No cause for alarm

This blog entry is dedicated to my 'baby' baby who will be 11 months old tomorrow. Awwwwww.
I hardly ever get to blog about her because, frankly, she's too young to be really bad yet. (Read: have her father's genes manifest themselves ... heh, just kidding. Anyone who knows us knows where the bad stuff comes from.)

Now, lemme tell ya, this is the most laid-back baby I’ve ever had. I thought her brother was cool, but this girl takes the cake. Siblings trod on her hand? Not a peep. Sister sits on her head? She laughs (This has actually happened - twice - no kidding. I turn around to muffled laughter coming out from under Tall Girl's bum.)

This baby almost never cries. She only cries when she's hungry or physically hurt.

So yesterday when I found her crawling toward me, weeping, I jumped up.

I inspected her high and low, checked the time to see if she was due a bottle, then noticed something dark in her mouth. I prised her strong gummy jaws open for a closer look.

Babies are very oral. They continuously taste things. The sibs also share amongst each other. Tall Girl is particularly bad. She’s going thru a picky phase (this is the child who sincerely believes athat 26 thompsons white seedless grapes - and perhaps some watered down Juicy Juice Strwberry-Kiwi - constitute an excellent meal) and is always giving Bitty Girl her rejected food.

Well, Ms Fat and Happy had managed to retrieve (from where, I know not) and insert (with her long mastered pincer grasp that she’s supposed to be just now perfecting) what appeared to be … a clod of dirt.

Now … we live on a farm. Subsequently, the word ‘dirt’ when applied to something found inside the house generally refers to dried bits of actual soil mixed with …wait for it …goat and sheep poo. That’s what we farm: Livestock. Mixed flock of goats and sheep plus various fowl for eggs and our own table. This rich soil/poo mixture rides into the house on our boots as a matter of course.

My baby daughter was possibly eating goat poo.

Now, while this might send you into pyroxisms of panic, I’ve been farming a long time. And I have 3 ½ children. After awhile the “OH FUCK!” factor in certain situations is greatly reduced.

So there I am, calmly scooping out all the offending matter while she smiles at me and gums me fiercely with her strong jaws. I administered a bottle and all was well.

Wow, it's hard to beleive that my little one will be a year old in just a month. She'll be almost exactly 15 months old when her baby brother is born (the widest gap between my kids). Her sister will be 2 and her brother 3 and 3 months.

Yep. I'm insane. In love and In sane.

Having a cold, being cold, just COLD!

Today I'm not blogging about being ill 'cause I'm tired of being sick and sick of blogging about it!

We lost power last night during the sleet. This is officially Not Good. 120 year old house, poor insulation, freezing temps outside ... you get the drift.

Unfortunately Boy woke up scared - it's amazing how dark it gets way out in the country - but he got back to sleep fairly quickly when I found him a battery powered nightlight. I wasn't so lucky. I lie awake for ages feeling the house get colder and colder and wondering when I should use the last of our wood to fire up the wood-stove in the parlour.

Just after I had crept, shivering, downstairs, checked on the babies for the 3rd time, and decided that it was too cold for them to sleep, the lights came back on. Thank goodness for Newberry Electric Company! You guys rock.

One good thing came out of all this: Despite lack of sleep and a wracking cough I nipped outside to take this cool (no pun intended) artsy-fartsy type pic:



Those of you who take pictures, please don't laugh. I never claimed to be a photographer.

One last thing: I have been working on the page for my Cloth Diapering FAQ. I hope to have it finished this week. Of course I also plan to not have hacked up a lung. Hmmm ... we'll see.

Well deserved!

I am still sick! Is this fair? No!

As we all know, one's immune system goes into partial lock-down when one gets preggers. This prevents our bodies from seeing the growing embyo and saying: "Whoo-ee that's one nasty infection there! Better take care of that."

So, as I am normally a sickie (note that was sickIE not sickO - which I also am, but that's another blog entry), I generally get one humungus arse-whuppin' cold/cough/ear infection/sinus infection - or perhaps all - during each of my pregnancies. So I shouldn't be surprised to have stuffed up ears, achey ribs and be snorting out all sorts of unsavoury globs.

