And speaking of parenting choices ...

First there was Grrl over at Chez Miscarriage, with this post on the subject of ‘drive by mothering’, the phenomenon whereby we women sometimes feel compelled to give unwanted advice/observations to mothers, (mothers to be, mothers-in-waiting). The over 300 comments get quite interesting.

Here’s the culmination.

So then we get this from akeeyu at HerVeryOwn, which leads to this from Julie at A Little Pregnant.

Suddenly, what was – for me – simply an in-depth look at how folks treat each other became more personal. She was ranting about a telly show which detailed the life of a family with 15 children.

Ohhh …. Stab me in the heart. I’m working on a large family (though mine will be tiny by comparison: 5 or 6) and I’ve heard ever dumb-fuck comment and bit of assvice that there is. So was Julie doing a drive-by? Should I rage with indignation (like several of the commenters did?)

No way.

Here’s the thing. I agree with Akeeyu, Julie can blog about whatever the fuck she wants. It’s her blog. The whole point of the original topic was this: every single one of us has looked at another person and disagreed with what they were doing. Whether the person in question was doing something stupid, whether we just disagreed with them, or even that we were having a bloody bad day. WE HAVE ALL DONE IT.

It’s the ones who feel compelled to share with the person in question her comments or assvice on the situation who are guilty of Drive By Mothering.

Hellooooo! If I think it but don’t say it, it’s not a drive by. If I discuss it whith a friend, it’s not a drive by . If I fucking blog about it it’s just a BLOG POST! Everyone has a right to do whatever he/she wants (barring it being illegal or causeing harm) and I have a right to disapprove. But I don’t have the right to get up in her face with my disapproval.

We, as mothers, make the best choices we can. So much of what people see has hidden factors (the LactoNazi attacking a mum who's giving her baby a bottle ... of what is expressed breast milk). Not only should a person not have to suffer unwanted assvice and opinions or second guess her parenting style but she shouldn’t have to mull over whether or not to post her own feelings on her own blog!

I’m a breastfeeder who suppliments formula and weans at 1 year, my sons are circumsised, I cloth diaper and make my own babyfood. I don’t co-sleep or homeschool or AP. I don’t approve of piercing baby’s ears or pacifiers or television. I dispise people who raise their girls in sexually stereotypical constraints or force religion (two things which I suspect disturbed Julie about the family with 15 kids. It certainly did me. That and the hair...)

All these and many more are my feelings and mine alone. As long as I don’t try to force them on anyone I am cool.

If you go, voluntarily, somewhere public (like a board or a blog) and read something you don’t like or agree with then just leave. Or leave a polite, ‘I disagree’ comment. Sign your name. We’re all allowed to disagree.

But this ‘I’m right and you’re wrong and sick and twisted and shouldn’t be allowed to have kids’ shit is pathetic. Get a hobby. Get a life. Or as Grrl said: get over yourself.

Differences in parenting styles

I had an episode yesterday with my FILs wife (remember her?) where we clashed, rather pointedly, on a parenting issue (I’ll blog on it later). It got me to thinking about parenting choices and since Bitty Girl and I are working through a milestone, I thought I’d share.

Disclaimer:

This isn’t an attack. I’m simply relating what I do and why. It may clash sharply with your style, but that’s fine. I’m talking about me and my parenting fuck ups … erm ... choices. Example: One of the ladies who’s blog I read daily and whom I really admire is a *gasp!* co-sleeper (villagers, get out the pitchfork and torches!). I am not. But I think that we make the best choices for us, for our families, and it’s all cool. I like to hear about different views, it's how I learn and hone my own parenting skills.

Anyway, I return you to your blog, already in progress:

Oh, what a great gnashing of teeth and wailing there is here right now. Bitty Girl is being weaned off her bottle, and as is usual in these circumstances THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END!

Ok, I’m exaggerating quite a bit, lol. She’s long since been eating well, she eats what her siblings eat – only cut smaller – and she drinks milk and a tiny bit of diluted juice just fine. The juice is always a huge hit. I’m not fond of it though – did you know that juice is processed by the body as pure sugar? Even 100% juice. So except for some vitamin C the child gets absolutely nothing (except a rush and some calories). This is why I dilute it 1/3 to 2/3 with water. I always wince when I see a kid with a bottle full of juice.

