(Not so) Little Feat

The only thing we have to fear, is Fear itself....

2009-09-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

Last week, my nine year-old daughter was reading a bit of history on the Trail of Tears. When reading about a Nation of Native Americans displaced and forced to march nearly a thousand miles, with thousands dying along the way and on the reservations, she asked how could America do such a thing? How could we be so irresponsible, so selfish, so mean? I thought back in history to some of the other things Americans thought were right, but are now embarrassed as a nation to have been a part of: slavery, institutionalization of suffragettes, Japanese internment camps, segregation, Abu Ghraib. How could we have done such things?

Fear, that's how. Fear fanned by propaganda, misinformation, rhetoric, and bigotry. Fear of change. Fear of differences. Fear of the enemy. Fear of the unknown. In short, Fear of Loss, whether it be of life, property, security, happiness, opportunity, or status.

We are now faced with another national embarrassment, one that many good, hardworking Americans are too afraid to correct. Every day, people in our great country are suffering and dying because they cannot afford health care. How many of us have heard stories of family lost in the early 20th century from the flu, scarlet fever, polio, or other epidemics because the family simply couldn't afford the medicine? Do you remember how that made you feel when you heard those stories as a child? How angry, upset, and confused that that could happen in the United States of America? That tragedy has not ended. It is with us today, and it must stop.

Physical and financial ruin are but a string of Fate away for most Americans, even if they have health insurance. A waitress right here in my small hometown had to delay life-saving cancer therapy until she could raise the $32,000 dollars of out-of-pocket expense that her health insurance wouldn't cover. The whole town rallied around to help her raise that money. Can you depend on such support? Can your child count on such support? Would you have the energy, or the time, to rally that support while you or a loved one needs that care right away?

What are you so afraid of, America, that you would deny good, decent, responsible people life? We have laws that demand people have insurance on their cars, but not on their health. Isn't that backwards? How is property more important than life? Is Fear worth the suffering of millions of Americans, of our friends, our neighbors, our family, and our selves?

Don't let Fear guide you. Get informed. Look at the other countries that have universal health care. A great many are capitalist democracies. Examine how they work, how they address your Fear of Loss. Have some compassion as well as common sense. A national public option that everyone can participate in is not something to let Fear destroy. It's the right thing to do.

Mecca

2009-07-25T10:46:00.001-07:00

Another groundtruth down. A few weeks of rest ahead.

This photo was taken by me near Mecca (California), a town of extremes. Polo ponies mixed with shacks in utter squalor. I don't know if the camps intermingle enough to realize just how much of a socioeconomic gulf lies between them. Are their lives so full of plans for the next diamond-studded dog collar or avoiding cholera that they don't have time, energy, or more likely will to think of what lies just across the street from them?

Me, I'm just glad I can escape. Mecca takes a lot of energy to endure. Empty of life. A virtual vacuum, as both extremes are so apart from my own. I don't see the pot of gold in either excessive wealth or suppressive poverty. I wonder if they do?

Kid finds Paint

2009-03-21T13:35:00.001-07:00

As if I needed another reason to love They Might Be Giants

2009-02-04T21:37:00.000-08:00

I'm in Brawley this week. Think cows, and the accompanying smell of cows. Vast feedlots of bovinity. I pass the lonely nights during this quadri-annual hajj trying to convince my exhausted body to actually go to sleep instead of staying up until 2am watching train wrecks like "Tila Tequila's Shot at Love" that I wouldn't dare tune into at home.

Brawley = pit of turpitude (whereas Blythe is just a pit).

This trip, trying to avoid such reality tv horrors, I'm still staying up way too late browsing the net. This is how I found the They Might Be Giants gem "Turtle Songs of North America." It's a collection of imaginary turtle calls introduced in a soothing drawl by John Linnell. I found it on the TMBG ClockRadio application http://www.tmbg.com/radioIndex.html , but you can also download it or listen to it at http://tmbw.net/wiki/Download:Turtle_Songs_Of_North_America .

Even were I not to have an affinity for testudines, purely professional of course (remember, Brawley = pit of turpitude), I would still consider this .... offering (can't really call it a song) ... from TMBG pure genius. The Marty Stouffer-esque delivery of descriptive prose like "the blinding taste of sunlight on the hood of a truck" mixed with mention of Fibonacci sequence while a Tudlow turtle gasps out its call in mathematical glory is ambrosia for geeks like me. I snorted Diet Dr. Pepper through my nose, MY NOSE mind you! while hearing of Eastern fighting turtles aggressively coursing through miles of swamps.

Midnight nears, and I lay awaiting the call of the zombie turtle to send me to sleep.

Makin' it

2009-01-28T20:07:00.000-08:00

You know you've made it into the Circle of GIS Geeks when you get a Defect ID number assigned to a bug you found in ArcMap.

Sure, it's caused me numerous extra hours at the office at unsightly times of the wee night as I work around the problem under a tight deadline, but I still think it's pretty cool that I delved so deep into the bowels of obscurity to find a glitch that probably no one else will ever be so unfortunate to bang their head against.

There should be little ribbons under our name tags at the annual User Group conference that say, "Discoverer of Defect ID #####". We could all have a secret handshake, and maybe our own catered luncheon.

Perhaps I should add it to my business card. Or at the very least my cv.

By the way, Dan Hopkins, ESRI tech support guy, is the Grand Funk King for sticking with me for hours on speaker phone as we worked it through. Thanks Dan!

I see thestrals

2009-01-21T15:04:00.000-08:00

Death is a funny thing. Not funny ha-ha, just.... funny odd.

Breath, breath, breath, stop. Beat... beat... beat... stop.

Fuzzy socks removed to help warm another's heart. The last spoon used cradled like it's the Hope diamond. Tears, pleas, undying love pledged. Cold hands. Yellow skin. Mouth left open in one last, silent, impotent gasp.

The machine that goes ping still pings for no known reason.

Yet life around still goes on.

One day to go!

2009-01-19T11:42:00.000-08:00

In less than 24 hours, America shines again. Here comes the sun. La la la la. Excitement abounds! Even the inexplicable "Impeach Obama" bumpersticker we saw yesterday at a house (whom we didn't even bother asking if they wanted to order cookies. Glowering Brownies aren't good marketers, and we do have standards to uphold. May I parenthetically place full sentences within a sentence?) didn't diminish our glee. My folks, additional extended family, and even my boss will be in Washington D.C. watching our new President swear in. At least I'll get a good second-hand report on the events. We have fireworks at the ready for the celebration. A yummy dinner is planned.

The weather is *beautiful*. Our neighbor's son has defied all odds and after a near-death experience in a car crash on New Year's Day (PSA: wear your seatbelts!) is walking around at home, healthy and whole. My uncle is transferring out of ICU and will be home soon. Erin's home with Azucena. Our new hot water pipes all fit just fine without any drips or leaks. The folks at ESRI tell me they have a fix for the annoying "unexpected error message" (note to programmers: are there such things as expected errors in your software?) that haunts my working days. They Might Be Giants were nomintated for a Grammy. Even our tulips are growing well. Mere coincidence with the inauguration??????

Yah, ok. Maybe. Still, makes it all that more enjoyable.

Guerilla Marketing

2009-01-18T02:03:00.000-08:00

It's 2 a.m. and I just finished populating an Access database with data on past and present Girl Scout cookie orders. Data include the usual address, name, phone number as well as number of boxes ordered each year (this is our third year in the cookie pushing business) and if the address has declined to order. Heck, I figure if a house has declined twice in three years, we're not wasting the time on it again.

Meanwhile, in just one day, my two Brownies in the family, using sheer charm and shoe leather, have sold almost 150 boxes! AND, they recruited a neighbor and her (adult) kid to pass the order sheet around both their work places. We have a friend who's tapped into the lucrative cookie-mongering journalist market for us (our data show newspaper people prefer peanut butter in nearly anything). I feel like my kids are at the top of some Girl Scout cookie pyramid scheme.

Or, training for covert marketing operations.

Nearly three years later

2009-01-06T13:46:00.000-08:00

Erin (and her husband John) over at http://jesuswasnotarepublican.blogspot.com/ has finally made it through a very tough haul on the adoption front. It took days short of three years from starting paperwork to final approval to come home from Guatamala with their daughter, Azucena. For a rivetting tale of bureaucracy at its most nightmarish, check it out. I can't wait for the book. There really should be a book. And a miniseries, too.

It was a long, tough fight for them, and I couldn't be happier for anyone. Welcome home, the water's fine.

Bermuda shorts

2008-12-30T18:23:00.000-08:00

So, I guess some people still think we have a viable cartography business. I just got a call from someone asking me where the Bermuda Triangle is.

"I'm writing a book." She also has no internet access, so can't Google it. There's also the matter of a really old telephone book. All signs point to poor research, but at least she's trying.

I just wish I had the quick wit enough to have said, "I lost it."

Be Prepared

2008-12-23T10:17:00.000-08:00

Unexpected discovery in the ESRI ERS Homeland Security marker symbol set.

You never know when you'll have to map a reptile infestation.

Blargh

2008-12-08T17:59:00.000-08:00

I'm in Blythe. With laryngitis.

No one can hear me scream.

Smiling skies

2008-11-30T23:08:00.001-08:00

As I head out in about an hour for a night of driving to the fabulous wilds of Blythe and Yuma (don't keep your travel agent waiting!) for a week+ of all things alfalfa, I wish I still had this view staring down at me to cheer my journey. Shining Venus, winking Jupiter, and a happy moon

As seen from our backyard at sunset, around 5 pm PST.

Alas, they've set by now. And I'm not nearly as happy as the moon to leave kith and kin.

The benefits of marriage

2008-11-23T21:19:00.001-08:00

I casually mentioned at a dinner out with the family that I was looking forward to a hot bath tonight, cavalierly stating maybe even with bubbles.

Not expecting even having the chance at any kind of hot water tonight, I was favorably surprised with a drawn hot bath, with bubbles, and a side of peppermint bark waiting for me soon after returning home. Ahhhhh.

Even better, I got to read Vonnegut's almost-last book, A Man Without a Country. In agreement with *nearly* all his observations, mixed with smiles of appreciation for his wit and style, I was sad, thinking of what he would have written November 5th, 2008.

Bath, bubbles, bon bon, bon mot - nice.

Saturday night You-Tube surfing

2008-11-16T00:33:00.000-08:00

Had me cackling.

Yes we can.

2008-11-04T21:34:00.000-08:00

There is Hope again.

This just in - Obama landslide in "real America"

2008-11-03T22:29:00.000-08:00

The little hamlets of Dixville Notch and Harts Location, New Hampshire have done the stereotypical New England flip-off of bed and comfort to vote at midnight, and the results are in.

Obama wins, without a single black vote.

There's a small part, a VERY small part of me who wants to move straight-away to one of those towns just to be a part of such civic-mindedness. But the rest of me wonders just how devoted I would be to crunching through the frost at oh-dark-thirty to vote in what must be some sort of conscripted duty. Do folks have to sign an understanding with the local constabulary that every four years, if registered to vote, for primary and general elections, they must cast a ballot at midnight or face.... what? Tar and feathers? Ironing everyone's shirts?

BigFoot, on the other hand, doesn't want to live in Dixville Notch because he thinks the name is far too phallic.

Either way, so goes small-town "real America", so goes the Nation. One can hope.

Rest in peace, and Goddess bless, Toot.

Working Mom: Volume 2, Issue 1: Office Pot-Lucks

2008-10-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's nearing 11 pm, and I've been up since before dawn. It's been a long, albeit productive, day and I'm ready for it to end. Too bad that won't happen until tomorrow.

A couple of weeks back, the office secretary went around asking everyone *what* they were bringing to the chili cookoff planned for tomorrow. I usually bow out of such things. I have enough on my plate in my cube and at home to bother piling on beans to it all. But, we have a new big boss man, and it was his idea, and the secretary was rather insistent (although I can understand her frustration with a two-week old empty sign-up sheet hanging on the breakroom refrigerator), so I really didn't see much of a way out without finding myself in the middle of office politics, which I so studiously avoid at nearly all costs, except, apparantly, for late nights at the stove.

I could have just brought store-bought cole slaw. But, like a fool, a non-conformist ochlocrastic (thanks, Pops!) fool, I had to buck the system of all those Texans and North Dakotans who think they know chili (Green chili. What the hey? Who ever heard of green chili?) and said I'd bring Cincinnati chili. My dad introduced me to the concoction when we'd head down to watch the Big Red Machine play. It's glorious stuff.
You know, REAL chili. Or, rather, as I found out while trying to find a recipe, real Greek-immigrant stew. But it's called chili, damnit, and Cincinnati chugs out more quarts of chili than any other town in the world, so I'm justified. So Google tells me.

Thus, after a full day of work figuring out the minutia that makes dynamic text in Production Line Tool Set work, coming home and grabbing all three girls to head out for five hours of errands involving Halloween candy, costume paraphenalia and two-month-late birthday party planning, then dropping off birthday party invitations to a house I haven't visited in a year and another house I've never visited and lost the address to, an hour of wind-down and bedtime ritual stuff, I now am faced with making about two quarts of chili I've never made before.

We have our own family recipe we call Dam Chili (due to the proximity of a dam nearby). It's like Cincinnati chili, except we don't stew it for hours. Rather, we just spice up some browned ground beef and kidney beans and throw it all on some spaghetti with a pile of cheese and call it good. But, the real deal seemed more, I don't know, professional. Like a chili cookoff at lunchtime can really be called professional. Obviously, I'm a little confused on what "professional" means. I think I should just own up to it and admit it simply seemed more interesting and flamboyant and therefore worth doing, as well as better meets some definition of "chili".

Anyways, this whole exercise is yet another example of Working Mom vs. World. How many of us working moms avoid office pot-luck parties because we don't want to put in the work to theoretically make something folks will rave about, and/or don't want to admit to ourselves or others for having brought the Doritos. What? I'm the only one? I'm caught between unrealistic dreams of Martha Stewart grandeur and just wanting a few hours of sleep.

