It's been quiet in these here parts

I cannot imagine that the few of you who read this are unaware of our impending move to Baltimore, but if you are, guess what? We're moving to Baltimore.

Which is why I've been scarce around here; too busy trying to maintain what's left of my sanity while we pack, move, and take care of a bazillion details that I'm quite likely to forget.

However, I just now read that the scary, android Duggar family is going to have their 19th child. Nineteen children. Jiminy fucking Cricket. I can barely manage the one. Nineteen? How do you remember their names, or their individual personality traits? How do you possibly spend any quality time with any one child? 

Look, normally I try not to judge other people. (Unless they play or coach for opposing football teams.) But in this case, I'm hard-pressed not to because these people are not having children because they love kids Just That Much. They're doing it because they belong to the Quiverfull Movement, the primary purpose of which is to have as many fucking children as you can and raise them all to be the kind of Christian that might intimidate even a fundamentalist. Their goal is to populate the world with people who think like they do. Overpopulation issues? Screw it. Diminishing resources? Up yours. Far too many children living in orphanages overseas? Eh, they're heathens anyway. We're going to have our own, and we're going to raise 'em up right. Which includes, sickeningly, raising the girls to take care of their younger siblings because By God, all they're good for are their reproductive organs, anyway. These girls won't go to college, they'll be living their lives in the kitchen and the maternity ward. (Or, thanks to the media, on television.) 

I think out of all of this inherent insanity, the treatment of the girls is the one that enrages me the most. Believe what you want, do what you want, but don't sentence your children to a fate that they'll accept blindly because they've never been exposed to anything else. You want to be a walking baby machine? By all means, it's your rabidly abused uterus. But think about your daughters instead of yourself, just for once.

And on that note, the oldest son is married and his wife is expecting (at 20!) their first next month. When I read that several months ago, my immediate reaction was, "And when's Ma Duggar going to remind her that she is the Queen in this litter?" I wish I'd been disappointed by the result. But I wasn't.

Last item: It looks (according to Wikipedia, at least) as though the movement is promulgated by women. Which is scary and absolutely incomprehensible, at least to me. But then I think about the Duggar girls, who have never known any option than this one, and it all makes sense. Well, as much sense as anything about this can.

It's not her hearing...

I know that it can't be; we just had her four-year checkup and she passed the hearing test with flying colors. So why. Can the child. NOT. LISTEN?!

The other day, just to test whether she could actually say the word "yes," I asked her if she wanted some chocolate chip cookies. T told me that wasn't fair. But I was genuinely concerned that her mouth couldn't form the word.

I've tried the 1-2-3 Magic shit, I've tried timeouts, I've tried taking things away. Doesn't matter... she does not want to do whatever it is you ask/tell (tried both) her to do. I seriously think that she could be on fire and I could tell her to douse herself with water to put out the flames and she'd say, "No, I don't want to."

I'm about at the end of my rope. Any suggestions, other than me being committed? (Which sounds entirely too appealing at this point.) Help meeeeeee....

So she's either going to be a con artist or a lawyer

Exhibit A: Last week, one of her former teachers told me that they'd been on the playground and that she had been sitting on a bench with one of A's classmates. A sidled up, took stock of the situation, and (according to the teacher), got a crafty look. She tapped the other little girl on the shoulder and said, "Hey, there's a swing open for you!" The other girl ran off and A sat down next to the teacher and confided, "There's not really a swing open. I just wanted to sit next to you."

Exhibit B: Also last week, A asked T if she could have some marshmallows. (We have a bag of mini ones leftover from the birthday cake. And no, don't ask.) He said, "Sure, you can have 10 a day." (This must be some arbitrary marshmallow-divvying rule of which I was previously unaware.) So she downed them, then asked for more, and T reiterated the 10-a-day rule. A short time later, A asked T if he could get out her Dora the Explorer play tent, and he said sure and set it up for her. Then she smiled and said, "Now that we're camping, we need marshmallows to roast."

Exhibit C: Last night, Cleo (nee, NoKitty) was sleeping on A's cardboard cutout of Yoda (also from the birthday; A likes to play with it and frequently lies him down for naps). When A noticed, she immediately got territorial and tried to shoo Cleo off of Yoda. (Things I never thought I'd type, part LCVIII.) We told her to leave Cleo alone. A wandered off and came back with a cat toy and waved it at Cleo. No dice; the cat held her post. So then A went and foraged in the kitchen for a minute and returned with the bag of cat treats. Cleo bit--she got up and ran toward the treats, and A threw them at her and gleefully absconded with Yoda to her playroom.

So, jury, what say you? I'm leaning toward con artist, myself. 

Happy fourth of July!

No, I'm not off on my dates--A turns four today! It's almost impossible to believe that my baby is so "old" already. I have a tendency to get a little melancholy on her birthday, wondering if she's the only child I'll ever have, wistfully remembering when she was younger (and obviously forgetting the nights of crying and no sleep--ah, reflux, I don't miss thee), wishing I could savor those moments again. 

To combat that, I decided to write down my memories of the big day--the first birth day, if you will--so that I don't forget those. Including...

