Definately a bad witch.

So, the night before I cooked some spag sauce for the folks staying home, insisted the Boy make a dinner to take with him to his play rehearsal, and forgot to feed myself. I got some fast food and opted for Coke to drink, thinking I'd get some shit done when I got home. What I hadn't counted on was the caffeine high lasting till two in the morning. Or the Bug going on some wild sleep strike, waking up at six in the morning, and pretty much not sleeping the rest of the day. I was whupped.

This would also be the day that the Bean doesn't eat breakfast. She throws a record tantrum at lunch, but in the end consents to eat. Because of this I have high hopes for her demeanor after her nap, but Boy has Jazz band practice smack in the middle of her nap time. After much heart ache, I decide she needs the nap too much, and he needs the practice too much, so I'll put her down and pray the house is still standing when I get home. Only she won't go to sleep either. So. I pack everybody up and we all got to the school to discover there is no practice.

Ooooo Kay.

Later I drop the Boy off at his rehersal. I'm really hurting by the time I get home, and as I open the door I listen to see what kind of mood the Bean is in. She's nearly always throwing a fit over something lately. I didn't hear her, so I listened for the baby, and that's when I realized she was downstairs in the van.

Horrors!

Simon and I watched a few episodes of the Wire, and then I was getting the Bean her medicine and changing diapers and trying to get the silly baby to sleep, when the Boy called to ask why I wasn't there to get him. Oh, sorry, it's because I have forgotten you.

Shit.

I blame the tired. I just can't beat the tired.

Going to bed now,
ephelba

Book Slut

Simon has accused me of being a book slut. He says I'll read anything with a cover on it. The truth is, I don't even need a cover- I'll read blogs, pamphlets, even cereal boxes. However, I counter that because Simon reads the same books I read, he must be a book slut too. He says he's just slumming.

Mostly, he picks on me because I read YA novels. YA novels rock because they're an easy, quick read. When you're too mommy brained to remember to put diapers in the drier, an easy read is good. I do read adult books, but I find myself frustrated. Take, for example, The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I'm reading it, and I'm very pleased that I catch almost all the Geek references. I know enough Spanish that I can make most of those references out too. I do have a basic understanding of the literary tools used- the author uses other characters to narrate Oscar's life because he wants to emphasize Oscar's singularity. I think. And there's obviously symbolism employed, because there's a great golden mongoose that keeps showing up, and large animals that aren't really there have to symbolize something, I'm pretty sure. My problem with the book is that once I'm done reading it I can't tell you why everyone thinks it's so great. I don't get it. What was the point of Oscar? Why do we spend so much time following his mom? What the hell does the mongoose mean? I'm not left with the warm fuzzy feeling of having read a great book, I'm just left feeling stupid.

Taking refuge in the fact she was a chem/math major,
ephelba

Children

What an odd day. The first half went sooo well, and the second half soooo bad.

Morning: got the kids together enough to go eat lunch in the park. Even remembered the camera. Remembered to wash and dry the diapers. Folded laundry.

Evening: I took a much needed nap with the girls, and woke up with a sore throat and a general craptacular feeling. I told the fam it was cereal for dinner, then took the little one with me to the grocery store. Did not cook for the family. Did not make a list before going to the store. Was not the kind of mom/wife I want to be.

I am totally fighting a cold, I can tell, but I have high hopes that I will win.

On another note, there was a dude at the grocery store wearing a t-shirt that said "Fuck you, You Fucking Fucker". It is my opinion that such a t-shirt was meant to be worn at, say, an adult party, perhaps, or maybe at a bar. It was not meant to be worn at a grocery store where one is likely to run into nine year old kiddos. At such times, the meaning of the shirt changes from "Fuck you" to "I'm a Tremendously Large Asshole". And that's what I have to say about that.

Hoping to wake up feeling snappy,
ephelba

Well, she's ours.

Ain't she pretty?

Myfarmer took me to get her. When I saw her I felt so, hmmmm, awed. Yes. I was in awe. I knew I was going to buy her and she was going to be the most awesome vehicle I had ever owned.

