair entropy- the little buggers were evenly distributed, like a p*be fur coat. The witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad discovered that if you suds up enough that the hairs were floating in the bubbles, you could, in fact, rinse them away.

After much effort the hairs were razed, the shower cleaned, the toilet flushed and the work beheld. She decided the effect was, ummm, cute. There was a dimple and a freckle that she didn't know she had. It blew her mind that there were aspects of her very own body that she didn't recognise. She decided the whole adventure had been worth it just for that reason alone.

And then she remembered the last reason not to shave the beaver bald. She had a gyno visit scheduled within the month. Either she'd have to keep this up for a month (the razor rash was already blushing whilst she toweled dry) or she'd have to go with the missus looking like G.I. Jane.

So, in the end, the witch-who-wasn't-too-good-and-wasn't-too-bad showed her loving, patient husband what she'd done. He was surprised. Impressed even. And they played with the box the children came in and lived happily ever after.

The end,
ephelba

PS
Simon the wise says sharp razors don't hurt.

Would I do it again? Nope. Was it worth doing once? Sure.

Imaginary post:

I'm very tired and it's very late, since I decided to start doing my housework at 9:00 when the peeps went to bed.
Imagine, if you will, that I have written a witty opening remark. Pretend I follow it with a funny anecdote. Hell, we're imagining here, so make it really, really funny. Absolutely hilarious.
Cap it with a clever one line observation.
If you want, you can throw in one grammar error, just to keep it real.

There. Entry Done.

Hang in there, NaBloPoMo is over tomorrow,
ephelba

I did something right.

I am more than ambivalent about Christmas, which has led to a somewhat odd exposure to the holidays for Boy. I'm sure I've blogged about it before, but I can't find it now, so I'll recap the highlights:
1) One x-mas when it was just him and me I didn't tell him it was x-mas. I got him breakfast, went back to bed, slept in till 10, then got up and said, "Guess What? It's Christmas! There's no chimney, so Santa hid your toys!" and Boy ran around and found them where I'd hidden them in lieu of wrapping them. Boy actually remembers this fondly.
2) It may have been that x-mas, maybe the next, when I introduced the concept of the Yule Cat. It's a black cat the size of a house who eats up little kids who don't get clothes for Yule. You're not going to believe this, but I'm not actually the one who made this up. Some people in the old country who wanted their kids to spin a lot of thread did. Anyway, Boy thought it was grim. Later that season he saw America's Funniest Home Videos for the first time. There were people falling off stages and into trees. Boy started crying and said "Is this what Christmas is about? Is it about hurting people?" He sited the Yule Cat and the Show as examples.
3) One Christmas I told Boy he was getting a Barbie for Christmas. At first he was horrified, then he joined in the joke. But when he opened a package to see a picture of a very pink Barbie on the wrapper he cried. That's when I realized I took the joke too far. In all fairness, I had made a Barbie label and slipped it over the wrapper of a video game, thinking he'd realize it was fake right away.

In all of those Christmases he was never asked to make a list. I think that practise is disgusting. I think if gifts must happen at x-mas they should be a surprise to the recipient, and come from the heart of the giver. Making a list defeats both of those purposes. Where's the surprise if you made up the list of acceptable gifts? And how is it a gift from someone else's heart if you told them what to get? People should give you something they thought up, maybe even something they made up themselves. Alas, in my family all the grown-ups can't get on with x-mas until we tell them what Boy wants. And they seem to insist that it be something they can buy. If we ask for gifts that don't cost money, like pages for the family book, they'll make them, then ask what to get him for Christmas, because the pages didn't count.

This year I made a HintBug list with stuff on it for Boy and Peanut, but Boy doesn't know what's on there. There are things that you could make for free, and things you could buy. Whatever they choose, it's a surprise for Boy.

Anyway, I told Boy about how some kids make these lists of stuff they want, and how icky I thought that was, and he was like, "No Way! That IS icky!" Which leads me to believe that there is at least one thing I have gotten across to the Boy. Christmas isn't Gimme-Toys-Day, and he knows it.

going to put on socks that are three sizes too small,
ephelba

Ahhhh, finally.

