All I can say is that I want more.

The Birth Story

You think, when it happens, that there's no way you're going to forget any of this, ever. Then you come home and life takes over and little details start to melt away. It's already been a month, so I better write this before I forget who I gave birth to.

Lest you forget, I was a week and a few days overdue.Simon's mom was here, helping us out and hoping to meet the baby. A c-section had been scheduled for two days after her flight back home. I had been eating eggplant, drinking raspberry leaf tea and I don't know what all in the hopes that the kiddo would get here before her grandmother left.

I had been having the odd cramp now and then. Strings of them, even. Then the magic day came when they didn't stop. Of course, everyone is always asking "Anything?" and it's awkward to say "Well, yes, but they probably don't mean anything and they'll go away in a minute." This was what I said all day, from the time I got up until about one in the afternoon, at which point I conceded that maybe this was the real thing. Simon said it must be, because he had begun to bake bread, and he assured me that this meant we would leave at the most awkward point possible in the proceedings.

I tried to take a nap (ha!). We both took showers. I tried to pull together every single thing that the Peanut could possibly need while we were gone. In the meantime the contractions were getting closer together. I was supposed to leave when they were 6 or 7 minutes apart, to allow time for us to get to the hospital. By the time we got it together they were 3 minutes apart.

And it snowed. We hadn't had any snow yet, but durned if it snowed and sleeted on the way in. Simon and I were slightly nervous we wouldn't make it. I was uncomfortable every three minutes. We held hands when we could.

Thankfully, we made it to the hospital in plenty of time. I got into the bed in the triage room, where they informed me I was in early labor and would be permitted to hang out and have a baby. While I was in triage I switched from early to the real thing, which was when I began to wish I had done some practicing of the lamaze.

Because I hadn't. Practiced, that is, and I began to worry that I was in some trouble. I quickly discovered that laboring in bed = BADBADBAD. Laboring over a chair with Simon pushing on my back was doable. Moaning helped, but I could not get into that state I had been in when I labored for Boy. This time I was totally relying on Simon. If he wasn't there for a contraction I was in for it. That time I had focused on relaxing with every contraction. This time I just couldn't get there. I finally gave up and asked for an epidural. I figured I couldn't do it. I was tired already and I just knew they'd check me and say I was at 3. They suggested they do a check, because they had to do one before an epidural anyway, and if I was farther along than I thought, then maybe we could do something else. I was a 6.

You have no idea what a relief that was. This labor was going to be textbook. I went ahead and said yes to some fun juice though, because I was pooped, and it was hard. They gave me something non-narcotic that was supposed to go through the system very quickly. It helped. After a bit I asked to get into the jacuzzi tub, and Simon and I walked across the hall where I discovered what a difference a little water makes.

The water supported the belly. It relaxed all the muscles I'd forgotten how to relax myself. It felt damn good. I didn't take to the bubbles, but the bath itself felt great. It felt so great that I eased into transition without any hullabaloo at all. And just about the time things started getting painful again, I started to shake, and I realized what was happening. I told Simon I thought I was in transition, and very shortly thereafter my water broke.

Our labor nurse had been doing this for 20 years. She came in, heard me have a contraction, and told us I was probably ready to push. I couldn't believe it. We hadn't been there seven hours yet. It took more than a day to get to that point with Boy- this seemed so quick. I really wasn't sure she was right. Once they insisted I get out of the tub and walk across the hall it became apparent to me that they were very right, and that I might have to be worried about making the fifteen feet to the bed. I think they carried me. I don't really know. I do know I could feel her head pushing my bones apart.

Somehow we made it. The midwife was insisting I squat at the end of the bed so gravity would help things. I insisted that I couldn't do this, this wasn't happening, and we needed another plan because the baby was not coming out the way it went in. I insisted this loudly at the top of my lungs. She told be to insist at the bottom of my lungs, and it would help things along. She said I could do it. She must get so tired of telling hysterical women they can, indeed, push a baby out their vagina. I feel very unoriginal. I was yelling the same things I would hear four other women yell later. Exactly the very same words. Exactly. We would all be completely certain that we were tearing in half. That the opposite was true, and the baby would never make it out because we incapable of opening. That there was nothing right or natural about what was happening and that we couldn't do it. And then a baby would make it past the hardest point and suddenly it would be clear that we could do it, we had done it, and everything was fine.

I don't mean to scare anyone by saying this. If you're a premigravida, what you should take away from this is that if you reach the pushing stage and you think these thoughts, the truth is that you really can do it. Really. You can totally do it. I did it when I quit being scared of the pain and pushed into it. It was over so quick- less than a half hour. I think if I had held back I could have dragged it out for a while, so I suppose the key is to stay calm(er) and push hard.

That whole thing surprised me, because with Boy the pushing was great. Of course, with him I'd had an epidural, but they had turned it off and I could feel my legs and the urge to push. It was a relief. It was powerful and exciting and not that bad. The labor had been much worse than the delivery. For this baby the opposite was true.

Of course, when you have a nine pound baby it does some damage to the portal. I have this tendency to make large, round headed babies, then push them out in such a fashion that they have still have lovely round heads instead of the cone heads they're supposed to come out with. Cone heads mean your bones don't have to gape as much as mine did afterwards. I didn't need many stitches, but that doesn't mean I escaped unchanged. The midwife asked if I cared about looks. I said "No, just use the least number of stitches", cause that shit hurts. The correct answer was "Yes, I care very much. I don't want to look like a freakshow, use as many stitches as it takes to restore her to her former state". Ah well, you do the best you can with what you know at the time.