* Almost going into labor in WalMart. Long story short, I couldn't stand T for the last month of my pregnancy--nothing he did, just hormones. But even the sound of his breathing incited me to near-martial rage. The night I went into labor--which was, blessedly, five days earlier than my due date; thank you, full moon--I went on a loooong walk to get out of the house. But dang it, wouldn't you know it, T was still there when I got home. So I went to WalMart. (The fact that I only bought cleaning products should have been a tell-tale sign. Ah, hindsight.) I tarried there for as long as I could, then lumbered home. 10 p.m.: Yep: he was still there. Muttering to myself, I decided to empty the dishwasher. I bent over and then swore to myself, then snapped at T (because it was his fault, of course) that the baby had made me wet my pants (yeah, I know: hindsight.) and that I was going to take a shower. 10:35 p.m.: I get out of the shower, and whoops, realized that it wasn't A, but that my water had broken. So, by my estimate, I was about 45 minutes off of my water breaking in WalMart. Clean up on Aisle 5...

* My refusal to believe that I was, in fact, in labor. Although to be fair, I didn't have my first contraction until an hour after my water broke. I was standing next to the couch, arguing with T because he (being reasonable) wouldn't let me vacuum and I (being hormonally insane) wanted to. I remember that first contraction well; I bent double, clutched at the couch, and groaned, "Shit. This hurts." I also remember the second contraction well, primarily because it came less than three minutes after the first. T told me that wasn't possible; I told him to shut up, we needed to go to the hospital. But... I wouldn't let him bring our bags. Because I was hormonally insane.

* My expression when T looked at me--I was wearing yoga shorts and a t-shirt--and asked if that was what I was going to wear to the hospital.

* Having three contractions between our front doorstep and the sign-in desk for the maternity ward. Keep in mind that we live all of five minutes away from the hospital. During the one in the car, T helpfully (in his mind) told me to try the breathing exercises we'd learned during childbirth education classes. I told him (and I think this is pretty much word for word) that I'd been breathing for my entire fucking life and it hadn't helped so far.

* T taking a picture of me with his camera cell phone while I was in labor. The cell phone later broke. I still maintain my innocence.

* Unabashedly begging the L&D nurse to please, please, PLEASE START THE IV NOW! She did.

* T's helpful comments while watching the contractions on the monitor. These included, "Looks like you're having a contraction" and "That looks like a big one." I was too busy writhing in pain on the bed to provide any proper responses, sadly.

* T having to drive home and get our bags, with the nurse telling him he'd better hurry. Oops.

* Finally getting the blessed epidural. Things were pretty good for awhile after that.

* Pushing for 1 1/2 hours, and panting to the OB every time, "Are you sure we shouldn't do a C-section? I think we should do a C-section." This is only funny if you consider my nine-month-long (hormonally insane) fear that I was going to be tied down and forced to deliver via C-section. 

* T, once again being "helpful," deciding to up the three-reps-of-10 count to 13. I asked him what the hell he was doing and he said, "I thought that would make it go faster."

* The absolutely bizarre sensation of pushing a baby out of an area that you can't even feel. (Sorry, guys!) I'll never get over the weird feel of her shoulders sliding out. Again, enough cannot be said about the blessed epidural. 

* The absolute magic of holding her for the first time. I'll never, ever forget the way she grabbed the neckline of my gown and looking up at me with this bemused expression that very clearly said, "What the hell was that all about?" Best moment of my life, hands down.

And four years later, here we are.

Tricksy pixie

The damage (note the nice chunk missing over the left ear):

And the outcome:

AIIIEEE!!!

So, my deceptively angelic-looking child with the long blonde hair found a pair of scissors this morning. The end result being that she no longer looks angelic (which might be to the good, actually) or has long blonde hair. Half of it looks like it belongs to Moe from the Three Stooges. Needless, to say, we're taking a trip to the hairdresser's this afternoon, because this is beyond my ability to fix. (Although I'm forced to admit that she did a decent job with the bangs.)

When I first saw her, I just stared. Then I managed to stutter, through my absolute shock, "Why... for God's sake, why did you cut your hair?" She said, "Because it was getting in the way of eating ice cream." Keeping in mind that it was about 8 a.m. and she was having a pretend picnic and eating PRETEND ICE CREAM. So, just to keep this straight, she cut half of her formerly beautiful hair off for SOMETHING THAT DIDN'T ACTUALLY EXIST. My God.

T's reaction was much like mine: "Oh, my God." Which probably explains her later response, when I asked her for probably the tenth time why she'd done it. She said, sighing, "For God's sake, I don't know." Probably the most accurate answer I got from her, at least.

And she has yet, of course, to realize the long-term ramifications. We're leaving this afternoon to go to my mother-in-law's for the weekend, and A cheerfully said, "It's okay, I'll just grow it back in the car."

Needless to say, all scissors will be banned from the house for all eternity. Or at least until she goes to college. Hm... how early do they extend early admission?

They were gentler, kinder times... or not.

Because I'm too friggin' busy to be original (although I will note that we placed the three kittens, hallelujah), there's this. You're welcome for the laughs and the nightmares.