ASIDE:
I say "I" but I mean "We". You know. I'll be driving it the most though.
BECAUSE I LOVES ME SOME SIMON:

The Nissan? I loved her. But. Imagine if you will, being nine months pregnant. You've put your daughter's carseat behind your seat for ease of putting her in the car, but that shoves your seat up. You have stand on one leg, fish the other leg around the steering wheel, lower your rump to the seat, grab the wheel and haul yourself into place. Getting out is just as fun. After the baby arrives you add her carseat to the mix. Now both of the front seats are shoved forward. The Boy has to inhale to reach his seatbelt buckle. Every time you go anywhere you know that a car wreck means your legs are going to be soooo screwed, but you know you won't care as long as the children are safe. Sadly, you're not sure you can count on that either. Then the littlest one needs a new carseat, and suddenly you have to take two cars to go anywhere as a family.

So. It was time. Now we've got sooo much room it's like driving a house. I can rest easier about the kiddos being safe. The little things are nice too- like having a heater and a cd player and lots of pockety places to put things. Oh! And it's a great excuse to get some flash new deedley balls. Behold:
Detail:
And today I got some matching placemats to put over the seats where the girls put their feets, because we want the seats to stay nice.

In other news: The littlest girl grows a tooth. Apparently she plans on using it to take my nipples off.

The house is still clean (Yay us! Everybody, even the Bean, has helped with this.)

I am not pregnant. Hormonally bitchy? OH YES.

The dog has received her annual spring haircut and is on her way to looking fly. Or at least, not matted.

And with that, I go to bed.

Goodnight,
ephelba

We might have a winner!

A 2000 Honda Odyssey with slightly less than a million miles on it. If things work out, as soon as we buy it we'll have to take it to the shop because it's due for its 100000 mile maintenance fest, but they are good vehicles, they are, and the price is low, it is, so we're calling it good.

It took me more than 30 years, but I've turned into a minivan-driving-mother of three.

Huh.

I think I'm ok with that.

Guess I'll have to sign the girls up for soccer next,
ephelba

Can Zofran get you high?

Ok, so, like, No. It's for nausea. Nausea is a fancy way of saying "feeling like you're going to throw up and wishing you could just die". Zofran doesn't make you feel high, it makes you stop feeling like barfing.

It's twenty dollars for 4 milligrams. You can't find a cheaper way to (try to) get high? Might I suggest cough syrup?

How bout you check out 52 projects, or Learning to Love You More, or the Generosity Game or You Are Beautiful. How bout you go for a walk. How bout you learn to be happy with the life you've got?

Who am I kidding? I'm talking to the kind of asshat who steals Zofran from their grandfather who's dying of cancer.

A little tired of people finding her blog this way,
ephelba

Things to be proud of.

Today I could have taken a nap, because the planets aligned in such a manner that both the girls slept at the same time for nearly three hours. Instead of taking a nearly three hour long, lovely, golden, sweet, delicious, warm, fuzzy nap, I cleaned the kitchen. I even mopped the floor a bit.

Damn skippy.

Also? I made dinner, including the cooking of the eggs* all by myself, on time and with more than one item.

Also? I kicked the monkey off my back and didn't drink any coffee. Of the caffeinated sort.

Also? I researched, called, emailed about and dithered over, like, a million and a half cars, minivans, suvs and such. Yeah. They're still sofa king expensive. And how.

Also? When the Boy got upset about whether he'll be able to hack going to school, I didn't beat him with a chair whilst shouting "WTF? Dude! Quit thinking up things to upset yourself with and go to sleep because guess what! You're homeschooled!!!" I wasn't super sensitive caring Mom, because this kind of shit pushes my buttons, but I was nice enough to talk him down before I sent him back to bed.

Also? I was tempted with the Hanging Out With Friends after the meeting, but I knew Simon and the girls were waiting and I didn't want to let them down, so I came home right away. Even though I really wanted to stay and play. I didn't. I was good.

Ummmm. I think that's all. Cleaning your house, feeding your family and not beating your children is supposed to be a given. It's sort of sad that I feel like it's an accomplishment. Seeing as how that's what I want to have happen in my house, though, means I can be glad that I got what I want. I would like to think it only gets easier.