And with that, I got to hold our little girl. They put goop in her eyes, but we wouldn't let them take her away. Not for shots, or the PKU test, or even for a bath. She didn't get a bath till she'd been home for days- we just wiped her dry with a receiving blanket and called her good.

Simon laid down in a chair to sleep, and I snuggled in with the girl to get a nap.
As I laid there I started getting hot, then cold, then queasy, then I'd realize the girl was in my lap and I'd "fallen asleep". Then I'd do it all again. I didn't push the call button because I thought I was just tired. I was starting to think about waking Simon up when the nurse came in and asked how I was. I said I didn't feel good. I asked her to take the baby. I couldn't believe I was asking her that, but I was beginning to get worried. She took her, and it was about then that I said (I'm so ashamed to admit it) "Help me" in a tiny little voice. There was checking under sheets, and checking of blood pressure, and the appearance of many nurses (where do they all come from?) and brief excitement generally. Turns out I had been bleeding rather more than is usual. Things went in the iv and there was a round of tubes passed all around and then I felt much better, thank you very much.

We spent the remainder of our stay there trying to leave. I was so worried about Peanut, and there's just no sleep to be had in a hospital, so we were out of there in about a day. Simon says it wasn't a moment too soon. They had problems with the heat- first it was too cold, then it was so hot it made me ill. I'm not sure the shower had hot water- the sink surely didn't. I hadn't packed a toothbrush. We were very done.

So we came home. We had been through a textbook labor and were leaving with a baby who behaved in a textbook manner. I still can't believe we pulled it off. I really had thought we'd end up with another c-section, or at least an epidural, but we managed to do without either.

Pretty damn proud of Simon and myself,
ephelba

Not Meme-ing

Nancy Dancehall has asked for audience participation, and for once I'm in a mood to participate.

Thusly:




If this were art about me, as I am right now, it wouldn't be all eyes and almonds, it would be all b00bs and n1pples. I nurse the Bug. A lot. Frequently while I do other things. It is a very large part of my life right now. I feel swallowed by it.

Did you notice? She has a name. Boy is outraged- he senses a certain, ummm, lack of that fawning tenderness us moms are supposed to have in my choice of a pet name. It's true. When I look at the Bug I do feel love and tenderness, but I also am aware of other, less romantic sentiments. I notice how primal she is. She is a mass of reflexes- she roots in search of b00b, she arches, she squinches her face while her innards do gymnastics. It reminds me of a bug, so Bug I have dubbed her. I imagine that the name will grow as she does. Instead of her being Bug because she is buglike, she will be Bug because she's cute as a bug's ear.

Also, I seems to like the 'B' pet names. Boy is 'Boy', but he's also Boo. Peanut is Bean. And now there's a Bug. It's all good.

It is bed time, and I have spent all the time here that I can afford to spend. Now that I've christened her I guess I'm free to tell you her birth story. Tomorrow. Maybe. Or the next night....

Still doing good, knock on wood,
ephelba

This is just to say

things are going well. The baby eats. She sleeps pretty well for her age. Peanut is settling into life with another baby. Boy is back in the land of schooling, and is doing good. Simon's work gave them uniforms- he has cool shirts with his name on them, and I think he looks hot. I am almost human again, especially on days when the baby slept really well.

Knocking on wood,
ephelba

Oh No They Didn't!

Yes, They did.

Well, shit.
ephelba

The week we've had.

Two days after we come home with the newest baby, Peanut comes down with a cold. This means she needs cuddling with mom at a time when mom's arms are full of nursing baby. A nursing baby we'd prefer did not come down with the cold. The cold that's transmitted by the goobers that seem to magically appear wherever the Peanut's been.

The newest baby gets the cold. Surprise. It starts out as a wet sniffle. Turns out it stays that way,but since we can't see the future we worry about her for a day or two.

Peanut hears "No!" more in 24 hours than she has in her whole life. We simply can't get to her quick enough to perform the negotiations and manuevers that smoothed her life before now. As a result, she throws more tantrums in 24 hours than she has in her whole life.

Boy, who is at his Grandmother's in North Carolina, hits his head. He gets a headache. Then he gets queasy. We sheepishly ask Grandma to take an evening out of her vacation and take him to the ER. She gets to play nurse- takes him to the ER, gets him scanned, wakes him up every three hours all night. Boy begins vomiting during the night. She has to take care of that too, of course, and then gets to take him back to the ER. He is concussed. Nothing horrible, no bleeding in the brain, but Simon and I are beside ourselves because Boy is hurting and WE CAN'T BE THERE! I can't stress how much that hurt us. I imagine it wasn't great for Boy either.

My n1pples fall off. OK, maybe not really, but it sure feels that way. I begin pumping on the side that's the worst off, and make so much milk that we end up feeding it to Peanut to help her get over her cold. I wonder what it means that I make enough milk for two children.

The new baby begins fussing whenever she should latch. Most likely this is because I'm now using n1pple shields. She just has to lump it, because the alternative at this point is formula. Seriously. The whole breast feeding thing deserves a post of its own, so I'll stop there.

On the good side, I manage to get both girls fed, diapered and napped all by myself today. It feels like I've won the Nobel prize. I'm very proud. I imagine it gets easier as you go...

Going to take a hard earned nap,
ephelba

Guess what...

Nine pounds, eight ounces.
I walk like a cowgirl now,
happy, sore and proud.

So we had another good do. She's a keeper alright. You want to keep one who takes that much effort to expel, and who changes the exit gate the way she did. Seriously.

