A pregnant pause

Apropos of nothing, I swear to God.

For the life of me, I can't figure out why the general public is so hot to tell first-time mothers every possible pregancy/delivery horror story. The shit random strangers said to me when I was pregnant with Perp would boggle your mind. When I tell people that--even with the general total-body trashing, the tears, and pooping in front of strangers--I actually liked labor, they generally look at me like I'm insane. It's not that it didn't hurt like hell, 'cause it surely did, but it was so exhilarating, like just about nothing I've ever experienced. I don't tell them the stories I heard ("My sister's husband's cousin's neighbor's cleaning lady was in labor for three and a half months and she split in half!"). I tell them how amazing women's bodies are. I tell them how you can't just push hundreds of thousands of years of evolution (yes! I said it!) to the side with 150 years of medical "advances." I tell them that even if their heads say they can't do this, their bodies can. Can, can, can. And I tell them to call my doula because she's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Maybe better.

God help me, but I liked labor better than the pregnancy. At least I knew it was going to be shorter, and I was actually doing something, you know? Participating, instead of just toting a fetus around until it was ready to make a break for it. I hate waiting just that much. After having the Dude I realized that I am a full-fledged labor junkie and if it weren't for the first and third trimesters, I'd have like a dozen kids. I wish I could have them for other women. It's something I'm actually good at without trying. I just shut down and let my body do its thing and hey! baby!

There's a social taboo against complaining about motherhood or marriage without prefacing the rant with a disclaimer: "It's a blessing to be pregnant, but..." or "Don't get me wrong, I love being a mom." or "I adore my partner, it's just..."

I try really hard not to do this, because it seems like I'm apologizing for my feelings, I shouldn't have to. I try to avoid that as much as possible, if only so Perp grows up knowing that her feelings count as much as anyone else's. They're valid. They mean something. She shouldn't be sorry for them, as ugly as they may be. It's a sorry state of affairs that we feel obligated to include prefaces like that, ain't it? I mean, I don't apologize for hating olives: "I love the trees, I think they're beautiful, and I'd bathe in the oil if I could but I just don't like olives that much."

Maybe this is a generational thing, because it mostly came from women my mother's age and older. Most of the stories centeree around the horrible. I just don't get it. I didn't love being pregnant, but it certainly wasn't the worst experience in my life. I had a drug-free delivery and a third-degree laceration, but that's not what I concentrate on when I tell P's birth story. Okay, I do put some emphasis on the drug part but I'm proud of that. That's okay; I don't push it on other people, I just point out that it is possible, evenwith big-ish babies (8.8# and 9.2# respectively).

I think there's a natural desire to relate stories that portray one as a survivor. So no matter how minor the incident really was, coming across as some kind of superhero means embelishing. But just a leetle bit.

I also think that there's a small part in us that wants to either scare or prepare other women for what's coming up. I'm not sure which it is. I just wish that more of it could be about the first time your baby smiles up at you when she's nursing, or the first time he laughs a real laugh as you tickle his lips with his toes, or the first time her father holds her after she's born.

Perhaps what I wanted was for people to not volunteer these stories, but to tell them IF I ASKED. One woman passed me as I waddled across the habitrail at work and said, "Oh, I just loved being pregnant." It was all I could do not to snap back, "Then you can just finish this for me!" But I smiled and kept going. One look at my face should have told her I wasn't too happy but it didn't matter, she had her comment to make. Maybe that's it, in the end: the willingness of complete strangers to make each and every pregnant woman into a piece of public property to be commented on and to, as if she either weren't there, or was, like, paid to listen.

I don't recall getting any paychecks.

Changing or dressing the Dude has become an exercise in speed and patience. He'll be calm and quiet for about five seconds before he flips himself over like a cornered armadillo. Do they flip over? Whatever, HE WILL NOT BE CONTAINED! The only time I can get him to stay on his back is if he's unconscious. It seems a little excessive to club him like a baby seal every time I want to change his diaper. Or maybe not.

He's started rocking on his hands and knees, which, as we all know, leads to teenage drinking and drug abuse, so I'm trying my level best to scare it out of him. HE WILL NOT BE DETERRED! Sometimes, he'll do his little rock and roll show, then lunge forward onto his stomach and voilà! he's four inches closer to his goal of world destruction.

Because of his shiny new set of physical skills, his sleep has gone down the shitter. He actually gets into rocking position when he half-wakes at night. I seem to recall Perp did this, only with sitting. Oh, the joys of early onset senility! you can forget all the icky stuff.

He still doesn't have any teeth. This is worth comment because Perp had a couple by this age. Further evidence that they're TOTALLY DIFFERENT PEOPLE AND I SHOULD STOP COMPARING THEM. And yet I cannot.

He's much more demanding of constant attention. To this day, Perp is happy to play by herself, or nearby, whereas the Dude wants eye contact on a regular basis. Plus? He wants to be held a lot more. Easy to do in the carrier, but not so much when I'm cooking with substances hot enough to melt his skin.

So he has to spend some time every day in his exersaucer, johnny jump-up, or on the living room floor whilst I bustle about like an honest-to-god housewife, and HE WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS! Alas, I'm the one with the better hand-eye coordination (oh, and the ability to WALK), so he has to do as I say.

I'm sure it will all come back to haunt me one day. That's why I take incriminating pictures at every opportunity.

He supports the wrong teams

Three incidents, two days, one common denominator

There is clearly something about me that sets people off.

#1) Yesterday, as I was taking the Dude to the babysitter to attend a Work Function with Husband, I was nearly nailed by a skinny little man in a little red car. You know the guy: sketchy facial hair, baseball cap, needs a haircut, smoke in his mouth or hand AT ALL TIMES. He was hauling ass through a residential neighborhood, driving in the left-hand lane. I was making a right turn, directly into his path. I slammed on the breaks and made some astonished faces, but I did not yell. I did not shake my hands, I didn't even flip him off. He raced off and I went my merry way to the sitter's.

Just as I was taking the dude out of his carseat, Angry Little Man drove up, after having driven around the 'hood looking for me, and stabbed his smoke in my direction: "You need to learn to yield, bitch!"

I managed an indignant, "SUCK ME!" before he (surprise!) raced off again.

#2) I then drove to Local Historic Mansion for the Work Thing and decided to take the (free!) (unguided) tour.

I was inspecting some wallpaper (painted burlap, really pretty and not at all trashy looking despite the products used to achieve the effect, i.e., burlap). One of the docents snapped at me, "Don't touch that!"

Um. I am not 2. At least couch your abuse in friendly "I'm sorry but..." language. Bitter old bitch. Further proof that I need medication: I nearly burst into tears.

#3. I went to lunch at a local spot that is, when it's not Thursday, a social club for people with serious and intractable mental illness. It's a great place, especially if you like to eat, because the food is made from scratch and the coordinator is a dedicated dessert freak. My kind of people.

I was sitting with my regular crowd when a couple sat at the table next to us. The woman had two cigarettes in her hand and I *think* the man had a lighter. Either way, I don't know about you but when I see smokes out of a pack, I think they're about to be lit. So I said, "I'm sorry, I don't know if you know it but there's no smoking on the porch on Thursdays."

She freaked out on me and was all, "I"M NOT SMOKING! IS IT LIT? HELLO?! IF IT'S NOT LIT I'M NOT SMOKING!"

I said, "I know you're not but I wanted you to know before you did."

She ranted on. Clearly a member in good standing.

So. Dear internets, tell me: do I have a "Bitch At Me" sign over my head? Am I just too damned sensitive and should get the fuck over it? Is the world filled with bitter, angry, small-minded people who are assigned to persecute me at each and every opportunity? Somehow I think it's a tasty casserole of all the above.

Plum fantastic

I pilfered a bag of plums last week and started making plum butter out of them last night. For the record, all fruits removed were from branches overhanging the sidewalk, which I understand to be perfectly legal* and moral.

It turns out that the plums I took are the very same variety as the tree I planted several years ago. I only know this because I've actually managed to keep its few, precious offerings on the tree through the liberal use of Liquid Fence, a fetid (but effective!) concoction that contains, among other things, Putrescent Whole Egg Solids.

I'll just let you ruminate on that for a mo'.





I KNOW! ISH! But it works, so hey. But anyway, so I bought and planted this tree and it's THE SAME PLUM! Needless to say, I'm ecstatic. Just think, in five, maybe ten years, I won't have to steal any more.


In other fascinating news about ME, today I go see Nice Nurse at Evil Clinic about some antidepressants. Or committment, but really, I think it's worth it to start small and build up, don't you? Besides, I have NO idea what padded room fashion is this season, so I need time to shop.

When P was born, I filled the Rx of generic Pr*zac just in case. My mother had (what I suspect to be) post partum psychosis when I was born, and I already have a personal history of major depression, so it seemed the wise and prudent thing to do. Imagine my surprise when I didn't need it at all.

I decided to go the same route when the Dude was born, better safe than sorry and all that crap, and up until recently, I've felt pretty damn perky. Sure, I've had moments where I had to put them both in their respective containers and go downstairs to polish off a bottle of cheap vodka, but really, who hasn't?

