And Away We Go!

I have been thoroughly spoiled for company the past two weeks. This morning I was cranky after my AuntieM drove away. A body gets used to having grownups to talk to, and the prospect of losing that made me a little grouchy.
The baby is down for a nap, so I thought I'd work on getting Boy set up for homeschool. Just a few last minute details. Like, oh, say, what I'm going to teach him. I feel a little like I'm on a roller coaster, at the top of the first hill.
Example. I want to teach him Biology. I know a fair bit about it, shouldn't be too hard. So I need a text. So I go online and look at a review of texts by a committee of teachers, who conclude that the nine most frequently used biology texts ALL SUCK.
I wasn't expecting this.
Hmmmm.
OK.
So I'll just pull something together myself.
That's like saying I'll just write my own textbook.
HA!
Actually, what I'll be doing is referring to textbooks for content, to make sure I don't skip anything, but pulling together the information from the texts and the internet and who knows what all, and ordering it myself. A whole lot of work. And that's just biology. I'll be doing the same thing for history and Spanish too. That's even more work.
Suffice it to say I'm intimidated.

See you next week...

Am spending time with my aunt, will write more later...

News Flash

I'm Not Pregnant!

And the Survey Says.....

Let me just preface this by saying that for two years or so I made a living in a company that makes pregnancy tests. I know more about them than you would believe. I know things about them that you didn't even know there were to know. And one of these things is that a negative result doesn't always mean "Not Pregnant". Nope. And if you bother reading the directions to the pee-stick tests, you know that you shouldn't read the results after ten minutes. Because they're unreliable. That's true. But the secret that I know is, if you get a line after ten minutes, there's a good chance you really are pregnant. Depends on your body chemistry.
I've done about a million tests with my own pee, and I know I never get a line after ten minutes. Normally.
I've taken three tests in the past two days. Two of them gave lines after 10 minutes. My period is late. I know a positive should be showing now. The fact that it isn't could mean I'm not pregnant. Could mean I am pregnant and my pee was too dilute. Could mean I have an ectopic.
Wish I knew already, because the thought that I could become a mother of THREE is very scary. The phrase just keeps rolling through my brain, MOTHER OF THREE MOTHER OF THREE MOTHER OF THREE. I realize three is not that bad. Many people have three. Or More. Goody for them. For me, three feels like a hell of a lot.
I've got to go be a mother of two. Help make dinner and clean up some spit-up.
Wish me luck,
ephelba

New Jeans

I remember being in high school and trying to buy jeans. I would occasionally get some money set aside for clothes, and in a fit of optimism I'd head out to a store with a likely sale. I'd try on pair after pair until I found some that covered my ankles, then I'd say, surely These ones will work, and take them home. Where I would wash them. And they would shrink. And my ankles would show. And my money would be wasted and I'd have to be angry at myself 'cause I knew better, but I spent the only money I had on them and now all I had to wear were GOD DAMN SPOCK PANTS.
Then I discovered Boy's Jeans. These came in long lengths and straight legs and were just the ticket.
Mostly.
The year before Peanut was born I decided I was tired of wearing clothes I hated. My beloved Loon gave me some hand-me-down jeans that were made for girls and they were cute. I began doing a little looking on my own and discoved great strides had been made in women's jeans. I collected a full set of jeans I loved, then started collecting a set of T-shirts.
At which point I got pregnant.
Which meant that none of those clothes fit. So I tried to collect a small set of happy pregnancy clothes, but unless you're rich it ain't happening.
Now I'm post-pregnancy, but I'm slipping past my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm not complaining about losing weight, but all those lovely fun jeans were size 14. For the past month or so I haven't have to unbutton my jeans to pee.
My Mother-in-law noticed, so for a birthday present she took me to Old Navy to get some britches. I grabbed some 14s and some 12s. I was surprised the 14s were too big. I was downright shocked the 12s were too. So I make a run for some 10s. Oddly, the 10s seemed too tight. So I go out the stall and show off my booty to my MIL to see what is up. The girl who is the Keeper of the Keys says most people wear the jeans that tight, but it seems obscene to me. I decide I'm a 12 Long.
Which they have. Do young people today realise how good they have it? Straight leg girls' jeans that come in a long. Who'd a thunk it.
Then the MIL says "Try on this shirt". It is soft as butter, and light as a feather, and tight as something really tight. I put it on with the jeans and I feel so weird. The jeans fit and the shirt does too. You can see my body. How strange. I can't help but stare in the mirror. I decide Simon will like the effect. Maybe I will put a picture up, and you will understand what a mind fuck it was to try on clothes that fit.
So I come home and put on the clothes for the Boy and Simon. Boy says "Wow" with a little gasp. I could have kissed him.
The up shot is I've come full circle. Hating my clothes, finding some clothes I liked, not fitting the clothes I liked, hating the clothes I have...now I'm finding some more clothes I like.
Is the next step to get pregnant again?
I'll let you know tomorrow- I'm peeing on the stick in the morning.

