My Picture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm a blabbertwat,
ephelba

Blabbertwat

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

going to be a know it all,
ephelba

Racism

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

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

I was shocked.

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

Sorta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

going to pee,
ephelba

What I am doing when I should be sleeping.

Watching stuff like this:

Far Out!

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

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

Grumpy

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

Going to wash things.
ephelba

What your Nanny/Babysitter Does and Doesn't Do

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

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

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

going to get less grumpy,
ephelba

Same shit, different cycle

I used to type all my entries in notepad, then cut and paste them into Diaryland, because I had an old pc that puked frequently. It delighted in waiting until I'd put a fair bit of effort into an entry first. Then I got this Mac, and I've been freely typing away in Blogger with nary a worry. Of course, the "Firefox has unexpectedly quit" messages

ASIDE:
Who? Who doesn't expect it to quit? Because it ain't me. I am dead certain it is about to quit any second now, and am thoroughly nonplussed by that stupid error message.
EXPECTING IT TO QUIT EVEN NOW:

are increasing at an alarming rate, and I lost an entry today. And an email. And one of those thingys you put at the bottom of someone else's blog entry. Comment. Whatever, you knew what I meant.

So.

Back to typing in Notepad.

Of course, notepad "Unexpectedly" quits too, so I may just be up a creek. Surprise!

What the hell was I typing about? I can't remember because I'm tired and nursing and apparently milk is made out of Mom Brains. Yum.

Oh! I remember...

Ok, so I have been shopping for a new birth control method lately. "New" would be anything other than saying "Oh shit" or "Whoopsy!" EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH. I'm frankly scared by the thought of leaving copper up in my hoo-hoo for ten years at a time, because (don't laugh at me) I worry it worsens Alzheimers. There's conflicting research that it either slows or worsens the progression of the disease. I don't want to get an IUD put in and then find out it's rotting my brain. There are progestrone ones, but I tend to get side effects from the hormonal birth control. I was on the ring, which gives you about the lowest dose of estrogen possible, and for my troubles I got a permanent set of brown splotches on my face, a diseased gall bladder, a loss of sex drive, and - oh yeah- A BABY. I'm staying away from the hormonal stuff.
Which leaves things you put on or in. Which is what I'm supposed to be using now. Which I forget to do. Which makes me think I should just go with the copper IUD. And around we go. I have no fucking clue what the hell to do, other than put in a reminder on my Yahoo calendar so that it emails me every month to say "Now would be a good time to use a condom, genius." Starting next month. Because this month we've already fucked up, see?

The thought of a third kiddo still scares me stiff. We talked about going to get the morning after pill or getting a copper IUD put in now, but we agreed the idea was icky. At the time we couldn't put our fingers on why, but I think I've got it figured out since then. Simon and I are parents. If the sperm has romanced the egg, the result is, in effect, our child. Making my uterus uninhabitable for it feels like we're harming our child, which we won't do. We'll give it a fighting chance. Of course, if it misses or bounces we'll have a beer and call it day, but if it sticks... well, you can't imagine the love it's going to get.

Going to "Add an Event",
ephelba

Comments I haven't left on other people's blogs...

Alot of the bloggers I read are pregnant right now. They like to kvetch about people asking questions about their pregnancy, about the baby's sex, names, about how people like to fondle the Belly. They are mightily offended.
I haven't commented because everyone needs a place to vent, but I'm baffled by their offense. If you came into work with your arm in a cast, wouldn't you expect people to ask "What happened?". You would, because your injury would be very visible, and presumably your coworkers care about you, at least a little. And having brought the subject up, they would ask questions about how long you were going to have to wear it, etc, because that's what people do. It shows they care. You will, of course, get tired of answering the same questions, but you wouldn't say "It's none of your damn business!". In fact, if you came in and no one mentioned it or asked for details when you pointed it out you'd probably feel hurt.
Are people supposed to notice your pregnancy and not say anything? What is left to discuss if they can't ask about due dates or the baby's gender or even names? "I see you're pregnant! Good luck with that." Or maybe "You'll get over it."
And as for the whole touching the belly thing, I never had anyone rub my belly without asking first. I understand that other people have much higher, thicker and generally more substantial boundaries than I do, so I wouldn't bother to consider rubbing someone else's belly, but I completely understood when people asked me. Pregnancy is awe inspiring. There's a baby in there, and the fact that you can feel the little life riding around in there just blows your mind.

Then I saw a post where someone used their cell and took a picture of a lady who, well, let's just say when she got dressed that morning she chose poorly. And yet, the blogger said she had looked in a store window and admired the view, apparently reassured by her too small jeans and tacky clothing.
Have you ever heard someone with a tin ear try to sing? It's incredible. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have believed it possible. The person I heard could carry a tune just fine, but hadn't even the barest notion that she was carrying it in a completely different (and unharmonious) key as the accompaniment. She couldn't tell. It was like being color blind. I think some people have this trouble with clothing. They see an item of clothing on someone and they like the style, so they assume that it will look good on them. Even when they look in the mirror and see evidence to the contrary, all they recognize is that, "Yep, those are those awesome jeans that I like". Not "I should have chosen jeans that come up past my ass crack, or at least my underwear." Bless her heart.