It's only occured to me in the last few hours, hours, people!, that maybe I've been at least minorly depressed since before the Dude was born. I was certainly prickly, and poor Doggie took the brunt of it (verbal abuse, never physical, but still). Even today, she walks on eggshells if I don't come downstairs singing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not so bad I can't function, but I certainly don't function well. And as the child of someone who went with undiagnosed depression for several years, I don't want to put my kids through that.

So when I get back home this afternoon, after an orgy of grocery shopping and craft-supply buying, I hope to have gobbled down my first dose of happy pills. I have no idea what I'll get but I need it to be safe for breastfeeding and if it could do something about my non-existant libid0, well, that wouldn't suck.





















*please do not disabuse me of this notion. It's keeping me sane. Seriously.

What's that you say?

You want me to make love to the camera? Mwah, dahling!

'Fess up

Because I can totally relate to the need for these blogs, and everyone on the planet doesn't know about them yet, I'm doing a public service and showing you where they are. If you've ever had an unvented rant, a heart-swelling moment you couldn't talk about in public, or a dirty little secret you're just dying to spill, you will probably love it here. Me, I like it for the people-watching. I'll also admit some of the confessions leave me with my jaw on the floor. Damn, woman! You did WHAT?!

I have *tons* of rants I've never posted. I like to hold my rage inside until it coalesces into a firey ball of hate, then let it all out on some unsuspecting, pimply faced bag boy with the bad teenage moustache at the grocery store who didn't listen to me when I said paper AND plastic. I mean, what's he going to do, hit me? Then I go into the parking lot and find all the expensive European cars and bust out their headlights with my umbrella, just because I love the imagery. Who doesn't get a kick out of watching an infant-toting hausfrau hauling a toddler by the elbow as she wreaks havoc in the rain?

Hey, it could happen.

If your particular beef is with your MIL (not me, I totally scored on that angle. Seriously!), perhaps you should check out this little gem.

Finally, if it's not husband- or MIL-related, you can dump at Her Bad Mother's Basement where they post anonymous rants and rages for the ease of one edification of all. Internets, you no longer have an excuse for being total pussies about your feelings not talking about your problems with people in the same boat.

God, look at me, I'm a freaking PSA all of a sudden. The More You Know. [cue shooting star graphic]

Anyway, go check them out, for the shock value, if nothing else.

Ursus minors

DUDE! A bear! A sow bear with
one
two
three
FOUR
cubs! It just ran across the lawn and the babies were in the tree and I said to myself, "Self, anything that size and black climbing a tree that well has to be a bear," and it was! FIVE BEARS! In our yard! And Masher tried to kill them but I got her back before she was eviscerated by the mama bear. BEARS! Apparently that many surviving is practically unheard of, so yay, us!

Okay, sure I'm a huge geek. But this is my first wild bear sighting so I'm excited and a little freaked out because I'm guessing a toddler might look like tenderloin on the hoof to a mama bear who's nursing four cubs. So we may not be playing outside for a while. Still, I'm so terribly excited and proud that we have bears who feel okay about venturing onto our turf. I think they were after the apple trees in the driveway, which is right outside the bar, so I'm going to be watching TV in there for a while. Or maybe surfing. Or both! I can multitask!

In praise of not praising

For a few months when P was younger, I made a concerted effort to comment on her activities in a positive way, while at the same time not applying any judgement of what she was doing. If she went up the stairs on her own, I'd say, "You climbed up all by yourself!" instead of "Good job on the stairs!" Then I sort of fell off the wagon and went back to the generic "good job" whenever she did anything I liked. It wasn't even a matter of praising *her*, it was basically getting her to keep doing what she was already doing so I could have a few minutes' peace.

Then I read this. I am officially going to modify my ways. It's hard, not offering praise; she so clearly loves it, and it makes her feel so good. But I can also see how it will eventually come to undermine her view of her own skills and abilities. It's so easy to do the work for the praise, rather than the sense of achievement. I see that in myself, even today. Receiving praise from another gives me greater pleasure than my own sense of accomplishment, and that's a terrible thing. I want P and the Dude to be able to create their own feelings of well-being, rather than looking outside themselves for it. If that means taking praise away from them for the short term, it seems like a worthwhile endeavor.

But it's going to suck in the meantime.

Uncle Brother

Once again, the US government is sticking its fat nose where it doesn't belong. If you have *any* livestock, poultry, waterfowl, or farm any kind of animal, and you haven't seen this, you may want to take a look at this so you know when to start freaking out.

Of course, the government does a lot of good for a lot of people, and I'm the last person to deny that, but if you're a small stake-holder and only raise animals, say, for your own enjoyment or dinner, this is going to affect you. Big time. Maybe not this year, maybe not even in the next couple, but if the "voluntary" aspect of the program is repealed, your ability to rais a piggy for your freezer is going to change entirely. You won't be able to bring it onto your property, take it to a vet, take it to the slaugterhouse or butcher, or even to a show, without the government knowing. For the more paranoid amongst us, that also means they know where YOU are, at least for a while.

Pets are also on the list apparently. You ready to RFID your puppy and kitty? There's legislation pending that states if your cat or dog has babies, guess what? You're a pet dealer now and have to register as such!

How this isn't a massive invasion of privacy is beyond me. Even religious exemption may not be allowed, which has to violate some kind of clause in the Constitution. Hey, whaddya know, Wisconsin *already* requires we register our premises. Oops.

Keep your eyes peeled for local legislation. Whether you have livestock or companion animals, this is going to affect you.

...and on that farm they had some chicks

EIEI . . . Ohhh, crap they're all dead. Well, all but one. We have a lone auracana hen who manages to keep herself alive but that's it. All my guinea keets, all my pullets, and the last three layers. Husband and I have plans to work on finishing the chicken yard this weekend. If we could get a decent gate up and secure the bottom of the fence, they might actually survive longer than a few weeks. I figure we can cobble together a coop; we didn't heat them beyond keeping the water fresh, so it shouldn't be a huge issue if there's nothing fancy. Keep the drafts out, like, and things should be golden.

...She said, knowing the awful truth.

In other news, I found a guy who'll come here and slaughter, so next spring I plan on getting a couple weaner pigs and call him out in the fall. Mmmm, bacon. I'm also looking at maybe getting a small (seriously, 36-42" high! Awwww!) cow or two. Right now I'm looking at Dexters but I'm open to other breeds. All I really care about is that it's old-fashioned and hardy.

I'd also like some goats. Goat! They'd take care of the pasture right quick, I'll tell you that.

So, my sneaky plans to make Husband live on an actual farm are progressing, at least in my feverish little brain. Anyone who has practical advice (other than DON'T DO IT!), please drop me a line. I could use a little encouragement.

Romancing the drone

If you, like me, like to occasionally indulge in a bit of pot boilery, you need, nay, MUST check out the Smart Bitches so that you, too, can howl at their reviews. And then run to the library to check it out (ha!) for yourself.

When I lived in Minndeanapplelips and worked at the Fed, I was mired in a pretty brutal depression. When I'm depressed, I like to live vicariously. That tends to involve reading about other people's lives turning out better than mine. What better venue than a bodice ripper?

I hatehatehate getting into a book and finding it poorly written, untrue to the era (historical only, please!), and just plain lame. Enter romance reviews! I used to read them at The Romance Reader (actually, I still pop in now and again for kicks), but I've pretty much moved my fidelity to all things Smart Bitchery. Come on, they're smart. They're bitchy. What more can you ask?

An aside to the non-romancers out there: they do other reviews too, so you have no excuse to abstain. Get thee hence and laugh your ass off. Then go read a book.

Speaking of books: I hereby demand that everyone rush out and find a copy of The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Even if it doesn't change the way you eat (and I lay odds that it will), it will change the way you think about food, and that's just as important. Did you know that producing 1 calorie of prewashed, bagged salad takes 57 calories of energy (read: petroleum)? And that the "organic" produce at your local grocery store is still grown on an industrial scale, which is antithetical to the whole concept of organic food? Oh, and a commercially grown carrot is not as healthy for you as an organic one? It's true! I've been doggedly trying to finish it for the last month (what, me read?) and probably once a day, every day since I started it, I've demanded that someone read it. Seriously. It will change you and the way you look at and think about the food you eat.

When (if) I manage to finish it, I'm totally blogging about it in depth.

What books have changed your life or your views of the world? I propose a trade; you read mine, I'll read yours. Of course, this could take a while...

First on my list: The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien to my list. Spectacular. If I could write half as well as he does, I'd be a happy camper. I read it at least once a year. If you know anyone who was in Vietnam, read it. If you don't, read it anyway.

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. Your brain will melt but you'll keep reading anyway. It's funny, mindblowing, and thought-provoking. Or are those the same thing? Whatever, read it.

And because no book list is complete without a kids' book, The Island of the Skog by Steven Kellogg. Partly I love this book because of the illustrations. Partly because of the moral of the story. But mostly because I love the word skog. Skog. Marmot is good too. Mar-mot.

ETA: I am kicking (KICKING!) myself for neglecting Philip Pullman. If you have not read the His Dark Materials series, I demand you put down whatever else you are reading and concentrate on these books. Oh. My God. It is sublime. I can't for the life of me fathom how it's marketed as youth fiction, but don't let that scare you away. The ideas in this book are huge, the characters are engaging, and the story is absolutely luminous. I actually cried at the end, and I do not cry at books. Or get scared (barring House of Leaves which freaked me the fuck out. PS, don't read this unless you have A Lot Of Time On Your Hands.). Please. Do yourself a favor and read these books.