Still sucks, though.

Of course this sucks too, and isn't fair:

Owchie!!

My cutie-pie got nudged (ok, shoved) off the couch by an overenthusiastic sister doing flips over the arm and, being the spectacularly clumsy baby that he is, fell face-first onto the exersaucer. Aside from the cut and the shiner it swelled up alarmingly later on.

He solemnly proclaimed this morning, however, that he was completely fine and preceeded to spend the day admiring his wound in my make-up mirror.

While he's been doing that (and his sister's been flipping over the couch arm some more) I've been seriously and belligerently contemplating eating an entire tub of frosting. I'm sick! I'm suffering here! I had to split wood and put an alternator on the truck today. Out in the cold. And did I mention that I'm sick? *sniffle*

I say I deserve it:


What do you guys think?

Oh, before I go I want to send a shout out to Kether and Julia and Tertia who are doing a fab job in the Mommy department ... keep on keepin' on girls! MAN, I can't wait to hold my new li'l green pea in June!

The BAD thing about being ill

Ok, I've been ill (caution, uncensored, crabby account) and haven't felt like blogging.

Ya know the worst thing is about being a Mum and being ill? Well, aside from watching the dishes and laundry and cleaning pile up because you're just too bloody tired to do more than drag down the hall between the couch and the loo.

... and staring despondently at the growing piles of kleenexes gathering round the base of the rubbish bins ('cause youre too weak to get in an accurate shot).

... and having your baby spend half the day on the floor in the bathroom because you can't leave the toilet for fear of hurling on the floor.

Oh, and a rapt audience of inquisitive toddlers watching said hurling and asking questions.

No! The worst thing about being ill and being a Mum is trying desperately not to touch the babies, sneeze on the babies, wipe snot on the babies, let the babies drink after you, kiss the babies, etc, etc in violent fear of THEM getting whatever crap it is that you have.

How you prick your ears, as alert as a guard dog, at them every time someone clears her little throat. How you carefully inspect nose-holes for signs of dried snot crust and frantically feel foreheads all day until the little darlings run from you.

Bugger hubby. He's ill? Too bad, life sucks. Did I hear the baby sneeze?

How can someone who hasn't eaten in 2 days and who's head spins every time she stands up make it over to her toddler that fast when she thought he was wiping his nose?

A Mum, that's who.

... Did someone cough?!

A day in the life ...

(The following is dedicated to Finslippy.)

Actual convo held in my kitchen immediately following breakfast:

Boy (at table, finishing his milk, wearing nothing but a shirt, looking downward intently)
Me (doing dishes)
Tall Girl (location unknown, but she’s taken her eating utensils with her)
Bitty Girl (in high chair, reducing a dry Cheerio to it’s individual molecules)

Boy: “Momma”
Me: “Yes, baby?”
(an insistant, repetative noise is heard from the hallway)
Me: “Tall Girl? What are you doing?” (trying to identify sound)
Boy: “Momma!”
Me: “Yes, baby?!”
Boy: “I have a really big willy”
(Dearest Hubby enters room)
Me: “Do you know what your son just said to me?”
Hubby: (guardedly) “What?”
Me: (finally defining noise in hall) “Tall Girl! Stop hitting the fish tank with a fork!”
Bitty Girl: “GAH-bblthhbth!”
Me: “He told me he has a really big willy”
Hubby: “That’s my boy!”

Daddy Bloggers rock!

I swear I’m going to update my bloglist today! I swear! *ducks sticks and bits of brick being thrown* I mean it!

I read some really incredible blogs (YES! I will post the list today. Owch! Stop it!) including a few DaddyBlogs. I got a link from one bloke’s blog to another and how can you not love this man?!

(On getting a semen sample that was …erm …deposited at home to the lab on time):

the thought of getting a ticket or into an accident with a tub of cum in my shirt was enough to keep me concentrating as fully as possible on the road ahead.

Hah! Gotta love it.