Then tonight we heard about a lady who died from water intoxication after trying to win a contest at a radio station, and I just couldn't fucking believe it. Even though a woman called into the station and told the DJs this could happen, they laughed and said the contestants signed waivers. Nice. And when the lady began to show symptoms did they say, gee, maybe you should call a Dr? No, they said it was her body telling her she needed to barf. She called in sick to work, laid down and died. I just can not get over it. Firstly that this many people haven't heard of water intoxication. Secondly, that the ones who had heard of it didn't insist that the contest was a really, really bad idea. Lastly, that NO ONE THOUGHT TO CALL A DR AT ANY POINT! It just makes me sick. People die every day from war, famine and plague, but somehow death by ignorance and stupidity bothers me more.

On another note, spent a lot of time reading about Peanut's little chin (micrognathia). Turns out she has several symptoms of a kind of dwarfism. Well, except, as Simon so helpfully pointed out, she's not a dwarf. Phew. One less thing to worry about.

There are many scary things that a little chin portends. We have lucked out, in that none of them are things she'll have to face, but I begin to understand why it was such a big deal when she was born. All I really wanted to know was whether I should be doing something about the little chin right now. I think the answer is probably not, but for once I have done the research before I take her in for her checkup, like a good responsible Mommy.

Going to bed, like a good responsible Mommy should,
ephelba

How to Turn into your Grandmother:

Step One: Don't use a dishwasher. In my case, I totally would if I had a functioning one, but I don't, so I don't.

Step Two: Somehow manage to seem to wash dishes continually all day long. Actually I usually only wash twice a day, but there was a time in my life I could go for several days without washing the dishes. That time is way over. I didn't do the dishes the other night before I went to bed (you wouldn't believe how tired I was), then the next day Simon was helping me catch up. He said it had to have been three days since I did dishes, because look at all of them! To which I replied Nope, just one, welcome to my world.

Step Three: Start thinking about dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon. What you're going to make, how long it's going to take, what to do with the leftovers... Because you want it to be ready when your husband gets home. You do. Really a lot. Which sounds so 1950's housewifey, but the simple truth is that life is smoother when you can get the dishes done early. The dishes are best washed after dinner is over, as opposed to before (they're already clean) or during (your family goes all whiskey foxtrot tango). Therefore, the earlier you eat, the sooner you can clean.

Step Four: Redefine your relationship with foods. When you were younger, food was yummy or not. Now it agrees with you or it argues. Examples - Pizza: some quabbles in the form of heartburn, but otherwise ok. Grapefruit: disagrees most vociferously the entire time it's visiting. And it doesn't stay long.

Step Five: Truly believe in your heart of hearts that a crocheted/knitted anything makes a terrific gift. Know that maybe the person receiving the handmade whatever doesn't make things by hand and won't necessarily recognize what a labor of love it is, but decide you don't care. At least you don't use acrylic yarn.

Step Six: When you drop something you didn't mean to drop, say something like "Sugar" or "Snap". "Fudge" is ok, but seeing as how it does make the mind run toward the "Shit" that anyone else would have said, it's the word of last resort. Alas, I say "Shit" as much or more than I say "Sugar", but I'm trying.


Having said all this, I don't mean to imply I'm feeling old. I don't. I'm just surprised to find myself doing these things that I thought were vaguely silly when she did them. However, there are just some things I never will do, such as dry the dishes (that's what the dish drainer is for), touch something nasty with my bare hands (I know hands can be washed, but still), or eat liver (eeew).


Going to wash something,
ephelba

In which Friends come and go.

Loon and her lovely M drove all the way from Michigan just to come visit. It is very humbling to have a friend do that. We did not go out on the town, undertake trendy shopping excursions or take in the sights. We did go to the Salvation Army, make some wicked good chicken and rice, trade x-mas presents and generally fart around.

Simon said it did him good to see me that happy. I felt very happy indeed, but I didn't realize there was such a difference between my normal state and a Loon-is-coming state.

Then, of course, they had to go back home. It took all of, oooo, maybe an hour, for me to have a melt down. I am pleased to report that I didn't belittle anyone or say anything hurtful to anyone, but I did stop traffic by yelling that I was going f-ing nuts and I couldn't take anymore f-ing noise and somebody better turn off at least two of the f-ing radios that were going at the time. Loon said she had friend hang-over too, and had griped a little about having to read directions and drive at the same time. I am treating the symptoms by listening to the mix cds she made for me. A lot.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, right on the heels of the friend hangover I have come down with PMS for the second or third month in a row. In the past it was an occasional event. These days the evilness moodiness starts three or four days in advance of the "moon cycle". Maybe it's because I'm nursing and I need more calcium than I'm getting. I keep meaning to do something about that, but then I bitch at the Boy all day non-stop and realize that, oops, I didn't bone up on my calcium this month either. Can you not do homeschool for a week because your mother is PMSing? Really I think that would be best for everyone. Unfortunately I don't think I can pull it off with out major loads of guilt. I'll just have to try to get by with chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Yeah, because, umm, chocolate has magnesium, which, umm, means you absorb more calcium, which means it's medicinal... yeah, that's the ticket.