TV Nation

The dude is entirely too interested in the television. P didn't look at it intentionally until she was about a year old, when we got her the Signing Time DVDs. Even today, she only wants to watch a select number of shows: Signing Time, Mr. Rogers, and Thomas the Train. Her relative innocence regarding all things commercial is actually one of my smug-mama points.

We took the dude in for his DTaP while we were in VA and there was a sticker catalog on the table, you know, those stickers kids get when they go to the doc. Of the 100+ pages, outside of animals, baloons, etc., the only thing she could identify was Thomas. No Barbie; no Bratz; no Strawberry Shortcake, nada. I was really quite proud.

The dude, on the other hand, he has me worried. He's SO tuned in (heh) to the TV. He's obviously very visual: he calms down from just about any situation if you just give him a little eye contact. From across the room. In a mirror. He doesn't care, just LOOK AT ME, FOR GOD'S SAKE, LOOK AT ME!!! It's a little alarming.

The trip to VA was good. I was writing a post about it when my laptop decided to crap out. The battery only holds about 20 minutes' charge now. Oh, the suck. So I'll come back to it and tell you, my friends in the internet, how to get around the TSA if your luggage is soaked in diesel fuel. The More You Know™.

It finally cooled down yesterday. Today it was a bit warmer than I'd like but hey, it wasn't a hundred freaking degrees. On the plus side, another chicken got nailed. Jesus. At least it was someone's dinner, but now I think we're down to one hen. I think the guinea is gone, too. Project the Next: gate and electric fencing for the new chicken yard. Oh, and a coop. Sigh.

Okay, I have NO idea why the font is so fucked up but I've monkeyed with it like five times and it still won't go right so I'm going to say to hell with it and have a drinkiepoo.

Toe the line

Dude can officially insert his foot into his mouth. Lord help us. I do it on a daily basis, so if he's inherited my gene for verbal diarrhea, he'd better learn to fight early. And dirty.

We're out on the East Coast visiting my famdamily. Yesterday was about a thousand degrees with a hundred and fifty percent humidity.

My stepmother had the dude in the kitchen while I was putting Perp down for the night. My brothers are brewing up a pretty tasty batch of beer (right now. This minute! And! we can't get into the kitchen to make our fucking dinner. We may have to sacrifice the baby to the cause.) and SM took dude out to investigate. First she handed him over to Bro#1, who isn't entirely sure about this method of (over)populating the planet. Babies, they unnerve him a bit. So dude was equally unnerved and looked over at SM like she'd just handed him to someone fresh out of the sewer. Bro#1 finally got the dude arranged properly and they both settled down and looked a little less like they were dancing naked in a snake pit

Then she handed my poor wee boy to Bro#2, who was sweating like a pig (why? pigs don't sweat.). Dude looked at her like, "Yes, I poop in my clothes but I have no choice. This? this you could have prevented."

Since we have yet to eat dinner (9 pm EDT), SM and I are merrily making our way through the remains of the vodka. Drinking this devotedly requires one sit down and enjoy the stupor. The dude, however, is an action junkie and doesn't like it when you sit still. Stand up, for fuck's sake, and bounce me! So it's been a merry game of musical couches, with SM taking a break to slup a glorious mess of peach nectar and vodka, then up and off again to pacify the little fucker dear tot. And the look! He shoots me a look when he wins. And he does win. 'Cause he plays dirty.

That's my boy.

Ass-vice

Okay. I know I shouldn't eat in bed. And I really know I shouldn't eat candy in bed. But I did and it was good. So what I need to know is how? HOW in the hell did the wax paper wrapper from my caramel--the wrapper I wadded up and tossed aside before I fell asleep--how did it end up in my ass crack? Are my underwear *that* gappy?

And an unsolicited warning: if your baby is teething and drooling like a St. Bernard, do not hold him/her over your head in flying baby mode while you have your mouth wide open.

Rampage

Four guineas. Nine pullets. All killed by some asshole's dog who decided to come over for a little exercise.

I swear by all that's holy, if I find out whose dog it was, all bloody fucking hell is going to break loose.

With wild animals, at least they eat the carcass. These were just tossed aside everytime they died, and it went in for another. Their first full day out of the coop, too. Why do I even bother, people?

AND! AND! It had the balls to play with my dog's teddy bear!*

So how was your day?

*I know for an absolute fact it wasn't my dog. She was in the FUCKING HOUSE, WHERE SHE BELONGS. Rantrantrantrantrant. I am still positively murderous in my rage. What an absolute fucking waste. Poor babies.

Bay City Roller

Remember way back on April 29th when I said the dude was rolling front to back? Yeah, that was it. He hasn't done it since. He's all over rolling back to front, even doing it in his sleep. But rolling back from his tummy? No, thanks. I'm fine right here. I'll just lie here and freak the fuck out sigh.

Because I'm a full-fledged member of LaBIA (Lazy-ass Bitch International Association-- ooh, can't wait to see the google references from that one!), I don't have any of Perp's milestones recorded unless I happened to snap a picture or a movie, in which case there's a date on it. But sitting up? Meh, maybe 6 months? Five? First tooth was 4-5 months so I expect the dude to pop one out anyday now. I know she walked at 10. I know she moved out of our bed around 11 months. I shouldn't feel bad; after all, there's no baby book for me and I don't feel bad about it. I guess it's just nice to have the information so that when either of them asks me, "When did I do A, B, C?" I can go to my handy reference and say, "X, Y Z!" It's really so I don't have to say, "Uhhhhhh..."

Maybe it's the scrapbooking nazis who have me feeling guilty. I do love seeing those pretty books with all the nice pages, but it's just not my thing. I'd happily pay someone to do it for me.

Did you ever hear the This American Life show about the woman who wanted to document every. single day. of her daughter's life? Seriously, now. That'd be like a half-time job, taking the pictures, uploading, printing, cropping, journaling (how I hate the verbing of America, but that's another rant for another day). Anyway, it's at This American Life 7/25/03, Act Two.

How we love the archives! It's too bad I suck at creating them.

Howdy, Stranger

Ree's comment (hi! thanks for stopping by!) got me to wondering again: where are you and how did you end up here? I know from stalking you all at Site Meter that I get a fair amount of traffic from the next blog button in Blogger, but lots of folks get here other ways. If you didn't come here from CM or via that handy little button in the upper right hand corner, how did you wander over here? C'mon, 'fess up. Seriously.

Smear campaign

We had a number of interesting experiences this holiday weekend. So far.

Of primary interest and most potential for laughs (and of course it didn't occur to me to take a picture until we were mid-bath but):

We spent the day at the ILs' place. Romping, running, piling, watching Hed Rogers and Pa-moos the train, the usual. Perp went down for her normal naptime in our normal way: there's na-na. There's stories. There's hugging and kissing and saying night-night to various objects about the house. Then I tromped downstairs to mingle with the baby and MIL.

Two and a half hours later, I heard Perp burbling on the monitor, so I tromped back up the stairs to fetch her. When I opened the door, it was obvious there was a diaper change in the offing but that's not at all uncommon. She's a stealth pooper and prefers bedtime privacy to do her business. Hey, who am I to judge?

And then I saw it.

On her hands. On the sheet. On her face. "Uh!" I grunted to the monitor, hoping MIL could hear me, "We've got a bit of a situation up here." I lifted her out (carefully) and hauled her downstairs, held well away from my body, and presented her to MIL.

"!!!" she yelped. Yes. !!! indeed.

My theory as follows: Perp had an itchy butt and the rest was history. She's got eczema that's spreading like wildfire, and now it's below the waterline, as it were. So it comes as no big surprise that she was rooting around in her diaper, it's just that her timing could have been better. So she reached in to scratch. She came back with a handful of poop. But then the kicker: She shook her hand to rid herself of said poop (MIL noted there were a few piles on the floor). She also tried wiping it off on the sheets. Then I guess she got an itch on her face... etc., etc., etc.

TWO baths. Hair washing (gnashing of teeth! wailing! hysterics!). Cleaning of potty which was also smeared with shit. We, including Husband, were really glad he wasn't there to see it.

In other news, we went to see Wilco on Sunday. Holy crap and Jesus God, they're fantastic. It's been at least three years since we saw them last (in a relatively small, smokey club) and I'm absolutely kicking myself for not seeing them every chance we get. So if YOU get the chance, go. Go! No, stop arguing with me and go.

They're one of those bands where you'll hear the album and think, "Man, they're great. That's amazing stuff they're doing/my they've changed since last album, etc.," and then you see them and think, "Lord, their studio stuff is practially anemic compared to this dynamic, electric, intense live shit. I must find some bootlegs." I'd say seeing them live versus hearing their studio stuff is a lot like seeing Tom Petty live. I haven't, but I have heard from several people I trust that TP&TH is a live band who happens to record albums now and again but their reason d'etre is touring. Wilco is like that, I think, at least for me. They do great studio stuff, to rave reviews, blahblahblah, but they're all about the live show.