Zombie Hoards can kiss my backside

I realized yesterday that being hormonal is like being drunk. You get into highly emotional states: weep uncontrolably or fly into a murderous rage (and anyone out there who’s ever been hormonal knows that I’m not using the word 'murderous' lightly), then when it’s over, that evening or the next day, you have almost no memory of what you did.

You recall what it was that put you there: someone pulled out in front of you, your SIL was whining those little passive-aggressive insults at you in front of your MIL, you watched Four Weddings and a Funeral, but you have only a faint coherant memory of the raw emotion that gripped you.

Just like waking up after a drunk.

So now you're saying: " whoa ... so what caused Blue to Hulk out yesterday?"

Well, it was this. One of my very favourite bloggers was apparently set upon by the Mindless Zombie Hoards of The Offended over a post detailing ... wait for it ... her baby son's discovery of his willy.

Yeah. That was it. That was all.

Now, I understand that the world is full of idiots and an alarming number of them have internet access (hey, I'm on Baby*Center, I know), but come on. If a person's blog bores you, don't read it. If you don't agree with a person, express yourself coherently. Nothing wrong with disagreeing. But to attack folks personally just because you don't share their views?

Get a life, people. Better yet, get laid and get off the 'net.

Oh, and just for the record, I feel that anyone who sincerely hopes or wishes grievous harm on a small child is just plain sick and should be shot in the head with a large calibre handgun and tossed in a dumpster.

There. Gosh, I hope I didn't offended some of the Zombie Horde with that!

Oh, puh-leez!

OK, you can blame this one on hormones if you wish.

Is this the stupidest thing you've ever seen or is it me?!




Now before you dog people get out your pitchforks and torches let me reassure you that I am an animal lover as well! I have 4 dogs and 2 cats along with a farmstead full of animals. But a baby carrier for your DOG? One carries one's baby because it can't walk. Last time I checked, most dogs walk just fine!

What would our distant ancestors do if they saw us lugging our dogs around? Roll on the floor laughing their palaeolithic arses off, that's what!

And I will go on record as admitting that I am not a small dog person. This item caters to folks who have small dogs and I feel like small dog people are of a different ... mindset from the rest of us.

This is MY small dog (who couldn't be duct taped into a baby carrier, thankyouverymuch). Theodore Rowan aka Toddy:




And my preferred sort of dog - Big and Stupid - Sebastian Edward aka Bazzer:




Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm just off to throw my pony into the wheelbarrow and tote him over to his stall.

Blameless!

Thrifty find of the week: a jumbo pack of Pampers size 1 for $2 at the Salvation Army thrift store. Go me!

*does thrifty dance*

Mommy episode of the day: I’m standing in the nursery going through the lost baby-sock box and marvelling at how – in the space of less than 3 years – so many socks can lose their mates (at least 2 dozen). Suddenly DD #2 - who's in the family room - makes some strange noise (she’s in the Random Screech phase) and DS sits up and says quite clearly:

“What the HELL was that?”

I was flabbergasted and immediately (and indignantly) Yahoo’d Darling Hubby:

“Where the f*&% did he get ‘hell’ from?”

All I got in reply was the eyebrow-lifting emoticon.

Yesterday was a cinch! No, really ...

Well, my appointment yesterday went fine but took forfreakinever. It's usually just a "how are you? Fine? Any probs? No? bye!" I mean, I am pretty much an expert by now.

Since it was supposed to be fast, darling sick hubby (of the hoarse voice) elected to stay in the van with the bubs while I ran in. He was itching to get to the Comic Shop and the babies were already getting antsy. But it won't take but a minute, right?

Uhh ...yeah, right.

First I had a gentle tussle with Lab Tech Always-cheerful (who's a sweetie - just doing her job) over which tests I was declining, then I was berated (in a friendly way) by the entire staff for not bringing the babies in.

I did what any sane woman would do: I blamed it on hubby. (Bwahahahahahah!)