Back to Bitty Girl. Never mind that she’s getting enough nutrition, she still loves the comfort of that bottle. I know it’s just comfort that she derives because my weaning method is to dilute the bottles till they’re down to basically water over the course of a few weeks.

I don’t offer a pacifier and I wean mine at 1 year (or so). I don’t believe for a second that a baby (even a newborn) HAS to suckle. I think that they DO derive comfort from it but I think that you can provide comfort in a half a dozen other ways (snuggling, swaddling, rocking, etc). I go the snuggle route with my weanlings. Bitty Girl has been bottle-less for 2 days now and we have just spent a lot of time cuddling.

I’m always very sympathetic to the breastfeeding mom who says her baby “uses her like a pacifier” but I always have to wonder: why do you let him? I never have. If my bab is crying and I know she’s not hungry then I don’t put her on the breast. We try something else. She’s NOT hungry, she just needs to be soothed.

I feel this way about late weaning and pacifiers. I have no problem if a mom uses any of these – you parent your child like you want. Cool with me. But for ME, I don’t. I know it’s much more convenient to let a child have a paci or a bottle – no hassle, no crying child to deal with – but I’d rather eleminate these things entirely than string it out and string it out to a huge horrible show down later.

I have seen many dozens of plaintive posts on my baby boards that ask: “How do I get this paci away from my 4 year old?” or “My 3 year old still has to have a bottle before bed”.

I never know what to say because “well, you should have …” is sucky advice and doesn’t do any good anyway.

I have no doubt that I will slap my forehead many times in future and say: “why the HELL did I start this?” but, hopefully, it won’t be over a feeding issue. Or a sleep issue. Or a discipline issue. Or … crap … theres no chance I’ll get by with no ‘issues’ is there? I guess I’ll do what everyone else does: the best I can do, and hope I made good choices.

The plot thickens ... or sickens

OK, let me run this by you.

My oldest son's birthday was Friday. He is three. He was the first grandchild on both sides.

He has recieved absolutely nothing from anyone save us (myself and his father).

Now, my Dad and Mum have both wished him happy birthday (through me) and have promised his gift when they next visit. No cards (we're not much on cards), but I trust them to bring him something that he'll like. I'm an only, so that's pretty much all there is on my side.

From Darling Hubby's side of the family: zilcho. Zero. Nothing. Nada. You get the drift.

There's his dad and wife, his two sisters, plus aunts and cousins in Georgia.

So my questions are these:

1)Why no phone call? Broken fingers? Malaria?

2)Why no card? These are very cardy people. You may recall that we got 3 seperate valentines day cards (which falls 4 days before Boy's birthday) addressed to Child Hubby'sLastNameOnly. We also all got a v-day card from the Georgia crowd.

3)Why no gift? Please let me hasten to say that I certainly do not care (I'm being sincere, here) about gifts, but it was a birthday.

I'm wondering (a bit perversly) if it was because I failed - for the first time in my life - to send thank-you notes for the x-mas gifts. Let me explain that I'm a rabid thank-you-noter. It's how I was raised and I try to be prompt and thourough, but in January I had all my pre-natal testing and then we all got sick. By February I figured it would be in poorer taste to send them so late.

Darling Hubby, who's had 30 years experience with his spectacularly passive-aggressive family, has a theory. His assumption is that they (read: FIL) are miffed because we don't visit enough.

Let me explain to you what I've attempted to explain to them:

I have 3 small children. Just getting them ready and out of the house is a huge task. I am also pregnant and have a knee injury. Unnessessary trips are uncomfortable.

We have a farm. This is not like having a cat. We (now Darling Hubby) have chores that must be done daily along with feed and supplies that must be fetched regularly.

We have one car.

Darling Hubby does not get off until 4pm and if we are all to go somewhere he must come home, we must load up the kids, go and return before 7pm which is their bed-time. This is a teensy tiny window, folks. Plus they must eat supper at some point and I'm not a Happy Meal Momma unless dire need forces. Darling Hubby also works almost every Saturday.