And Jeff Tweedy appears to be properly medicated or something because he seemed positively giddy. Last time it kind of hurt to watch him, he was so morose and skinny. So yay, him! Here's to many more.

Go see them. Seriously. Go!

Lastly, but certainly not least ... ly... I got to spend the whole. day. alone. Whole day! Alone! And you all know it's not because I don't love DH and the sprogs (hi, honey!), but seriously, you spend four months without any time alone (and I don't mean upstairs in bed early ... hey, they're home! ... I don't mean not taking a nap when they do, I mean alone. It was more than I ever imagined it could be. And now I feel more relaxed (though another couple days like this would still go a long way), so I feel more happy and patient, which I'm sure makes Husband feel more happy and patient. I guess it's true: if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Radio Free Perpy

It's 8:06 in the pm. Perp's been in her crib for nigh onto an hour now. Yet she's still awake. I know this because of the advent of that most blessed and cursed invention, the baby monitor. It's great because you know when the baby freaks the fuck out over rolling onto his tummy during his nap, and can go soothe/get him, as the situation requires.

It sucks because you hear every snuffle and wheeze as clear as day and remain ever vigilant to the slightest change in breathing rate, aware of each and every sigh. I tend to go up before it's truly warranted and I think that may make for more full wake-ups than there might otherwise be. Then again, maybe not. See?! These things suck!

Then again, it rules because you can transcribe your daughter's conversation with her crib pals after she wakes up. She talks to Tucker! She's got wawa in her cup! Red! Red! Red! Yewwo! Goo-DAAAAAAHB!* Ditty: SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN!

I suppose it's not entirely polite to eavesdrop on her; after all, it's her room, her sanctuary, and I'd be hella pissed if I found out someone was listeneing to me on the monitor. Mostly all anyone'd hear is swearing or snoring, but still. It's the principle of the thing. Personal privacy and alone time are (becoming more) important to me, and I want to provide it to my kids as much as possible. But I can't hear her when I'm downstairs without the monitor, unless she's pretending she's having a tooth removed, in which case she makes plenty of noise.

So the monitor stays for now. Besides, one can't invade another's privacy if the invadee has no concept of privacy, right? I mean, I'm technically not snooping until she starts shutting her door, because, GOD! Mother, I'm on the phone!

There is not. enough. Prozac. to prepare me for having a bi-polar rabid dog teenage girl in the house.

*Apparently we say "good job!" a lot. A LOT.

Primary warning

The dude is asleep on the couch, cuddled up next to Husband who is in a poker tournament with Billy Burke even as I type. Billy Burke! At first, I thought he meant Billie Burke and was confused as to how he could be poking with a dead woman. Please to notice I pass on the obvious joke here. Man, I must be tired.

He (dude) is sleeping on his tummy again, but this time he's actually sleeping. Quietly. Cutely. So cutely, in fact that I commented that I might actually explode. Don't do that, Husband advised. Then he went all Cops on me:

"Put your ovaries down and back away from the baby."

But! He's got his butt in the air! His butt with a monkey on it! Monkey butt!

And despite all that, here's how lazy I am: I won't go to the garage to get the camera out of the car to snap a shot of it. I will, however, use the 'sposie camera we have and when (if) those are developed, I'll post it. ...there. Just snapped it for posterior. Er, posterity.

Bored

Updated with an actual photo of him in the actual position that has me actually freaked out.

Seriously. How can that be comfortable? And then? Then? He rolls the rest of the way onto his tummy and freaks the fuck out because he doesn't remember how to roll back.

I don't really have much to write about, though I have a few things percolating below the surface. So in the meantime, I shall inundate you with photos of my offspring. Suck it up!

Word to my homies

Whatever he's on, I want some

Who sleeps like that?!

What's that song?

We were cozily ensconced on the couch watching Austin City Linits (Jason Mraz/Fountains of Wayne from last week - great show) and it occured to me: hey! why is payola illegal but all the drug reps can hand out endless swag to get docs to prescribe and that's totally okay? Legally, I mean. I have serious ethical issues with it though I will freely admit I also have a lot of said swag so I'm probably a hypcrite. I heart my Zoloft mug! Just don't put it in the microwave.

Husband specualted it's because the airwaves belong to the government and you need a license to use them, but stations sell acess to them all the time: advertising. Drug dispensing requires a license as well, so shouldn't the dispensing of toys, trips, magnets, pens, whatever, be as illegal as the A&R rep trick of sending a left shoe to a DJ, promising the right one upon completion of X rotaions of Y song?

Seems to me it oughta be. Or else they should both be legal. Or maybe I'm missing the point entirely. Quite likely, actually.

Does anyone out there know the technical details on the whys and wherefores on this?

Well, now

I'm totally changing browsers.

Blogged with Flock

a test

I'm trying out a new browser that lets me blog from the file tab. Do it work?

Chatty Cathy

AMP is quite the talking dude. Even as I type, he's discussing the day with his left index finger. Sometimes another digit wanders into the conversation, but for the most part, he's pretty well tuning everyone else out. I wonder what they're talking about?

He has a lot to say. He'll scrunch up his forehead so he looks like a shar-pei puppy, then launch into what I'm sure is a soliloquy worthy of Shakespeare. Or at least Boohbah <>.

I was listening recently to a file of Perp babbling. It's astounding to me that even before she was remotely verbal, her cadance was in place. You can hear, even back then, exactly how she was going to speak, her inflections, pauses, etc. Crazy. I need to find that goddamned italk so I can record him, too. Not to mention saving Perp's crazy mispronunciations.

In other developmental news, he can now reliably reach for and grab things, at least the ones hanging on his play mat. Big shakes!

He still sleeps in what seems like it should be the most uncomfortable position ever. I haven't dumped my pics yet but as soon as I do, I'll sift through and find a good one. This will have to suffice in the meantime. It doesn't capture the wrenching or cranking he does with his back and neck, but hey, it's still kinda cute.

et voila (but I'm still waiting to get him in the cosleeper):

I heart Site Meter

Seriously, I think I'm addicted. Every day, whether I post or not, I go check my stats. I look at referrals, out clicks, and locations, at least.

It's the referrals that are becoming most interesting to me. They tell you how a reader got to you, whether it's backtracking a comment post (Hi maboudica!), google (I've discussed this before, but I'm STILL getting hits via those searches. I'm starting to fear for a number of children out there, I swear.

It's crazy to me; I know that I get a fair number of hits from a moms board I frequent, and a few from family (hi!), but the rest are either links from blogs, the next blog function of Blogger, or random searches. I have no idea, based on hits, how many readers are out there, but my hit count is increasing a bit day by day (as in, I think I'm getting more new hits as opposed to increased current readers if that makes sense). As more and more people come here from farther and farther afield, ihe image of the 'net as a giant web makes more and more sense.

I've been online since 1986, starting out on the WELL. I eventually moved to coding my own page in the early '90s, before FrontPage or any other HTML publising programs. I've seen the rise of the web from the very start. And I shit you not, checking my stats and more or less being able to stalk people who drop by might be the most fun I've had.

Blabber.com

Perp has trouble with a few sounds. She can't make F sounds reliably, to our great and everlasting joy (we have some issues that often express themselves with words that start with F). It makes hearing her say her name especially amusing, though.

For instance: fish is "hish." Fork is "hork." She also has some trouble with hard C sounds, though not always. She calls the chicks "kicks," but can say "kicks" so maybe it's a sound she can't hear yet; despite this, she can say "choo-choo" and "clothes." Odd bird.

I'm not worried, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it's funny to hear her refusing or inable to make a sound in one word but perfectly able to use it in another.

It's interesting to watch someone learn to talk but I didn't think it would be so amusing.

Bad day to be a squirrel

When we bought this house, we wanted to live in the country, with all its attendant glories. We have a pond (now with muskrats!), umpteen outbuildings, several acres of open field and another 10 of woods.

We also have mice.

We were okay with the rodentitial visitors until they started leaving evidence in the silverware drawer. That's when Husband bit the bullet and sent me out for a cat. A nice cat. With no claws, if possible, and one that won't suffocate the baby while she sleeps.

Armed with this list of requirements (and with one or two of my own) I hied myself to the shelter to search for The Cat.

I wanted a female, knowing the spraying issue would be infinitely less likely, and because I just dig chick cats. There was only one female at the shelter, a skinny, scared, blue with the most gorgeous green eyes. She'd been there for several months, according to the volunteer, and was pretty skittish. It was a bit of a struggle to catch and box her up, but I was able to leave, mission accomplished, with Thelma the Cat.

She spent the first several months lurking in the basement. She came upstairs at night to eat and drink, but otherwise chose a subterranean life. I think the noise and smells would be enough to send anyone over the edge, let alone an unsocialized basically feral kitty.

One day, I was getting something out of the basement and I saw her peeking out from behind the chimney. There was a narrow leash hanging on a nail next to me, and I dangled it in front of her, to see how she'd react. She batted at it for a second then backed away and hid. I knew I had her, though. She was so totally a string whore and I was going to work that angle like a dimestore pony.

So for several days after, I'd sit on the stairs into the basement with a string and toss it in, reel it back. Toss, reel, toss, reel. Flyfishing for kitties. One day, she took the bait and came close enough for me to scratch her forehead. That's all it took. Kitty ho'bag was in my back pocket.