Going to get my fix,
ephelba

What I've been up to lately.

Loon is coming for a visit! Hooray! I have been making her Xmas presents today, seeing as she's coming tomorrow and I am the mistress of procrastination.

I have also been rearranging. Simon says it's because Loon and her beloved helped me move in, and I don't want it to look like I haven't done anything since then. I think it's because I'm too excited to just pick up a little. A quick pick up isn't grand enough, no, I have to rearrange half the house. At least half. Hmmm.

Also, Boy got Super Mario Bros for xmas, so I have been busy discovering the wonders that everyone else my age has already got memorized. I didn't have TV when I was Boy's age, and most "secular" things were banned from the house, so I am still playing catch up on some things.

ASIDE:
As a freshman in college every song I heard was new to me, so I would be like, "This music is AWESOME! Who is this?" And everyone would be like, "Umm, seriously, it's the Beatles". Or CCR, or Jane's Addiction or The Police or They Might Be Giants. Didn't matter who it was, I hadn't heard of them. I did listen to the radio in my car once I hit 16, but if the one station we got didn't play it, I hadn't heard it. The station played bands that printed their T-shirts on black poly-cotton. You can understand why my musical diet was lacking.
MY CHILDREN ROCK TO THE STONES:

Simon thinks Lucy is depressed. I say she's always slept that much. I'll admit she realizes her Pack has changed. It's a good thing I'm a SAHM because I think she'd freak if she were to be left all alone all day after four years of hanging with Mabel. I take her with me in the car to run errands, and today I was one of those nutty ladies with her dog in a bag. "Just trying to keep my dog sane, pay no attention to the dog in the bag..." She does get more attention these days. I don't think it is because she gets Mabel's share. I think it's because we miss Mabel and she's the closest thing to a real dog we have.

Which sounds awful. I love Lucy, I really do. I get a kick out of watching her nearly pop when she hears Simon come up the stairs. I love making her happy by saying "Go for a ride?". You couldn't believe the glee. And yet, it is really is more like having a genius of a guinea pig than a dog.

I have plans to make her a doggie bag. By which I mean, a bag for her to ride in, not a bag in which to keep the bits of her we were too full to eat.

going to impersonate an Italian plumber,
ephelba

Dead Dog

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

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

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

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

A vegetarian diet.

For a Dog.

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy Making, or How To Make The Perfect Purchase

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Randomness

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

Things that Confuse me:

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


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

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

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

Spreading my usual Christmas cheer,
ephelba

In which I admit I'm crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Doing just fine, really,
ephelba

Is it really that difficult?

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

Today being Friday, I began to worry.

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

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

So now we worry.

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

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

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

Tell me you believe in miracles,
ephelba

Well shit.

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

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

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

It's just so sad.

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

Another Installment of TMI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end,
ephelba

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

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

Imaginary post:

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

There. Entry Done.

Hang in there, NaBloPoMo is over tomorrow,
ephelba

I did something right.

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhhh, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoying my return to the world of the living,
ephelba

Much better, thanks.

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

Babbling Idiot

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

ephelba

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving Accomplished

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

We are now digesting in preparation for PIE.

piepiepiepiepiepie,
ephelba

Worst night on record.

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck,
ephelba

there will be no capital letters today

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

it's going to be a long night,
ephelba

Why My Husband is a Saint

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

Must...blog...

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

You'll live,
ephelba

Clarification:

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

"Yeah?"

"I'm not your biggest baby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

night night,
ephelba

Thanksgiving Shopping

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

Every Fucking One.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Favorite Poem

Ten Years It Took

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

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

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

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

I'm trying to get my zen on,
ephelba

Nabloblahblah revisited

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

moooooooo,
ephelba

Lovely warm.

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

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

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

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

My son, the perfectionist

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

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

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

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

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

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

Going to bed,
ephelba

Too tired to blog

so I'll write something more tomorrow:)

Much Better Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easier Said Than Done

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

Is it?

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

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

Peanut Worries Us Again.

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

May all the news you get today be good,
ephelba

Strange

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My two cents on breastfeeding.

Esereth left the following comment the other day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Told you there'd be Pictures

The Bag Hat is complete. Behold.

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

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

On my merry way,
ephelba

In which the Baby eats.

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

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

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

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

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

Later gater,
ephelba

New! Improved!

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

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

Enjoy!
ephelba

Three! Three Posts!

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

Do you feel old yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

ephleba

Nabloblahblah

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

That was a joke.

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

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

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

Going to meet a goal,
ephelba