All of the above is not a hardship for us, but does put a cramp on any casual visitation.

Do any of you have any theories? I am baffled.

I comprehend that they generally dislike me a lot, disapprove of me, and assume any frowned-upon issue is my doing ("She clearly removes the batteries from all the vehicles and locks the children in a shed so Son can't come to visit!") but to take all this out on their grandchildren? The mind boggles.

Just call me Scrooge McDuck!

Oh. My. God. I have made … seven cents. SEVEN CENTS! With my google adsense adverts. Somebody hold me back! Warn Amazon! Be prepared to see the gross national product adjusted.

I mean geez.

Of course, the fact that I have a devoted readership of … oh …FIVE might be a problem. ROTFLMAO.

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Here’s a snorter, courtesy of akeeyu over at herveryown. Just stroll on over to the Wal Mart in Lexington, South Carolina to see the real, live, thing.

And in case you didn't know, find out how Southern you are by your speech! (Thanks to Lady Mac.)

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I could never, ever cheat on my Darling Hubby. Not just because I don't want to, but because nothing escapes his eagle eye and sharp senses.

Yesterday, apropo of nothing, he asks: "Hey, When did you buy a background for the fishtank?"

I pause. The fish tank. The ten-gallon fishtank in the hall. The hall you have to walk down if you want to go in or out of the house, into the kitchen, or into the bathroom to wee.

"Uh ... about 6 months ago"

The look on his face was inscrutable. Then he left.

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And now my day is complete. I just turned around to find my son, Boy, with two bouncy balls under his shirt. Do you know what he said when he noticed my looking? (wait for it ...)

"Momma, look! I've got boobies like you! Take a pit'chur!"

I blame Darling Hubby.

And I'm going back to bed.

Out of the mouths of babes, my ass

… literally.

Alternate title: “Gee, thanks for bringing that to my attention ...”

As is the case with all of mine, my youngest, Bitty Girl, lolled around until about 10 months before deigning to try crawling then *BAM!* , up on hands and knees (day one), attempting to scale the steps out of the family room (day 2).

My first, Boy, did this with talking. He spoke only 5 or 6 words up until 23 months even though he signed well and clearly understood complex sentences. We were innundated with dire diagnoses (none from actual doctors, just random idiots) and urgings that we should get his speech evaluated and put him in Early Intervention. We ignored the ASSvice and by age 2 (one month later) he spoke in short sentences.

Tall Girl did this with walking. Crawled like pro, got anywhere and everywhere, went up and down steps with absolute fearlessness, would not attempt to walk. Then one day, apparently fed up with our long long hallway between the family room and the dining room, got up and toddled down it.

Because mine all manifest this strange developmental belch with most things, we go through these periods of Baby Outrage. They wanna do it all and they wanna do it RIGHT DAMN NOW and heaven help the universe if they should fail.

So there’s Bitty Girl, brand new tooth-stubs clenched, assaulting the steps: Yeah, I was a plump, pink, sedentary lump a week ago but I shall be free wheelin’ today! It’s clobberin’ time!

*THUD!*

“Waaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

And thus she fell flat on her back.

And, I who was watching this attempted ascent with a mixture of trepidation and resignation, lept up and mother-henned over to her, clucking and flapping, scooping her up planting kisses on her angry but unhurt bald head.

I had sat down on the footstool to do all this comforting and had just gotten her calmed down when, from behind me, chirped the authoritative voice of Boy:

“Momma … your bum is FAT!”

Well, golly, sweetie, thanks for pointing that out in a time of crisis!

Sometimes I wish he still only had 5 words.

I feel like ranting!

I don't get out much. You may have deduced this by my mind-numbingly boring blog posts. It's true.

I'm a terrible consumer. I don't shop, fuck shopping. I could never just mindlessly waste money on shit I didn't need. I'm not knocking those who shop for recreation or therapy, mind you ... I'm just saying *I* can't do it. Must be my ThrifyBrain that was installed at the factory.