Don't have a pet name for her yet- we call her little stink, chuckles, toots-sicle and various other spur of the moment monikers. I'm sure things will settle soon. By the time we pick a name maybe I'll have posted her birth story, a blurb about breastfeeding, a blurb about having three kids, and more. Or not. There's a lot to do and this time around I'm going to work very hard not to feel guilty about how long it takes me to get things done.

TTFN,
ephelba

Still no baby.

It's seven days past.
How much longer can she grow
tucked under my ribs?

She's getting evicted next Friday, that's all I'm saying. And you want to know what I'm worried about? I'm worried about what happens when your surgery is scheduled for the same time you normally poo. I know you're not supposed to eat for 12 hours before hand, but I usually don't eat for 12 hours before the poo. Simon says enema. I say he knows me better. I think I'll just binge on hot peppers and grapefruit the day before and hope for the best. Perhaps that will have the same effect as castor oil and everything will end happily.

TMI, I'm sure,
ephelba

No baby.

That's how I start all my phone conversations- "No baby". A surprising number of people have called to ask if there is a baby, as if I had birthed her in a closet and was trying to keep her existence a secret.

I'm up to 560 on my RSS feed. Couldn't care less. Hardly check my email. Mostly, what I do is go to checkups where the baby squirms out from under the monitor and dooms me to another 5 or 10 minutes of monitoring.

I'm only 5 days past my due date. Honestly, I expect it to be next week sometime. This is awkward, because Simon's mom is here now, and she'll be leaving next Weds. It's conceivable she could have made the whole trip and been here for two weeks without seeing the baby before she goes home.

Boy, too, would be devastated if that happens. He's leaving with her, and the thought of not being here when the Bean arrives makes him Very Sad.

Wish me luck,
ephelba

PS:
Lest you worry I'm not trying, I'll list the measures we've undertaken so far:
Eating eggplant
Eating walnuts
Eating mushrooms
Eating Evening Primrose Oil
Sticking said oil up the wahoo
Sex alone
Sex with someone
Sex with an eggplant

I think waiting it out is what's going to work.

Still waiting...

Waiting and waiting.
She's bean-curled, comfy. I'm not.
Come out already!

I cleaned up after everyone else went to bed. Does that mean I'm nesting and the baby's coming now? It's just that she's still growing and I don't have any more room for her to move into...

She's so big it's easy to feel her parts through my belly skin. Somehow I still can't figure out what she's doing in there. Is that an arm, or a leg? If this is her bum, where has her head gone? What the hell is she doing in there that makes my leg hurt? Do the wiggles mean she's happy, or do they mean she can't get comfy with my rib all up in her business like that?

My stepmother and I have decided that the ideal arraignment would be something more marsupial. You grow a baby, it comes out and you stick in a pouch for a couple of weeks (months?) whilst you recover from pregnancy. We think it's kinda harsh to go through all that only to be rewarded with something that needs care at all hours. Maybe, since this one WILL be nursing, and since I have a sling, the first couple of months will turn out that way.

A girl can dream,
ephelba

I can have the baby now.

Boy brought down her clothes and diapers from the attic. Friends came over to help sort, and we went through three bins and a trash bag of old Peanut clothes in no time.

Of course, I did not haul myself up to the attic to see if Boy had gotten everything. He assured me he had. Instead, I stewed for two days wondering why we hadn't run across my favorite baby hat. Today I go upstairs and immediately see three (THREE!) clear plastic bags and a lidless box full of baby clothes.

Sigh.

He's such a help though. Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and I would surely have given up and gone home had he not been there to bend over for me. Why do they even Have a bottom shelf? Seriously!

And he did clean the stairwell for me. Top to bottom. Swept,vacuumed and mopped. Now if we burned his shoes instead of leaving them out there to stink and fester it would be show worthy. Point is, he did the work by himself just so I wouldn't have to, and he did it well enough that I don't have to do the work a second time after him.

Simon's been a big help too. He's been cooking dinner and helping keep the kitchen from becoming a disaster zone. He takes care of Peanut when I'm sick of her climbing on my belly. He smoothes things with Boy when I'm Hormonal Bitch Mom. And he works 50 hours a week. The man deserves a medal.

The point of all this, I guess, is just to say that between the three of us we've gotten enough done that I won't panic if I go into labor now. I'm actually looking forward to it Very Much. This baby just feels too big for my insides.

Urg,
ephelba

Ouch

Yeah, labor does hurt, but honestly there's a lot of hurting beforehand. My hip has been bugging me for months, and there's heartburn, and backaches, and kicks in your soft bits and headaches....

Today has been very uncomfortable in the belly. Not contractions. Weird pulls and things. Of course, not being one to keep this to myself when I could complain to Simon, I whine. He looked at me askance and asked "Do you have a bag packed?"

"I'm so not in labor."

"But you do have a bag packed..."

"This is really not labor!"

"You're not supposed to wait till you go into labor to pack the bag!"
He's a smart man, that's why I married him:)

Oooo! Oooo! And I have a Boy story!
So Boy is in his room reading, and Simon and I are just outside his door talking, and the dog is going nuts because it's chow time for her. I say "Is there something you need, little dog?" (Hint hint hint to the Boy, whose job it is to feed said dog.)

No response.

I say it again, "What do you need, little dog?"

Nothing.

Just for the grownup's amusement I say "IceCreamIs there something you need little dog?" because it's magic how the kid always hears when you say "Ice Cream" but never "Boy! Get in here!"