Going to go to sleep in her cleaner house much earlier than usual, thus earning even more bonus points,
ephelba

* I can and do cook, but Simon is the Egg Master. I know eggs seem like a simple thing to cook, but I generally cock it up somehow. They're always edible, but rarely super. I did pretty good tonight.
The other thing I tend to do is cook one food and call it dinner. Like, if I said "We're having pancakes for dinner" then we're having pancakes. No bacon, no eggs, not even syrup. You think I'm kidding. Simon knows I'm not, and wishes I'd consent to at least using plates on pancake night....

Kirikou and the Sorceress

This takes the prize for The Cartoon With The Most T1ttays Ever! Some are round, some are flaccid, some have pasties, but none are covered. This is appropriate, one could argue, given the setting of the cartoon. They aren't really sexualized. Seriously though? for us Mericans it takes a bit of getting used to.

The actual story line is ok, but I was bothered by (what I took to be) the blatant message "Sex makes you a man". The baby Kirikou heals the Sorceress, then talks her into kissing him and grows instantly into a handsome man. She, of course, is still kneeling, which creates a tableau that made me and Simon laugh heartily. Then she and he decide to "Stay in the forest a while". Oh yeah they do. Boy says I'm blowing things all out of proportion, and anyways, sex does make you a man.

Obviously needing to do some more parenting,
ephelba

PS
Cars? They are sofa king expensive, and I'm not even kidding. I'm going to end up driving a cozy coupe.

I R HAZ STOOPID

Alright, so it's a given that I can't be trusted with my own fertility. No news there. And we know that, although the plumbing has been rerouted, the baby juice is still lingering in The Mister's pipes. OK. Yeah. So. See, even though I'm nursing, my body kicked into "We could make a baby"gear last month. Cool. I was down with that, because This time we would be Good and use condoms and stuff when we were supposed to. Yeah. Which would have been on such and so date. Which means that yesterday my Aunt should have come to visit. But she didn't. Nor did she come today. Ok, Fine, Shit, Whatever, I take a pregnancy test and it says "Hey! You passed! Alrighty! No Baby for You!" except I'm like "Hey? Where's my Aunt?" so I consult the Oracle and it says "You big dumbass- nursing can cause random wacky cycles complete with extra fun fertility at unpredictable times" and I'm all like "Shit! How can I not know this !?! Because ACK- Like there's been so much fun lovin lately and who the hell knows what is going on!"

If I make it through the next two months without getting pregnant it will be SUCH a miracle.

Going to look at minivans on Craigslist,
ephelba

Indeterminate

When you're talking about a system of linear equations, indeterminate means you've either got infinitely many solutions or none at all. Our life is indeterminate right now.

Our apartment is perched at the intersection of four other functions. We smell the smoke from one neighbor's apartment, hear the music from the other, wake to the parties and door slams of the bar next door, and worry about the PCBs from the old factory site behind the house. The solution to this system? We could move. Anywhere. Somewhere warm, maybe? To the neighboring town? To the town where Simon works? That would be the set of infinite solutions. We could stay here and suck it up like we have been sucking it up for the past two years. That would be No Solution.

Then there's the transportation problem. Simon drives a truck that we can't all fit into. I drive a little Nissan Sentra that I Love, but frankly, when we all piled in we looked like we were in a clown car. Then the Bug grew out of the baby bucket car seat and into a new carseat that doesn't fit in the back with the Bean's seat and the Boy. Now when we go somewhere all together we have to take two cars. The water pump and possibly the timing belt have gone on it (EEEP). It's in the shop awaiting a diagnosis, but it brings home the point that, really, we need a new car. Do we spend the money to fix the Nissan? That doesn't fit us? But is cheaper than buying a new car? That would fit us? Infinite Solutions or No Solutions.

This year is setting up to be a good year for us financially. Simon got a raise. We're going to be able to pay off most of our debts. We're hoping to be good little Americans and make some long awaited purchases. It's frustrating because it seems like whenever we take two steps forward we have to take one step back.

I suppose the truth of it is that all the available solutions are good. Either we're moving to a better housing situation and driving there in a new minivan, or we're not changing a thing and we're no worse off than when we started. Somehow it just doesn't feel that way.

Right now, as I'm typing this, Chef is singing "Suck on my chocolate salty balls" and Boy is about to see Mr. Hanky for the first time. The girls are fairly entranced too. Ahhhh, South Park.... the cartoon your whole family can enjoy.

Feeling oh so proud,
ephelba

Because you, yes you, need to laugh more.