She started coming upstairs at night to sit in the living room while we watched (far too much) tv. Then she started sitting on the back of the couch. Soon she was coming upstairs to our room and sleeping at my feet.

Now, she's a completely different animal from the scared, skinny thing I brought home. Well, she's still skinny, but healthily so. Svelte, I should think. She adores Perp, lies next to AMP if he has to wait for me to get him from the cosleeper, and shares the bed in front of the fireplace with the dog. Perp can do anything to this cat, and has never, not once, so much as looked cross-eyed at the child. Which is something I do several times a day. At minimum.


So you can imagine my surprise when I saw this tonight



I will spare you the closeup.

Mannerisms

We're working on teaching Perp some manners, so people don't make the (correct) assumption that she was raised by wolves. Heathen wolves. In a barn.

She's been pretty good at saying "please," since I started giving her just about anything she asked for if it was preceded by the magic word. Now I'm cutting back on it and making her work for her goodies. Not so popular with the ankle biting set, I must say.

She's fallen, lately, into the unfortunate habit of saying "yeah" whenever she answers in the affirmative. I decided it was time to step it up a notch and work on talkin' proper. Now when I ask her if she wants something I repeat the question until she answers, "Yes, pwease!"

Tonight, as with every night, Husband got her ready for bed. He put her on the potty and left her to do her business, as she prefers. She's a retiring lass who needs her privacy. Ha! See, right there? I made a funny.

She was off in the bathroom for a few minutes, then wandered back in the living room, congratulating herself on a job well done. Husband asked, "Are you ready for your pajamas and a dipey?"

"Yes, PWEASE!"

Apropos of nada

Lunch: hideous mcdonalds and ONCE AGAIN they managed to fuck up my simple "extra pickle, extra mustard" request and give me neither. How freaking hard is it? Even for people with no frontal lobe, it should be doable.

I bought two bottles of pomegranate juice and I may not even share with the Perp.

Mango martinis (yes *tired sigh* I know it's not a real martini but fuck off, they're my taste buds) are the bestest drink of EVER and I'm happy to pay $8 for them. HAPPY. Especially 'cause they come in a pint glass.

Blueberries in excess make for a scary (but oddly pretty!) diaper.

King Friday is a freak:
"Propel, propel, propel your craft
gently down the liquid solution.
Ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically,
Existence is but an illusion."

Google marketing

So for those of you with gmail -what? you don't have gmail? it's only the bestest webmail program around! shame on you! shame! - I'm sure you've noticed the sponsored links at the top of the page. Every once in a while, I'm struck by one. Today's:

I Am Extremely Wealthy - www.WasabiMarketing.com - Be Wealthy Yourself in 6 Months I Will Personally Train You Now

A) I love the name Wasabi Marketing. I love wasabi. I love any horseradish, but especially one you can get in a tube.

B) How much money is involved when you declare yourself to be extremely wealthy? Is it, like, "I have a share in a private jet" wealthy? "I OWN a private jet," or "I buy expensive things at discount at Overstock and flaunt them to my friends in order that they might feel my wealth and despair"? Whatever, it's probably more than I make. ...I don't get a paycheck, see? That was ironic humor. Ha.

3) No number 3, but I did want to point out the lack of punctuation in the link. I hate that.

C) I am in a rambly mood so brace yourself for a flurry of more or less pointless posts.

Memes

What's with all the memes about the 'net? I see 'em on just about a daily basis, but I never manage to find the originator. So, I'm going to do a meme even though I wasn't tagged, and then I'm going to start one up and tag somebody. Ain't no law says I can't!

5 Items in my Fridge:
hummus
head of lettuce
gallon of milk
acidophillus
gripe water

5 Items in my Closet:
little black dress
pashmina shawl
faux pashmina shawl
purses I don't use
heels I don't wear

5 Items in my Car:
car seat
carseat (can I count two? yes. I said so.)
diaper bag
ipod
gallon of washer fluid

5 Items in my Bag:
diapers
change of clothes for each kid
snax
burp cloths
nail file

5 Items on my Desk (at home):
I don't have a desk. I must suck.

5 Items Growing in my Garden:
tomatoes
zucchini
raspberry volunteers
onions (leeks? scallions? I have no idea)
four or five bales of hay, unstrung


4 favorite foods other people think are disgusting:
Chicken livers and gizzards (especially fried, with hot sauce)
Peanut butter and honey sammiches (*how* does anyone think that's gross? it rules!)
Sushi (mmmm, sushi)
Tofu

4 favorite books (kid or adult, picture or chapter):
The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien
His Dark Materials trilogy, Philip Pullman
Mistress Masham's Repose, TH White
Five Children and It, E. Nesbit

4 most favorite places in the world:
Bed (especially with a good book, cup of tea, and a thunderstorm)
Las Vegas
Libraries/bookstores
Sidewalk cafes

4 foods you won't eat on a dare:
sweatbreads
chitterlings
pig knuckles
sheep's eyes


Devan, Nessa, Dyke One, Shelli: tagged!

Shout out

to my bich, headhebe, who fired up a blog today. She's cranky. She's funny. She's the bomb.

Aw, hell

One more cool site to suck up my time. At least with this one, I'll have something concrete to show for my time: graphs! I am such the geek that I'll totally be paying for this. If nothing else, it could help me figure out what Perp's eczema triggers are. And how often AMP poops, 'cause it's not frequent or regular, as far as I can tell.

Geek out.

Dear Google

I know that I jokingly mentioned that I must hate my kids because I dared to have a homebirth. And I know that you base your searches on some complicated hoodoo combo of science and witchcraft. But that person REPEATEDLY searching I HATE MY KIDS? please stop sending them here. It's freaking me out.

Other search phrases that freak me the fuck out (and not only because they led to my little corner of the 'net):

"stall next" peeing blog <--- did someone have a vague memory of reading my labor story or is this a fetish?

that monica sure do suck hard <--- I can't even imagine

But the kid-hating seach? Six times. It's popped up six times on my Site Meter referral listing. That's just tragic. Is it the same parent, searching over and over for something to either validate or condemn, or is it six actual people? Either way, searcher, please consider talking to someone about this, therapist, pastor, priest, rabbi, whatever. But this isn't the place to find your answers. I just shoot my mouth off a lot and happened to fall under your radar. Good luck.

Cool!

I'm not sure I'd pay for it, but I'm positive I wouldn't do the spreadsheet, so...

Trixie Tracker

I'm just geeky enough to be drooling over this. I bet it could actually help me track and solidify his naptimes... crap, one more freaking site to bother with. Stupid internet.

The Whys and Wherefores

I've noticed recently that many of the blogs I read are written by women who are dealing or have dealt with infertility. I'm not sure why, but out of the long list of writers in my blogroll, they stand out. Are these women fantastic writers who also happen to have been dealt a supremely shitty card? Is there something about this experience that brings out the writer in them? I assume it's just that they happen to write well and have had this experience and there it is. Maybe it's like forging steel: a trial by fire produces the strongest, most resiliant metal. Forgive the clumsy metaphor, as with a lot of my posts, I'm just dropping these duds where they lay and pretending they make sense.

Some of the best days are when I go to read one of the infertile blogs and I find a picture of a positive HPT; I just want to weep. Sometimes I do. To come back, too often, and read of loss, repeated loss, early, late, stillbirth, strikes at the core of me. As much as they drive me insane, as tired as I can be, as angry as I can be, I can't imagine life without my kids. They came to me so easily, I feel like I've gotten away with something. I've had two pregnancies and two kids, easy peasy. Yet women I feel I've come to know struggle so hard to even become pregnant, let alone carry to term. But I want them to know that I think about them every day, and I wish so much for them to succeed, whether it's with a healthy term pregnancy and easy delivery, adoption, or deciding that enough is enough.

I'm not sure how to talk to the few friends I have who are going through treatments. I've read Tertia's post but of course every person is different and what applies to her may be the absolute wrong thing to say to someone else. I know myself well enough, though, to know that chances are just about 100% that I'd say the wrong thing. My instinct is always to try to defuse a tense situation with humor, and I suspect that my feeble attempts would only make everything worse and paint me as a complete asshole. I have to admit that I've been tempted to say exactly what Tertia says not to do: "Hey, you can have my kids."

It's a hard thing to be supportive to someone who is going through something that you cannot fathom. I hope that when I stumble while trying in my clumsy way to be encouraging, I don't do more harm than good.

So I don't generally comment on these blogs. But if you happen to read this, please know I'm out here, rooting for you and sharing your joys and sorrows in the best way I can. And I'm spreading the word.

Help me, internets!

I screwed up my formatting somehow and now all my links are at the bottom of the page. I can't figure out what I did or how. Anyone? Bueller?

I can't even remember her cute words without writing them down:

she likes to have a glass of ernch juice or peeled ernch sections with her breakfast.
Pa-Moose the Tank Engine sends her into paroxysms of delight.
MeeMash (Uh, Honey, it's Asher...), the dog likes to play with her.
We got a batch of kicks that are brooding in the garage until they're old enough to go into the coop with the other hens.
She loves a cheesy slice of peetspees (extra sauce, please!).