About two seconds later his head pops out and he says "What does the dog need?"

At which point I laughed till I peed. Boy swears he never heard me say "Ice Cream", and is offended by the notion that he would respond to that, but I swear, it was damn near Pavlovian.

I'll get around to packing the damn bag tomorrow, I'm sure,
ephelba

Sweetness and Light

Isn't that what I'm supposed to feel right now?

I am a woman on the edge. A bitch. A bad mom. Too lazy to take her daughter out the house- too grumpy to talk to her son instead of yell at him. Too tired to cook or clean.

When I think of the new baby, all I can imagine is the lack of sleep it means. That I'm going to go through all the work of pushing her out and not have any way to rest back up. That we're going to go back to the dark ages where I couldn't keep the house clean or have dinner on the table ever ever (as opposed to now, when I pull it off sometimes). That I'm going to remain a moody, useless, bad-mom bitch.

Frankly, if I think about it too much, I cry. That's not what the reaction to the thought of a new baby is supposed to be, is it?

I'm just so tired already. I can't imagine how a baby will help.

Maybe this is all just hormones though. I remember it was about this time when I was pregnant with Peanut that I found out my mom was going to stay with us for a week or two to "Help". Every time Simon brought it up I sobbed. I couldn't mention it without tearing up, even at work. I was convinced it was going to be the worst disaster ever, and the thought of having to deal with mom-shit when I had just had a baby was too much. Simon was ready to tell her to fuck off. In the end, everything was fine. Really. She was on her best behavior and actually helped us out a lot. So maybe this will be the same way. I'm all moody and hormonal now, but when we actually get to that point things won't be so bad.


Shit,
ephelba

Not going to happen.

The other night I dreamed I went to my checkup and they said I was already pregnant with kiddo number four. That would be, I had gotten pregnant whilst I was pregnant. I said "That can't happen!" The midwife said "It's really rare."

Both the real world midwife and my husband found it amusing.

Somebody's getting fixed, that's all I'm saying,
ephelba

Coffee Junkie

Seriously.

My muscles are sore, like I've been moving furniture. It's 2:30 and I still haven't woken up. I had planned on using this day to do things, but right now I can't even think what needs doing.

We need bread. There. I'll go buy bread. That needs doing.

Shit, man, fuck. 'Cause you know what I'm doing right now, right?

Going to get another cuppa,
ephelba

The difference between the first and the third child.

With the first child you pack your bag for the hospital months in advance, using the list provided in "What to Expect When You're Expecting". You may go so far as to buy lotion to pack, even though you hate lotion, you never use lotion, and it costs money you could use on other things. The book says to bring it, and it knows things you don't. You pack an outfit to come home in, baby clothes, clothes to labor in. You pack a tennis ball and music. Diapers. A burp cloth. A baby blanket.
By the time you get to number three you're nine months pregnant and still haven't packed. When you do get around to it, you pack snack bars because you know the nurses won't feed you, and socks because you hate those booty things they give you. You don't pack any clothes other than a baby outfit and some clothes to come home in, because you figure if you don't pack anything else you won't have a lot of laundry to do when you get home. You do not pack lotion. Or tennis balls. Or music. Or diapers. You may not even pack a toothbrush, because you know they have a stash there. You fully intend to steal at least a baby blanket, and you're hoping to score one of those hideously pink basins. Technically this means you intend to return with more shit than you went in with.


With the first child you buy a ton of shit. Everyone gives you all kinds of advice on the best strollers-baby baths-cribs-walkers-toys to buy. You work and you scrimp and you buy one of each.
By the time you get to number three you have, like, four or five baby tools you use, and those are hand-me-downs from the other two. You feel sad you can't get the money back from the crap you bought for the first one.
ASIDE:
For me, those tools are a sling, a bouncy seat, and a bumbo. If I must travel, I am glad I have a pack and play and an umbrella stroller. Seriously, the rest of babies-r-us is a racket designed to empty your pocket.
GETTING OFF MY HIGH HORSE:


With the first child you show up for every appointment on time. You follow all the advice your OB gives. You read like a fiend. You worry.
With the third you find ways to miss an appointment here or there, because it eats half your damn day packing the famdamnily up to get there and back, whilst only managing to last for five minutes. You don't panic over most things your body does, even if they involve blood. You still read and worry though, because (in this case) you are me, but no more than usual.


With the first child you take a Lamaze class. You kegel. You squat. You practice your lamaze. You do the perineal massage.
By number three you figure everything's got to be stretched out already. If it's not supposed to be stretched out, you figure it's made it this far and seems to be holding up just fine.


With number one you worry about labor and whether you're strong enough for it.
With number three you know what to expect, you just wonder if you have enough energy.



Haiku for the day:

During labor you
focus. Breathe. Relax. Pulse.
You're busy. Consumed.

Afterwards you hold
your baby and pictures and
wish you'd done your hair.



Having discovered iced coffee and how much more you can consume when the lovely brown stuff isn't hot, for once she isn't feeling the least bit sleepy and is going to go get some more shit done before the caffeine wears off,

ephelba

All the latest Peanut news...

* She doesn't have velofacial syndrome. This is good.
* She has a duplicate of something on Chromosome 4. This could be good, bad, or indifferent (we think).
* She can hear. Technically, this is good, but it would be nice to have an issue that could be fixed easily with hardware, as opposed to something that could take years of speech therapy to work out.

Today Early Intervention came out and finally admitted that the girl is fine in most regards, but Damn-Why-She-Don't-Talk-Yet. She scored great in fine motor, adaptive, social/emotional, even receptive communication(Surprise!) but she sucked at expressive communication (No Surprise).