Go here.

Updated to add, there's more.

Stumped.

Can't think of a name. Ideas?

And while I'm asking for advice, on Facebook is it considered rude not to friends everyone you ever knew, or met, or maybe passed on the highway? I know more people than I have friendsed (?), because I'm picky like that. I tend to make a couple of friends and then devote myself to them like, like.... like a, um, loyal devoted thing. A squire maybe. Anywho, it seems weird to friends people that I was never that close to, or maybe didn't even like. I've friendsed people I don't know but would like to know better. That feels right. I don't know. I'm not going to bother worrying about it, really, because that's just silly.

We watched an animation collection tonight. The funniest part was the introduction, but there were a couple of good bits. Several pieces by the same folks who did Harvey Krumpet. Boy and I found a very good piece of music by way of a short about cuckoo clocks. He's tickled pink that he got an itunes card for his birthday and gets to buy songs all on his own. I just hope he picks out good stuff that I want to hear too- our world is very small and the walls are thin.

Which reminds me, a while back Boy said "The baby sure was noisy last night!" and I said "No she wa... YES. YES SHE WAS. The BABY was very noisy last night".

Going to stick a sock in it,
ephelba

In case you were worried,

I decided I'd tell you the test results. Unlike any of our Dr.s, I am capable of letting you know the results when I get them. I got the results by talking to the secretary at the Dr's office in Syracuse. She wasn't supposed to tell me, but she had mercy on a worried mom and told me I didn't need to worry.

Bless her heart.

She said to act surprised when they called. She thought they'd call today, because she was faxing the results just as soon as they were official. She said this at nine this morning.

Still haven't heard a thing from a Dr. I'd be miffed if I weren't so relieved. For once, it's not one thing or another.

In other news, I'm discovering Facebook. Many things therein are good unto me. Finding people is very fun- a bit like treasure hunting. Many things are just big-ole time wasters. I'm not too tempted by most of them, but Scrabulous is fabulous.

And in still more news, probably between the classifieds and the sports pages, it was Boy's b-day. The dog decided to eat one of the Bean's crayons and leave bright green presents for him all over the house. One day he'll look back on that memory and laugh. He wasn't laughing today. He got to watch a movie, go listen to a pianist, and hang at a coffee house with some friends, but he started to moan about the dog ruining his birthday. I threw a small fit and told him he was in charge of how well his birthday went. He could either focus on the one bad thing or all the good things. If he wanted a pity party for his birthday he could help himself, because I've spent 13 years giving him the tools to handle this sort of thing, and I was feeling done.

He came around. Please, please tell me that he learns to do this without me at some point.

Wondering if you're on facebook,
ephelba

And around we go.

So the nice lady said they'd read the EEG and send the results to our doctor that same day. Didn't hear a thing, but I thought it was a bit early yet.

The next day I call our Dr's office, who says that Dr Whosit will read it and get back to us. No one did.

Today I called that Dr Whosit's office. They said "What? We wouldn't read an EEG from there. You'll have to call your Dr's office". So I called my Dr's office again, and they said they'd get back to me.

Tomorrow I'm going to call Syracuse, and I Know they'll say they read it on Monday, would I like to hear the results?

On another note, the mister's hairs are growing back in where he had to shave. The effect, in bed, is not unlike having a menage a trois with me, him and a brillo pad. TMI, I'm sure, but I had to share.

Sigh.
ephelba

So pleased with myself.

I've just decided that I'm going to have an imaginary friend. Oh yes I have. I was out tonight with the homeschooling moms, and one of them said she was always so pissed at her sister's imaginary friend because her sister would list all these horrible things the imaginary friend was doing to her, but she couldn't fight back because she couldn't see her, and I had the sudden epiphany that I needed one. She will have a name that is great and terrible and she will help me get through my day. I'll let you know how it goes.

I am so tired and forgetful. I'm having a hell of a time sleeping for no particular reason. If I'm dead beat, why can't I sleep? Worse than being tired, worse than forgetting how to talk, is the fact that twice tonight I forgot I had the baby daughter in the car with me. Both times I was still in the car and on the road, but I realized that it would be totally possible to get out the car and forget she was still in there. It was like those times when you're driving and you can't remember the last ten minutes of the proceedings.