Polygamy, the law, and you

Forgive my my mental diarrhea, I'm just riffing here and haven't bothered to edit or firm up my arguments. A delicate mini rant, if you will.

Okay, I'm back on the polygamy tip. There's a debate going on at a board I frequent, about gay marriage. As it always does, the discussion has turned to the subject of polygamy. As in, "If we let the gays marry, the next thing will be allowing polygamy." And don't even get me started on the marrying animals rant.

What's with the Right's argument, here? For a group whose members often claim to accept the Bible as the literal word of God, they sure like to pick and choose. The Bible is FULL of polygynous marriages. And if it's in the Bible, it's okay, right? Like slavery. Or killing all the women and children during war. Rape.

It's not like these guys are stealth husbands, secretly marrying women without their knowledge, sneaky thief spouses. The women are fully aware of what's taking place. Yes, yes, there are groups like Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (FLDS), who essentially hold their women hostage (there's an actual Underground Railroad for those who want to escape). There are also, though, thousands of families throughout the country who simply believe in the Principle. I'm fairly certain that the women in these relationships were receptive to the idea and didn't wake up one morning with some random guy claiming that they were now part of his family.

I don't see how ANY group of people who want to be part of a family unit, who want to raise children (or not), garden, mow lawns, pay taxes, and participate in society, shouldn't be able to, out in the open, and with no shame.

I lived in the Castro District in San Francisco for several years. It is the gayest area of the gayest city in the country, possibly the world. Seeing GLBT couples walking down the street holding hands; kissing; strolling with their kids; hell, shopping for groceries seemed to me like the most normal thing in the world. I suspect that the sight of a plural marriage group, composed of adults who entered into it with open minds and full hearts, should be the same.

eta: I totally spaced that I hadn't posted my original polygamy post yet, so it's down below. Duh. Baby brain!

Dreamfeed

Have you heard of this? It's when you feed a baby whilst s/he's still asleep, to get them through the night without waking. I'm not quite sure how you manage it with a breastfed baby, but I suppose it could be done.

But this isn't about dreamfeeds. It's about feeding dreams. The other night, I dreamed that I was nursing a 25-year-old man. It wasn't during the Dustbowl, it wasn't for erotic purposes, it was just ... lunch. I don't remember much about the rest of the dream, but that's some fucked up shit, man.


As long as I'm here:

• A week or so ago, Husband and I were lying in bed, observing The Dude bicycling his legs and generally flailing about. We both speak for The Dude on a fairly regular basis, as one must do for the pre-verbal and dogs, since, duh, they can't talk for themselves.
  
  Me: Man, he sure gots some busy little hams, there.
  DH: I can't crawl yet but when I can I'm totally gonna fuck some shit up.
  
  So maybe it was funnier in the moment but I nearly peed my pants.
  

• Perp likes to play peek-a-boo. For some reason, she calls it "boo-boo." She loves it when Mr. Rogers plays boo-boo. She adores sitting in her carseat, covering her face, and crying, "OH, NO!!" while I pretend I can't see her. Then I spot her in the mirror and she goes ballistic with joy. The other day, I was putting on a shirt and Perp, as usual, pointed out that I was topless: "Na-na!". She loves my breasts. She pokes them, holds each like a sandwich when she nurses, and generally includes them in her daily running commentary. As I pulled my top down, she chirped, "Boo-boo, na-na!"
  

• With two kids in the house, I sometimes neglect my own stomach at mealtimes. Today I had a can of Diet Coke (with Splenda! I heart Splenda) for breakfast. Lunch (3 o'clock) was half a tuna "samoosh" with cheese and crackers. So a lot of times I find myself furtively gobbling the remains of Perp's lunch while I'm trailing after her in the wake of her destruction. The kid eats well, I must say.
  

• The Dude has unerring aim and timing. He never neglects to baptise me in a stream of fresh-made cheese just after I've changed my shirt from the last round. And I never manage to have a burp rag on hand. You'd think I'd have learned by now. Perp was a prodigious puker, full-bore projectile hurling at the drop of a hat, and I always at least managed to have an extra shirt on hand (except the times I bragged about how clever I was to always have an extra shirt on hand, in which case, well, I didn't). At least he hasn't pissed on me above the neck. *whew*

My Big Problem with Big Love

Actually, it's a problem with the law surrounding polygamy. How is it illegal? I mean, take the show, for instance: Bill is only married to one woman, Barb. He has a legal marriage with her and "legitimate" children with her. He has this unrecognized relationship with the others. Where's the problem? He's not stealing from the people by getting unwarranted public aid benefits. He takes care of his family and they entered into it willingly. Where's the beef?

Travel conundrum

Dear friends what live inside my infernal computation device,

I have plans to head East with the poppets this July, and I have three options:

Fly
Drive
Train

There are distinct advantages and disadvantages to each method of locomotion (including locomotion!) and I seriously can't decide which is the least insane.

My MIL is going with me, then we're parting ways in DC, NY, somewhere out there. I can have a brother, my dad, or my stepmonster meet me for the trip to VA, but the part that I need help with is getting to the coast.

Flying
Pros: like ripping off a bandaid, a few hours and it's all over.
faster, so we're spending more time with Grandma and Grandpa and the uncles.
less disruption of what little routine we have

Cons: given her nuclear meltdown on the last flight, it could make for rough sailing.
lugging all that shit sucks balls, pure and simple
monumentally uncomfortable for a few hours

Driving
Pros: See the country! Stop whenever and wherever you like! Smell the roses!
DVD player for to entertain Certain People
Road trip!

Cons:
Road trip!
Gas prices!
Car seat insanity!

Train
Sleeper car!
Extended trip, but with the ability to run around while traveling
See the country! Smell the roses!

Cons:
Possible extended layovers when cganging trains in Chicago
Frankly, the room descriptions are a little icky.
More expensive than flying or driving. By a lot. A whole lot.

Help me, friends. What would you do in this situation?

Word to the wise

If your toddler comes up to you asking to have her hands washed and she has not been painting, do not ask why. Do not inspect her hands. Do NOT smell her hands. Simply wash them, with a lot of soap, then change her diaper.

That is all.

Snooze you can use

Find your own pose!

Excalibur Traits and Tendencies Excalibur couples may battle just as much as other couples (and participate in more than their fair share of public huffs), but they look so good together, it outweighs any other deficiencies they may share. It isn't that they're classically good-looking, or similarly sized (though certainly both those pairings are permissible). It's more that the aesthetic chord they strike satisfies in profound ways. Like gorgeously plated food or song filled with unusual harmonies, the wan and freckled hand-in-hand with the tragically tan, the pigeon-toed with the duck-walkers, these Excalibur couples achieve such perfection in their pairing that reminds the world that anything is possible.

Comfort Zone Excalibur is in the Wind pose family. Other Wind poses you might enjoy include Softserve Swirl and The Ventriloquist.

Health Note An unexpected rash or orthopedic adjustment can sometimes lead an Excalibur couple to fall out of balance. Physical adjustments may need to be made, or an entirely new pose could even be in order.

I'm in the money

or at least BlogShares. My stock is going up, baby.





Okay, I'll confess right here that I know NOTHING about this fantasy market, but I'm in it somehow, so I feel like I should pay attention. I'm bullish on this one, kids.

'Fess up, internets.

Hey, Australia! how'd you find me? Canada, what's your story? London! I've got a reader in London! Or a passerby, I'm not sure, but still! London!

I'm curious to know about readers. I read a lot (LOT) of blogs and I sort of work my way around the world on a daily basis, South Africa, London, Scotland (I think), all over the US, Canada. Now it seems there are some internets out there who are doing the same thing and my little corner is one of their stops along the way.

So tell me about yourselves. Where are you from? How'd you come across my ranty little refrigerator-box clubhouse?

My hands! I can see my hands!

Tonight, just a while ago while I was trying to get my asshole son a Certain Baby to go to sleep, he discovered his hands. I don't remember Perp having that moment, at least when I was there to see it, so it was nice to catch it this time around. And funny!

I'm trying to get him into a better sleeping groove, down about an hour and a half to two hours after the last time he woke up, but it's slow going. He's not the best napper. I mean, he'll nap, but not for long periods, at this point at least. Here's hoping!

We were lying on the bed after a nice, long snort and I was hoping he'd just nod off on his own but he was so busy checking out his mitts that he forgot to sleep. Aw! Awww!

I don't think he'll have this much fun watching his fingers until he drops his first hit of acid.

While we're on the subject

of motherhood (we were, anyway, so back to it!), I found this lovely post by Selkie. I'm not a Christian, at least not by practice, but what she has to say overall (and so beautifully!) is as relevent to a Muslim or a Jew as to a Buddhist or Taoist, I think. Hell, I even know a couple atheists who might appreciate her view.

McCreepy

Mr. McFeely freaks me the fuck out. I don't know why, precisely. Maybe it's the jerky movements and half-stoop. For sure it's his hair. Overall, though, there's just something about his mannerisms that set my Freak-O-Meter to dinging.

Unfortunately, Perp is passionately in love with Mr. Rogers' trolley, so I have to deal with McFreaky on a fairly regular basis.

The things we do for our kids.