The baby is asleep, the dishes are caught up, the boy is schooling, I am no longer in a state of zombi-hood, therefore I am free to blog for a bit.

We were thinking that the baby was teething, because it seemed impossible for her to have have a cold when we didn't give it to her. I now have the sniffles and a sore throat, proving that she is fully capable of picking up a cold all by herself. Who knew?

Two nights ago was the worst night in the whole affair. I hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time in days. I was a wreck. She was a wreck. She was miserable, and the only thing that seemed to help was for a grown up to hold her. Sometimes the grown up had to be patting her butt. Sometimes the grown up had to be gently swinging her from side to side. Sometimes it was ok for the grown up to rock in the rocking chair. She prefers her grownups to be mushy from lack of sleep, so she kept me in a constant state of ripeness by waking up twenty minutes to an hour after I managed to drop off.

Interestingly, I had a lot of trouble doing that. I have never in my life been more tired, and yet I had a hard time falling asleep when I finally had the chance. I can't decide if it was because I was running on sheer adrenaline and I couldn't turn it off, or if it was the worry. It was crazy making though, to know that she'd cry any minute now, and if I didn't drop off that very second I might not get any sleep at all.

At the lowest of the low, when I thought I just could not take any more, I remembered a startling fact- this too would pass. At some point she was going to get better. As my wise aunt has told me, you can take anything if you know it's going to end. This kept me going, let me mother and comfort her like she needed.

And that very night, thank goodness, she turned the corner. Started drinking more, sleeping longer. She's very boogery, but otherwise she's almost back to normal.

Of course, now that she's better I'm getting sick, but honestly I have a lot to be thankful for.
1) She never got overly dehydrated. Yay!
2) I wasn't sick at the same time she was.
3) I have caught her cold, proving it was a cold and not her tooth, meaning that we won't have to repeat this whole fiasco when her second upper tooth comes in. Honestly I don't know what I'd do if I knew I had to do this all again next week.

Simon is recovering well, despite not having me spoil him rotten like I intended. He has, in fact, been taking care of me and the baby, bring me coffee and watching the baby so I can sleep. Not what I had in mind at all. Boy has lain low for the past two days, knowing that I was short on resources. Last night we had pizza and played a few rounds of jenga before watching Battlestar Galactica. I planned this evening for him, ordering stuff he liked on the pizza and letting him pick a game that isn't the fave of the grups. Now that we're back in school (and Peanut isn't constantly crying) he can get the attention he's due.

And I am sitting here looking like I've been attacked by a herd of slugs- there's glistening snot trails all over my shoulders, the front of my shirt, even my pants. I gave her a bath today, maybe I'll avail myself of one too.

Enjoying my return to the world of the living,
ephelba

Much better, thanks.

She appears to have turned the corner. I'll fill you in soon,
ephelba

Babbling Idiot

Penut is still sick. I have not slept, and have reached the babbling idiot stage. I will spare you the taudry task of witnessing it.

ephelba

In which Boy is ignored and Simon is left to fend for himself

Peanut is very sad. She has quit eating, which is a worry because all she eats is breast milk, so no eating means we have to watch her for dehydration. I told Simon that I would like just one week to go by without some new worry developing on her behalf.

Simon is sick of the apartment, so after we went to the Dr to have the stuffing taking out of his nose we went to a coffee shop I'd heard about. Boy hadn't really experienced a college town coffee shop in full swing before. He sat wide eyed with wonder as a group of girls carrying a sign on a stick that said "MAKE NOISE" ululated and giggled their way around the shop. There were the obligatory broody young men reading deep books, and a girl with a t-shirt that said "call the white house" and listed the number. Alas, Peanut was in no mood for the shenanigans, so we cut the field trip short. After we left Boy said he wanted to come back often, and that there were weird people in there, and that he really liked it.

Boy is spending the night at a friend's house. The friend just got a Wii. Lucky.

Simon and I watched Battlestar while I jiggled and rocked and held and patted the poor baby. The good news on that front is that I finally figured out how to slip the girl a mickey. Giving her any medicine drops caused her to gag hard, but she'll drink them in an ounce of breast milk. The problem is getting her to drink that ounce, since she's not having any today. The trick is to put her in her crib, because she's so well trained to drink as she's going to sleep that we can get a few swallows in her before she remembers she's on strike.