Wish me Luck,
ephelba

If you type it, they will come...

Wow.
I was at Diaryland for how long, and no one read the blog unless I told them it was there. Mostly friends and some family. I've been here for maybe a week, and I kid you not, people from five different countries have checked me out. Ages range from 13 to 46 (as far as I know). And Three lovely lovely people left comments. I'm just so pleased.
Hello! How are you? Why on earth are you reading this?

Blogs are weird. The internet is weird.

You should know it is a habit of mine to pop up with this observation from time to random time, which makes Simon roll his eyes and say "You think Everything's weird". Which is true. Because it is. Oranges are weird. Hands are Really weird, even if you're not high. Being a mom is Really Really weird. Take it from there, you know the words...

Methinks it is a Good Weird. If we read what's happening in 100 people's brains, do we not feel less lonely, because many of us are thinking the same thing. And when we're not thinking the same thing, do we not gain insight that makes us more tolerant and understanding?

Usually?

I have read a few blogs that made me want to puke. Someone ranting about how feminists hate babies. Ack. But I suppose even then it's good to know what she was thinking.

My Mother-in -Law is here. Yay! I about talked her ear off, and she's only been here five hours. It's just so good to have someone to talk to. I think I'm usually a pretty good listener- hope I haven't just made her sick to death of me already.

It is incredibly late, and I still have to pump, and then I have to get up at four to drive Simon in to work because we just have the one car, so talk amongst yourselves.

Ever so pleased you're reading,
Thank you, thank you!
Ephelba

Googling

Ever Google yourself? First I Googled my given and married names. In my case it was very, very humbling. Then I Googled my favorite screen names, and HEY! That so-and-so stole my favorite screen name!
I realize that there are a million people with my given name, but somehow the fact that there are a million with my chosen name made me feel not very special. Also rather unoriginal.

Then I looked up the screen name I use here and the first thing that pops up is my Husband's entry about our threatened miscarraige with Peanut. And I feel famous. Like a million bucks. Then I feel kinda weird, because don't you get to be listed on Google by how many people link to your site? So, people are linking to this?

Then I keep reading and I feel mad again, because many other people have made the Ephelba, Elphaba mistake, and again I'm not so special. At least I know better. And I read the book and don't think it's about a sadly misunderstood witch who just wanted to be good. I think that's a gross over simplification. Don't ask me what is about, but I know it ain't exactly that.

So Simon's entry is on Google, so I wonder how many of mine are, and I start searching for combinations of words that should hit my blog, and I get none. A Great Big Nothing. Google says, Did I mean something else? No, Google, I meant just what I said, why you don't stroke my ego and show me my Blog? Apparently because no one has linked to my blog ever.

Ouch.

That could have been the end of it, but I set up a site tracker for this blog, and for the first time since I stated blogging I can say for sure that people I don't know have at least glanced at something I wrote. Rather intimidating. And exciting. Makes up for the lack of Googleness somehow.