Yeah.

So.

I'm thinking I'm going to write on the window with soap marker "Got Kid?".

This bad witch is going to bed,
ephelba

My Daughter is Hard C0re!

Dude! She stayed up till midnight last night, and probably would have stayed up later but I had pity on her when she started signing "blankie" over and over. At six this morning I got her up and she kept going until about 11:30 before she took an hour long nap.
Wish I was so perky.
These shenanigans were for the purpose of getting good results on her EEG. I was worried she would cry and scream at the sight of the room and a person in scrubs. She, in fact, did. Then the nice lady sat us in a Comfy Chair, and I didn't assume the blood-draw position, so the Bean knew something was different and she became content to glare at us suspiciously. The lady was a pro and the Bean didn't cry anymore. Yay!

As for the results- wait and see. As usual. I stared hard at the screen whilst the test was going on so I consult the oracle when we got home. Having done my usual google fest I am very confident that most of the test went just fine. There were a few spots that I remember wondering about at the time because they looked different than what was usually going on. Having not been trained in this sort of thing I can't really say it was good, but I am positive that it wasn't really bad. How's that for a convoluted thought.

On another note, the hubby says he doesn't so much like being referred to as the hubby. I shall therefore attempt to remember to call the hubby "The Mister" instead. He likes "the mister" much better than "the hubby". Notice I got to call him "The Hubby" four times just then:)

On yet another note, someone put up a flier a the post office. It had a picture of the cutest chihuahua/jack russel puppies for sale. I want a puppy. Simon says we can't have one because it would get lost in the mess. I said I would clean the house if we could have a puppy. Simon just laughed. I don't think there will be a puppy.

There won't be a baby either. Simon went and got a vasectomy last Friday. We waffled for a bit the night before. There's something sad about knowing you're done having babies, because babies are the best. They're better than puppies even. When you think about how great they are and how much you love the ones you have you begin to think you want more. And then you remember being pregnant. And how hard it is to get anything done. Including making more babies. And you realize that sometimes what you need isn't more.

So.

If we can make it for a few months without getting pregnant we're home free. I freely acknowledge this is a large "if", given my history, but hopefully nursing will be some protection when other protections fail.

On the last note, my state governor got busted for fucking with hos. Swell.

Wishing I lived back in MI,
ephelba

Today.

Today I woke up exhausted. Not because anything major or exciting happened last night, but because the little one woke me up right smack in the middle of a dream. I had been explaining how not to be a racist prick to a white guy, but he wasn't listening to me, so he turned into a black guy. Then the baby was fussing and I was awake and desperately tired. I wake up slowly at times like this.
The Bean peeked over the edge of the crib.
"Shra shruh shra shra?"
Which is apparently how she says "You awake?"
The dog heard her, and in a typical fit of morning glee came bounding up over the bedclothes to nurfle me. A few seconds of that and she bounded off again. The Bean squealed with joy. I called the dog back and the Boy heard me, so both the dog and the Boy showed up to get into the bed. I kicked Boy out to get the Bean, and now the morning crew was all accounted for.
The Bean crawled over me and laid down on my chest to snuggle for a bit. The Boy commented on the freakish boniness/wrinkliness of my elbows. The girl got up to see what was going on in the living room. The Bug growled. The Boy moved on to express dismay at discovering I was wearing granny panties and hilarity at my double chin.
I kicked him out.
After feeding the Bug I got out of bed and went to feed the Bean. She seemed happy to eat granola, which made this morning much easier than those that involved fixing her various breakfasts for her to play with. Those mornings suck, because if she doesn't eat she gets cranky. The Bug lay in her car seat and (surprise!) growled. The Boy began to work on English. He ended up coming out to the kitchen to have a snack and watch the Bean while I took the Bug into the living room for some floor time. She growled at the floor while I checked my email and RSS feed. I discovered a new blog, and read a bit. Boy said the Bean was done eating, so he cleaned her up and got her down.
The Bug was tired, so I took her into the bedroom to sleep. I put her pacie in her mouth and sat down on the bed next to her. The Bean came in to jump on the bed, and I suspect when I left she pulled the pacie out of the baby's mouth. Which made the baby fuss. Which meant I had to go back. Which meant the Bean followed me in there to see what was up. I went through this loop at least three times before I noticed what was happening and just brought the Bug out to the living room for her nap.
The Hubby called.
The Bean played.
The Boy read.
I read.
I picked up the living room a bit, but not as much as I wanted to.
I fed the Bean some lunch.
I rinsed the ketchup/body paint off the Bean and got her dressed for the Speech Therapist.
I fed the Bug again.
The speech therapist came.
The speech therapist left.
The Bug and the Bean went down for a nap.
The Bug got up, and the Bean hasn't been to sleep yet.