I'm off to go deal with her now, send me any extra sleep you've got laying around the house,
ephelba

Thanksgiving Accomplished

* Meal prepared? Check.
* Thankfullness expressed? Check. Simon is thankful for having us as a family, we're all thankful for Peanut (who slept through the whole dinner), Boy was thankful for the food, and Simon and I were thankful that his surgery went well.
* Meal eaten? Check.
* Another woefully under-developed entry posted for Nabloblahblah? Check.

We are now digesting in preparation for PIE.

piepiepiepiepiepie,
ephelba

Worst night on record.

Peanut takes the prize. In Boy's whole life he never had a night as bad as hers was last night. You're thinking she must be pretty sick, oh boy, to wake up At Least once an hour. At least once an hour all night long. Well folks, I hate to break the bad news, but she's teething. Symptoms: crankiness, tiniest bit of a runny nose (clear), fever, crankiness, redness where the tooth is coming through, and crankiness. Prognosis: a full recovery is expected some time in the next few days, with a repeat performance scheduled soon thereafter for the second upper tooth.

Of course, today is Simon's nose surgery. He's got a week off, and I had sort of planned on it being like a mini-lame-vacation. There's all the thanksgiving food. I figured he could pick out some movies and we'd hunker down for a week and vegetate. I would pamper the Simon with tea and custard and we'd watch the baby roll on the floor and hang with the Boy.

Yesterday Simon said "I don't want Thanksgiving to be stressful"
I said "So we're not having a turkey?"
He said "I just want a nice relaxing meal.. We don't have to eat at any certain time."

The problem is, anytime I have anything to do besides take care of the baby I get stressed. I don't necessarily actually freak out, but my stress level rises. As all you mothers know, there's always something that needs doing, so I am usually running in a constantly stressed state. I try to relax and find my zen, but it seems to slip from my grasp on a daily basis. I realize that there's no deadline for having the turkey ready, but just the thought of trying to fix a bird, keep the baby happy, make the side dishes, pump, time everything so it is ready when the bird is, and feed/diaper the baby has got me stressed. Which Simon knows, even though I haven't said it aloud.

And now on top of everything she's teething and I haven't slept. I've had issues with fatigue, and I fear it the way other people fear pain. I start out sleepy, then I progress to feeling stupid and slow, I go from there to a phase where I doggedly undertake some obnoxious chore that's been waiting on me for a while (?), then I usually get nauseous, and much past that I'm just a gibbering idiot. I will be progressing through this cycle today while we jump through the hospital's hoops, and tomorrow when we do the turkey, because I don't see Peanut sleeping any better tonight. Poor Boy will be the only one anywhere near 100%. Feel sorry for him.

Wish me luck,
ephelba

there will be no capital letters today

the baby is ill, and she won't let me put her down. ever try to pump with a baby in your lap? if you've mastered that, try typing whilst holding the keyboard over the baby with one hand.

it's going to be a long night,
ephelba

Why My Husband is a Saint

Because when I'm stressed and freaking out because I can't do everything at once, and it stresses him out and the kids out and probably even our dust mites need a chill pill, He will figure out a way to help.
I sure do loves me some Simon,
Ephelba

Must...blog...

I am blogged out, having already done my bit here.

You'll live,
ephelba

Clarification:

SO Simon says to me "I read your blog" in that Uh Oh voice, and I'm totally confused.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not your biggest baby."

Oh! So, as I explained to him, I am here to tell you that he is my biggest baby in a honey-sugar-lovemuffin kind of way, not the whiny-needy-wah kind of way.

We just watched High Fidelity, which we thoroughly enjoyed. *Spoiler alert* I was worried for a while, because the main character was Such An Ass that I thought he couldn't recover, but at that moment his girlfriend walked in and I said to Simon, I said, "He's going to ask her to marry him", which he did, so I felt better. And I
felt like hot shit for predicting it. Not like it took tremendous mental abilities or anything, but it's nice to be right.