They'll be sending a nice lady out twice a week to help catch Peanut up. Which is great. It's nice to have somebody listen to you saying "Something isn't right here. No, really, it isn't right. Yeah, your second cousin/neighbor/son/dog didn't speak till they were three, but there's not talking and then there's NOT TALKING" Peanut DOESN'T TALK. She doesn't have a name for me, she doesn't have a name for milk. She doesn't have a name for her beloved Poppy. She does say "Woof" when she sees a dog. Or a cat. Or a sheep. I'm not sure if that even counts for a first word. She has just this week decided to say "Bubba" for Boy, which is definitely something, but damn Skippy! She's 20 months old!

So there you have it. People in positions of power have agreed that Something Is Not Right and are going to help us. I just wish we knew what it was that wasn't right. Makes me itchy not knowing...

I gave her bangs today. She's got such wispy baby hair- I thought it might help her look a little older. Honestly, you can't even tell I did anything. I suppose that's good, because it means I didn't fuck up her Do.

Am tired. Will post picture of my ludicrous belly soon, I promise,
ephelba

On a roll...

The belly is huge.
Who needs to see their own knees,
much less their own crotch?

Not I,
ephelba

How frigging cool is this?

Someday I will have free time, and I will riff on this idea.

Because I love the idea of light being a thing you can hold,
ephelba

A Very Small Freak Out.

Oh my freakin God -
Six weeks left till the due date!
Too much left to do....

Haiku dropped by ephelba

The Tether's End

That's where you'll find me these days. I think I'm actually doing better lately, but if you need a frazzled women to raise her voice to near supersonic levels and go off at the drop of a hat, I'm your girl.

For one thing, there's this belly I've grown. It's truly ludicrous. Absolutely silly. The floor keeps getting farther away, and I have to bend at the waist to reach Simon for a kiss.

Then there's The Thing, formerly known as Peanut. I can't stand holding the girl, who loves to stand or sit on the belly. She's had a cold (yet another!) and has required much holding by me, but there's no good way to get her up to the shoulder for a snuggle without squishing the belly and making me wince. And she's growing, too, so I find myself putting her heavy thing down when I really shouldn't, like, in the middle of stores full of shelves of things she can get into.

Then there's the Boy, who is almost as psycho as I. I can't describe the torment that I go through in a day with Him Who Means Well But Takes Four Hours To Do A Twenty Minute Task Then Does It Wrong Because He Didn't Listen Or Thought He Had A Better Idea And That's If He Remembered To Do It At All.

We started school today, and I've just now gone apeshit on his ass because when I told him he'd forgotten units and he could go fix that real quick, he threw his notebook in the room and said "That's bullshit."

Oh yeah, there's a good idea, Boy, that'll go over real well.

I think I've now made it very clear that that was egregious, it's behavior befitting a toddler, and IT WILL NOT BE FUCKING TOLERATED.

K?

Alrighty then.

My throat's scratchy now.

So.

It would seem I'm not the only one at the end of my tether. All my local girly friends have their plates so full stuff is falling off the edges. We're all feeling pulled many directions. None of us have enough time. etc etc etc

At least there's the comfort of knowing I'm not alone. Sometimes I'd look at what these amazing women had taken on, and I'd feel soooo, well, underaccomplished. I couldn't get my dishes done over the head over my toddler, but two of my friends were running farms whilst raising three kids. It's not schadenfreude- I wish things were easier for all of us - it's just comfort at the thought that I'm not defective because my kids make it hard to do a damn task from start to the fucking finish, thank you very much.

One of my friends went to visit family, and I helped her out by collecting and washing eggs from her chickens. Boy watched The Thing sleep so I could go by myself. As I sat there in front of the sink washing the eggs I just felt so damn happy. Each egg was unique and pretty- reminded me of rocks, really, and I realized that even more than the eggs I was enjoying doing something without someone needing anything from me. I was doing uni-tasking, for once, and it was wonderful. I hadn't realized until then just how badly I needed a break from the children now and then.

Because you know what- you don't get a break from Momming very often. Simon sends me off for Girls Night now and then- I shudder to think what would have happened by now if he didn't. He's so wise. But other than that you don't get a break when you pee (the Thing screams if I go in the bathroom and she doesn't, because, don't you know, the bathroom is super-happy-magical-fun-land), you don't get a break when you shower (She usually showers with me, unless I swing a shower at naptime or Simon watches her), you don't get a break at night (She still wakes up a couple of times a night, although she doesn't always need me for anything...). You don't get a break when you eat or when you're trying to clean the house or when you'd really just like to sit still for a minute. I know Simon doesn't want to get stuck with The Thing and The Boy right when he walks through the door, but some days I'm just sooooo through.

I suppose that just about sums up what's going on with me these days. In other news:
* Poor Simon has to get a ton of dental work done. With much poking of sharp things in his mouth and whatnot. The special insult to this injury is that we have to pay someone for the pleasure:)

* Still no news about the Peanut. We've reached the point that we don't care what the news is. She's got a speech delay, for whatever reason, and we're just going to have to work on that. So we will. We're starting with a hearing test, and early intervention is coming back out this month. We haven't done the full, all out Google fest that we should, but I figure there's no real rush.

* Simon and I are going to attempt VBAC. Doctor says I'm a good candidate. Feel like a better candidate than a mother because I haven't been squatting or practicing my lamaze or calling the Doula back....