So now I have a favor to ask. One of the reasons I moved here from Diaryland was to have the comments feature. It is, I believe, up and running. Could you please, just this once like, leave me a comment? It would so, so make my day.

Shamelessly Begging,
Yours truly,
Elpheba

On Sleeping With Babies

Can you imagine a gorilla getting ready to sleep, making a nest for itself, then taking its infant to another part of the forest and leaving it there? Or a chimpanzee letting its baby monkey cry it out? No, because any monkey that leaves its babies alone like that gets those babies eaten. Obviously, there must be some pretty heavy selection going on towards monkeys who keep their baby monkeys close to them all the time, even at night. And it only makes sense that nature would select for monkeys who respond quickly and reliably to their crying babies.
And somehow we think that because we have opposable thumbs these instincts don't belong to us. That responding to a baby that is crying alone in its crib is pandering to it. That a baby who doesn't want to sleep by itself isn't demonstrating a valuable survival instinct. That we can train out of our babies in a matter of days what eons of evolution put in place.
It riles me.
And it riles me that mothers are made to feel guilty when they give up on Ferberizing their kids, or when they never bother to try. And it really riles me that it's usually our own mothers or mothers-in-law who lay the guilt on us. We need our Mothers to inspire us to have confidence in ourselves, to teach us to trust our own instincts about our children.
I slept with Boy from when his head was under my chin and his feet at my belly button until he was out of diapers. Peanut doesn't sleep in our very bed, but she sleeps in her crib right next to us, where she can hear us snore and fart and (clutch the pearls) have sex. She knows she's not alone, and she sleeps better for it.
I sleep better knowing if she cries I can throw out my hand and rub her little head.
Of course, it is true that some babies don't care where or how they sleep. This rant is not aimed at their mommas. Nor is it aimed at people who are happy having their babies sleep in another room. I doubt that many people end up in therapy because their mommas let them cry it out. In the big scheme of things it doesn't matter. In the little scheme of things, though, it matters to some babies. And it hurts their mommas to feel guilty about letting them cry, then feel guilty when they pick them up and take them to their bed. And it hurts mommas to have their judgment questioned. This entry is for them.
Here's hoping we all learn to trust ourselves.

Ta Da!

So here I am on Blogger. Want to know why Blogger is cool? Because adding links and pictures is super easy. Here. I'll add a picture to this very post. Three in fact.
Today's entry is about hair loss. Did you know that while a woman grows a baby she pretty much quits shedding hair? It's true. And did you know that a few months after the baby is born she makes up for it by shedding the hairs she should have shed all at once? Yep. And what is a girl to do with all that hair?
Here are some ideas:










Clog your drains!










Make a Bouncy Hairball!













Tired of your baby being bald? Give her a DIY Wig!
Boy wanted to take the hairball to school for show and tell, but I wouldn't let him. Can you blame me?

Hmmmm....

Maybe you've read Wicked, and you're thinking "She's spelled Elphaba wrong." OK, I did, but I spelled it wrong years and years ago, and it's stuck to me like wet grass to feet and I kinda like it now. Besides, I'm not her, I'm me.
I have been blogging over in Diaryland for several years now. I am used to it. It is comfy and good unto me, even though I have to pay to add pictures, and I don't have the Comments feature, and the rings don't work, and there isn't a spellchecker.
Then I enter this phase where I MUST READ BLOGS (since I don't talk to people), and for the first time ever I find that I can't shut up, I have to leave comments, and in order to do that here you have to register, and then I discover this thing rocks hard.
Now I'm torn.
Do I move here? Is that unfaithful of me? Would I be nuts to repost all of my entries from the other site? Cause I'm not one to have my eggs in thirty two Easter baskets- that shit makes me nuts. I have two e-mails that I regularly use and I hate that I can't merge them now that yahoo lets you have two names for one account.
Sigh.
It's too late at night to be awake, much less deciding things.

Go read my other blog...