Tuesday, September 1, 2009

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.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

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....

Monday, July 27, 2009

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. 

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

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.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Tricksy pixie

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


And the outcome:



Friday, July 10, 2009

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?

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

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.


Monday, June 29, 2009

Suck-up, er Pepe

You see what I mean? This one's crafty...

Once a mother, always a mother

So, we were adopted by a then-pregnant cat a little over two months ago. The result being that we are now the home to Mama (first named NoKitty, now Cleo) and her four kittlens. The resulting result being that we now live in chaos. (Four-year-old+kittens=much ado about much.) We've decided to keep Cleo (I figure she deserves it for sussing out the right suckers) and one of the kittens (the one nicknamed Pepe because of the little white skunk stripe on his forehead), who is the smartest of the bunch because he started sucking up to T at around, oh, week five.

ANYway. Now it's time to find homes for the other three. I thought I had sure things lined up with two co-workers, but they're starting to back away, so I followed someone's advice and posted the "free to good home" listing on Craigslist a few hours ago. I've already heard from two people. You'd think I would be relieved, yes? No; I'm freaking out, assuming that they only want the kitties for nefarious purposes. One of them is a vet med student who's specializing in infectious disease--surely, she wants to use one for research, yes? And another has a pit bull (yes, I'm Googling these people), which makes me nervous--I can't get rid of the mental image of one of the kittens being terrorized by it.

Le sigh. Giving a shit is such a pain in the ass. I will let you know when KittenGate 2009 is successfully (we pray) resolved.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

The beginning of the era of potty humor?

Or at least gas-related comedy. This morning, I heard A laughing in the bathroom. I asked what was so funny and she giggled, "I farted and it scared the kitten so he ran away." 

Why did I assume that potty humor was the domain of the XYers? Whatever; I laughed, too.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Touche...

Scene: Last night, after dinner.

Me: A, which part of "you're not allowed to pick up the kittens" did you not understand?

A [without missing a beat]: The middle part.

T: She's got you there.

Which, yes. Boy, the teenage years are going to be hell, aren't they?

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Anatomy 101

Tonight, in the bathtub, A was passing gas with gusto. I asked if we should call her Walter (a la the farting dog) and she said, "No, I just have gas." I said, "You sure have a lot of it." And she said, "That's because my butt door keeps opening."

I know. Totally bizarre and inappropriate. But damn it, did T and I laugh...

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

The truth, and nothing but the truth

Scene: Tonight, A's bedroom at bedtime, with me trying to tuck in A (or, as she is known in this parts, the Empress of Bedtime Stalling Tactics) :

A [smiles] I know who has a birthday this month.
Me [playing along]: Who?
A: You do, Mommy!
Me: That's right, I do! How old am I going to be? [now, I know you're going to say that I set myself up here, but she usually answers "five" or, if she's put some thought into it, "ten"]
A: I don't know.
Me: Why don't you guess?
A: Why don't you tell me?
Me: Okay. I'm going to be 37.
A [after a brief silence]: Wow. That's a lot.

That it is, kid. That it is.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The learning curve, she is slow

Two nights ago, during dinner, A was looking for something under the table, lifted her head, and banged it right into the side of the table. "Ow!" "Be careful, honey." A scant minute later, she does it again. This time, there was a morose sigh and then the sole utterance, "Again."

At least she's self-aware that she's not too quick, right?

Friday, May 22, 2009

Best. Customer. Reviews. EVER.

Three-Wolf Moon T-Shirt from Amazon.com. A must-buy, evidently. Seriously--totally worth your time to read the customer reviews.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Graduate school is overrated--until you get your grades

I would swear that I spent at least 36 hours on one of my two final papers. I had to take two days off of work to write it. I came to hate the English language. I swore relentlessly about APA style. And I was fairly convinced that I was never taking another grad school class again, screw the master's degree.

Then I found out that I earned an A in the course. So naturally, I'm all revved up about the fall semester.

I am a moron. But at least I am a self-aware and slightly more educated moron. 

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Shades of Norma Rae

So, it's well known at daycare--and in all of A's universe--that my daughter doesn't like to nap. Since day one, she has not been a napper. As previously chronicled on these pages, that periodically has posed problems at daycare. (My stance, for the record, is that while I agree that she can't be running around waking up the other kids, she also cannot be forced to sleep. Without Benadryl, at least. But I digress.)

At any rate, today, her teacher informed me that during playground time, a group of kids--three-and-a-half-year-olds, mind you--was chanting in unison on the swings. The chant? "No more naps! No more naps!" The leader of the mini-union? Well, I think you can guess.

Maybe she'll be a lawyer for the ACLU.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Science versus evolution: Not a cage match?

Excellent article on reconciling belief in evolution AND creationism. Personally, I am by no means a devout church-goer--I have issues with organized religion. But I respect those who worship in whatever way best suits them, and many friends are devout Protestants, Catholics, and Jews. I do, however, end up with an eye twitch when I am told that the Earth is only 10,000 years old and that Jesus wrote a dinosaur, simply because that outright discards scientific proof in an effort to justify an individual's need to support his or her faith. If you have to ignore incontrovertible evidence to bolster your faith, I'm thinking you need to work more on having faith. Faith, after all, is a belief: unlike science, it doesn't require outright proof. If you have to prove it, it doesn't exist. Or so sayeth the Book of Sherry.

Anyhoo, if you're interested, here's what a devoutly religious scientist has to say on the matter. He's got some good stuff.

http://www.timesdispatch.com/rtd/news/opinion/op_ed/article/PARKER0510_20090511-182909/267117/

Thursday, May 7, 2009

It's raining, it's pouring

There's the reason that the proverb "when it rains, it pours" exists. Because it is true. Very, very true.

Still plodding ahead on the papers--although I've gotten some helpful feedback from my very patient, very wise professor, who has talked me down from the ledge several times now--and now coping with cat and daycare crises. The former being that Mama Kitty seems to have some kind of infection (I know this because, to put it bluntly, her poo is green and foul-smelling), so I have to take her to the vet tomorrow; the latter being that I am being increasingly chided by daycare because A won't settle down at naptime. Sure thing. Get right on that.

Although short of duct-taping her to her cot, I'm at a loss for what else to do--I've come up with every form of prevention and punishment I can think of or have read about, all for naught. Today, I was told that if she continues, I'm going to have to take her home every day at naptime. There is something fundamentally wrong about that, I think.

Anyway. I continue to slog.

Friday, May 1, 2009

We have been fruitful and multiplied

No, don't get excited. It's just that the pregnant cat who adopted us has graced us with four kittens. All dreadfully cute, of course. Mama Nature knew what she was doing with young-uns--make them too cute to not be taken care of.

Keeping A away from them has been a bit of a chore. She, naturally, is dying to hold them. However, having seen how she "held" the Easter eggs, I am going to wait until they get a little, um, sturdier, let's say. Should be an interesting battle.

So, to recap: I am part-time single mom, full-time employee, finishing up grad class with two papers due in two weeks (that comprise 90 percent of my final grade, like WTF?), both magazines in production... and now adoptive mother to five cats who are living in our downstairs bathroom.

I simply cannot wait until I am committed.