* Simon is pretty sick of his work place. He'd like another, if you've got a spare with benefits that doesn't involve us moving.


Going to be the Bad Witch,
ephelba

Question.

Hypothetically speaking, if you went and knocked on your neighbor's door, and it had a large window with no curtain, and you could see in their house, and you saw the lady of the house and waved "Hi!" and smiled, and she left, and then her boyfriend came out from the bedroom holding a steak knife, then he answered the door perfectly friendly like (whilst still holding the steak knife), then he was very conciliatory about turning the music down (whilst still holding the steak knife), and you were all understanding and grateful (whilst wondering about the steak knife), but the entire time he kept holding a steak knife (and by holding, I don't mean, like, kinda fiddling with it or holding it like you're about to wash it, maybe, or you were just using it in your bedroom to, ummmm, open the packaging on your new bedsheets, I mean, like, holding it tightly gripped in the fist, with the pointy end pointing at the person at your door- a person who is one of those scary pregnant ladies that jump you and kick your ass and waddle in your house and steal your new bedsheets) .....

(inhale)

Would you think it odd?


Trying not to, but thinking it odd anyway,
ephelba

Rant against LJ

Can I share how much I hate Live Journal? I can never follow the comments: pages of comments sliding back and forth across the screen and referring to people and sites I've never heard of... I can never find my way around a person's, umm, blog? page? entity? there- like how the fuck do you email somebody? Jesus! and when I try to comment it ends up in the wrong spot. And it seems like a real pain in the ass to change your format.
Why the hell do people blog there?
I wouldn't read a thing on it if it weren't for rss feeds. I can't tell an entry from a comment half the time, and I certainly can't keep straight what the hell page the entry is going to show up on.

Grrrr.

Ok. I feel better now. It's just I clicked through my feed to an actual journal and I was going to comment but I had a hissy instead so I came back home where blog formats make sense and all the comments fall nicely down the page.

loving blogger,
ephelba

Of course I did.

Googling is next to godliness- of course I googled. I'm proud I waited as long as I did. I only read two sites. That was enough. I can totally see why he picked this syndrome as best candidate, because if you take all of Peanuts quirks and write them down in a list, you can find all of them on the list of symptoms/conditions for this syndrome. Thankfully, all of the symptoms and conditions on the list cannot be found in Peanut. Some of them are harsh.

What is most upsetting to Simon and I is that (almost all?) kiddos with this syndrome have learning disabilities. Lower IQs than average. (Arguably) higher rates of mental health issues. Of course, the severity of the problems varies with the kid, but, of course, we don't care, we don't want Peanut to have problems at all.

So now we wait. Two weeks. At least. Results should be in around then, and then if the news is bad I do the full, all out googling and we make The Trek again.
If it's good we thank our lucky stars. A lot.

Crossing my fingers,
ephelba

Micro Deletions

I had been taking Peanut to a Dr whose entire approach to medicine could be summed up by the words "Wait and See". I can't really argue with that, but I find myself doing all the worrying that I don't see the Dr doing, and I turn into a nutty mom who worries about every little sneeze and twitch. We switched to a Dr who takes Everything Very Seriously, which means I don't have to, which means I become the kind of mom who forgets to take her kiddo in for a weigh check(she feels HEAVY to me), blows off missed milestones (She'll get around to it soon), and almost cancels the geneticist appointment that was scheduled, oh, four months ago.

It is such a pain in the ass to go to the city where the geneticist is. It's a two hour drive. Not a big deal for you and I, but add a baby to the mix and suddenly you're figuring out how to work the baby's daily bottles, naps, messy meals and poos in to a day trip on one of the hottest days of the year. Just planning and packing for the day could wear you out. Just to add to the fun, though, take this trip in a compact car with the whole family and no air conditioning. If you've an imagination (or children of your own) you can see why I was second guessing the need to do this.

I was convinced the Dr would look at Peanut and laugh. "Why have you brought this child here? Everything can be explained by low birthweight! Silly anxious mother! Ha! You have wasted a day of your life for nothing! Enjoy your trip back home!"

Instead we had a two hour appointment (albeit, with a fair amount of waiting involved) where they asked about Simon and my medical histories, peeked in her mouth, measured her birthmarks and said there are several syndromes we need to rule out.

Frankly I was shocked as shit.

He had a personal favorite. We took her down and had blood drawn to test for that. The other one (or more?) we'll rule out as need be. I have not Googled a thing yet, because I don't think it wise to work myself up over something she may not have. Also, a new label isn't going to change who she is.

Of course, not Googling is hard. Maybe I'll Google just a little.

No, I'd work myself up over nothing.

But it would be nice to know what we're talking about.

The Dr said not to Google. He said you only hear the bad stories.

How bad are they?


Fighting the urge,
ephelba

Chirrrrrrp Chirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp

I am not at Blogher.

It feels lonely here in the blogiverse.



You can hear the crickets.








I really wish I were in Chicago, but then again, it'll be more fun some other time when I can drink, I suppose.










Ummmmmm. Simon is fixing his truck. Boy is reading Harry Potter, when he's not getting into trouble and being grounded from it. Peanut is being terribly cute and singing nonsense songs. I'm being terribly and inexplicably totally and unbelievably tired.






Yeah.












So.




My Aunt sent me two Moo Moos. Hawaiian print and everything. Anyone know what to do to a moo moo to make it wearable in public?





Yeah, me neither,
ephelba

Neener Neener

Ok, maybe you live in Europe and you got the book before us yankees did, or maybe you stayed up last night to get the book first thing. Maybe you even downloaded the pdf files of the book off the internet.
I say "Neener Neener", because I read fast and I'm done.