But I do occasionally go out. I shop for groceries/supplies every fortnight (that's 2 weeks for you non-anglophile Americans) and of course have various doctor's appts, etc. And - since I also *GASP* don't watch television - I spend a huge amount of time (and derive great pleasure from) People Watching.

Sweet Mother of Stan Lee, have you just paused and taken a LOOK at folks before? Seen how they dress? Watched how they (and their kids) act? Bear with me a moment while I rant!

Let's take how folks dress, for example:

First, what's up with the wearing of night attire in public? I regularly see otherwise normal looking females in stores with bedroom slippers on. WTF? Yes, it's comfy, yes you're in America, yes you have rights. Are you next going to be - upon having the urge to urinate - simply squatting where you stand and having a waz on the floor?

I spoke with a girl in the WalMart in pajama bottoms and fluffy bunny slippers. She explained that she was pregnant and so very uncomfortable. She was about 17.

Uh ... 'scuse me honey, but I'm 40 years old, pregnant with my 4th and herding 2 toddlers and an 11 month old baby around. I'm tired and uncomfy too, you little skank. Go get dressed and shut up. Who the fuck raised YOU?

And please explain this opposite-end-of-the-spectrum attitude to me: I was driving to my OB appt and saw a lovely young woman, I'd say about 4-6 months pg. She was not skinny but not plump either, just average. And her clothes were so damned tight on her it made me wince. Everything she had on was stretchy and about 2 sizes too small in the new show-off-your-pregnancy fashion. And these were expensive looking maternity clothes, not a case of trying to squeeze into pre-pregnancy outfits.

Now, before I continue this rant, and before you get your knickers in a knot, let me make it quite clear that I am a Big Momma. I do NOT cotton to society’s - and many mother’s - brainwashing attempts to teach girls that they must be a certain size to be beautiful. Women are naturally beautiful creatures. But we need to ‘dress our size', ya know? A girl who’s a healthy size 16 with all the womanly attributes of luscious hips and thighs, round belly, and full breasts simply is NOT going to look good crammed into some of today’s ‘fashions’. The worst of it is that she shouldn’t think that she has to!

Onward. Non pregnant ladies:

Again in the WalMart, two pairs of Latinas, plump as little pigs, two of whom had their shiny black hair dyed a rusty red. They had garments on so tight it made my eyes water with thick rolls of fat welling out between pant-waists and shirt-bottoms and impressive camel-toe.

Two teenagers, one of whom had a tongue ring that she was either very proud of and wanted to show off or was bugging her because she flicked her tounge out every few seconds like a lizard. Both were quite fluffy and out of shape and each sported two bare wads of hip fat that jiggled like pudding above their waistbands (and below their shirts) as they walked away. Lizard-girl had on a pair of those horrible low-rise warm-up pants with "brat" written across the arse and (hopefully unintentional) glimpses of underwear and butt-crack going with each step.

I'm pretty sure that 'slut' would've been a better word to use for advertising. Do their mothers know they're out like this? Do their mothers DRESS like this too?

This whole concept drives me insane. Why can't we just dress comfortably and attractively as ourselves and not a supermodel or film star? Why do we not feel sexy in clothes that fit? Pregnant women, in particular, have a tough time finding any damned thing to wear without having to look at adverts with size 4 models with tiny little basketball-bellies and clothes that fit like sausage casings.

And don't get me started with the little mini-ho clothes that are in the girl's clothing section!

Now you know why I don't go out more.

It was worth it

Today my oldest child is 3 years old (or will be at 11:53 or whatever it was ... I was flat out on a surgical table, the recipient of an emergency c-section).

How the heck did this happen? I remember when he was a fat, big-headed blob of a baby who swayed when he sat alone. I remember nights and nights of sitting on the edge of the bed rocking a crying Boy because I had not yet discovered the simple miracle of simethicone. (If you are expecting a child GO BUY SOME RIGHT NOW!)

I remember being so dissappointed that I couldn't use the like-new Snugli that I'd found for $1 at the thrift store because he was so freakin big that it, combined with my huge boobs, hurt my back. (He weighed 10 1/2lbs at birth, and I've not been able to use it for either of his sisters who came home right at 9lbs each. *sigh*)

What? When? Where?