The Smackytown Post hits the stands

Generate a snippet

Once in a while

our otherwise shitty newspaper prints something I actually want to read:

DNT



In the middle of it all
BY JANE BRISSETT
NEWS TRIBUNE STAFF WRITER

Like his six brothers and sisters, Henry George Moeller VI was brought into the world by a midwife, but with one difference.

They were born in the hospital. He was born in the comfort of his parents' bed.

The 8-pound baby was perfect, healthy and squalling as his mother, Beth Moeller, cradled and nursed him. After dad, Henry Moeller V, and sisters Ellie, 11, and Annaka, 10, held him, he was passed to his grandmother and friends who had watched his birth.

It was a joyful ending to a long night for the woman who delivered him, certified nurse-midwife Katie Sandell.

Sandell wasn't more than a few feet away from Beth from the time she arrived at her home about 9:30 p.m. April 14 until she left after 5 a.m. April 15. She had planned to leave to celebrate Easter weekend with her family in the Twin Cities, but Beth was intent on having an Easter baby.

After a little manual stimulation of Beth's cervix and administration of a couple of homeopathic medications early Friday, labor advanced during the evening, and Sandell's plans for a Good Friday departure were dashed.

'SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGE'

Sandell is one of about 7,000 certified nurse-midwives in the nation.

Midwives see their role as attending to the woman and letting nature take its course. They try to avoid intervening or using technology unless it's called for.

"The midwifery model of care really looks at the woman and her health in a family context," Sandell said. "It's our job to support and encourage, side by side with the woman and her family, instead of being in a position of power over the woman, or dictating to the woman."

Sandell charges $2,900 per delivery, and insurance sometimes pays for her services. A local hospital delivery without complications can cost more than $14,000, including physician and hospital bills.

Nurse-midwifery practice is legal in all states and Washington, D.C. In most states, including Minnesota, nurse-midwives can prescribe medications. They also perform annual exams and provide reproductive health care for women.

Prenatal office visits typically last an hour. While following the pregnancy during monthly appointments at her office early on -- and more frequent visits later -- Sandell talks with expectant mothers about what's important in their lives, not just the physical state of pregnancy.

She accepts only women with low-risk pregnancies -- "the cream of the crop," she calls them -- because she only attends home births. Midwives in this region who deliver at home don't perform Caesarean sections, deliver twins or take on other difficult cases.

Sandell has a bachelor's degree in nursing and a master's degree in midwifery from the University of Minnesota. She said she has delivered more than 100 babies.

HANDFUL OF MIDWIVES

Sandell is one of a handful of midwives in the Duluth area. Another one, certified nurse-midwife Mary Johnson, is affiliated with the Min-No-Aya-Win clinic in Cloquet.

Two others, who have independent practices, are Monica Liddle of Duluth and Leah Hatcher of Solon Springs. Liddle and Hatcher are certified professional midwives, having met the requirements of the North American Registry of Midwives, which include written exams and experience. About 800 people have been issued certified professional midwife certificates, according to the American College of Nurse-Midwives.

Minnesota has voluntary licensing of midwives, and Wisconsin recently passed a licensing law last month that has not yet taken effect.

Certified nurse-midwives such as Sandell attend about 10 percent of the nation's births, or about 300,000 of them in 2003. Ninety-six percent of those births take place in hospitals, 2 percent in free-standing birth centers and 1 percent at home, according to the American College of Nurse Midwives.

"For a (certified nurse-) midwife to be in an independent practice like me is very unusual," Sandell said.

Sandell worked as a nurse-midwife at Fairview Riverside Medical Center in Minneapolis in the 1990s. Fairview and other large Twin Cities hospitals give nurse-midwives the right to deliver babies in their hospitals.

In Duluth, Johnson is the only midwife with hospital privileges. She has had them at St. Luke's for about five years. "I do everything that any other family physician would do when delivering a baby," she said.

St. Mary's Medical Center had a nurse-midwife, but she left a few years ago, spokeswoman Kim Kaiser said.

POLITE AND HELPFUL

In England and other countries, midwives routinely deliver babies. They aren't as well-accepted in the United States, but the National Institute of Medicine has recommended more use of nurse-midwives to provide women's health care.

The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists and the American College of Nurse-Midwives issued a joint statement in 2002 urging "mutual respect and trust" when the physician specialists and nurse-midwives work together.

Sandell, Liddle and Hatcher say that the local physician community, while polite and helpful, in general doesn't favor home births. Some doctors, however, provide backup for midwives and take over if a birth turns complicated.

"When it comes to home birth, it's hard to find an OB that would embrace home birth. They tend to think it's not safe," Sandell said, referring to obstetricians.

If an expectant mother were brought to a hospital in a crisis situation, "I think everybody would respond to the best of their ability," said Dr. Gary Peterson, vice president of medical affairs for St. Luke's hospital and a family physician at the Denfeld Medical Center.

"Many of us have had experiences when things have gone bad and we've been very glad to have the resources of the hospital," Peterson said, emphasizing that he wasn't speaking for the entire medical staff.

Sandell, Liddle and Hatcher don't have hospital privileges, so they always have a backup physician, in case the patient needs to be admitted.

Some physicians might not be willing to participate in care related to a planned home birth, Peterson said.

DIFFERENT APPROACH

Beth Moeller said that during her experiences as a labor and delivery coach, she has observed "huge differences" in traditional physician-attended births and those attended by midwives.

For example, she remembered one time when a nurse pushed the baby back until the doctor arrived. "I vowed I would never, ever, ever witness something like that again," she said.

Midwives tout a safe and natural approach to birth, saying their care is unrushed. They say they approach childbirth as a normal function, not an illness.

Last summer, the prestigious British Medical Journal published a study of home births that involved certified professional midwives in the United States and Canada.

Twelve percent of the mothers who expected to deliver at home were taken to the hospital for interventions such as epidurals, forceps assistance or Caesarean sections.

"These rates were substantially lower than for low-risk U.S. women having hospital births," the study said. Death rates for mothers and babies in the study were similar to low-risk hospital births.

A study by the American College of Nurse-Midwives found that the Caesarean section rate for clients of certified nurse-midwives was 4.8 percent lower than that of obstetricians and 7.8 percent lower than family physicians. The Caesarean delivery rate was nearly 28 percent in 2003, the study said.

Bridgitte Baker, one of Sandell's clients, intended to have her baby at home, but she ended up delivering Nolan Trey Baker in the hospital last June.

It was a disappointing, emotional decision to have a Caesarean after 38 hours of labor; Sandell and Baker were in tears before the surgery.

But last week, Baker said Sandell's decision was for the best. "I think she made the best choices she could. I guess if I had another baby, I'd do it with a midwife if I could," she said.

The Moellers definitely would have another home birth if they were to have more children, Beth said.

Sandell examined Beth and baby Henry at the Moellers' home two days after the baby's birth.

The baby was still a little jaundiced and black-and-blue from his birth, but he passed muster with Sandell. His mother was in high spirits, feeling good and chatting with Sandell as though she were a close friend. By that time, she was.

As Sandell left, her client gave her a long hug. "I love you. I do, I do," Beth said.
News Tribune staff writer Janna Goerdt contributed to this report.

As a mother, not so much

I've been thinking about Mothers Day lately. So has much of the blogosphere. I love that so much of what I've seen is about the dirty, smelly truth of it all, how ugly and hurtful, wonderful and terrible it can be.

The cooing baby lying fetchingly in its cradle too easily supplants the trials and embarrasement of labor, I think. What you see in the media and in most books is the rosy, downy-headed ideal of it all: the soundly sleeping baby; the cozy mornings in the nursery as the rising sun softly paints the walls; the first laugh, steps, words. As a result, it seems like women are afraid to talk about the rage and isolation that can come with having children. Like they're bad mothers if they even so much as think that maybe this whole motherhood thing isn't as great as everyone said it would be. Even worse, I think some start to think there's something wrong with them for not being 24/7 head-over-heels in love with their children. That's starting to change--and about time--but not fast enough for my taste.

Every now and then, you see what's been hastily swept under the rug. Brooke Shields blew the barn doors open when she publically revealed her battle with postpartum depression. Liv Tyler lambasted other celebrity moms for rushing to lose their pregnancy weight too fast. For the most part, though, celebrity mothers have nothing to say about motherhood but how wonderful it is, how fullfilling, how they can't imagine anything as entirely glorious. Feh. Give me a nanny, driver, cook, housekeeper, and personal trainer and I'd have nothing but sunshine coming out my ass, too.

Most of us, however, muddle through as best we can with no one to aid us but family if we're lucky, nearby friends if we're not. There isn't enough public discussion about the raw insides of motherhood. I hope that will change soon. Until then, I'm here to rant about it in excruciating detail.

Happy Mothers Day, you.


Five bad motherhood things about me:

• I spend entirely too much time online. Part of that is that we live far enough outside of town that working around the nap schedules of two kids pretty much prevents me from running errands or doing toddler-time activities without sacrificing infant sleep. So I waste a shitload of time socialize online. Oh, and blog. I do that, too.
  
• I am a terribly impatient person and get immensely frustrated when she dawdles or refuses to cooporate. When we need to leave yesterday to get to an appointment and she refuses to get dressed, I get icy and stiff.
  
• I have discovered that I don't like toddlers nearly as much as I like babies. Not to say I don't get a kick out of her on a pretty regular basis, but this independence thing is killing me.
  