I was also supposed to see Dr Blue-is-too-fat but he got called away to a delivery. Upside: I might not have to feel abject guilt. Downside: long delays while they wrangled up another doc. Fortunately I was genuinely pleased - 30 minutes later - to find myself supine while Dr. Young-dark-n-handsome tried to find Bitty Boy's heartbeat. After several minutes of only getting it fleetingly and BB kicking the snot out of the doppler thingy, he gave up.

By the time I got out to the van everyone was in Meltdown (except Big Girl who was in extreme meltdown, of course)

So after that all that was left to do was, hit the comic shop, stuff food into the kids, (give the thrift store *sob* and the grocery a miss), run home, cook supper, and put everyone to bed.

NO PROBLEMO!

*snort*

Crabby, crabby, crabby!

Well, poo. This day started off badly. Ever have one of those days that wasn't TOO bad, but wasn't too good either? Not a ho-hum day, not an OMG day, but something in between?

First my Irritating Child: my oldest DD is whiney today. She started off a bit flakey from the get-go. Everything seems to set her off and her solution to anything: slipping and falling, dropping her lovey, mashing her fingers, having her brother hit her, having her brother touch her, having her brother breathe on her, or the End Of The World, is to begin crying piercingly.

This drives me insane.

On the upside, my Easy Going Child (youngest DD) is feeling better today. She's taking forever to cut a tooth and it's been hurting. She normally can get trod upon, dropped, bumped and is just peachy. The last few days she's been uncharacteristically weepy, but today she's fine.

But poor hubby is ill. Plus I have to go to an OB appointment with Dr. Blue-Is-Too-Fat who attributes any twinge as related to my weight and answers any complaint (I can't sleep, my hips hurt, my dog won't eat, it's too bloody cold out) with "well, with your extreme weight ..."

AARGH!

And add to all of this that I need more firewood and I can't bloody get the saw started AND I've managed to break both the handle of my sledge and the handle of my axe.

Did I say AARGH??

Yep, it's the perfect day to be crabby. I think I'll do it all day.

*grumble*grumble*grumble*

On being phased out

AAAAGGH! Blogger ate my last post! This is the second time it's happened. If I try to save a draft it's cool until I close the window. *sniffle* And I'm sure that one had tremendous social import.

Oh well.

*sigh* I have been so hormonal all day.

I've been tearing up over other people's blogs and now I'm having some sort of emotional verklemt moment over my son (my first child).

I was watching him struggle to put on his Spider-Man slippers this morning and I noticed how grown up his little hands look. He's almost 3 and they've lost that baby fat sausage-finger look. They look like the capable hands of a young man and, indeed, he only needed my assistance briefly

I realized suddenly that very soon those hands would be gripping a steering wheel, typing on a keyboard, holding hands with a girl. He'd no longer need me to help. He'd no longer need me for anything.

They say that you should spend the entire time you raise your children engineering your own obsolescence. You should work from day one to make them less and less dependent upon you, so that when it comes time for them to go out on their own, they can do so with confidence.

To this end you should teach them how to wash clothes and dishes, make them clean up after themselves, teach them to fix things, have them earn their money rather than just give it to them. A major part of this is insisting that they are responsible for their own actions. This covers everything from not doing their homework for them to not helping them out of every little jam they get in.

I believe in all of these things and plan to implement them.

But it doesn't make it any easier to watch my baby growing up.


Here he is at about 7 months
And at 2 1/2. Yes, that's Daddy's Maxim he's holding.

Just quietly listening

I really enjoy what I call 'Blog Hopping' (as you know if you read my personal blog) and lately I've been perusing a subset of the Mommy Blog: the Infertility Blog.

I've discovered two things for certain: 1)It makes a hormonal me weep daily that there are these really cool women out there who have to go through this and 2)There are some truly funny, funny ladies out there!

Here are just a handful of my faves: Uterine Wars, Here be Hippogriffs, DeadBug, Barren Mare, Chez Miscarriage, Hardscrabble.

I know what you're thinking ... "How can Ms gets-preggers-if-she-washes-hubby's-drawers have any empathy for these women?"

Because I've been there, that's why.