I tell you it's been a very very cool ride that's only been augmented by the aformentioned two sisters. I even find myself eager to fast forward ahead a few years, when we've completed our family (we'll try for 5), and get to see all of them interact and learn and grow.

They're exasperating, delightful, frustrating and sometimes so amusing that you have to stop and wipe the tears of laughter out of your eyes. Then sometimes they're so maddening you just have to clench teeth and ball up fists and leave the room.

But you know what I remember most? Every time I look at him? I remember those dark years, those pre-Boy years, before I met Darling Hubby - when I was still married to White Trash Dickhead, when I tried and tried and couldn't get pregnant. How I'd go a few months with no period, then *POW* it would come like a clotted flood. How I'd stand in the shower with blood running down my legs and cry and wish I was dead.

I often think that what I went through before was my pre-payment for this. Could that be possible? I really do think that everything evens out in the end and that people get what's coming to them. I think things are cyclical. But all that suffering? Those nights with Jack Daniels and an empty house considering the most sure way of ending it all?

Well, whatever it is, I'll take it. A 'take the money and run' approach to life. Fuck it. I try very hard to be a good person and do what's right (part of my 'everything evens out' philosophy) and if I have to tip-toe around the Fates, so be it.

You have NO idea what's going to happen in the future. I say live your life and be prepared for what might happen. A lot of people say that I am overly lucky. Perhaps. But they don't know what I've been through. I'm 40 years old and have paid a LOT of dues. A whole lot.

And if these three (and a half) creatures are my payment then I'll take it. The suffering was worth it. Every. Single. Bloody. Tear-stained. Second.

Darling, pop down to Tesco's and get me a curry

Sorry for going AWOL. I had my fetal echocardiogramme (is that the right term?) Tuesday plus my OB appt yesterday. I know some of you are snorting and saying: "ohh, scary! An appointment a day! *derisive snort*" But it can be quite a challenge when you have 2 toddlers and a baby to haul about and everything's an hour a way.

Everything turned out to be peachy, Bitty Boy was as bad as he was during the level II and we never did get a nice profile shot. Oh well, the heart looked good. I also got a chance to see my wonderful genetic councellor, C. I wanted to speak to her as Normal Blue instead of Psycho Pre-Amnio Blue.

Had a lovely V-day. The love of my life and father of my ankle-biters surprised me with this lovely stuff:



If you’ve never been to Britain you may not know what this is and MAN are you missing out! Now if I can get my hands on some HP sauce I’ll be in heaven. Or as close as an anglophile who's not in Britain can be.

Now on to the Rant of the Day:

So what’s up with In Laws? Do they take the opportunity, the instant that their children get married, to be idiots because the CAN? Or what? Someone enlighten me, please.

(for those long-suffering of you who are on some of my baby boards, forgive me. You've already heard this one. Just scroll down a few inches)

Let’s say my name is Smith and Darling Hubby’s name is Jones. Easy enough to grasp, yes? Smith and Jones. OK, then we agreed to hyphenate our children’s names (Smith-Jones). We told the whole bloody family this. I was very careful to explain it to my In-Laws.

This was over 3 years and 3 children ago.

So why the HELL did I just get 3 valentines day cards from them addressed to Boy Jones, Tall Girl Jones, and Bitty Girl freakin’ JONES?!

They’re doing this on purpose.

After over 4 years of tight lips and disapproving looks from them, this is their not-so-subtle passive-aggressive insult to me.

What I want to know is why.

Yes, I’m much older than Darling Hubby, and I’m brash and outspoken and very opinionated. No, I didn’t graduate from university and no, I don’t share your religius beleifs (but neither does Hubby). And *gasp* I did encourage him to buy a house out in the country instead of a trendy, puckered-anus subdivision.

But I adore your son. I do everything in my power to make his life as perfect as possible.

And without me you wouldn’t have those 3 (and a half) lovely grandchildren.

So show a little respect. Whaddaya say?

My deepest hope as a mother is to grow up to be a good mother-in-law! I vow to give my children some room, keep out of their business, and keep my fucking mouth shut. Most of all I’ll try to trust my children’s choice of mate and how they’re raising their own kids.