We don't have any Battlestar Galactica in the house right now. We've been steadily working away at the series. The whole family enjoys the show. I especially enjoy singing "Ellen's a bitch, she's a big ole bitch, she's the biggest bitch in the whole wide world..." because (I can't stand her)Squared. And how. I have the same visceral reaction to her that I have to the president's voice. If she isn't a cylon I don't know who is. (And don't tell me if she is, because we're many discs away from season three.)

Sometimes we talk about getting cable or dish or somesuch. I don't think I could ever, ever, Ever buy Dish now that I have spent the entire time we've lived in New York telling various Dish representatives that I want off their list. I seriously can't count how many times I've answered the phone to hear "This is Jerry with Dish".

"Jerry's a bitch, he's a big ole bitch, he's the biggest bitch in the whole wide world..."

But I digress. We can't get even a single station in over the air, so our choice not to pay for TV effectively means we don't have TV. There are pluses: It is good to not have commercials. Also, I have no idea when we'd find the time to watch TV if we had it, seeing as how we have a hard time fitting in the Netflix. Sometimes though, you think about all the PBS and SciFi you're missing, you read all the blogging excitement over Lost, and you think it might be worth it. Then I think about all the time TV eats, and how little return it gives, and I think better of it.

We're starting the xmas preparations. I don't mean the tree- I refuse to have much to do with that- I mean the making of the gifts. It is important to us to make gifts, but it's hard to make gifts that someone would actually want that a kid can put together. I have no idea what we'll do when Peanut is three and we have to think something up. I know that there are all kinds of meaningful things you can do with kids, but unfortunately many of them would have required more foresight than I have exercised. Seriously, if you have ideas, please share.

night night,
ephelba

Thanksgiving Shopping

I wanted to get the majority of the feast shopping done before Saturday, because the grocery stores become mad houses and the cranberries are all gone otherwise. I thought I would be clever and go after dinner tonight, because who the hell goes to the Walmart at 8 o'clock on a Friday night?

Every Fucking One.

Who knew? Not I. But there I was, wandering around aghast at both the warehouse of schloppy cluttery crap that is Walmart, and the large numbers of toddlers who should be in bed. I don't mean to be a sanctimommy, but as 9:30 approached I just couldn't believe that every aisle had a toddler in it. Why aren't they at home in bed?

For that matter, why the hell aren't all the parents at home in bed? I thought the store would be empty, since by nine o'clock on a typical night I'm either pumping my last pump or feeling guilty that I haven't yet. But then, our house calls it quits very early.

I was picking out apples, and I turned around to see a man with the most unbelievable dreads I have ever seen. They were past his ass, and each one was a lovely inch wide cylinder. There weren't any of those funkity mats you sometimes see, and he had a full head of them. That's three-ish feet of dread. I wanted to go up and pet them. I ran into him several times before I left, and I kept catching myself staring. I wonder if he gets that a lot, and if he's sick of it already. If half of his conversations with strangers are about his startling hair.

He had a toddler with him, clutching his blankey and sucking his thumb.

My little baby was put to bed before I left. My biggest baby went to bed just after I left, and the middle baby started worrying about me when I took too long to come home, then ran out to the car in his bare feet and boxers to help me carry groceries up at 10:00. Being 11, he thought that 30 minutes was plenty of time to complete a shopping trip in. He was quite worried by the time he heard the car.

It is past time for me to call it quits. Going to bask in the joy that only a heated mattress pad can bring,
ephelba

My Favorite Poem

Ten Years It Took

Ten years it took
To build my little cottage.
Now the cool wind inhabits half of it
And the rest is filled with moonlight.

There is no place left for the mountain and the stream
So I guess they will have to stay outside.

by Song Sun (1493-1583)
Translated by Virginia Olsen Baron and Chung Seuk Park

If you are interested in reading more like it, go here.

I'm trying to get my zen on,
ephelba

Nabloblahblah revisited

I don't love it. I don't love it because it takes me a while to work a post up sometimes. It takes me a while to work up a post sometimes because I like to ruminate. I like to ruminate because, if nothing else, you catch more grammar errors that way. Even better, I find that my ideas condense and my writing becomes richer for it. These daily entries feel rushed and diluted to me.

moooooooo,
ephelba

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:)