Is there a happy medium somewhere? This elusive "work-life balance" so oft mentioned? Where work is energizing as well as financially rewarding enough to enjoy the time with your family instead of trying to make ends and chores meet? Maybe, just maybe, there really IS no such thing as work-life balance. No Ying of employment to Yang of enjoyment. Maybe it's just some utopian ideal we're all taught to buy into, like model-perfect bodies and quinoa. Both are supposed to be good for us, but end up being impossible to acheive and just leaves a bitter taste in our mouths. Perhaps we, ok, maybe it's just I, should just let go of the guilt of not being perfect and just bring the bag of chips.

People like chips.

I don't, though.

At least, not without salsa. Which would lead me to making my own salsa (jarred stuff: ICK!), and I couldn't just pair my fabulous tomato-celantro concoction with any old chips, I'd probably have to make my own tortillas and fry 'em up so they'll still be warm.

And thus the cycle begins again.

Call me Dr. Worm

2008-10-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Ok, taken out of context, this looks pretty bad:

Then, taken more out of context, but with supporting skirt-chasing documentation you may wonder just *how* opposed to "alternative lifestyles" McCain is.

The photo is by Jim Bourg of Reuters, of McCain reacting going the wrong direction off the stage at the last debate.

Gosh, I love the internet.

Health is overrated

2008-10-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

McCain just said this.... I'm in shock he actually admits it.

"....Just again, the example of the eloquence of Sen. Obama. He's health for the mother. You know, that's been stretched by the pro-abortion movement in America to mean almost anything.

That's the extreme pro-abortion position, quote, "health."

Yes. That's right. Considering the health of a woman is extreme, even for "pro-abortion" folks.

Of course, I don't think there are very many pro-abortion folks out there. Pro-choice, yes, pro-abortion, no.

Yes, yes, practice trumpet everyday

2008-10-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

Well, after announcing we were going to homeschool, I haven't said much about it, have I? Probably because we've been so darned busy. We are homeschooling, but plans have changed a bit. The day we had planned to drop all our stuff in the mail to make us all legal homeschoolers, we learned the virtual public school we were interested in for future years had been approved to enroll students in the younger grades.

Honestly, the decision to homeschool was both invigorating and terrifying at the same time. I was so excited and had so many ideas on how to do things, but frankly, I'm great at ideas but suck at follow-through. If I can't do it perfectly, I tend to get so intimidated I just give up. Knowing this about me, I worried I'd do the same with my kids' education. So, this opportunity arose, and after not much thought, really (although we had talked about the program, which we had investigated months before and were impressed with), we decided to use the public "school in a box" program.

Ok, homeschoolers, I know a public school program, with all its public school requirements and inflexibility, isn't the "true, puritan" homeschool experience even if it is taught outside of the typical brick-and-mortar school. But it does give us much of what we wanted in the homeschool experience. We're very much more involved in their lives. I LOVE seeing how they learn. I have learned so much about my kids, what interestes them, what frustrates them; I get to see their excitement at learning something new, and decipher what stymies them. I'm learning more about not only their own limits, but my own. I know more about what makes them who they are, and that is priceless.

Oh, I've had some very bad mommy moments, and some very very bad teacher moments. I get frustrated particularly with Big Toe, 8 years old, when she doesn't grasp a concept as easily as *I* think she should. That is a problem with the public school schedule - we have to follow a set curricula, and finish it within the week or so, instead of let it go for a bit. Still, I've learned when we hit a stumble (it's usually is during a math lesson), it's time to stop and come back the next day. It's not always easy to do that, as neither she nor I like to give up without it being perfect (remember, perfectionists here)... or start again after giving up, but we're learning from experience it's best to do that.

It was tough at first. We were a few weeks behind by the time we were all enrolled and the curricula came in, and the high-speed internet (Hello, You Tube and Pandora!) was set up. Then there was training Pinkie Toe (three) to let her sisters be while they were working, and let Daddy work with them without a constant need for attention... and training Daddy on how to show her attention while teaching at the same time. We were spending ten, twelve hour days trying to get through the lessons. We were ready to quit, and just go alone. But, we did catch up, we learned what part of the lessons we really needed to do, and what we could let go as just "busy work" (really, Middle Toe, six, knows her colors, shapes, patterns, and simple arithmetic, so does she *really* have to color the highest kite blue four times? Our call - NO!). We've blocked the lessons so all of math is on Monday, Language Arts on Tuesday, Science on Wednesday, etc. For now, the lessons are easy enough to where we don't have to worry about oversatursation or needing to sleep on a concept to understand it better. Later we may need to adjust, but we have enough lee time on Thursday and Friday to spread out if need be.

Big Toe is involved at the local school in GATE classes, so she still has regular contact with many of her friends from last year, as well as semi-frequent playdates, too. We have lots of "socializing" opportunities through our usual activities, and some additional we are making time for.

The main thing is that we DO enjoy this. I love it. The kids love it. Daddy loves it. We can go to a bat talk at night and not worry about getting home early to get enough sleep for an early school day the next day. Big Foot and the girls went to the localish apple orchard to pick a mess of apples for pies, during the school week. I've had lunch with the family a few times.

Nice.

Fun.

Good thing for us.

Triangle (wo)Man

2008-10-06T19:15:00.000-07:00

Here it is, October again. As the 6yo said, "I have my shoes. I have my costume. All I need now is Halloween!"

Aside from October being the month of Samhain and all the festivities and remembrances that involves, it's National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. I see this dedication as a way for those affected to remember those little lives and futures lost, and also to raise the awareness of the blessedly ignorant (BI) on how to react to such tragedies.

It has been my experience, both as one of the BI, and then as one of the grieving, that the BI say things to make themselves feel better, not to make the grieving feel better. Like, "Oh, you're still young, you can have more." Yah, right, well, can I have THIS one instead? Or, "It was God's will." Yah, maybe YOUR God, the sick, twisted diety he may be whom I'm having one HELL of a time believing has any good intentions if you insist it's His will. How about, "It was for the best." For whose best? Yours? Sure, maybe the genetics were bad, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. I've known too many friends who have had to make extremely difficult decisions about what to do after a test shows severe genetic and phenotypic abnormalities, who have made the decision to terminate *because* they love their child so much, to ever pretend that difficult genetics makes the loss any less difficult itself.

Then there's perhaps the worst offense at all. Ignoring the loss. Even worse, ignoring the loss and pain on national television in a debate when your opponent chokes up in front of millions of voters.

Oh, there are many reasons to despise Palin. Endorsing witch hunting. Forcing her daughter into an insane marriage. Making rape victims pay for their own rape kits. Trying to ban books. Using political power for coersion. Using lies to make points. Making women look inept and unable to hold political office. But this, folks, her complete and total lack of empathy after an emotional, human moment as a father struggles (and succeeds) to continue after sharing such a desperate moment in his life, this makes her a bitch.

What's that blue thing doing here?

2008-10-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

Some of you may have heard there's a slight problem with our economy. Don't panic, John McCain has insisted that the fundamentals of our economy are sound and strong . Don't let his little pirouette about postponing a debate because of the economy deter you from your confidence.

Thank-you, Margaret Bourke-White, for capturing this idealism best in a photo seventy years ago that still speaks truth today.

Scan courtesy of Masters of Photography.

The Great Nuclear Debate: Yucca Mountain

2008-09-26T09:18:00.000-07:00

Here in Nevada, we have this big 500 pound gorilla in the room anytime anyone campaigns for anything 'round here from dog catcher to President of the United States. It's called Yucca Mountain. The thing is, Yucca Mountain is a site Congress has mandated be studied as a potential site to store high-level radioactive waste. You know, the stuff that comes out of reactors, or dismantled nuclear bombs. Yucca Mountain is a long, flattish, non-descript mountain near Beatty, Nevada, about 90 miles NW of Las Vegas. Part of it sits right on the Nevada Test Site, where, fittingly enough, a lot of the atomic bombs that weren't dismantled were instead blown up. I worked for seven years there. Great job for catching rats, if you don't mind a horrendous commute. The short of it is, Congress said this will happen, Nevada said no it won't, and ever since it's been political death to Nevada politicians to ever suggest Yucca Mountain is a good idea.

That is, unless you're running for President of the United States. Bush won Nevada by something like 21,000 votes in 2000, despite his overt support of Yucca Mountain. If Yucca Mountain is *so* important to Nevadans, then how in the hell did he get our four (now five) electoral votes? If just a few thousand Nevadans had simply paid attention, Al Gore would be president, and the world would be a very different place.

This election, I'm hearing similar misinformation. "I don't want to vote for Obama because he's for nuclear power, so he's going to ream us with Yucca Mountain." And, by default, that means that McCain will come riding in on his white horse and save Nevada from the doom of radiation. Go McCain!

Wrong, folks. Stop being spoon-fed convenient stereotypes and look at the facts.

Obama is for nuclear power. Yes, that's right, he is. I'm not all that comfortable with that either, particularly because of the waste issue. However, he is for nuclear power ONLY if a safe alternative to Yucca Mountain can be found.

Here's a link to his letter to Sens. Reid and Boxer on the matter, which ends with the quote:

"....we should select a repository location through a process that develops national consensus and respects state sovereignty, not one in which the federal government cuts off debate and forces one state to accept nuclear waste from other states. The flawed process by which Yucca Mountain was selected now manifests itself as a profoundly expensive endeavor of monumental proportion.

In short, the selection of Yucca Mountain has failed, the time for debate on this site is over, and it is time to start exploring new alternatives for safe, long-term solutions based on sound science. "

In contrast, John McCain has been a consistent supporter of Yucca Mountain . He was quoted in December, 2007 as saying,

"....
A key way to reduce harmful greenhouse gas emissions, he said, would be to increase the use of nuclear power.

When asked after the forum how he proposed to dispose of high level nuclear waste, McCain said, "My preference is that we store it. I always thought that Yucca Mountain was the right place to do it."

It's not a problem of technology. It's a problem of political will. We have now the worst of all worlds, because we have nuclear waste sites around every nuclear power plant in America , which provides us with the greatest challenge to our security," he said. "So I would try and resolve it and I would try to go back and revisit the Yucca Mountain issue, but I would do everything in my power to resolve it." "

Within the past week, George Bush. citing about 30 objections including cuts to Yucca Mountain funding, threatened to veto a defense spending bill that would have reduced funds to the Yucca Mountain budget by $50 million dollars, accepting an amendment in the House that returned $25 million to the budget. The bill has yet to face the Senate, so I do not know how McCain, or Obama for that matter, would have voted on the previous version. However, considering their diametrically opposed views on Yucca Mountain , I would think McCain, as he usually does, would have voted with White House views to increase the funding in the bill, and Obama would have objected to returning funds to Yucca Mountain .

So, in conclusion, McCain: For nuclear power and for Yucca Mountain . Obama: For nuclear power only if we can find a safe alternative to Yucca Mountain .

Disclaimer: I, personally, think Yucca Mountain is a good, safe choice as a repository site. Then again, I worked on the project for seven years, so that has greatly effected my opinion. I agree with Obama that it is a political disaster, however, and has been handled with greatest disdain for a sovereign state.

Well, if I have to break silence

2008-09-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

I will on this very happy note. After mere days short of two years of a beaurocratic nightmare, Erinberry and her family have finally made it through PGN and are approved to adopt their little girl A.

Those who are lucky get to become parents. And those who are luckier still get to have a set of parents like John and Erin.

I can't wait to hear you're home, A.

Fourth of July parade, smalltown style

2008-07-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

My town has an annual Fourth of July parade. Actually, it could be called the Annual Parade of Candidates, as about 75% of it is devoted to the floats, cadres, and paraphernalia of folks running for political office.

They all come out. Candidates and incumbents for judge, sheriff, Congress, Senate, President, City Council (in my town, City Council seats are hotly contested and viscerally defended and attacked over their terms, making them of equal local importance to POTUSA). Really, folks, this is Small Town America, the only wholesome-ish place in these parts to campaign without sullying one's reputation with girlie bars, brothels, and County contracts. Our little parade, with its pancake breakfast(I've been served syrup by the most powerful man in the US Senate!), Main Street parade, city park festivities, and fireworks over green soccer fields make it a haven for any candidate trying to taint his or candidacy with some sort of Americana.

Some of their attempts have been fantastically ludicrous. I vividly remember one year when a candidate for County Sheriff had a float populated with numerous scantily-clad go-go dancers. Lt. Governor Lonnie Hammergren (who for some reason is one of my top search-engine draws here), used to be in the parade every year on one of those tall ladders used by airline passengers to climb up into their plane off of the tarmac. I always though that an alliteration for going nowhere.

But this year, all stops were pulled out when it was revealed Hannah Montana was running for district judge.

Ok, she must get joked a LOT about her name and hair. Maybe she's running so she can change her name easier, although I suggest the relative simplicity of hair dye. I'm not sure she has a chance, since her major appeal is with girls not old enough to vote.

This year's parade was more subdued than usual. We only had one band, a little jazz quintet that was playing for a particular candidate. Even the local high school didn't field its band this year. Hammergren didn't have his wall of fallen soldiers he substituted for his stairway to nowhere several years ago. No parade of veterans, not even Bo Gritz perennially running for President.

But I did get an insight into what's going wrong in Iraq.

Our elite Naval engineers are sorely underpowered. They have just a few Super Soakers to defend their pitiful bunker. Even the Girl Scouts can kick their butts.

Aside from the parade, Fourth festivities here were subdued. It's just too blasted hot to do anything other than lay on the kitchen floor and pant. We attempted the local pool, but their stupid, stupid, STUPID rule that anyone under four *must* wear swim diapers foiled our attempts, as three-year-old Pinkie Toe refused to wear one, even though it was endorsed by Ariel herself.

We did spend a few hours at a friend's house swimming, and found a good place to watch the fireworks from.

But mostly, we hunkered down in air conditioning. Sweet, sweet, planet-killing air conditioning.

Geeking Out

2008-06-19T13:52:00.000-07:00

First, I am overwhelmed by the response to my previous post on homeschooling. I value your support more than I can express, and wish I could respond to all your wonderful comments. Because of you, I am feeling much more confident and, well, happy about our decisions. My searches, fueled by your help, have found there isn't nearly the dearth of secular philosophy and curricula out there as my first investigations suggested. Someday I'll find some time to check out blogs and other links given to me to expand my homeschooling bloglist.

So, now I'm freer to dream and scheme about lessons and discoveries.

Since my mind is racing with ideas on how to better teach my kids arithmetic so that someday my retirement will be secure when one or all find the secret to cold fusion, I developed a simple matrix that shows addition and subtraction tables to ten, and multiplication and division to fifteen. I figure estimation will come easier if they can see how numbers work together better than just memorizing tables.