Because I've sat on the floor in a shower stall, until the water ran cold over me, crying. Because I've begged and demanded and wondered and tried to bargain with any ephemeral powers out there who might be able to influence me and my obsessive life. Because I've almost gone mad trying to figure out what I'd done to deserve that.

I did this for ten years.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And moving on ...

I also figure that anyone who has had to shell out the obscene amount of money required to get these fertility treatments (or go through a foreign adoption, for that matter) might share my fondness for thrift.

But most of all I just love reading their words. I love adding my thought waves to theirs out over the 'net. Maybe it will help. Help them get pregnant, help them feel less anguished, or just help them to feel like at least somebody is listening.

Well, I'm listening.

HB1677 resolved

OK. In case you got caught up in this, the sensational Virginia row about the miscarriage bill, there's been this resolution.

And now, back to our regular programming ...

Pickles count as vegetables, right?

Never in a million years - prior to my first child's birth - would I have considered giving dill pickles to a baby. Then I had one of those fascinating/horrifying encounters. You know the ones of parenting behavior different from your own? The tiny infant drinking the bottle filled with juice. The baby eating Ruffles and drinking Diet Coke from her mother's can. The kid out in freezing weather with no socks on. The newborn out in sweltering weather bundled up so thickly you wonder if he's smothered. The boy who kicks, pushes, and bites while mom looks on indulgently. The siblings who run screaming though the store pulling things off shelves.

Well, I was at a local livestock sale - which double as family entertainment for some of the rural crowd -and saw a mother offer her 6-7 month old baby one of those tart whole dill pickles. The poor thing grimaced and gagged and the family seemed to find it amusing.

Cut to my son, aged approximately 2 (abt 2 1/2 years later), begging for a bit of dill chip that I was putting on my hamburger. Finally, after much whining on his part, I conceded. To my shock he wolfed it down and begged for another. Holy cow. Babies eat pickles?

Wait a minute. I have no doubt that Latina women give their babies spicy foods to taste and Indian moms give their toddlers curry. It's just their normal food. That's how one develops a taste for this stuff. Why not pickles? Heck, I LOVE dill pickles.

So now my two toddlers are addicted to pickles.

And they're veggies ... aren't they? Packed full of nutrients! (Vinegar's a nutrient, isn't it?)

And while we're on the subject of pickles, let me share how odd my darling hubby can be.

I was loading dill chips on a hamburger (toldya I love 'em) and was commenting on how weird it was that pickles never seemed to go bad. Strange-but-adorable hubby says: "That's 'cause they're ZOMBIES!"

I goggled at him, "What?!"

"They're zombies. They were vegetables, then died and got embalmed and now they live forever. They're zombie vegetables!"

Aaaaaallllrighty then.

Bread making motivation?

OK, folks, this one will be kinda random, lol. I'm carefully crafting another post (in my OCD kinda way) but can't get it to 'jell' so here's a stand-by.

My new goal is to make at least some of the family's bread. I don't have a bread maker and don't think that I'd like 'em (I have a clothes dryer and a dishwasher that I almost never use), preferring to do some things by hand.

Now ... how to get motivated. I've gleaned a few fabulous recipes off of various websites and been encouraged by recent talk of breadmaking on one of my Yahoo newsgroups and my BabyCenter Large Family board. But I can't seem to get started.

Part of my problem is that I make biscuits and cornbread but dear hubby only eats one. The babies eat one. Then I'm left with 4-6 pieces of bread which disappear down my throat. Loaded with BUTTER! I'm terrified that if I start making fresh bread, that I'll become a bread junkie and be creeping about in the night with a bit of toast with honey on. *blush*

I also don't have any bread pans. Hmmmm ... maybe I should put off until I can find some at the thrift. Then there's the time consideration. You have to let bread rise.

I just don't know. Aaaaghh - where'd all this indecision come from? Jeez!

I also have decided to make two dedicated pages (linked to this blog) for a cloth diapering FAQ (my experience with it, anyway) and a 'tips and tricks' page with things in such as my 'stretches' down below. What do you think of that? Helpful? No?

Well, have a happy New Year dear fellow ThriftyChiks!