End of rant.

Now I'm off to get some chops out for supper so that I might slather them in Branston pickle and later 'express my gratitude' to Darling Hubby.

The store is finally open!

If you read both of my blogs, let me apologize right off. This is duplicated. Sorry ‘bout that.

So, anyway, I have finally launched my HomeFireBlue Online Store! Yay! Tees with ‘tude, bay-bee!

Please go check it out and give me any and all suggestions on how to imporve it. I also really really need someone’s brainwork on how to promote the store. I can’t have adverts in my sigs on any of my baby/pregnancy boards so … what? How do I let my target audience know about my stuff?

The existing tees (and mugs and totes and ... well, you get it) address infertility, pregnancy and babies, with a section especially for large families.

If you don't see a shirt for you DON’T BE PUT OFF! I have at least 15 more designs to put up, some of which are NOT baby/pregnancy oriented at all. We have a sister store up for Evil Genius Comics and many of the non-baby/mommy stuff will go over there. Be patient.

So check it out and thank you! Thanks for looking, thanks for buying, and thanks for any suggestions on how to improve!

Even more wierd ...

Turns out that the 'tossed baby' story was a fabrication ... by the woman who turned over the baby.

The woman, who lives in Florida (where they have the 'safe haven' law), apparently couldn't just give her baby up safely to authorities. She had to make up an elabourate story about the baby - which included two innocent folks she'd spotted driving - when delivering him over.

So instead of criminally negligent, turns out she's just an idiot. Boy am I relieved. *rolls eyes*

(please understand that I really am very glad that she turned over the baby, I'm angry at all the drama she created to make herself feel better.)

A huge thank you and group hug for those who commented and sent emails giving me the update!

This is why I don't read the news

I hope that the person who is responsible for this dies a horrible and SLOW death.

I don't mean to shock anyone and I'm being completely serious. This is a real serious subject for me. One can only wonder at the mental capacity of a human who is capable of this sort of thing. And you know what the makes-ya-wanna-smash-your-head-on-the-floor part of it is? WE HAVE LAWS ALLOWING SAFE, NO-QUESTIONS-ASKED DROP OFF of infants! Helloooooo!

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And in other news ...

Some nasty rumblings from the powers-that-be over changing the FMLA (from Elizabeth over at HalfChangedWorld) Thank you Russ over at Daily Yak for the heads-up!

While I appreciate a businesses need to weed out the slackers who are abusing our system, there must be a better way. Just speaking for women: so many of us depend on the bare scrap of leave that FMLA gives us to attend OB appointments, have our babies, and tend to sick kids. There are many of us who want to work, many who need to work but without a little support from things like FMLA we become a detriment to our companies because we must put our families first!

Weak families mean weak workers. An employer can't expect our best performance if we're worried about having sent our ill child to school or missed appointments or whether or not we will lose our jobs if we choose family over job for a day!

I lurve blogs!

I've shamelessly spent the day in one of my most timewasting of endevours: bloghopping. And boy have I found some cool stuff!

First off, I'm not as bad a mom as this lady.

Second, Greg over at DaddyTypes, turned me on to this blog that's all about baby names. V. cool! Even though I have all of my next 7 kiddos named, I still have a weird obsession with baby names. Check out her post on BabyCenter's 'most popular names' list. Uh-huh.

And lastly, nip on over to MetroDad's blog for his extra juicy list of DaddyBloggers.

And I swear, promise, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-get-a-cramp-in-my-left-nipple to update my bloglist (over there ----> ) to include all the great blogs I read.

Oh, and I have found a new word! If you're brave enough and haven't already, check it on my personal blog.

And now I have to go roam around Blogger and try to find out why: a) my comments don't show up until I update my blog and b) why my freakin' history doesn't exist! Those posts better not be lost in the ether or this will be one v. v. fucked off momma!

Blogford wives?

In any public forum on the net there’s bound to be some upsets. It’s public ‘place’. If anyone can come by and look / comment then somebody’s eventually going to say something stupid, or just come across wrong. If one is dealing with women TTC, women battling infertility, women hormonal and pregnant, or women exhausted with kids – again – someone is just going to get her feathers ruffled.