In the monotonous typing exercise of creating these tables, I realized I never gave division its full due. There are some really interesting patterns to be found when dividing a number by nine, or how numbers divisible by three have a dependable pattern of .333 or .156 to follow. Sure, all (ok, some?) of those computer geeks are all over binary code, but threes are pretty darned cool if you ask me. Now that I see it, that is.

Enjoy this little trip into arithmetic geekdom.

Here's the file should anyone want it to print out for your own use.

In which I find I am not the farthest outlier on the bellcurve of normalcy

2008-06-15T09:17:00.000-07:00

For the past, oh, nine months or so the Big Feet household has been pondering homeschooling. There are various reasons for this. I made a big, long, boring list, which upon rereading, meant nothing other than to myself and my family. Suffice it to say, school violence, ineptitude, culture, and fantastical dreams of happy, fulfilled, vibrant kids dancing through fascinating home-based learning opportunities have brought us to this decision. All but the latter are very real. The trailer is just a dream, which I'm sure will be squashed with the first, "But I don't WANT to write an essay on twelfth-century Welsh royalty!" complaint. Still, that's got to be better than the already achieved "But I don't WANT to do this boring, repetitive, unreasonable homework I already know how to do!" complaint.

So, with the public school year over (and the ground squirrels dropped off at the local wildernessy park hopefully close enough to humans to discourage many wild predators and far enough away from homes to discourage house cats), after daydreaming of homeschooling for months, I am now faced with the stomach-churning reality of actually having to do it. At first, I thought perhaps my recent-and-not-quite-finished bout with yawning in technicolor/praying to the Porcelain God/feeding the fishies/general gastronomical malaise was due to my having to actually *make* the decision as opposed to just thinking and daydreaming about the decision. Now, two of the Tarsals are in similar discomfort. So, with some abashed relief that my body isn't trying to tell me I'm making a terrible mistake, I return to finding more about homeschool curricula.

The first thing about homeschooling I found out with actual research, instead of just my own biases and prejudices based on gossip, heresay, and a few honestly-hip folks I know who do homeschool, is that my own biases and prejudices are to a reasonably large extent justified. Most homeschool sites, playgroups and curricula I have found have not just a decidedly Christian bent to them, but even a militant Christian bent to them. A homeschoolers convention set to take place nearby next week has not only featured speakers expounding the virtues of bringing God into all your works, but also a few lectures on the Second Amendment. That was new to me - I can now add to my prejudicial list of homeschooler traits the thought that homeschoolers belong to militant compounds. Yah, that's right, every. last. one. of. them. Those cool hip homeschool folks I already know obviously haven't read the memos.

As a Paganish Humanist, full-time working mom with a stay-at-home-husband, in a male-dominated field, with a zoology B.Sc. AND an MBA, I was already feeling quite marginalized before I became determined (sort-of)to homeschool my kids for a better-rounded, safer, more interesting and comprehensive education. This isn't like having a zit in junior high and feeling like a freak, I really am an outlier, at least, in my neck of the world. Then, to find I am even *more* of a freak in the world of what much of polite society (from my observations) view as social misfits that homeschool, well, that's a bit much for my fragile ego.

So, I was very relieved to find an even farther outlier than myself the other day while searching for secular homeschoolers. Doc's Sunrise Rants is a current blog by not only a secular homeschooler, but a retired, liberal, molecular biologist, agrarian lesbian homeschooler at that! Really, though, aside from the feeling of relief of having a little company on this end of the bellcurve (working, heterosexual, macrobiologist who only dreams of a llama farm though that I am), she addresses some of my concerns in a personal way, and she has a great list of resources that I will attempt to find some time on which to graze. There are a few other secular homeschool sites, but many of them have not been updated for over a year. Not to say that The Iliad ever goes out of style, but links and resources do come and go, so Doc's extensive lists are (irony intended) a Godsend. Thanks, Doc. My tummy feels a bit better.

More on this later, I'm sure. Life speaks, as do three little girls.

Urban wildlife

2008-05-14T21:49:00.000-07:00

We are foster-parenting five roundtailed groundsquirrels right now. Despite hours spent over two days trying to find mom and/or burrow, we could find neither for these not-quite weaned pups.

Added bonus, while looking for burrows and mom today, we found a groundsnake. No picture, but a beautiful vibrant orange on top, green/yellow on sides and belly.

I'm not one for bringing wildlife into the home, but how could I give these little guys up to the elements/predators, especially after my daughter (who found the first one) had fallen in love with them?

I estimate them at about four weeks old - about a week short of weaning. I hope in a few weeks they'll be old enough to let go. However, they are quite tame (for now), so I think the schoolyard is definately NOT the place to release them! We can't find wildlife rehabilitators for groundsquirrels around here, so it's up to us.

Working Mom: Volume 1, Issue 6: Mother's Day

2008-05-12T13:59:00.000-07:00

Despite my best intentions to not be judgmental about such things, I am often left slightly airless when I hear moms mention how they just want to get out and do something by themselves. Airless as like when a huge truck races by while you stand/crouch/cower on the side of the street for whatever it is you may be standing/crouching/cowering on the side of a busy street for, or at least a street busy enough to have huge semis race by you. Perhaps you are hitchhiking, or searching for the stuffed animal that mysteriously got sucked out the car window at freeway speeds during purely experimental maneuvers to see if it can, indeed, fly. Airless because the vacuum created by the displacement of tractor-trailer-sized quantities of air pulls what was perfectly happy to be exchanging gasses in alveolal (I made that word up) bliss out of your lungs to draft behind the receding truck with the trailing dust and litter hijacked from stasis.

I am left, as I said, slightly airless as I am hit with the realizations all at once that 1) people actually get to spend enough time with their kids to want some time away from them 2) why is life so unfair that I don't get to have so much time with my kids that I would want such a thing as time to myself away from them 3) if I'm at all honest with myself, there are times when a few hours to do whatever it is I want or need to do can be alluring and 4) how dare I admit to 3).

Such was my Mother's Day. Or, rather, Mother's Day Weekend. The kids and Dad wanted to bake me a cake, and, mind you, keep it a surprise. Oh, I knew days beforehand that they were going to bake me a cake because Pinkie Toe, at three, was far too excited about it being a chocolate cake to not mention it. I played (?) stupid with the rest of the Metatarsals and insisted throughout the week and even into Mother's Day itself that I had no idea what they had planned for me, even with Pinkie Toe asking for cake after dinner Saturday night, and insisting that it was in the fridge despite her sisters' adamant denials.

So, they kicked me out of the house on Saturday so they could get to baking (while leaving me the dishes to clean up. Thus, I learned that it was a three-tiered heart-shape cake with cherry icing and whipped cream filling). For the first time in a very long time, I was out of the house at the behest, nay, urging of all family members, with no guilt whatsoever to muddy the experience up. I actually had to kill some time, not get back home as soon as possible.

I cannot remember ever, EVER having such a situation since having kids. I am *all* about the guilt over not being home enough (for my tastes) with my children.

I cringe to say it, but this was an A+ Mother's Day present. Yes, I admit it. Me, who just nine years ago on Mother's Day was clutching the remains of my miscarried baby while being wheeled into recovery from a D&C, swearing that I would appreciate every second I was blessed to share with any children I may have. Here I am, declaring that it can be nice to have some time to myself, as long, that is, as no one else is upset with my absence.

I didn't spend the time purely on myself. I bought a tree and some shrubs for the long-neglected side yard, which I had been meaning to do for the past year but never had the chance. I went to the bookstore, and returned to the shelves the books I was going to get for myself in favor of books I knew the kids would love. I went to the craft store to restock some dwindling craft supplies that are sure to clutter up the floor, but I bet I'll get some really cool "I love you, Mom" cards out of, so it wasn't a totally selfless act.

Although I missed my kids and my husband, it was good to make decisions about landscaping on my own without the inevitable, "Well, what do YOU think?" that leads to inaction and explains a lot about the state of our house projects. It was nice to wander the bookstore and at least *look* at some books I'm interested in. I was able to get in and out of the craft store without uttering a single word of control over smaller, inquisitive, tactile people. All, and this is the true gift of it, without one pang of guilt over squandering my time.

I came home refreshed, and did my best to hide the washing of the cake pans and tossing of the empty icing tubs. Sunday, we had cake for breakfast (and payed for it with jittery, sugar-crashed kids later. What, you expected me to continue the torturous denial of a three-year-old's cake dementia?), went to two parks, I got to kiss an ant sting (although she asked for Daddy to heal it - ouch!), ate at the dinner table with all five family members in attendance (too much stress for me to go out on Mother's Day with the crush of people), discovered my youngest is probably allergic to strawberries, and even got a shower. Nine years ago, despite a job, a husband, a home, and a loving extended family, all I had in my heart was loss and empty promises. Now I have it all, including guilt, worry, and voracious hymenoptera. I am truly blessed to be a Mom.

To me, Mother's Day is not about me, the Mom, wanting presents and adoration and time to myself, but about being a Mom, and celebrating what makes being a Mom so special. Bring me ant stings and itchy hives (poor kid! I can't imagine a life without strawberries!) to kiss and scratch, and sugar-high kids to wrangle. I'll go to a spa some other day (week? Year? I hear there are such places...), perhaps when the kids are grown, and I'd rather the money for a jeweled necklace go towards the college fund. The best present of all is knowing my family loves me enough to kick me out of the house.

Be careful where you pee

2008-05-05T11:06:00.000-07:00

Found while seeking a descreet spot to cop a squat.

Good dreams to you all.

In which I still fail to get drunk

2008-04-08T08:55:00.000-07:00

Now, see, this illustrates a concern I have with white-bread ethnocentric America.

The map shows the recognized boundaries of North American countries circa 1847. Yes, folks, California, Arizona, Colorado, and even, indeed, Texas did once belong to Mexico, and before that Spain, and before that various Native American nations. And let’s not forget that once, even Russia had vested interests in 1800’s western North America south of the 54th parallel.

Apparently, some folks ‘round these parts are up in arms that a capitalist, free-economy company dared to advertise to their market audience in Mexico with an historically accurate cartographic representation of North America about 150 years ago. Hey, we weren’t always all about Mom, apple pie, and Arab land-holdings. Once, we were just along the eastern seaboard, you know, where all those Liberals live. Texas, folks, remember the Alamo? Yah, hey, you remember it because Texas was part of MEXICO, lads. What, you thought Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie were tryin’ to build a fence to keep the wetbacks out? I don’t see the Guyanan’s all atizzy because they aren’t shown separated from Venezuela on the map, either, but we all know they’re lazy communist cocaine growers anyways, right?

Now, aside from the very rare rum-laced concoction, I don’t drink alcohol, and I wouldn’t be drinking vodka should I ever decide to imbibe more. So, I’m not about to start driving under the influence just to show solidarity towards North American-historically-informed Swedes and thumb my nose at Americans ignorant of their own freakin’ history. Instead, I’ll just complain and grumble here. I’m all for getting more drunks off the road and into a more functional, rational lifestyle, so I encourage these misanthropes to go ahead with their boycott and stop drinking Absolut vodka. I rally them to go even further and stop drinking their imported Mexican tequila, Canadian beer, English ale, French wine, and Japanese sake. While they’re at it, why not stop guzzling the homegrown moonshine and Bud Light. Maybe they’ll get a clear enough head to pick up a book and LEARN something.

You're a true -ooh-oooooh-oooooh Mom

2008-04-04T08:15:00.000-07:00

So, I went to WalMart last night. It was a furtive pilgrimage. Unlike the Hajj for millions of people, I make every attempt to avoid a trip to the Red Plague. Only under extreme duress and need do I dare cross the threshold, and always, my first thought is, "Where are the greeters?"

Funny, that. Do they still have them?

BigFeet is the latest victim of the flu at our house. It's making the rounds slowly, just as one person is on the road to recovery, the next person comes down with the telltale chills and hacking cough. So, in an attempt to give him a break, I took the kids to the recently-reprieved McDonalds in town.

It wasn't so long ago McDonalds was visited by the Littlefeat clan even less than WalMart. We'd tease the kids as we were headed "into town" across the pass that we were going to McDonalds for dinner. They hated it. The old McDonalds in our little-ish town (is a small town defined by having only one McDonalds?) was dingy, dirty, roach-infested, and had a climate control system in the two-story playland that never worked. This is a bad thing for a two-story greenhouse in August in the Mojave Desert. McDonalds was a place to be feared, loathed, and used as a threat like the boogeyman.

Then, they razed the old McDonalds and built a brand-spankin' new one right next door. We can now park where the old playland used to be using our own car's air conditioner to stay cool, stroll through the footprint of the deepfryer with nary a burn, even eat some edible food in a picnic where the kitchen used to be..... if picnicing in a parking lot is your thing.

Not too long ago, as the elder two were at a birthday party, I had taken S to a craft show at the rec center, and then decided it's now or never, let's give the new playland a chance. At least she wouldn't cry and beg to be dropped off on the side of the road before ever going into the building. I believe it was her first ever visit to the Golden Arches. She loved it, I liked being able to actually finish a meal, such as it is there, and even have a chance at a refill of soda while she bandied about the next-to-last accepted forced segregation in our North American culture (just before public restrooms) - where kids are seen and not heard on the other side of three-inch plexiglass. Ever since, after giving a detailed report to my children on the bubble walls, working heater and air-conditioner, and complete lack of (at least visible) roaches, when one or the other of us parents needs a bit of time home alone, the other will pack the kids up and fill them full of deep-fried grease and potato-laced ice cream, with a futile attempt to mitigate the health hazards by ordering apple dippers instead of fries.

So, as mentioned earlier, BigFeet was sick, the girls and I went to McDonalds. I brought the backpacks to do our homework there. A was star student this week, so her backpack had some of her favorite things from home in it for her one chance at show-and-tell for the whole school year. I burrowed through her pack, taking out some of these treasures as I looked for her homework. (Kindergarten? Homework? What the hey?). Hours passed, the kids played, added, subtracted, played, told time, colored, cut, pasted, played, read and wrote.