Knowing whether you can Trust Snape,
ephelba

Chicken Guts

Warning: Graphic discussion of chicken innards follows.

See, the first thing you have to know about me is that I'm almost, but not quite, completely neurotic. I have all the makings for being the kind of person who wears latex gloves 24/7 and never leaves the house. They (the makings) sit inside my head and make rude or worrisome comments as they see fit. I figure the reason I can claim to not be completely neurotic is that I don't wear latex gloves 24/7 and I do leave the house.

There are exceptions, though. Things that have the little neurosis in my head standing up to scream, and on these things I generally concede the point and let them have their way. One of these is meat. More specifically, raw meat. Actually, raw meat in my kitchen. Gives me fits. Anything the meat looks at, nay, thinks about, must be washed repeatedly with bleach. Back when I was single woman I just didn't bother cooking it; too much work. Since there's been a Simon, and since Simon is a big fan of the meat, Simon has generally taken over the job. And because he's so sweet, and because meat germs are scary, he goes through all the rituals my neurosis require. The "No touching things with meat hands", the "Put that plastic straight in the trash", the "Meaty things are quarantined in the empty sink", and the "It isn't done till the thermometer says it is" rituals. Usually I sit in the kitchen and stare at him while he bustles about the kitchen, ready to squeal if a ritual is forgotten. Sometimes, Simon banishes me.

I've said all that to say this: I have spent two, count them, TWO days gutting chickens. Maybe I can do it because it doesn't happen in my kitchen, but at my friend's farm. She has a tent set up, and tables, and things, all under a tree by her barn. Her kiddos chase the chickens and put them in crates. Her husband sticks them in funnels and slits their necks. Then he dunks them in boiling water- dunk dunk dunk, and sticks them in the Whiz-Bang-Chicken plucker. (The Whiz-Bang-Chicken plucker is a tub with little rubber fingers, and the bottom whirls around and the chickens get plucked by all the little fingers.) He puts them in a bucket of water to wait for us to gut them. We gut 'em and put them in a bucket of water to rinse off and cool. After they've cooled a bit, we put them in ice water to chill. Then we put some guts (livers, heart, neck) back into the chicken and bag it. Then the kids put them in the fridge/freezer.

My friend is the fastest- she can do 5 chickens in 15 minutes. I haven't timed myself yet, but I think I might could do 2. Someone else was helping and she could do 3. It's tricky, because chickens are made with their parts remarkably well attached. You start with the feets. This part is easy. You can't do it wrong, the anatomy is simple, and it goes quick. Then you cut off the head. Also easy. Then you find the trachea and the esophagus and unattatch all the layers of fascia. This is where it starts to get trickier, because nothing is color coded. The esophagus doesn't look that much different from the fascia or the skin. I'm also never too sure, once I find it, how far to carry on with the separating. I usually stop when I get to the crop, which also looks just like everything else, but has the advantage of being an enormously stretchy little bag, which noting else up there is.

At this point you turn the bird around and start on its butt. You pinch the knucker hole closed and cut very, very carefully around it. The goal it to cut knucker out without slicing into the poop chute, which is as easy to slice through as wet paper. Once you manage that, you just pull the intestines out and let them hang into the slop bucket. Then you stick your hand right in the bird. It's warm. It isn't bloody. You feel for the gizzard, which is hard and on the top right in there. You wrap your fingers around that and give it a good yank. This pulls most everything else loose enough that it can come out the bird, but this is where us amateurs are slow and my friend is fast. Some of us like to loosen everything up in there and pull it all out at once with a great slurpy noise. This is a trick. It is also slow. I tend to gently caress the liver and worm it out, hoping I don't break the gall bladder on the way. After that I can just grab whatever's in there and pull. If you've been successful the bird now looks as empty as the one you get in the store. You can see daylight through it. It's lovely.

There can be excitement though, if you cut into the intestine, or the gall bladder breaks. Both require immediate washing of the bird. And then lots of times I break the trachea or the esophagus and I have to go hunting for it. Lungs are hard to get and easily forgotten. And sometimes there are stupid feathers that won't come out, no matter what you do. Nothing like trying to tweeze a dead bird's ass.

Maybe now I've explained enough for you to grab the enormity of the fact that I have done this thing. All of this handling of chicken guts. Raw chicken guts. I myself, who still asks the husband to do the cooking of the meat, have cleaned the very meat itself. I have stretched myself. I have done a new thing. I have cleaned a bird.

Sorry, I do tend to carry on when I'm proud of myself.

Still growing up,
ephelba

Lucky me.

The other day Peanut slept for eight hours straight. I slept for seven of those hours. We both slept a few more hours after that, once she'd had a bottle. Then Simon was generous enough to let me sleep a little more.

You have no idea what kind of heaven that was.

I look back at that lovely event with misty eyes of longing. God knows what serendipity allowed such a thing to happen. It could be years before she sleeps like that again, but every night I say a small prayer that the lightening will strike twice and I'll get my sleep in one largish chunk.

On another note, I had naively thought I wouldn't need any maternity shirts for this pregnancy. A tshirt is just a tshirt, right? I've been wearing the same 3 xlarge numbers for so long they walked into the laundry themselves, so today I was forced to try on some of my others, the ones sized m and l that I wore pre-pregnancy. It was like wearing cling wrap. Having one's shirt plastered to one's belly is one thing- showing off the largess of one's n1pples is another. I had to borrow one of Simon's shirts. Maybe I'll just keep that up- I balk at spending money on clothes I can only wear for three more months.

going to sleep now, wish me luck,
ephelba

It's like this.