• I let her watch more tv than I would like because I'm spending too much time online (see #1 above).
  
• No idea how to entertain a toddler, especially on shitty, cold, rainy days. Which we've had for the better part of a week. Which will continue into next week. Which sucks. Immensely. I leave her to entertain herself a lot more than I think I should because I don't know what to do with her.
  

Five good motherhood things about me:

• Perp eats anything we put in front of her. I put that down to feeding her whatever we're eating and refusing to make food an issue. We'll fight about so much stupid shit in our lifetimes, why make food a battle?
  
• She's sunny, independent, and sociable, mostly due to her inborn nature but fostered by my willingness to hand her over, as a baby, to nearly anyone who asked. Or so I tell myself. She never had stranger or separation anxiety.
  
• Both my children were breastfed since the day they were born. Perp continues to nurse several times a day at over 2 years of age.
  
• I am a Good Enough Mom.
  
• I honestly can't think of a fifth item. How fucked up is that?
  

Enough with the cuteness!

Exhibit A: The day before yesterday, The Dude and I were hanging out on the bed having nakey baby time. Okay, for the pedants, it was dipey baby time, I'm not INSANE. Perp was bouncing around on the bed (Husband thinks it's cute, I think. I think it's potentially dangerous and bad for my side of the bed which is the only side that seems to leak --air mattress adjustable dealies, very comfy but exasperating my god this is a convoluted aside. It's also a good way to smash the baby, and I'm sort of on the Against It side.

So. Perp is upset because I told her no jumping and made her sit down. She noted, with some interest, AMP's teeny little baby nipples. She poked at them for a second, looked at me, and said, "Na-na?" Yes, I said, baby has na-na, too.

She looked and poked again and --wait for it-- leaned over to try and nurse! On a baby! On a boy baby! It was too fucking cute for words! I can't stop!

Exhibit B: The Dude has started talking. Unfortunately, none of us speak Baby, so we try to follow along as best we can. The other day he actually said "A-goo!" You know, that archetypal baby noise that adults always try to make but can't? It's limited to toothless poop bags, apparently. My ovaries are all a-twitter over it. He also does that cute back-of-the-throat gurgle and every once in a while grants me one more baby goat.

Exhibit C: The language explosion. As some of you know, Perp's been in the middle of one for a few weeks now, and I was keeping track of her daily progress for a while. It's gotten to the point that I can't keep up anymore without a transcriptionist on duty (oddly enough, my last job, but I can't type and diaper at the same time, so there you are).

I have, however, made note of a few favorites:
Blanket has gone from bank to wank.
The letter W is duggayouyouyouyou
Pillow = papoo
Thomas (the tank engine) is Pa-Moose Choo-choo

More as they pop up.

Apparently I DO hate my kids

So there's this pretty heated debate going on this week, and I've come to the conclusion that the only reason I went for my homebirth is because I wanted to die, and take my baby with me. Why else would anyone want to stray from the warmth and safety of their local hospital? Well, there's nosocomial infection; iatrogenic problems; avoiding unnecessary and often unadvisable interventions; docs dismissing birth plans out of hand, even when the bullet point in question is valid. For instance, I requested no cord traction, recognizing the increase in uterine involution and subsequent hysterectomy, and my doc said, "Yeah, well I like to do a bit of traction." Um. I'd like for you NOT to, so let's just leave it at that. For starters.

Anyone who knows me from CM knows I wanted my homebirth and that I did a lot of research and soul searching over my decision. Anyone who knows me IRL probably isn't reading this, but they would know the same. Anyone who tries to tell me that I didn't make an informed decision is living in a dream land, as was the resident who told me that the Terbutaline they wanted to give me with Perp's pregnancy was "for slowing down contractions and relaxing the uterus." Actually, Uninformed Resident, it's an asthma medication that just so happens to have the salutory effects you listed. You did not let this little fact slip past your pursed lips, however, so my consent was less than informed, wouldn't you say? The information you did give me was related to the immediate side effects (increased heart rate, primarily). It was a breach of our doctor/patient relationship that you left by the wayside a pretty important fact: Terb isn't approved by FDA for obsetrical patients, it's used off-label and that, my friend, is information a patient needs to make informed consent.

So, off that particular soapbox and back to my primary point: women who choose homebirth are not unfamiliar with the potential problems, even disasters, that may await them at home. Nor are they unaware of the same potential problems or disasters that may await them at the hospital. So they take a calculated risk and choose to have their babies at home where, according to WHO and any number of studies (despite Dr. Amy's statistical gymnastics strongly felt opinion), they are deemed to be *less* at risk of death or injury than they are at home.

The attending at Perp's birth did at least three things that were directly contraindicated in my case. They were interventions that would see a midwife excoriated for dangerous practice, if not outright malpractce, but in hospital they were considered standard procedures.

So I chose to have my baby at home. With a qualified midwife, and just to prove I'm not entirely down on the medical profession, with parallel OB care up to 38 weeks when my OB dropped me because she didn't approve of my plan and didn't want to be liable. How that would ever be possible is hard for me to figure, but okay, now I know where we stand and I won't ever set foot in her office again. Fair dinkum.

And here I sit, 9 weeks later, my homebirthed son in my lap, and I am glad.

Too many thoughts

Things on my mind today:

I'm reading The Mask of Motherhood and it's pissing me off.

I watch too much TV. Some of it Really Good: Sopranos; Big Love; Deadwood. Some of it beyond terrible: American Idol; Plastic Surgery Disasters (okay, anything on the surgery channel). Some of it just plain pisses me off: Babies: Special Delivery; Birth Day.

I don't buy into the Mommy Wars theory that the media promulgates. Why should I care if another woman chooses or needs to work outside the home? Why should they care if I choose to or can stay home?

What is that sticky shit sprayed all over the kitchen floor and why wasn't it cleaned up?

How long before Perp catches up on the sleep she lost while the fam-damn-ily was in town and while I was visiting my mom in St. Paul? 'Cause seriously, she's making me IN.SANE.

Shark attack

AMP is kind of a wild eater. He has eased up a little bit, but he has moments where he lunges at me like a mako shark, banging his head on my breast, his mouth open, whipping his head back and forth like he's blind and can only find the nipple by sense of smell.

It's pretty cute.

He doesn't eat a lot after he goes down for the night. It's been that way since the day he was born, and I'm getting a little tired of waking in a puddle of my own making. My supply is starting to regulate, but even so, from time to time I am awakened by the tickle of a trickle of milk sliding down my side.

That isn't so cute.

I'd really like it if he would either get on with it and sleep the *whole* night through, or do me the favor of having a full goddamned meal when he does deign to awaken.

It's funny, and I know I've rambled about this before, but on some level you know your kids are different people, but it always comes as a surprise when they do something to remind you of that fact. F'rinstance, Perp *detested* the nuk. I spent my pregnancy ranting about 3 year olds with plugs in their faces, and how MY kids weren't going to be given artificial means of calming themselves, goddammit. Witness me two weeks after her birth, buying one of every fucking pacifier on the shelf, praying she'd take one, just one, please, anything for a break from the endless nursingnursingnursinggodmakeitstop.

AMP? He'll suck on anything. Give him a finger, a nipple, or, hey, a chin, whatever you have handy. He even goes for his own hand, and I can't WAIT until he can find it reliably and I can ditch the nuk.

He doesn't, however, seem willing to just nurse for comfort, and sometimes he doesn't want the nuk, either. That's when I really see the difference between the two. Aside from the penis, I mean. Perp's junk is neatly tucked away, like mine, which I think is a much better system, frankly. I mean, come on, how do men take themselves seriously with their tackle just hanging there like that?

Sometimes he is obviously distressed and needs comforting, but the nuk doesn't do it, he doesn't want to nurse, and I can't really find the right position to hold him in. V frustrating, really. He does like the swing, though, so at least we have a go-to if we need it.

Seriously, people

I have GOT to start exercising. What to do, what to do? Pilates? Yoga? Some fucked up machine-based program at the Y, since we pay for a membership but don't use it?

I like the idea of Pilates, and yoga, actually (I keep typing yoda), but it has to be on a DVD because the only available classes are at 7 am or 7 pm and the 7 am doesn't have daycare and the 7 pm is at 7 pm.

Watching Trainspotting as I type. Ewan McGregor is H.O.T. He managed to lose 30 pounds for this role. I don't need to lose 30 pounds, so really I should be able to pul this off. I mean, his job is to lose the weight for the part, and that gives him a lot more incentive. Plus, he probably had a trainer and someone to advise him on food.

Actually, that's a whole new rant I haven't gotten into yet. Women (primarily, I'm sure some men do, too) spend all this time looking at movie stars and wishing they could look like that, forgetting that it's the stars' JOB to look that way. So they spend HOURS every day working out, hire cooks, trainers, and probably people who scream obscenities at them if they so much as look at a fudgesicle. I don't doubt that they participate in a bit of pharmaceutical assistance as well, but maybe I'm cynical.

So I have 5-10 lb I'd like to lose, or barring that, a flabby gut I'd like to tone. I'd be more than happy to keep the weight if I could just tighten things up. I have ... muffin top. Probably from eating too fucking many MUFFINS.