Eventually, we had to return home. I gathered up our stuff, threw out our trash, located shoes, herded them out the door, and piled in the car. I was intent on them falling asleep before we got home, which they didn't, so we played one of our little games with no name. I'm sure you all have at least a game or two with no name, right? This one, I let the kids tell me which way to turn in the car at intersections as I drive. We discover the town, taking unexpected turns, finding cool houses and abrupt cul-de-sacs, and chatter on excitedly as we explore together.

We played that for awhile, and on my way home from B-hill, they fell asleep. As I trundled A into bed, she asked for her Hannah Montana doll. A is afraid of all toys in her bed except Hannah. It's her one "special" toy, and I totally, absolutely, positively knew it had to be in her backpack because she had show-and-tell that day. I remembered removing it from her backpack at McDonalds. I searched her backpack. I searched N's backpack. I searched my purse and the car. I told A I'll be back, even though by then she was deep asleep, and headed back to the playland. I searched every bench, the slide, behind the furniture and play structures, the bathroom, I even dug into the trash. No one had seen it. No one had been there after we left.

But it was gone.

Her one favorite toy, the only thing she'd fight her little sister over about who got to play with it, her absolute most favorite thing EVER that she took to school to show her classmates, even though she told me she was worried that she might loose her in the classroom, but I told her not to fret, Hannah will come home with her.

Gone.

Kidnapped by some evil elf somewhere snickering in the vents, I'm sure.

Thus, my late-night trip to WalMart. I tried Toys-R-Us, but for some reason, they close before 11 at night. I had to search through rows of Hannah dolls while being watched by yellow smiley faces, worried that I may not get THAT particular Hannah, the one who says, "Sweet nibblets", wears a red jacket, and has star earrings. But, I found her. Several packages deep behind mundane mute Hannah Montana dolls, she lurked. My status as caring Mom was saved.

I spent the next hour trying to unpackage her from the shackles of her box, then placed her in A's bed, safe and sound, with only the nagging ethics of if I should tell her that I lost her doll and this is a new Hannah to bother me. She'd figure it out. After all, her big sister gave Hannah a bath the other day, frying the circuit boards, and she only sings now if you raise her right arm above her head. The new one? Sings. Talks. Just push her belly button. Dead give-away clue to Mom's indescretion.

I told BigFeet about my crime against all things A this morning as I headed out the door to work. I told him to go ahead and tell her it's a new one if she asks. No use lying to a five-year-old, and if I'm lucky, she'll think me a hero to brave the midnight streets of Las Vegas for her.

Not one minute after I was on the road, he calls me and plays, "You're a truuu oooh ooooh ooooh friend" in my earpiece. He found Hannah, the old, handicapped one, on the kitchen table under some (yes, I admit it, although I hope it was at least clean) underwear he had thrown on top of her as a joke.

She never made it to McDonalds. She never was thrown in the trash or stolen by a mischievious elf.

I went to WalMart at near-midnight to buy a doll my daughter already had.

But, at least now, there will be peace when both youngest girls want to play with the blond pop star.

3 am

2008-01-02T12:26:00.000-08:00

I "wrote" this in my head at, when else, 3 am when middle tarsel woke up with a bad dream, and I couldn't go back to sleep after comforting her.

I envision it with a rolling guitar background, like in "Homeward Bound" from Paul Simon, sung nearly monotone with inflections and long notes as fitting.

3 am

It’s three am
The night is long
When friends fret and chat with me, set me free
Sharing glories, chores and lemon tea
A simple life so rich with love
In my dreams.

It’s three am
The night is long
The girls laugh and spin till who knows when
Eyes wide with hope, glitter with no fear
Only happy tears… oh so dear
In my dreams

It’s three am
The night is long
When my Mom five states away tells me of her day
Filled with health and hope and sweet romance
No cares but where to dance
In my dreams.

It’s three am
The night is long
We make it through all kinds of weather, hands together
Wanting nothing but to make us glad
We chose each other, that’s not so bad
In my dreams

Laying alone in bed
Moonlight on his head
It’s three am
The night is long.
The day is longer.

Working Mom: Volume 1 Issue 5: Lost in Babylon

2007-05-06T21:07:00.000-07:00

I'm a talker. Anyone scourged by my comments on his or her blog can attest to that. You get me going on tortoise nesting behavior or the various viscosities of rodent urine, I can go on all day.

Problem is, not many people are all that interested in sizes and textures of reptilian scat. Can't say that I blame them, there's a limited audience for such topics. I couldn't yawn through a detailed expose on the turnover on The View. It's all about perspective, I guess.

Thing is, my family is a bunch of talkers, too. Mr. Feat can go on for-EVER about how he is modifying his telrad whatnot for his latest modification on one of his telescopes, or his latest theory on how Karl Rove is really the cause for mass extinction in the late Devonian. Eldest Child (EC), recently turned seven, is the master of non sequiters, jumping in on conversational pauses to talk about anything from meiosis to schoolyard society. Middle Child (MC), recently registered for kindergarten, will interrupt any of the previously mentioned fascinating conversations, to ask a number of unanswerable questions always prefaced with "What about if...." air were pudding, we all had three heads, I was as tall as the planet, fire was cold, etc. Youngest Child (YC), very Two, will take advantage of any remaining opportunity for interjection with, "Iwann ah pah. Peeazz? Peeeazzz? Peeazzz? Peeazzz?" or "Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!"

I've become a mute. I can get in a few "Ummhmmmmm"s around Mr. Feat's dialogue, with a few questions about EC's day and need for homework, a bit of expostulation on the latest oddity MC may have dreamed up, and (more than I'm willing to admit) "WHAT?!" to YC. Aside from that, I have no chance to babble on about my own interests, day, pressing need for the bathroom, or latest obsession to get some family room furniture (I've been out of college and married 18 years now, it's about time we get a sofa for cryin' out loud. Aside from having somewhere comfortable to sit for once, it would hide the stains on the carpet very nicely).

It's kinda a lonely life. Oh, I love to hear my kids babble on, and even Mr. Feat for the most part. Dreaming up endless alternate universes with MC is a hoot, really, although tiring after awhile. Hearing the baby talk in that tiny high voice is enough to make me weak in the knees from cuteness. I am amazed at what EC thinks of and discovers as she matures both intellectually and socially (we got into discussions about Meangirl cliques and communism today).

I listen a lot. I ask a lot of questions. I help guide conversations about hurt feelings, sibling fights, and inevitable proletariat inequalities. I've become so accustomed to tuning into others' dialog, I have become somewhat at a loss when someone shows an interest in me. I'm usually of the opinion it's just a nicety, like the grocery checker asking, "Is there anything else I can help you with" while silently imploring, "Please, God, say no. Please say no. Please say no. Peeazz peeeazzz peeeeazzzz!" It's easier to just say, "Oh, I'm fine, thanks" and let someone else guide the conversation instead of trying to discern sincerity.

Unless, of course, mycoplasms are mentioned, then I'm all over it. It's a lot easier to talk about enzyme-linked immunosorbant assay tests and Amersham mouse monoclonal antibody isotyping vs. polymerase chain reaction than how overwhelmed I am with work, wifedom and motherhood.

I now understand why there are Star Trek conventions. Folks who have no life find others who have no life and they can talk about someone else's fantastical life instead of their own. It's not like their lives are depressing lumps of misogyny and squalor, it's just that Spock's life is so much cooler, and it nicely steers the conversation away from how Mom's basement is starting to smell after living in it for the past eight years, so beam me up NOW, Scotty.

Speaking of life, it calls.

Waiting game

2007-04-16T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'm in ArcGIS Hell right now. That special Hell where you have lots to do, little time, and the network is rrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeealllllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyy slow. So, while I w.a.i.t. for one of 80 new and unique maps to generate an .rtl file so I can move to the next new and unique of 80 maps, I'll chat.

Come on. Get a chair.

You may think, "But I already have a chair. I'm at a computer, you ninny." But I know, being one, that there are some folks out there that don't manage the luxory of a chair at the computer. We may turn it on in passing from the kitchen to the laundry with an armful of tea towels, connect to the net on the way back to check on what that burning smell is (yes, dial-up at home. More money for the college fund, I convince myself. Curse you You-Tube!), and "surf" a page at a time a chore at a time. The chair we do have for that computer is conveniently missing a dowel, so is ready to collapse at a moment's notice. Which means, I have even more of an incentive to get my ~~flabby~~ toned butt working around the house.

Oh, good, that .rtl file is done. But it still waits another two minutes before it lets me actually print the bastard. Wait while I make another..... there, that wasn't so long, was it?

I could babble on about politics, or whole wheat recipes, or drunken fruit bats, but I really can't pass up on my favorite pasttime, turtle races.

Ahhhh, the glorious smell of creosote in the air as the tortoises run from wash to wash. The raucous betting environment as biologists wager their meager earnings on where Tortoise #728 will be found this time. The flying spit and urgent grunts of the coursers as they battle the talus slopes. Truly, the sport of kings.

Forgoing the talus for open sea, this race still has all the hallmarks of biologists looking to unmarginalize their profession. Websites, sponsors, celebrity nomenclature, endangered species, it has it all. I mean, those guys who named an owl louse after Gary Larson? I think it was just the lack of bandwidth that spared them from instant stardom.

Crap. Now my .rtl's are coming out with nothing in them. Nothing like waiting fifteen minutes for zip. Like, this blog. Waiting for something exceptional, and just getting crap. Welcome to my week.

So it goes

2007-04-12T13:05:00.000-07:00

One of my all-time favorite authors has passed on. He was a great influence, if not the influence on my philosophy of nearly everything. He will continue to be a great influence on anyone with a head on their shoulders who picks up a book of his and reads his unapologetic candor on life, love, war, humanity, God, knees and envelopes.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. November 11th, 1922 - April 11th, 2007.

I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, and when Dwayne Hoover was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one another. I have talked to old men who were on the battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.

Armistice Day has become Veterans' Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans' Day is not.

So I will throw Veterns' Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don't want to throw away any sacred things.

What else is sacred? Oh, Romeo and Juliet, for instance.

And all music is.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Breakfast of Champions 1993

May I add Slaughterhouse Five and Cat's Cradle and even Galapagos to that list of what is sacred. Vonnegut wouldn't like it, but I don't care, it's my list, and what one holds dear is really all that really makes anything sacred.

Whereas I was stunned with the death of Douglas Adams, and mourned for the loss of books that I'll never get to enjoy because they can't be written, here I mourn for the loss of a voice of reason and humanity in a world of insanity.

The only difference between Bush and Hitler is that Hitler was
elected.

Kurt Vonnegut, March 4th, 2006 in The Free Press

He already said he was done writing, he was ready for the end, whatever that may be. I'm not sad to see a man ready for death gone across the veil, but I am sad for our own loss of that man.

The only proof he needed for the existence of God, was music.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. January 7th, 2006 Sunday Herald, on his requested epitaph

May you find what you're looking for, Mr. Vonnegut. We will miss you.

See Spot run. See Spot ooze.

2007-02-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, gawd, what a crappy day at the office. I can't wait to get home and get some dinner. I haven't eaten since, when? Yesterday lunch? Yah, if you can count a couple of dry oatmeal packets as lunch.

Oh, look, Big Feet opened the door for me! Ah, the little things in life. Tonight will be good...

Holy platypus, Batman! What the hell happened? What? Someone with little hands drained the fishtank water all over the dining room? Hmmm, the fish look ok, but geesh! All my freshly-laundered towels are on the floor soaked! Toys are strewn about in the water, trash all over the place getting soggy. When did this happen? This MORNING? You've had ALL DAY to clean this up? You waited for ME to come HOME from a BITCH of a day so *I* could clean this up?

Grumble grumble grumble, quick, N, pick up the living room so we can bring the soggy towels to the laundry more easily. A, pick up these toys in the water so we can wash them (fishwater - ICK!). S, where's S? Napping? Oh, good. What? She's been napping since 3 and it's now 6 pm? Oh, that's going to make a late evening.... Big Feet? Get these f'in towels out of here!

Grumble grumble grumble. What? You're asking ME what we should do for dinner? Excuse me while I swallow the blood from my sorely-bitten tongue. Take N, go out and get something, I'm NOT making dinner tonight! Just don't get Burger King. I am so SICK of Burger King.

Grumble grumble grumble. Wash dishes so I can make room for the toys to get washed. Wash the toys. Well, they needed it anyways. I'm just glad I hadn't washed them and the floor like I've been planning on doing for the past couple of months just before this fiasco. Oh, goody, A is really getting into drying these toys and putting them away. "Adventure! Adventure! Adventure!" she sings as she scampers off to put them into their rightful places.

Ok, it's about 7:30 or so, I can get to the business of washing this floor. Gruck, what a mess! Hmm, actually, if anything, the fishwater helped clean it up a bit. Maybe we should do this more often? NO! Okay, move the play kitchens, move the table, move the chairs, sweep the floor. Ick, wet broom... ooooh, and it's smearing that black stuff all over the place. What IS that black stuff? Crayon? Noooo, Playdoh? Yah, maybe wet soggy Playdoh. Welll, at least that took care of any appetite I may have.

How am I supposed to wash a floor? Sweep, mop, rinse? Just sweep and mop? Scrub on my knees with a towel? Ok, so I'll sweep, and scrub, and wipe with a fresh-water towel. There's got to be an easier way. I've never figured out the right technique for this. I wonder if I can ask someone? Am I too old to ask someone how to wash a floor? This floor cleaner smells like that stuff they used to clean up vomit in grade school - Ode de' Industrial Bubblegum. I hope S doesn't start licking the floors because they smell like this. Why can't I find floor cleaner in the grocery store? I wonder where they hide it, because it's NOT with the regular household cleaners.

Grumble grumble grumble. No, A, I don't know when Daddy will be home with dinner. Should be soon. Where should I begin? Hmm, there's that child-protective-services-alarming spot in front of the refrigerator. I'll leave that for last. If I get that any sooner, then I'll just say I'm good and never really get a good clean floor in the rest of the kitchen/dining area. So, over here in this corner that's always covered up by the Dora kitchen. Good start. Smells like guppies, it needs it.

Sweep, scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, change water, scrub rinse scrub, rinse, dinner's here. What is it? Yuck - fried chicken. Go ahead, have dinner in front of the TV, I'm in the middle of this, I'll never get back to it if I stop now, although that writhing primordial ooze by the fridge will probably call me back. Besides, dry oatmeal is more appealing than Albertson's fried chicken and.... ooooh, did you REALLY get macaroni salad with it? Does ANYONE in this house eat that crap?

Scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, ouch my knees. How do we live with floors like these? Wow, there's quite a few linoleum tiles starting to peel up off the floor. I wonder how long it would take us to replace it? Can Pergo handle fish water? Scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, scrub, scrub, rinse, oh to hell with the rinsing. Just wipe up the dirty water and call it good.

Scrub scrub scrub wipe, replace water, scrub scrub wipe scrub wipe scrub scrub scrub wipe replace water.... oh, I just want to STOP! No, that miniature La Brea Tar Pits in front of the ice box still awaits. Can't stop before I get to that. It will feel so GOOD to get that up, I've been looking at it for weeks, it has taunted me for far too long for me to just let it sit. Oh, goody, the baby is awake and wants to ride on my back, and N is getting her fourth drink of water. "GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!"

Cripes! It's 9:30! Big Feet, get the kids to bed. No, not the baby, she'll be awake until sunrise now. Wow, I've made it to the kitchen part now. Oooh, that spot looks tempting. No, must let it stay until the last. I'll relish every swipe getting it up, it's the Holy Grail of floor cleaning, it calls with it's siren song, it beckons.... literally, I think I see it forming little black slimemoldish fingers.

What? A is asleep on the couch, N is now asking to help wash the floor. At a quarter to ten? NOW she wants to help? Sorry, girl, I'm near the end, and I'm getting ready for my crunchy, sticky, dessert of floor mange. I've been looking forward to it for three hours now. It's MINE! Just let me wipe off the broiler door of the oven since I'm down here.... wow, this floor cleaner really cuts through the grease! Hey, I wonder if it will get rid of this film of grease on the glass oven door? Hey, Big Feet! Look at this! I finally found something to get this stuff off!

Big Feet? Big Feet? What.... wait, what are you doing with that brush? Where's my SPOT?!? You're cleaning MY SPOT! It's taken you since 10:30 this morning to start cleaning this floor, and you immediately go for MY SPOT?!?!?!?! Just the spot, too, not the rest of the floor around it, just The Spot.

He went away grumbling about how he was just trying to help. And the baby started licking the floor.

So, that was my night. I got to bed around midnight. But my kitchen floor sure looks nice.

My body once more

2007-01-24T13:23:00.000-08:00

A huge part of my life has ended recently. I have been pregnant or nursing for close to eight years solid. I have shared my womb, my blood, and my milk for nearly a decade with little tiny people, who depended on me to think of them when I made decisions on what to eat, what medicines to take, even what soap to wash myself with.

That all ended four days ago. My baby, S, less than a week from turning two, has not nursed since Saturday night. Maybe even Friday. It wasn't really my choice, it was hers, although lately I only offered when she asked. She just, well, stopped asking. I can't even really remember the last session, and that makes me sad. The end of a momentous, defining era of my life, and it's gone without a memory of even one last pat, one last smile, one last moment of that special life-affirming gaze a nursing baby and her mommy share.

It was a couple of years after my oldest N was born before I felt like she was her own person. All her actions, all her growth, even the words she said or the smiles she gave, somehow I felt like they were mine, too. It was a surprise of sorts to discover that she was her own person. That revelation may have come shortly after she stopped nursing at 23 months, when I no longer provided a material source of her growth. I'm not sure when my delusion ended, but I do remember how for so long she felt like she was an extension of myself, and I did revel in how young and alive that made me feel. Each of my daughters gave me that gift, and now that time has ended.

So, now, I can drink that diet soda. I can eat all the jalepenos my colon can withstand. I can wash my nipples with Lifeboy if I want to. I can, and to some extent I want, I was ready for it to end.

Just...... not so suddenly, and not without a lasting memory of the goodbye.

It's been so long....

2006-11-07T06:33:00.000-08:00

C'mon everyone, say it, "How long is it?"

It's been so long since I've posted here that I had to use a link from another blog to find my way here. I had forgotten my url.

Of course, that could be because I've been up since around 4 this morning, and my mind is a bit addled.

I woke up with an awful, powerful, mouth-watering urge to vomit. I'm not sure why, it could be the stress of the midterm election today (if you're reading this blog, then you probably will vote the way I want you to - so get out there and VOTE, dammit. Unless, of course, you haven't realized how scary this country has become and you're happy with children being tortured. In that case, here, have a few muffins and believe that you still have a few days left to get to the polls). More probably, though, it's the aftermath of my attempts to rid the house of all that Halloween candy - primarily through my digestive tract.

Whatever the reason, damn, I just don't know how the bulemics do it. Running into the bathroom, drooling like one of Pavlov's dogs, I caught one whiff of that commode and I had to swallow my bile. I simply could not yawn in technicolor (as we said in college). Somehow, I'm keeping these toxins in my belly, and if that keeps stomach acid from going up my nose, all the better.

One benefit to this morning's indigestion is that I have some time to blog. I log in and get a blazing dial-up speed of 45.2 Kbps - the fastest I've ever seen with Earthlink. Oh, yes, I'm still on dial-up. You have a problem with that, you you-tube linking bloggers who base a whole week's of discussion based on a clip I have no hope of viewing? I may have dial-up, and drive a Kia, but at least I have a 401k. I have noticed, though, that the faster my connection speed, the slower things load. I was able to win three games of Freecell before I could get from login to new post with Blogger.

There has been much to blog about, but somehow life gets in the way. Life, death, marriage, affairs, adoptions, Disneyland, sewing Halloween costumes, work, school, homework, playdates, and that perpetually grimey floorcovering we loosely call carpet, I've been pretty busy either mulling over friends, family, or carpet cleaners.

See, if we just were able to pick up the house, maybe we could get a carpet cleaner in here. I have one of those "steam cleaners", but it's just not going to do that job here.

I can't promise I'm back. But at least I now know where my blog is.

I

Working Mom: Volume 1; Issue 4: Housework

2006-09-13T17:24:00.000-07:00

I was up past midnight doing what I loathe - scrubbing the kitchen floor.

It don't do this often. Which is why it needed scrubbing instead of mopping. It's a rare week the floor even gets swept.

Now, you may call child protective services on me, but it's either sweep the floor, or feed the kids, do the homework, spend some time enjoying the family, do the laundry (I have a reprieve for now - the washer broke!), go grocery shopping, empty the dishwasher, give some baths, encourage potty use (19-month old is pretty-well diaper free now, except on excursions. I have to say elimination communication, even in my minimal use of the technique, has made this transition soooooooo easy!), test the pool water, monitor the kids in the pool, give swimming lessons, do more laundry to have enough towels for pool use (hmmm, better get a new washer soon), search for the missing toddler shoe, do a little happy dance with said toddler when shoe is found, hunt down that funky smell, drop the oldest off at school, pick the oldest up at school, talk to the teacher about prostheletizing six-year-olds damning my child to hell, make lunch for oldest after cleaning out lunch box which is source of funky smell, brush three sets of hair, "do" up to six ponytails with accessories, find some clean underwear for three kids even though we must have close to a hundred pair (oh yeah, that washer thing), shop for a new washer, oh, yeah, and go to work.

Big Feat (I'm still working on a good title for The Man of the House) is a good Daddy. He takes the kids to the museum, feeds them lunch, encourages creativity, wipes noses and butts... in short, he loves his kids, and they love him. But, where he excells at Daddydom, he withers at housekeeping. I see pictures of people in their houses, and the first thing I notice is not the cute dress on the little girl or the finger up the nose of the toddler, or the snarl of limbs on a Twister board, complete with donkey, no, it's how everyone's homes seem to have clean floors. Look, no paper snippets all over the carpet! Wow, that kitchen tile gleams, and not a single toy or tossed paper cup on it! How did they housetrain that donkey?

I try to console myself that Big Feat is keeping all the little Metatarsels happy instead of throwing away the plastic Otter Pop skins, or cleaning a dish or two, or, yes, sweeping the kitchen floor.

But, I'd rather be playing with the kids myself instead of cleaning the house. No amount of nagging or pleading seems to help in my cause, and it beats me down.

Thus, my nocturnal quest for walking through the kitchen without getting stuck to the floor.

It's more than just easier navigation, though. My folks are visiting tonight, you see. Mom always had to pester me to clean my room or do my chores, it's not like she expects something out of Martha Stewart's Living. Would I want my daughters staying up late scrubbing their floors in preparation for my visit? No. But, this working mom has a need to prove that I can do it all. I can work full-time. I can have three kids. I can own a home. I can have shiney floors.

Just, please, don't look at the countertops.

And so it begins.... and never ends

2006-09-11T11:22:00.000-07:00

It's been five years since the Twin Towers in New York fell and the War on Terror began. Our nation has vowed to "never forget" the senseless death of 2, 996 people in fiery, violent, incomprehensibly abbhorent acts of hate.

The loss of so many people in mere minutes, infant and aged alike, is not to be forgotten easily, or willingly.

In his speech a few hours after the towers fell, President Bush vowed "The United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts."

In five years time, Osama bin Laden is still at large. Instead of hunting down and punishing those responsible for the deaths of 2,996 innocent lives on the morning of September 11th, 2001, we have since been responsible for the deaths of nearly an equal amount of armed servicemen and women and over 41,000 Iraqi civilians while hunting down and punishing those who had nothing to do whatsoever with four planes, and the children on board, being used as missiles.

In Bush's own words, in regards to Osama bin Laden, "You know, I just don't spend that much time on him .... to be honest with you." He said that way back on March 13th, 2002, barely six months after he swore unending vengeance on the bastard. It's now been five years, and the person behind the smoking towers, the hole in a field in Pennsylvania, the burning Pentagon, the uncounted tears of billions of people as they learned of moms, dads, babies, grandparents, sisters, brothers, daughters and sons who died a most horrible death is forgotten, left to live his life whereas others will not..

Five years after Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, France was liberated and we were months away from the surrender of Germany and a little less than a year from the surrender of Japan. Five years after December 7th, 1941 when the battleship Arizona lay at the bottom of Pearl Harbor and the US had declared war on Japan and Germany, the War was over and the Baby Boom had begun. We had the good will of most of the world, we were rebuilding countries, we had our sons and daughters back home with us.

Five years after the Twin Towers fell, we have lost the respect of most nations, including most of our staunchest allies in NATO. We have given generations of people in the Middle East blood-earned reason to hate America even more, breeding reason for terrorist attacks across the globe on America and our allies. If we had "stayed the course" and gone after the people responsible for the flags at half-mast today, we might be closer to winning this ambiguous "war on terror." Instead, Bush went after a man who "tried to kill [his] dad!", still thumbed his nose at the Bush family from a war a decade earlier, and also happened to be sitting on a hell of a lot of oil.

This Iraq war was, and is, no hunt for terrorists. It was a family vendetta, with some war spoils thrown in, that has grown into a quagmire we can't get out of and prohibits us from doing what Bush vowed to do: hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts. We have squandered the untethered support from the world earned by the blood and fear and tears of those we lost five years ago for a few mens' personal values of pride and greed.

"I'll repeat what I said. I truly am not that concerned about him." - George Bush, March 13th, 2002.

And still, the children cry for Mom and Dad who went to work on September 11th, 2001, and never came home.

Reduced for quick sale: $1.99

2006-08-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

Summer is ending. The long dark teatime of the soul is nigh. I should start blogging again, if for no other reason, because it's there. Never mind that it has taken me two days to complete this post.

I've been on a quest this week. Call me Ms. Quixote, or Ismael for that matter, as my intentions have little hope of succeeding. I've taken to riding my bike to work. And home, too.

(That may seem obvious, as in the pilot's goal to have as many landings in as many take-offs. But there was a time I also rode my bike to work, but had Hubby pick me up as I labored back. The ride to work at that time was about four or so miles, all downhill. It was a fun ride, I could get to about 35 miles an hour in some parts without pedalling. Which means, theoretically, I could get to -35 miles an hour going home, negating me ever reaching my shower and perhaps, logarithmically speaking, I'd be in Merida, Venezuela by sundown. Anyways, this time, my ride to work is only one mile, but it's nearly all uphill. If I want to afford a double scoop of tossed-salad ice cream in the village square high in the Andes, I had best make a salary first.)

My intention, my goal, my Dulcinea if you will, has as much hope of succeeding as Gondwanaland reuniting, but it's a balm for the environmentalist's soul, and won't do my butt any harm, either. I'm doing it for the glaciers.

Last week I was in San Diego for the ESRI uber-convention. This is a gathering of geeks of epic proportions. Something like 30,000 people gaggling excitedly about Visual Basic, data servers, and metadata. Ok, maybe not very excitedly. Ants on stilts is a far more orgasmic subject. I, being the geek that I am, overcame the potential for a banausic coma and came away with a bit of eagerness to get off my duff and start experimenting with MapBooks. I also found I really don't want to be a VB programmer.

There is a large poster session at this conference every year. Of special interest to some of my readers (should they ever come back after my summer sabbatical), this year there was a cool map of the island on the TV show Lost . (To see it at a readable scale, click on the expand window button that appears when you hover over the lower left hand corner of the map). Way geeky, which equates with way cool. Totally. The author/cartographer, Johah Adkins, although definately someone I'd probably like to hang out with some night of the conference were my family not there with me, appears to have a disturbingly large amount of free time on his hands. Good for you, Jonah! You're beating the system! What's your secret?

Also, there were several posters on the loss of glacial ice. It was very disturbing, in an in-your-face-how-dare-you-show-me-the-photographic-proof kinda way. I half expected Al Gore to be there. Damn that he wasn't. It's a testament to the stupifying torpor a GIS megalopolix can induce to say that were Al Gore there, he would have livened up the place. (P.S. I love you, Al!)

Thus, I've taken it upon myself to save, oh, a mere cubic centimeter of glacial ice and bike to work. (And see the last season's finale of Lost).

That's what keeps me going when it's 105F out there, and I'm riding into a sirocco. Glaciers. If nothing else, it makes me think "cool."

Of course, as I mentioned, it doesn't hurt my butt, either. Alas for depreciated pastries. I came into work yesterday (when I started this post), and there by the printer was a box of discounted day-old donuts. The old college student/field biologist in me could not resist. Free food. Must imbibe. It could have been cat food, I'd still have taken advantage of it. Meow, meow, meow.