This phenomenon has surfaced in the community of infertility blogs that I read (thoughts on this from two individuals with whom I agree - here, and here). This bruhaha has cause me to rethink my own blogs and self-censoring.

I have two separate blogs. Even though they are freely linked I still maintain their seperateness. Why? Good question. This is precisely what I’ve been asking myself.

Originally, my personal blog was intended to be a vehicle for whatever random, randy, off-colour, or obscenity-filled rants I felt like putting to ‘paper’. The other was supposed to be my squeeky-clean MommyBlog.

If you've read my other blog you may have deduced that I’m not a squeeky-clean character.

But I was catering (pandering?) to percieved audiences. In my personal blog I was being myself and ‘talking’ to my close friends. I also wanted to avoid boring any non-mommies with the standard fluff that one can’t help putting on one’s MommyBlog: baby pics, belly pics, ultrasound pics, tiresome accounts of doctor’s appointments and baby’s first tooth, first step, first tattoo. No problem there.

But in my MommyBlog I wanted to keep from offending any on-line aquaintences from my baby boards. Or random wandering inlaws. I was censoring my quirky humour and less-than-sterling language. I thought I really needed to be this other person, this mommy façade.

Well, I’ve rethought all that. This is who I am, warts and all, as my Mum says. While I feel that there’s nothing wrong with the occasional mention of my bubs on my personal blog (I do have 3 and ½ of them … you can’t swing a nursing bra around here without grazing a kid), I do think that I shouldn’t feel compelled to censor the other one. It’s just not me. And the ‘real’ me is creeping out. I used *gasp* the word 'fuck' in a post recently!

So I’m agreeing with the general consensus come to by my infertility bloggers: a blog is by the blogger. If it offends you or makes you uncomfortable, don’t read it. Or, if you generally enjoy it but are bugged by a few things, let it roll off and keep reading. I read several blogs who’s authors have WIDE-ly differing political views from my own. When they take up their pitchforks and torches and start chanting that all Republicans should die, I just duck into a dark alley until the mob has passed. No biggie.

So if you are reading this blog and profanity or strange humour offend you I apologize. I’m not doing this for sensational effect or shock value. I can’t talk like this on BabyCenter or Fertility Friend, so it may be startling, but it’s really the way I am. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum of course. I mean, fuck, I’m not going to just start randomly spewing obscenities!

If you’ve made it this far, thanks. I enjoy getting to ‘talk’ to you all and I hope you’ll stick around.

A wee post

Yep this post is about wee. (A 'wee' post ... get it? ... *snort* ... ok, ok fine, geez)

Anyway, one of the many ladies who's blogs I read is currently adopting and had asked for her blog reader's advice on good parenting books. My first thought was this: "You can only learn what you really need to know from actually doing it" closely followed by "I wasn't an official Mum until I'd been wee'd in the face while changing a nappy!"

This made me fondly recall the days when I was a real greenhorn at this mommy business and how my first child and first son tought me something new every day. Like how not to get wee in one's face.

(for those of you who are unfamiliar: an infant boy's penis rests like a fat little slug on his plump testicles and, subsequently, when he's supine, points anywhere from straight up to right at his chin. If he decides to have a waz in mid-nappie-change one is liable to get a golden shower - you, him, the changing table, the carpet, the dog, etc.)

Now, all of this made me snicker in anticipation. What sort of weirdo am I, you ask? The snickering kind. I know for a fact that my Dearest Hubby, after a straight run of two girls, will forget about the little willy/sprinkler deal and get sprayed within the first week! Wanna bet me? I'll bet you a Cadbury with almonds and pay for shipping!

*rubs hands together gleefully*

And on the same general subject (wee, remember? ok ...), my oldest DD, aged 21 months, sat on the pot today and had a little wee! I was so proud. (Yes, this is the sort of thing that get's you whipped into a lather when you become a mum). It was completely out of the blue and she acted so nonchalant.

So here's to wee! Who knew it would become such an all-consuming topic in my life? They never told me about that in any of my baby books!