I set out to wash a few pans. They've been waiting on me to wash them for more than a week (badmombadmombadmom). It's about 4:00.
First I have to get to the sink, so I set about finding homes/washing the crap that's piled there. I hear a hullabaloo in the living room as Boy's guest finally succeeds in pissing the dog off enough to get her to snarl at him. Simon yells at Boy, asking him what the guest was doing to the dog. Boy defends the guest. Simon and I both ask for the dog to be put in the cage.
I remember there's laundry in the washer and go to put it in the dryer, but realize there are diapers in there, so I sit down to fold them. Boy argues with Simon. I ground Boy, tell him to tell his guest "Goodbye" and finish folding the diapers. Boy gets highly upset. Guest leaves. Simon wonders why Boy is grounded.
I put the diapers where they go, then proceed to go off on the menfolk, blah blah blah "solve this problem" blah blah blah. Get mad enough to spit. Return to the kitchen. See the sink and remember what I'm supposed to be doing. See more things in the kitchen that need to be put away elsewhere. Return to the living room with books and baby toys to discover the menfolk sulking and typing and otherwise not solving anything.
I go off again- blahdee blah blah. For a while. End up leaving the room again, returning to the kitchen to discover I still have the crap in my hands. Return to the living room again and manage to put stuff away while I carp.
Back in the kitchen I'm to the point I can fill the sink with water and soap and pans, but even as I do it I know I'm not going to get the damn pans washed before the water cools, and it makes me sad. I hate putting my hands in cold dishwater. It's 4:30.
My memory is shot right now, but if I remember right it is about this time that the baby has a meltdown, which reminds me she needs a drink. I need a drink too. She gets milk and I get water. What I want is a beer.
Simon and Boy come up with some solutions. They are discussed whole-family-style and agreed upon by all. Simon notices it is time to make dinner. He decides to help, being the saint he is, but he'll need a pan, which sends me back to washing.
I get the one needed pan washed, but I have to leave the project for a while to make the tzatziki. And pee. I get my hands back in the water and the baby comes out to the kitchen to cry at me and let me know she's pooping.
So.
I put down the pan and take her out to the changing table. She borders on constipated, and she hasn't sat down yet, so when I take off the diaper the turd is still between her cheeks in a firm little bundle. I try to use the diaper to swipe it safely into custody, but the baby squirms and sends the turd flying. In a desperate attempt to avoid the shit I yank my foot out of the way. Too slow. I now have shit on my foot and a bruise on my heel, because I kicked something behind me. Meanwhile the baby's crying (she hates diaper changes) and I'm laughing and the poo's lurking on the floor, just waiting for the dog to come eat it, or Boy to step in it, or some other event to prolong the excitement.
Boy comes to my rescue and cleans up the poo. I clean up the baby. Simon works on dinner. We're now approaching 5:30 and I still haven't washed the pans. I still can't wash the pans because now I'm getting stuff together for dinner, helping Boy clear the table, getting stuff out of the fridge.
In fact, it won't be until after dinner that I manage to wash the damn pans. The dishwater is, indeed, cold. I never did remember to move the laundry into the drier.
I had wanted to wash the cutting boards and the fancy glasses too, but they're still sitting there cluttering up the counter (badmombadmombadmom). Seeing as how it took me almost three hours to wash four pans, I think it's understandable. Nonetheless, I am frustrated. I like to start a thing, work on the thing, finish the thing. I do not like to multitask in the truest sense of the word. I feel like a failure because the damn house is a fucking wreck. When I really think about it honestly, it's not that I'm not doing things. I'm doing plenty of things. It's just not the things I set out to do, and I get sidetracked easy, and stuff comes up. Life happens.
I stubbornly refuse to believe that this means we have to live in chaos though. Surely if I just drink a little more coffee and try a little harder I can whip this place into shape, right?

dreaming the impossible dream,
ephelba

Hmph.

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

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

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

Cockaboody to you too,
ephelba

Just thought I'd share.

Best news I've had in a long time.

Most disgusting thing I've seen recently.

Best recent site find.

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

ttfn,
ephelba

So,

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

Keeping her silverware on the table,
ephelba

A First

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

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

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

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

Which is all to say, nothing much new here.

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

Going to bathe,
ephelba

No more wondering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meeses

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

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

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

Nope.

Nor the next night either.

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

So.

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

What should I be doing?

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

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

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

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

I'll just have to wait.

Waily waily,
ephelba

How Christians frequently piss me off.

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

Ok.

Maybe it's not that bad.

Usually.

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

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

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

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

Pant, pant, pant...

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

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

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

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

Maybe I'm starting to cackle.
ephelba

Zofran is my friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch ya later,
ephelba

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

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

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

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

Fun fun fun!

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

This too shall pass,
ephelba

Party

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

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

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

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

Bits of what?
ephelba and the moon unit

Obsession

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

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

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

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

Going to wash my hands,
ephelba

My Picture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm a blabbertwat,
ephelba

Blabbertwat

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

going to be a know it all,
ephelba

Racism

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

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

I was shocked.

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

Sorta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

going to pee,
ephelba

What I am doing when I should be sleeping.

Watching stuff like this:

Far Out!

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

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

Grumpy

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

Going to wash things.
ephelba

What your Nanny/Babysitter Does and Doesn't Do

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

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

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

going to get less grumpy,
ephelba