Congratulations to Mommy Erinberry!

2006-07-16T19:41:00.000-07:00

After going through far more than anyone who would make such a good parent should have to, Erinberry has received her referral for her new baby daughter!

May she and John find all the pleasures of parenthood worth the difficulties in becoming Mom and Dad. May the bleary eyes from late-night fussing shine with delight watching their daughter reach out for hugs. May the whiff of maloderous diapers pale next to the smell of newborn baby hair. May all the misjudged words from friends and aquaintances during their journey, and the unconsoloable cries of a teething infant, be drowned out in the most joyous sound of all: "Mommy, Daddy, I love you."

Wishing your new family all the best, Erinberry. Go out and be a Mom!

Why people don't understand me

2006-06-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

I loves me some good biomechanical experimentation. I've equipped desert tortoises from hatchlings to ancient ships of the desert with radiotransmitters, affixed spools of thread to gravid tortoises, and put earrings in mice. But never have I tried to put stilts on an ant.

Cool. Well, except for the part about stumping the legs. That's just a bit too much, even for someone who has cut off thousands of micey toes... "Snip the wicked scissors sing, Snap! The tiny toeses fling, Squeek! the little PEFO squeals for her other digits dear...." (although I did apologize for each and every one. Even the eartags, and even the eartags on those nasty viscious grasshopper mice... smelly little toebiters...)

Whenever I tell people that I'm a field biologist (well..... was... now I'm behind a desk. Still, field biologist sounds so much more exciting than GIS specialist), I get one of three reactions. Incredible excitement, wary animosity, or a dumb look. Usually it's the latter because they never saw me on television wrassling gators, and that's all field biologists do, isn't it? The first is most often from other field biologists, because we're a rare bunch and pounce on any chance to talk about stilt-legged ants until the cows come home and still be excited about the Student T-test used to analyze any parametric data. The middle is where the rest fit, because they read blogs about people like me doing crazy things to ants. They wonder why anyone would think up such a study, who would actually design, conduct analyze and even peer-review the article for such a study, and most of all, who would pay for such a study. "Are my taxpayer dahllrrrs goin' to pay for some nut gluing sticks to an ant's leg?" Answer? umm, maybe, I don't know, I never went into the grant side of biology. Which explains a lot about why I'm now a GIS specialist.

But, really, this study is wicked cool. First, they TRAINED ants to walk in a straight line. HOW do they do that? I can't train my six-year-old human daughter to walk in a straight line, and she has significantly more brain matter than some nerve-ring-for-a-brain hymenopteran. Then they fit stilts to their legs. I'd love to see the America's Funniest Home Movies clip on the ensuing mayhem as they learned to walk on them. I wonder what went through the ants' minds while stilted up, "Whoa! The ants look like.... smaller ants.... from up here!" We'll skip the bit about the stump-legged ants. Nothing is funny about amputation.

Oh, yah, I bet there were some good pizza and beer parties after a hard day's work on this study.

Skoal!

And the walls came tumbling down...

2006-06-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

Hi! It's been awhile. June is nearly over, and I haven't posted ONE thing yet, except for an unintentionally anonymous response saying I'm busy.

Not anymore. Oh, I'm busy, just not busy with daydreaming of a new place.... water... trees.... snow.... progressive.... that I have been for the past month or so.

See, I put in for a job back East. Way East. Way NorthEast in the land of maple trees and snow. It was a downgrade, I'd be making less, putting away less for retirement, but I'd be in a place with excellent schools, a nice blue state where I wouldn't have to fear for my daughters' safety as much, snow, cheap land, perhaps a few ponies..... I'd also have a job where I'd be making a difference, not just being a beaurocrat. AND, probably best of all, I wouldn't have to leave my family for two weeks every two or three months.

I made it past 34 qualified candidates to reference checks, and then to an interview.

But, today, I found out I didn't get the job. I didn't even come in second. I am really very very VERY disappointed. See, not only does it mean I can't get out of this... this... PLACE I'm at, but I, with all of my experience, skills, and education can't even get demoted into a job.

That, friends, is the feeling of being trapped.

That's all for now. Were I to continue, it would just get ugly.

On the Road: Lessons learned, or not

2006-05-13T09:28:00.000-07:00

As I drive up towards Parker from Blythe, I always pass through Poston, and I usually stop at the Poston Memorial.

Poston isn't really quite a complete ghost town in the physical sense, there's still a fire station, and Woody's II convenience store is always a draw. But in the metaphysical, and in scars on the desert floor, it is a town of ghosts.

Poston was built in April, 1942 for one purpose: internment. Almost 18,000 Japanese Americans lived there until March, 1946 in a place that was as far from epitomizing Japan as New York resembles a Yanamami village.

It's hot here, folks. And dusty - the common good stiff wind will put sand in all your nooks and crannies without the fun of a beach party. It's in a more interesting part of the Colorado Desert than, say, Thermal, but that's not saying all that much unless you're really into botany and the occassional gila monster.

Personally, I think the folks living in Poston during WWII were more interested in survival, and how to get the sand out of their teeth. But, they did manage to build a school, and have various social groups, so maybe botanizing was one of the ways to pass the time. Still, it's not the rainforest. You see one ocatillo, you've pretty much seen them all.

The thing that always gets me to stop here is the Memorial. Or perhaps the ghosts, pulling at me to never forget, and turning my steering wheel to the right. Here is a reminder to never repeat the mistakes of the past, a goal with every Presidential news conference I am less and less hopeful of meeting success.

The preceding few days on the radio before pulling up to take this picture, in addition to immigrant health care, Mexican polka, folk music, opera, and Roy Orbeson, were filled with news on vigilante groups patrolling the border, immigration "reform," secret prisons, Iraqi war, potential Iranian war, torture, illegal wire tapping, and detention of terrorist suspects without due process of law. The next day would break the news of a huge database being kept by the NSA on phone calls by unsuspected (and unsuspecting) American citizens.

And there, in front of me, was a tall cylindrical monolith practically shouting, "THIS IS WRONG! DON'T DO IT AGAIN!"

Some days, I think the only thing keeping vast communities of Mexican-Americans and Arab-Americans, and, Hell, French-Americans from being rounded up and sent to Glamis is this bit of concrete. And the huge off-road community- they'd have something to say about all those people taking up space on their sand dunes. Both of which are losing their influence with the people in power as they continually cite "national security" as a reason for thumbing their noses at constitution-protected rights.

Take a look. Read a bit. Think of losing your home and being sent to a camp in the middle of crap for no other reason than your ancestry.

Don't let it happen again.

On the Road: In which I really look like an idiot

2006-05-09T21:12:00.000-07:00

I brushed up on my opera and folk music today, and heard a show about Roy Orbeson. Man, I can see why he sang ballads. His high school sweetheart died at 16, his wife died in a car crash, his two kids died in a fire... how did that man ever get up in the morning?

Shades. It's gotta be the shades.

Even though my shades were resting ever-so-uselessly on the air conditioner in my hotel room instead of sheilding me from the blinding Yuma sun, I still managed to find this afternoon's adventure comical instead of toe-biting frusterating, because I was just grateful to not be Roy Orbeson.

Mere hours ago, I learned never to trust a Chevy. Particularly, a Chevy gas gauge.

The tow truck driver assured me that once a Chevy gets down to 1/4 a tank, it's essentially empty. Being once a poor college student, and a poor field biologist, and someone who doesn't particularly like gas stations to begin with, I'm used to viewing a quarter of a tank of gas as gold, Baby. I see it as 1/4 full, not 3/4 empty. Certainly I could do my little bit to help delay the next ice age and drive around for the afternoon without having to fill up with all that petrol in the tank.

I've rebuilt carbeurators, replaced clutches, towed a car over 200 miles with just a two strap, but I was convinced I had vapor lock when the Tahoe sputtered, lurched, and died.

Oh well, it meant I ended work a bit earlier today, so I was able to join my teammates for dinner.

Which means, you'll have to wait to hear about eating out alone.

On the Road: Radio Bilingua

2006-05-08T23:31:00.000-07:00

Beinvenidos Yuma!

There are some benefits to travelling alone.

First, you can listen to any music you feel like. In the five hours on the road to Yuma this morning, I started out listening to Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band a few times. I finally turned off the CD and tuned in the radio when I couldn't stand crying anymore.

You know. That song, "She's Leaving" or whatever its real title is. I tear up just thinking of when my girls go off to their own lives. I just hope that, unlike the girl in the song, mine won't ever feel like they're living at home alone. Of course, they're all under seven. Let's test this theory in about six years, shall we?

So, once The Beatle's were shunned, I was in reach of some of my favorite music: Mexcian polka.

Seriously. It's so lively and hokey, like Heimlich on helium.

An added benefit to listening to Radio Bilingua is I get to practice my Dora the Explorer Spanglish.

Now, I can see why some folks out there are so upset with Hecho en Taiwan on their backscratchers. It's all Dora's fault. Dora, with her salta this and estrella that, makes us all think we can listen to a simple Mexican polka station and understand everything being said.

I imagined myself as Gary Larson's dog Ginger:

Only, in this case, instead of talking about what happened to the garbage, I'm hearing "spanish spanish spanish Medicaid spanish spanish salud spanish spanish emigracion spanish spanish Arlen Specter." At first, I thought they may have been talking about drinking to Medicaid, being a bit confused as to why Arlan Specter is chasing shots with immigrants, until I finally remembered "salud" means "health."

With just those little snippets of recognizable words in a jumble of ignorance, who wouldn't think that there's a vast underground society addicted to a drinking game played by illegal immigrants who pound down a shot everytime Arlen Specter votes on a Medicaid issue? No wonder the next radio station I listened to (after Radio Bilingua inexplicably petered out when I neared the border... go figure, what next? No technorock in Germany?), a conservative Christian talk radio show, are reading the entire Charlie Daniels manifesto on why the Mexican flag is an affront to American values. MADD must have gotten to them.

Ok, wait, I'm now getting into the negatives of working alone - no one to make you tune into a different station. Luckily, I was able to realize they were sucking me in to the vortex of disbelief before it was too late.

Next segment: the art of dining alone

Night Weaning

2006-05-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

4:00 a.m. S wakes up and won't go back to sleep. Just like the past few nights.

Cry, whimper, pat her on the butt, she falls asleep. I make a note to tell Hubby to try a nice butt pat when I'm gone next week.

4:10 am. S wakes up again. Butt pats aren't working. Cry. Whimper. Cuddle. Make note to tell Hubby cuddles work.

4:25 am S wakes up. Butt pats aren't working. Cuddles aren't working. Cry. Whimper. Soft talking telling her I know what she wants. Make note to tell Hubby soft talking helps.

4:40 am. S wakes up again. Butt pats, cuddles, and soft talking aren't helping. In frusteration she kicks and accidentally turns on the mobile music. She falls asleep to Mozart as I rub her back. Make note to self to keep at this so that Hubby and S don't have to go through this next week.... I hope.

At fifteen months old, it's time for night weaning. Not because I want to, but because I have to, since I will be travelling for work for five days next week. What's getting me through it this time better than when I had to do it with her older sisters is that I do remember I did feel much better during the day after I was getting better sleep. And that Hubby will be doing better as a single parent for that long if they all sleep well while I'm away.

Some might think I'm nuts for having nursed her (and her sisters in their time) through the night for so long. Some might say I'm so inspiring, nursing them for so long, knowing that they needed this. I say neither. Honestly, there is little to no altruism in my nocturnal nursing habits. It's the only way I get sleep, and get my cuddles in as well.

I never thought I would co-sleep. The thought was kinda scary and, well, weird, when I was pregnant with my oldest. Then, when she was about three weeks old, and I woke up with her sliding off of my lap towards the floor after I fell asleep nursing her in the glider, I realized this cradle thing wasn't going to work. I had to bring her to my bed for her safety, and my health and sanity. I've been an avid co-sleeper ever since.

Nursing is great because I don't have to get up out of bed when the newborn is hungry. I get a lot more sleep, which is really fantastic so I don't fall asleep at my desk. None of this "nap when baby naps" stuff for us working moms. I get some close time with the baby that I missed out on during the day while at the office. Sure, we may be asleep, but it really does make a difference to me.

As the baby gets older, and most have slept through the night (at least, I think they do, because the pediatrician by three months always asks if my kids are sleeping through the night yet.... I just chalk that up to cultural norms than normal baby development), I'm still nursing at night. By now, night nursing is done so I can sleep. It helps me relax, I'm not kept awake by a fussing baby. I don't have to wake up extra early and wake her up as well so I can nurse her before I head to work. And, I'm not a cry-it-out (CIO) kinda mom.

I can't CIO. I don't see any point to it other than to make other people feel better about the sleep habits of my children. I am firmly in the camp that babies cry for a good reason, not for manipuation. I have friends who CIO, I'm not going to criticize them.... much. I try to be supportive because, well, that's what works for them, I know they love their kids, they are doing what they feel is best for them and their children. Fine. But I'm not gonna do it.

Yet, the time comes when work demands that I night wean. Which really sucks, because, really, where in my perfect world should work take precedence over family? When I have to travel, and that leaves Hubby to care for the kids by himself. Hubby, who thanks to my night nursing, never has to get up at night to care for the kids, aside from the occassional nightmare when he goes into the older girls' room to comfort. He does not do well when he doesn't get much sleep. More for the sake of the girls having to live with a grumpy old man for a week than for the sake of the grumpy old man himself, I'm doing what I can to help everyone sleep better.

Except me.

Night weaning is CIO. I try to justify it by saying it's a "modified CIO", meaning that I'm always there, I try to comfort her through the night as she fusses, cries, and pulls on my shirt asking to nurse. I become a master at strategically placing pillows and blankets to shield myself from questing hands. But, I know what she wants and I'm refusing to give it to her.

Sigh.

It's at these times where the depression sets in hard again. I mean, really, crying to my kindergartner's teacher the other day? Seriously, that's whacked. In addition to weaning against my and my baby's will, I'm also stressed with leaving my family for a week. That always sets me on edge, making the last few days at home not very pleasant.

I'll make it. They'll make it. It could be worse. We could be in Falujah.. or Bakersfield for that matter.

Here's to all the working moms and dads out there, who do what we must to keep our family safe and happy, even if it means being unhappy every once in awhile.