My world was filled with small, angry people

I have learned something in the past 9 days because of the Illness that Will Not Leave. Something about my own skills as a mother and the (heretofore unaware of) carefully balanced social structure in my house.

Let’s just say that the book Lord of the Flies has achieved a whole new clarity for me.

It’s been – for lack of a virulent description involving quite a few obscenitites – ah … frustrating. My ears are clogged up so I cannot hear. My throat is sore and full of mucousy sludge so every word comes out as a choked, hoarse, (and painful) whisper. My head aches, my chest and back are sore, my throat is on fire. I’ve not been sleeping.

Subsequently, I have been spending the majority of every day hunched on the couch or at the computer, miserable, deaf, and surrounded by wadded up tissues.

I don’t require my children to be right up under my feet all day, similarly they don’t expect me to be up in their faces entertaining them every waking hour either. They have the run of our sprawling farmhouse and spend the day being what they are: kids.

What I wasn’t aware of – and here’s where the learning part comes in – is how much I really interact with them all day. Apparently we usually keep up a running communication. I depend on audio cues to let me know what’s going on in other rooms (breaking glass, bloodcurdling screams, small explosions, ect), and I then begin The Dialogue:

(Dull thud followed by outraged cries)
Me: “Boy, why is your sister crying?”
Boy: (from kitchen) “Uh … I dunno, Momma!”
Me: “Tall Girl, what’s the matter?”
Tall: “Waaaaaahhhhhhh! *garbled words* Momma, waaahhhhh!”
Boy: (running down hall from kitchen) “I love you momma!”

At this point I’d know to put down the towels I was folding and go into the kitchen. This method worked well and was augmented by them showing up in the family room every few minutes and/ or myself walking to various parts of the house doing my daily routine. This latter part provided me with multiple visual checks thoughout.

Add to all this the meals and snacks taken at the table, the midday going-down-for-nap, the multiple book-readings, plus any kissing of boo-boos or soothing of hurt feelings and we were actualy together a LOT.

Now lets go back to the hunched and miserable sickie me.

Because I wasn’t more perky and was not hearing the cues, they were getting into more trouble than normal. I’d realise that I hadn’t heard or seen from them in several minutes and I’d wander in to another room to find things overturned, in disarray, or – one memorable day – the fishtank full of toys and a leftover PB&J sandwich from lunch.

I have a hard and fast rule: I will not punish if I didn’t see you do it (or wasn’t standing right there). Now I may well change this later on but for now it’s my policy.

I believe in spanking (we pop the hand or, rarely, the back of the leg) but I do NOT think that you can take a child who’s not yet two up to a broken vase and say: “See this? This is bad.” and spank her for it.

So then I found myself getting more and more frustrated. It seemed like I couldn’t do anything for a second without finding the kids up to some misdeed - or worse - the remains of the misdeed. And, trust me, it’s not nearly so effective when screamed epithets come out in a frustrated, croaking whisper

Add to this that my Darling Hubby’s son, Boy (ok, ok, he's my son too, but when he’s bad he gets to be hubby’s) who’s at that dangerous age: almost 3, was taking advantage of the circumstances. Sinks got turned on, peanut butter got eaten straight from the jar, and most of all Tall Girl got tormented, all because clever Boy was quick to see my lack of response.

The evenings were hell, poor Dearest Hubby would arrive home and the babies would be wailing and I’d be ill PLUS fed-up and just want to lock myself in the bathroom and cry. Normally my children exasperate me some – I’ve had my over-the-edge moments. I have actually screamed at my son: “WE DO NOT SCREAM AT PEOPLE!” but this took the cake. I have always prided myself on my well-behaved children and our good relationshsip with each other.

I’m so glad I figured it out and it all clicked. Now I’m feeling microscopically better physically and MUCH more confident mentally. My babies and I have a very tight relationship it seems and with a few minor crack-downs today (much to the perturbation of Boy) we’re headed back to our peaceful former life.

Oh, great … what was that crash?



Note: for those of you who wonder where Bitty Girl was during all this: at 11 months she can crawl but can’t quite make it up the steps out of the Family Room, so she was stuck in here with me.