And then I blogged. Not that you've read anything terribly interesting as a result. I just was in a mood. I've been in a mood lately. The mood to sleep. The mood to play chase with the Bean. The mood to be warm in the sun. What I need is to be in the mood to clean house, pay bills and organize shit.

I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in New Mexico. I imagine it is warm.

Not having to imagine snow,
ephelba

For my kiddos...

Ok, I've got 10 minutes that I'm going to spend blogging here, let's see if I can finish the thought I've been having...

I've been thinking that several women who I would assume feel comfortable with children do, in fact, not. I assumed they would because they have adult children. I have no idea how they managed, given the level of discomfort they display now.

I've also been surprised by how much other women forget about when they had children. I ask questions about cloth diapering or whatnot, thinking they would know, and I'm sure they did at one time, but the memory has faded.

So now I'm thinking I better leave some notes, or my kiddos will be asking me questions and I'll have forgotten, and it will be a shame, because the baby phase is one part of mothering I feel I'm very good at.

With that in mind, Notes to self regarding the first three months:

The whole goal for these months is to learn to eat and sleep. If you end up feeding formula for some reason, then the eating thing has probably gone well. Breastfeeding is trickier. I will assume that La Leche will be there for my daughters and daughter-in-laws, and leave the advice giving to them, with the caveat that it isn't supposed to hurt much, and if it does, seek help fast before it gets worse.

Burping isn't half as necessary as some people seem to think it is, but it does work wonders if you've got a spit-upper. Simply laying the kiddo down and setting them up, putting them face down on your knees and patting them, or putting them high on your shoulder for the patting works when the usual method doesn't seem to be accomplishing anything. If they don't burp, they fart, much to the hilarity of the adults present.

As for the sleeping- if you can teach your kiddo to sleep when it's dark, and to (mostly) put themselves to sleep by the three month mark, you're doing well. I recommend having the baby sleep in your room, although not necessarily in the bed. You want them to be close enough that you can keep an ear out for them, and so that you don't have to go to far when they want to nurse. Of course you'll bring them to bed to nurse, but the trick is to put them back in their own spot when you're through so they learn they don't need you in order to sleep. Swaddling is good, and so is rocking or swinging or bouncing. Of course, these are crutches your kiddo will be using to sleep, but I think if you're careful it doesn't have to be a big deal. For example, I put the Bug down for her naps by swaddling her and putting her in the bouncy seat. I give her a pacie if she fusses. I only bounce her to sleep if she's really fussy or it's really crucial to me that she sleep Now- like if she wakes up at two in the morning. Other babies like different things- the Bug likes me to stroke her face above her eyes, but the Bean likes to lay on her belly and get her butt patted (which, in a younger kid, means you have to roll them over onto their back after they go to sleep...)
As for "Sleeping through the night"... all most people mean by that is their baby lets them sleep 5 hours at a stretch, and your baby will do that once a night when they grow enough that they can skip a feeding. Alas and alack, some kids wake up every night till they're six, others sleep for an eight hour stretch at two months old. You have to go with the flow, to a certain extent, but a five hour stretch by three or four months of age is a good goal.
I let all my kiddos into the bed with me when they need to be comforted, but I kick them back out when the crisis has passed (or the b00b emptied). It works the best for us. Back when I was a single mom I let the Boy stay in bed with me more than I let the girls, but even he had a crib that he started the night in.

Wow. Ok. That was poorly written, but at least it's down. If I get the chance I can always rewrite, right? In the meantime I've got things to do...

Off to scale Mt Laundry,
ephelba

Oh Ho!

I bring you a waster of time.

I found this because I'm up late reading. I say reading, but I really mean consulting The Oracle (aka the internets). The Bean has been doing some very odd things, leading Simon and I to have this conversation a lot:
"That was a seizure."
"She's fine.
...
...
Do you think she had a seizure?"
"That's totally a seizure"
"She's fine."