Questioning Authority

2006-05-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

(warning, stream of consciousness post as I ramble on trying to figure this out myself)

So, N came home from kindergarten on Monday saying that the teacher said ducks are not birds, humans are not apes, and when N said they were, the whole class laughed at her.

I told her ducks are birds, humans are apes, and I'll discuss this with her teacher. Tuesday morning Mrs. O and I made arrangements for me to talk to her this morning.

I wanted to find out what happened from the teacher's perspective, as I couldn't believe Mrs. O would say those things.

Ok, ducks are birds, Mrs. O agrees with me, she said there was a lot of talking going on when she was starting a discussion about animals, that's probably where she heard that. That was my easy lead-in into the ape discussion....

Mrs. O was talking about animals, how insects are animals, fish are animals, even we humans are animals. Much disagreement from the class on that one. She said, oh yes, we're animals, and we're mammals, too! The class in general was in disbelief. It was then that N, being the true daughter of a zoologist that she is, raised her hand and said that we're apes as well.

The class laughed at her. Mrs. O then told her that we are NOT apes, we're humans.

N, being the smart yet sensitive child she is, was totally confused and ended up crying when she told me this story. I don't think she cried in class, though. But it was obvious that this conflict was upsetting her.

Here's the thing. Hubby and I have been telling her we're apes since, heck, I have no idea, probably ever since she started showing an interest in animals. So, like, for the past five years? The fact is, we are apes. Evolution or creation, we are classified in the Linnean taxonomic system as hominids, along with gorillas, chimpanzees, and (for some camps) orangutans. If a creationist can agree that we are mammals, then I don't see how they can't agree we are apes as well. The taxonomy doesn't say we are descended from apes, just that we are apes, like we are mammals, chordates, and animals. Mrs. O insisted in my talk with her that we are not apes, we are humans, not grasping that all humans are apes, but not all apes are humans. Fine, I knew I wasn't going to change her mind (especially since I somehow, unforgivably broke down and started crying over this whole thing myself), and I felt bad enough about coming in and questioning her about this little incident since she has always shown herself to be such a thoughtful, sincere, effective teacher. And I know that kindergarten is not really the place to debate creationism vs. evolution.

Or maybe it is. I mean, not a debate, but allowing an open, respectful environment for discussion of different beliefs. Shouldn't we be teaching our kids how to listen to and respect different viewpoints from early on?

Yah, in a perfect world where the teachers have the time to do that, and the willingness, and the support of the parents as well. Which means that, no, kindergarten or high school for that matter is not the place for such things. Sigh.

So, here she is, after listening to and believing her parents for most of her life about what she is, her teacher is telling her something different. And the kids are laughing at her for believing her parents.

I know that I will have to talk to her in the next few nights about how, yes, we are apes, yet Mrs. O doesn't know everything about taxonomy, and that I'm proud of her for sticking to her guns regardless of the kids laughing at her and the teacher disagreeing with her. I'll have to discuss how the topic of humans as animals and apes will lead into the very sensitive subject of evolution for many kids in her class, since they are taught that humans were created, and this somehow conflicts with them being apes. I don't really understand it, I can't get my mind around why that's a conflict, but it is and we have to be aware of that.

Which leads into why Mrs. O let the class laugh at her and agreed with them. She can't and won't get into an evolution/creation discussion (if I came in because she said humans aren't apes, imagine the parents she'll have storming in about her saying we are apes..... I guess, even though I still insist it isn't a true evolution topic. Yet, I did come in with the idea that her insistence we aren't apes stemmed from some force keeping her from even remotely dismissing creationism..... is it all in my head, or not? I mean, Natassia has been pounded by religious fundamentalist (mostly Christian and LDS) classmates this whole school year, I am already sensitive to her - or perhaps in reality my - beliefs getting trounced. No, it's not just in my head, because Mrs. O did say she wants to avoid parents on the other end of the faith spectrum getting angry over this.)

So, this all winds down to questioning authority. Should she believe the teacher, or her parents? Should she toss both aside and find her own truths, as it were? When is it appropriate to say to a teacher, or a parent, "No, you're wrong." (and, do I put a question mark in there, or keep it as a period?) When should she simply dismiss her teacher/parent and not cause a disruption, and when should she insist that her views be taken seriously and be given due consideration and respect? Should she have just sat there and let the kids laugh at her, or should she have insisted that she is right and keep insisting until the teacher stops the laughter and tells the class that Natassia is entitled to her beliefs and respect for those beliefs?

I hate it when I have to bite my tongue and let my peers or superiors say and or do something I completely disagree with. Sometimes I'm ashamed that I did nothing. I struggle with this issue myself all the time... how do I help guide my kids through it as well?

Ick

2006-04-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

Always in the mood to see what the blog buzz is on working moms, I did a brief technorati search on "Working Mom", and came up with my last entry on Working Mom listed several times. Strangely, it wasn't ME who was credited with the post, but several sites, all linking eventually to some "good morning little schoolgirl" place with what appear to be pornographic interests. I don't know for sure, as what photos there were on the site wouldn't load, but their titles were icky.

Suffice it to say, you will no longer be seeing any pix of the kids. Perhaps sketches will have to do. Yah, sketches of what should be done to people looking for pictures of kids for nefarious purposes.

It's about time I did this, anyways. I've been getting far too many hits on a pic of me and the girls with a burro, and that every-popular Barbie Vs. Sleeping Beauty picture.

Working Mom: Volume 1 Issue 3 - Birthday Parties

2006-04-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away...

I remember birthday parties from my youth (I say youth, despite the smarmy magazine salesman at my door the other day asking me if he could talk to my parents. When facing three kids underfoot and a growing crop of grey hair, a salesman should know when to can the misled attempts at flattery). Kids, cake, balloons, happy times. I remember one somewhere in the woods in Ohio, it rained, we played Simon Says, and it was grand. Once I was very young and I cried because I had to take turns playing pin the tail on the donkey. It could have been my third birthday, yet I still remember that, and for some reason, it still bothers me. I'm not sure if it bothers me because I had such disregard for my friends at the time, or because I still want that extra chance to get the tail on right. Perhaps both.

Birthday parties for me have long gone the wayside. It's now all about The Kids. I'm fine with that, not many adults I know want to play pin the tail on the donkey, especially since I won't take turns. This weekend was N's birthday party. Despite her love of colorful frilly dresses and flowers in her hair, she wanted a Star Wars party. She's definately Daddy's Little Girl. I love how diverse her interests are.

(picture removed because of some believed-to-be pornographic link to here)

Maybe it's different for other working moms, but birthday parties, as much as I love them, stress me out. First are the scheduling worries. I thought I did it right this time by scheduling the party for a Sunday. It gave me a whole day beforehand to gather stuff up, shop for food, make balloon light sabers, fill the pinata, create a few games, pack the truck, and relax enough to not scare the children with my frenzy. The weeknights were already packed with homework, karate, and baking light saber cookies for N's birthday treat to her class (picture added solely for Eric's curiosity)

(yes, I am aware that they look very much like guitars)

I didn't know that Saturday would be beautiful, yet on Sunday, in southern Nevada, where it hasn't rained in over a month, it would shower. And be cold. And windy. (ok, I knew it would be windy, it's always windy in April here.... but the rain?). Not able to predict the weather, I thought Sunday noon was perfect. Little did I realize that Sunday 'round these heavily-SAHM parts is Family Day. Families only, no parties, no parks, no Death Star ball, certainly no sharing in any heretic child's heathen Jedi frolic. We invited N's entire kindergarten class, but less than half came, mostly because of Family Day. I can't help but believe that the SAHM crowd can schedule a party nearly whenever they want because they have the time and flexibility to plan, organize, conduct and *attend* parties on any day they want, and therefore save the sancrisanct Family Day. Our last birthday party we went to was on a Monday, held right after school (I went over lunch break). It was packed with kids, and it didn't rain. Yah, that's right, I just said that in addition to having a totally flexible schedule, SAHM's can also control the weather. I'm nothing if not irreverant.

My other Working Mom issue with birthday parties is commoraderie. Frankly, it's a good thing that over half the class couldn't come. Planning and executing a party, at a park, with props and a Death Star ball game to referee, with three kids under six to work for, feed, bathe, and watch, is difficult enough. Add another 30 kids and, well, it could have been too much for me. Fifteen was tough as it was. It may be different in other households, but in ours, Hubby isn't all that into parties. He leaves the planning and execution to me, he'll do some shopping, man the grill, and host the parents. Which is a big help. But that leaves everything else to me. In my idealized weather-goddess SAHM world, these moms have friends, specifically other mom friends who will be bringing their own kids to the party, and who over coffee while the kids are at school or playing together can help twist balloons and devise rules for Death Star ball, and at the party help pass out bags for the Use The Force Scavenger hunt, and even peek into the bags to see what all was found. I get this idea because as I drop N off at school, I hear them talk about doing just that. Well, ok, maybe not devise rules for Death Star ball, but getting together to help each other out for birthday parties, or births for that matter. Friday night, in desperation for some companionship outside of home, I called a friend of mine, whose daughter is graduating college next month, to come over and just shoot the breeze with me while I twisted balloons. Hubby and N were at Cirque du Soliel for her birthday present, and she and I hadn't had much of a chance to chat lazily in the past year. She had had a hard week at work and declined, not realizing I was in tears on the other end of the phone. I hear SAHMs talk about how they miss adult conversation throughout the day. Me? I miss any conversation.

The party was a mild success. It was a beautiful day in the morning, which caused everyone to be dressed for warm weather for the party. When it turned cold and wet about an hour into it, I had to rush it through so the kids wouldn't turn a shade of blue deeper than the fabric paint they used to put handprints on N's shirt. So, no Droid Bomb roll, much to N's distress. It was a game she thought up herself, she was really looking forward to it. Lightsaber limbo worked well, although I had to enlist (I didn't ask, I simply grabbed them) two moms to help. The scavenger hunt ended in chaos, but no limbs were lost. The shy kids didn't get much of a chance at all to do the more low-key activities I had planned for them. We rushed through the pinata and cake, and opened up only a few presents from the kids who *really* wanted to see N open theirs, and then, pop, everyone except Thor and his thunder were gone. A party N had been looking forward to for months ended in just under two hours.

I was brought back to my third birthday, and crying over pin the tail on the donkey. N was upset that it was all over so soon, but also was looking forward to the warmth of home. Hubby got two pictures, both of N blowing out the candles, and that was it. I have no pictures of A at the party at all, and frankly, I don't remember much of her being there, I was so caught up in running the show. Poor middle child, always lost somewhere. I remembered the party in the woods when it rained, and how we still managed to have fun, but I also remembered my Mom had lots of friends with her helping her out. That, and the shelter was bigger.

Most of us develop relationships through proximity. Oh, sure, there's e-Harmony.com, but for the rest of us poor slobs, we make friends the hard way. Most of my active friends I know through work. Most of SAHMs friends are probably from being a mom, either through playgroups, extracurricular activities with the kids, organizations they work with because they have the flexibility of time to do that, or maybe church where they meet other SAHMs to have playdates. Hubby's friends are from, well, he's a hermit. Were he to actually go out and socialize, I bet most of his friends would be from being a dad. The problem with developing friendships at work is that my friends work. Those with kids want to go home to their kids, have kid-centered responsibilities, and we have to schedule playdates months in advance in order to jive with our schedules. Those without kids don't really want to hang out with those of us with kids, with few exceptions, or at least go to a six-year-old's party, even if they can play Death Star ball. SAHMs and non-hermit SAHDs can develop relationships with people because of their kids; working parents develop relationships despite their kids.

Yes, the demise of the party had much to do with the weather, and not all SAHMs have control over low pressure systems. But were I to have had the friendships that every last SAHM I know in this town has, developed, I guess, by virtue of being a SAHM and therefore having the time and flexibility to be a part of Mom World together, I think I would have enjoyed the time I had at it more, and I think N would have, too. Certainly A would have. Luckily, we remembered to pack her up and bring her home.

April 19th: A Day that will live in Infamy

2006-04-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

Really. Waco. Oklahoma City. The day I learned we lost my first pregnancy, and the due date for my ectopic.

But, happiness prevails. My little N is six years old today. Happy birthday, Peebers!

Hubby and I stayed up until midnight cutting, baking, and decorating gingerbread light saber cookies for her class. 35+ cookies, all cut by hand, because try as we may, we could not find light saber cookie cutters. Go figure. The Star Wars franchise sells over $1billion of action figures, fruit snacks and underwear, but no cookie cutters.

Frankly, I'm stunned.

She skipped off to school in Heidi braids with roses, so excited for it to be her birthday. Last year, she did NOT, in no uncertain terms, want to turn five. She liked being four and couldn't see how it could get any better than that. This year, she must have accepted that change can be a good thing.

Six years ago, I was still in labor after an entire preceeding day being in labor. Since I shared A's story, I'll share N's as well:

N was born at 10:25 in the morning on April 19th, 2000, one week after her due date. She weighed 7 pounds, 7 oz, and was 20" long. She was just the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I woke up at 7:30 the previous morning with contractions 3 to 5 minutes apart, but they didn't hurt all that much. No contractions before that, unless they were in my sleep. I knew they weren't Braxton Hicks as I had back pain associated with them. But where were the usual ctx 20 or 10 minutes apart before that? I took a hot shower and walked around, but they didn't go away. We called the doctor, and they said come to the hospital if I felt like it. So we did, after stopping by the store for fruit and chocolates for the nurses. At the store, the ctx were getting stronger, and I had to stop on occassion to compose myself. Hubby was frantic that I go to the hospital NOW!

We checked in the hospital at 1 pm. I was only 2 cm dialated and 70% effaced, but since I was at nothing just a few days before that, they kept me there. By 4 pm, I was only 3 cm. By 7 pm, I was at 6 cm, and the contractions were starting to get painful. Really painful. N was facing sideways instead of forward or back, which was giving me incredible back pain. I started to fight the contractions - wrong thing to do, but I had three sources of pain going on - the pressure, the back pain, and the normal ctx. The monitor showed transition type contractions - hard and sudden. By 11 pm, I was still at 6 cm, and she had moved even higher. I was losing ground after four hours of transition labor. Ugh! The doctor was called, and we all agreed that I needed an epidural to relax. Otherwise, she almost certainly would be a c-section. I was really hoping for a drug-free birth to experience the whole thing, but I think I did enough experiencing for this birth!

