Question.

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

(inhale)

Would you think it odd?


Trying not to, but thinking it odd anyway,
ephelba

Rant against LJ

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

Grrrr.

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

loving blogger,
ephelba

Of course I did.

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

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

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

Crossing my fingers,
ephelba

Micro Deletions

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

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

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

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

Frankly I was shocked as shit.

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

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

No, I'd work myself up over nothing.

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

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

How bad are they?


Fighting the urge,
ephelba

Chirrrrrrp Chirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp

I am not at Blogher.

It feels lonely here in the blogiverse.



You can hear the crickets.








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










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






Yeah.












So.




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





Yeah, me neither,
ephelba

Neener Neener

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

Knowing whether you can Trust Snape,
ephelba

Chicken Guts

Warning: Graphic discussion of chicken innards follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still growing up,
ephelba

Lucky me.

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

You have no idea what kind of heaven that was.

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

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

going to sleep now, wish me luck,
ephelba

It's like this.

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

dreaming the impossible dream,
ephelba

Hmph.

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

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

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

Cockaboody to you too,
ephelba

Just thought I'd share.

Best news I've had in a long time.

Most disgusting thing I've seen recently.

Best recent site find.

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

ttfn,
ephelba

So,

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

Keeping her silverware on the table,
ephelba

A First

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

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

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

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

Which is all to say, nothing much new here.

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

Going to bathe,
ephelba

No more wondering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meeses

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

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

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

Nope.

Nor the next night either.

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

So.

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

So.

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

What should I be doing?

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

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

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

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

I'll just have to wait.

Waily waily,
ephelba

How Christians frequently piss me off.

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

Ok.

Maybe it's not that bad.

Usually.

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

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

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

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

Pant, pant, pant...

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

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

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

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

Maybe I'm starting to cackle.
ephelba

Zofran is my friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch ya later,
ephelba

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

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

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

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

Fun fun fun!

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

This too shall pass,
ephelba