She has a Doctor's appointment next week,so barring a really obvious seizure-y event, we'll have a big fun visit then, I'm sure, complete with EXTRA FUN BLOOD DRAWS YEAH BABY! I don't want her to have to have any more of those. No sir. It just makes me sick. I have to be the big bad mom and hold her down, then I have to be the strong comforting mom who gets her to stop screaming.

I'm sick of having to do hard mom and strong mom things. I'm also sick of all the uncertainty that being Bean's mom seems to require. No one's certain why she doesn't talk. Whether she'll have other learning problems. This visit will be more of the same. I'll describe her spells and no one will be certain if they're seizures, and tests will have to be done, and even if they decide they were seizures, chances are no one will know if she'll have more, or if they'll be getting worse or better as time goes on. No one will know if there's a connection between one thing and another. I'm sick of it.

I'm feeling slightly "sick" anyhow. Like I'm at the end of my tether, but for no real reason. I'm getting my stuff done, but I feel like I've got something hanging over my head. Like I've got a paper due tomorrow and I haven't started yet. It's making me crazy because, like, Hey! No Paper! But yeah, still the stress. I don't understand why the stress. I think I need some spliff.

ASIDE:
I just decided I'm going to call my farmer friend "Myfarmer", because that's her email address, and we all had a giggle over it and proceeded to tease her a little about it when she told us what she'd chosen.
THAT'S THAT THEN:

So I told Myfarmer that if I got some we'd go smoke behind her barn and then laugh at the kids all afternoon. Like I could get ahold of anything, or could afford it if I did find a source. Sigh. Sometimes I think I'm the only one in this one hole town who isn't hooked up. Honestly though,it's been years and years. I don't even know if I can remember the last time I toked. I never could smoke a lot- too hard on my lungs, and I don't think it's very good for the rest of you either, but it sure was fun.

I suppose I could make do with a good laugh instead. Harold and Kumar Two comes out soon, doesn't it? That shit's funny, even when you watch it twice. I watched "Dude, Where's my car" expecting it to be pee yer pants funny again, but it faded to being just generally funny. It was funny enough that I wanted to make matching t-shirts for Simon and I that said "Dude" and "Sweet" on the back, but he said he didn't like the movie That much, and there you have it.

Why do you have to pass it on the left hand side?
ephelba

What I'm doing these days.

* Obviously, I haven't been subjecting you to bad writing. Seriously, the Bug's birth story was so poorly written I'm tempted to delete it, but its poorly-written-ness is a testament to the state of my brain, so I'll leave it stand.

* Have been playing Zelda, Twilight Princess. The Boy and Simon are too. Sometimes we bond as one or the other of us tries to figure out a sticky problem. Sometimes we yell something to the effect of "Jump Back Bitch" when one or the other of us gets too bossy . The Boy, especially, tends to become a sort of back-seat-driver when he sees us going about something the wrong way.

It's very fun to have the boy in the room when we discover something he hadn't found, or do something he said couldn't be done. We're continually trying to explain to him that there are no real risks in this game, it being, well, a GAME, and so he should just try everything. What could it hurt? He tends to get hung up on what he thinks should happen, or on not wasting bombs or arrows. When us old fogeys find something his outrage is palpable. And sometimes earsplitting. It's a hoot.

Note: the designers of the game put a lovely feature on the menu screen that keeps tabs of how long you've played. That way, when you get together with your gaming friends, you can say "My penis is bigger because I finished the game in twenty hours and five minutes with only the original three hearts...blahblahblah." For the rest of us mortals it serves other purposes. For Boy it is an unfailing record of the fact that he did, as a matter of fact, play for more than an hour today, and needs to get his ass up and do something else. For me it serves as a record of how much time I've spent not doing laundry, not doing the bills, not cooking and not cleaning. It's a measure of how guilty I need to be. I'm trying to change my view of it, and start using it as a timer like the Boy does. There shouldn't be anything wrong with playing for a little everyday if I'm doing my other stuff too.

Right?

It's definitely served as an object lesson that if you work on something a little at a time the hours add up, because Boy and I have both been putzing at it a bit here and there and have accrued more than forty hours. And no, we haven't finished the game yet, and yes, yours is probably bigger- bite me.

* Let's see. I've also been looking up old friends on the internet. I think I always do that around New Years. Seems like I always find the same ones, which is good, but I'm also hoping that one day I'll find my best friend from elementary school, or some more of my good friends from the first time I went to college...

* Been watching my friend's farm. It's been doing this:

that is, it's been having sheep. And a horse and donkeys and cats and chickens. The chickens are just about my favorite, but I don't have a picture of them yet, so you'll have to content yourself with the cats.


* I've decided that since I was a very successful office worker I should try to apply the skills I used there to my home life, and see if it doesn't help me get my shit together. I've been feeling sentimental about my old office. I had an office. An entire office to myself, where I organized and worked and kept things neat and tidy. It was a tiny universe whose workings I got to govern to a degree I haven't managed anywhere else in my life ever. Isn't that odd? I mean, I'm the mom of this house, so why doesn't it run more like I want it to? You could argue that the other four people here have something to do with it, but I disagree, because basically we all want the same thing. We'd all like to be able to see the floor, and have said floor be clean enough it doesn't turn our socks brown. We'd all like to have our laundry washed and then put away, instead of heaped into an over-full basket in the laundry room. We'd all like to eat dinner by six. I just can't figure out why this is so damn hard.
Stage one of my "Run it like an Office" plan is to use my daily planner like I did in the work world. I'd sit down every morning and plan out what I needed to get done that day in writing. I don't know why, but this does wonders for me, and it seems to helping in the two days I've tried it so far. I'll let you know how it goes.

* Lastly, as usual, I've been discovering odd things on youtube. Such as this:

You gotta love that.

Wow. This was a bit longer than I had intended. Shit, how bout I make it even longer and put in some gratuitous baby pics.



There now.

Going to go be a good witch,
ephelba

All I can say is that I want more.

The Birth Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty damn proud of Simon and myself,
ephelba

Not Meme-ing

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

Thusly:




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

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

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

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

Still doing good, knock on wood,
ephelba

This is just to say

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

Knocking on wood,
ephelba

Oh No They Didn't!

Yes, They did.

Well, shit.
ephelba

The week we've had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going to take a hard earned nap,
ephelba

Guess what...

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

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

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

TTFN,
ephelba

Still no baby.

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

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

TMI, I'm sure,
ephelba

No baby.

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck,
ephelba

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

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

Still waiting...

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

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

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

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

A girl can dream,
ephelba

I can have the baby now.

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

Urg,
ephelba

Ouch

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

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

"I'm so not in labor."

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

"This is really not labor!"

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

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

No response.

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

Sweetness and Light

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

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

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

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

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

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


Shit,
ephelba

Not going to happen.

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

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

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

Coffee Junkie

Seriously.

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

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

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

Going to get another cuppa,
ephelba

The difference between the first and the third child.

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


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


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


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


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



Haiku for the day:

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

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



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

ephelba

All the latest Peanut news...

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a roll...

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

Not I,
ephelba

How frigging cool is this?

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

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

A Very Small Freak Out.

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

Haiku dropped by ephelba

The Tether's End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K?

Alrighty then.

My throat's scratchy now.

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Going to be the Bad Witch,
ephelba

Question.

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

(inhale)

Would you think it odd?


Trying not to, but thinking it odd anyway,
ephelba

Rant against LJ

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

Grrrr.

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

loving blogger,
ephelba

Of course I did.

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

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

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

Crossing my fingers,
ephelba

Micro Deletions

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

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

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

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

Frankly I was shocked as shit.

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

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

No, I'd work myself up over nothing.

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

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

How bad are they?


Fighting the urge,
ephelba

Chirrrrrrp Chirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp

I am not at Blogher.

It feels lonely here in the blogiverse.



You can hear the crickets.








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










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






Yeah.












So.




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





Yeah, me neither,
ephelba

Neener Neener

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

Knowing whether you can Trust Snape,
ephelba

Chicken Guts

Warning: Graphic discussion of chicken innards follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still growing up,
ephelba

Lucky me.

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

You have no idea what kind of heaven that was.

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

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

going to sleep now, wish me luck,
ephelba

It's like this.

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

dreaming the impossible dream,
ephelba