By 1 am, I had the epidural. By 4 am, I was fully dialated, but she was so high they didn't want me to push - I would just wear myself out. The epidural was wearing off, and she was still sideways, so they upped the dose and let me try and sleep for a few hours hoping she would move down. The drugs didn't help the back pain during a contraction, so I was moaning every three minutes or so, but was actually able to catnap between ctx. By 7 am the next day, she was down to zero station and I started to push simply because the pressure pain was too much. She had turned during those early morning hours to the normal position, which helped alot.

At about 9:30, my doctor showed up and was not pleased. I pushed during a contraction and he felt no progress. He said we should consider a c-section since I had been in labor so long, and had been pushing for several hours. I said give me twenty minutes. He walked out, I repositioned myself from a sitting position to on my back, and let the epidural wear off so I could feel my pushes. When he came back, she was nearly out, and we kept going! I think I was a little afraid of pushing her out - how painful would it be, and wait, did I really want to be a Mom? But he definately gave me the impetus to get her out NOW!

Oh my word. What a feeling to have a baby come out of me. I couldn't believe it... here she was! One of the first words out of my mouth was, "Oh my! It's a baby!" Like, no duh! But it was so amazing - I had just given birth! Here was this whole new person - right there! Even after all that effort to get and stay pregnant, and an extended pregnancy to boot, somehow it seemed so sudden.

Which it is. One minute you're you. The next minute your somebody else's, forever.

It's good to be a Mom.

Happy birthday, little girl!

Beware of feathers

2006-03-31T08:58:00.000-08:00

It doesn't matter that I don't live anywhere within 2,000 miles of Philadelphia. What matters is that I'm following rules #1 & 2. Hey, I don't always do what I'm told, but when faced with the wrath of 2,000 people armed with sacks of feathers, I may not get petrified, but I do get giddy enough to follow along.

There are several cool things about this concept. First, it's in Love Park. With pillows.

Second, it's a huge freaking pillow fight! That's, like, a huge freaking pillow fight! There's no analogy that could make a huge freaking pillow fight sound any more appealing than simply calling it a huge freaking pillow fight.

Plain white cotton, pink satin, or Hello Kitty, pick your bag. Your choice defines who you were. Fiberfill, foam, or down, pick your weapon. Your choice defines who you are. Full body, neck, or throw, pick your calliber. Your choice defines who you will be.

Pillow fights are how the world should be.

Pillow Fight Club

Snakes, plague, and debauchery

2006-03-16T16:23:00.000-08:00

So, tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. Way back around 460, this Scottish-guy-gone-green-because-they-hauled-his-butt-there-while-on-a-slave-raid Patrick dies on March 17th, (or whenever March 17th was back before the Gregorian calander and all the various fixes it's endured). Good riddance, I say.

See, this man is said to have rid the Emerald Isle of snakes. First, they weren't snakes, they were Pagans, and I don't like people chasing off Pagans (or converting them), it's just, well, not nice.... in a big way. And second, if you're going to believe the serpent story, why the hell exault someone for chasing off snakes when the Black Death is coming up on you in about 800 years?

Oh, sure, he helped end slavery in Europe. Yah, ok, that's pretty good, I'll give you that.

But driving off snakes? I have fond memories of Mr. Linker, Mr. Linker II, and good ol' Ted, my pet snakes through the years. I've caught many a snake in the wild (and let them loose), gave numerous rattlesnakes a hardy "see ya!" as I ~~jumped out of my skin~~ skipped jauntily to the side when coming across one, and have been known, yes, to kiss a few snakes on their little snakey lips. I couldn't help myself, they're just soooo cuuuuuuuuuute!

Aside from their obvious cute factor, snakes are, well, dead useful at helping keep the bubonic plague at bay.

Tomorrow, there will be all sorts of parades with green beer and drunken frivolity just a few miles from my home and all my copious Irish blood. People fly in from all over the world to be a part of this celebration.

But you know what? Not one of them thinks about the poor snakes. And though they may enjoy a Dionysian romp through the day, maybe just a handful will give a toast to the Pagans lost to missionarial pursuits.

So, I lift my green goblet of, well, I don't actually have any green drink around here... just imagine my Mason jar here is full of something green, wet, and tasty... to all the snakes in the world, the people who love them, and dance a little Celtic gavotte in their honor.

Skoal!

NOW on the real Mommy Wars

2006-03-14T13:44:00.000-08:00

The National Organization of Women has responded to the latest media frenzy about the Mommy Wars*. In an excellent letter to Dianne Sawyer (who hosted a two-day Mommy Wars feature on ABC's Good Morning America, NOW President Kim Gandy discusses what a disservice to Moms and Dads everywhere such baiting and divisive prodding acheives.

Yay.

I particularly like how Ms. Gandy outlines some very realistic, very acheivable, very helpful suggestions on how to make life as a Parent in this society easier and healthier for the entire family:

How can our society better support mothers and caregivers so that they can choose to work either outside or inside the home—whether it's full-time or part-time—without additional guilt, financial strife or other barriers? How can workplaces, educational institutions, the public service sector and our government make caregiving a more respected and less stressful endeavor? Paid family leave, recognition of the work of caregivers by providing disability and unemployment insurance, Social Security credits, group health insurance, respite care services, public transportation and early childhood education in every community come to mind, but there are many others.

It is also crucial to talk about men's role and responsibility in parenting. Women need to know that they don't have to do it all. For example, men who choose to stay at home with their children are often ridiculed or overlooked, rather than supported.

Double Yay.

This whole Mommy Wars crap is bogus hoopla (HOOPLA!) that just makes us angry at each other because we perceive slights to our worth as Mom, Wife, Woman, Employee, and/or Human. We each have our own realities, each very much a part of ourselves and whose importance to our families is irrefutable. Stop listening to the pundits trying to get a good fight going to sell books and airtime. Listen to the people actually trying to help you, and put your energy towards solving the problem instead of making a problem.

*Following RebelDad's and Imponderabilia's lead, I'm now linking any reference to the Mommy Wars to the bookThe Truth Behind the Mommy Wars: Who Decides What Makes a Good Mother? by Miriam Peskowitz. I haven't read the book, but then I haven't seen the Good Morning America pieces either (I work, remember). I trust my sources who say it is a thoughtful, well-researched piece about Motherhood in our American society.

Hattip to RebelDad for bringing my attention to the letter by NOW.

Like mania from Heaven

2006-03-11T09:38:00.000-08:00

Last night was cold. Really cold for March in the desert. I thought, maybe, perhaps, wouldn't it be cool if it snowed?

And guess what? It DID!

(removed)

Laugh if you must, snowbound people. But snow in my part of the world means run outside and play in it before it melts. NOW! Wake up the kids! Make snowmen! Have snowball fights! Have hot chocolate!

Which we did.

Of course, all snowmen need a scarf:

For scale reference:

(removed)

It was fun while it lasted. By 8:30 am, it was all over.

Kneel, Knave!

2006-03-09T10:39:00.000-08:00

Did you know I'm royalty? Oh, yes, very much so. And not through some hedonistic marriage rite, being related to royalty simply by tagging along with my choice in husband, who, according to my mother-in-law, is something like 14,238.6th in line for the throne of England. Oh, no, I'm much more regal than that, and frankly, feel a bit sullied having such a commoner share in my majesty.

I have no pedigree that can prove this, of course. Posh, those are for sovereigns who are not confident enough in their nobility. Irrefutable evidence comes from my monarchial behaviour lately. Hark! Twice in the past two days, I have found myself amongst the peasants sans children. This, aside from when I'm at work, when I hole up in my cave and talk to NO ONE (safest way to avoid such nastiness as boorish office politics... too egalitarian for me), is highly unusual. My serf husband is quite happy to let me take the kids with me on any errand, nay, rather, adamant that I take them with me on any errand, so I rarely pick a zucchini without at least one princess in tow.

But yesterday was different. I thought I would pick up dinner on the way home from work, alone, ~~instead of hurriedly cleaning the kitchen and attempting to combine brown rice and lettuce into something the kids will eat~~ and graciously give the staff the night off. Since Burger King is a knave, I stopped by the grocery store for some already-prepared chicken. The market was rife with provincials, and I often had to ask for passage. But, instead of saying, "Excuse me," I would repeatedly ask, "Excuse US." How positively Victorian of me.

I did the same thing this morning after dropping off the Crown Princess at school and navigating my way past the nannies.

This certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I'm used to saying "us" because I'm always out with my royal progeny. No, I must be coming into my own and accepting my role as Sovereign, who must always use the Royal We when talking about matters of State, or space, as the case may be.

Excuse us, now. We must practice our Royal Wave.

Finally, a balance of work and home

2006-03-07T14:18:00.000-08:00

Direct from The Onion (albeit several months ago, and I've been putting off enlightening the rest of you), proof I can be a spiffy mom and orthorectify at the same time:

What's that? You didn't get it? Look at #4. See? Babies AND geodetic processing can go hand-in-hand.

Whew. What a relief. And here I was starting to feel all unworthy of my uterus thanks to Darla Shine.

Now, if I can only get Jack Dangermond to handle getting dinner on the table, I'm set.

Friday Fancies: Underwear

2006-03-03T15:54:00.000-08:00

I cannot get into a bad car wreck.

Oh, not because I may have kids in the car, or my family depends on the income I make, or because I just Looooo-ooooove my '95 Saturn. No, it's my underwear.

If you are to know anything about me, it's that I hate shopping, with few exceptions. I really dig toy, craft, home improvement, and book stores. I still hate all the machinations it takes to get to them, and for some reason within five minutes of entering the store I have to reeallllly go visit the restroom. Maybe it's a holdover from my childhood. After all, anytime I go shopping with the kids (is there any other way?), they have to use the restroom, too. It must be genetic.

Hmmm, I realize that I may be giving you a false impression. My need for restrooms while consumerizing is not why I can't get into a car wreck because of my underwear. That whole self-reflection gig was just for color, and to impress on you that I don't like to shop.

Particularly clothes shop. OH MY GOD is it depressing. For some reason, they don't make clothes to fit the frame of a woman just over five feet tall that has a chest that makes Dolly Parton look waifish. I guess there aren't many of us out there to make us a lucrative demographic. But, I really don't see all that many 5'8" size four 36AA chest women around, either, and they sure make enough clothes off the rack for THEM! Ahem. At times, I see someone like me on the street, and I get the impulse to accost her and ask her where she buys her clothes, and especially where she gets her bras. But I ~~chicken out~~ resist.

Since I'm still in the throes of post-partum-depression, I keep my visits to heinous haberdasheries limited lest I relapse. Which brings me to my underwear.

One of the really fun things about having little girls is their underwear (oh, damn, that phrase earned me more child porn google visits). So I lied, I like toy, craft, home improvement, book, and little girls' underwear stores. Well, if they had such things. They are so cute, with little monkeys or pigs or princesses or whatnot on them. I could go ape in a little girls' underwear store. Thankfully, there are no such establishments that I know of. So I end up at KMart or wherever to buy them after putting it off for far too long. And I go so happy with size 2 underwear purchasing, I run out of bladder control for my clothing needs (have you SEEN a K-Mart restroom? Do you really expect me to use it?). I'm not going to waste my urinary tract health looking at dowdy, plain, no-pigs-or-monkeys-to-be-seen-on-them Mom underwear. It's either those huge granny panties, a very few interesting colors on Hanes Her Way, or lacy underthingies that I don't want to have to explain to my daughters just yet.

So, it's been years since I've purchased any netherregion clothing for me, and they are worse for the wear. I've taken to using Hubby's boxers when I'm desperate.

Try explaining that to the ambulance driver.

No tree huggers here

2006-03-02T15:48:00.000-08:00

Today is Dr. Suess' birthday. Happy birthday, Theodore! Our family's claim to fame? My dad once cleaned the carpets at Dr. Suess' house. Yep, that was us. Let me tell you, all those beetles battling in bottles can leave some mess, and let's just not discuss what happens to a poodle when it eats noodles, shall we?

In honor of Dr. Suess and one of their favorite Suess books, Fox In Sox, the girls came up with a new tongue twister, and it's a doozie. Baby booger burgers. Baby booger burgers. Baby booger burgers. Geesh, just typing it gets my fingers in a tizzie.

Anyways, it's also Nevada Reading Week. The kindergartners in N's school celebrate this week by dressing up paper dolls as a character in one of their favorite books, preferably something most kids know. Shhhhh! It's a secret what character you make! The dolls are hidden away in these very-oversized envelopes, and we write three clues to help the class guess what character it is. At the end, the doll is revealed to much ooohing and ahhing (in the parental mind) over how creative is your child.

The character N picked was a great character. I was very happy with her choice. The dress-up would be easy but creative. Everyone will know THIS character, and they'll just go gaga over the crocheted mustache that N made*. My mind raced with wicked Suessian clues, N came up with ideas, it was an exercise in excitement.

I volunteered in the classroom the day they did her doll.

First clue: "My fish couldn't hum and my birds could not sing, so I sent them away on their fin and their wing."

Not a kid raised his or her hand to guess. Huh, well, it was rather cryptic, and the first clue was supposed to be the hardest.

Second Clue: "My barbaloots are hungry, they don't need a Thneed, what they really dearly want is a truffula seed."

Some kid guessed Sleeping Beauty. I'm starting to panic - N is doomed to the nerd clique.

Third clue: "I speak for the trees! I speak for the trees! Which everyone, everyone EVERYONE needs!**"

The teacher prompted the class, saying it was a Dr. Suess character. A FAMOUS Dr. Suess character. Another kid guessed the Cat in the Hat.

Sigh. Apparantly no one cares about the Lorax 'round here. A childhood hero of mine, gone the way of his swammee swans, barbaloots, and humming fish. I nearly expected the school walls to be emblazoned "UNLESS" on my way out the door. I was crestfallen, my dear daughter would now be antagonized by people asking her what kind of leftist drivel does her mom read her.

N? She was thrilled she stumped the class.

It's all about perspective, I guess.

* Yes, she did (help) crochet the mustache. She loved it so much we now have regular mom-and-N crocheting time. It would help if I remembered more than a simple chain stitch, but that's ok, the chains are difficult enough for her.

** If you can't guess this by now, then what are you doing at this blog? Shouldn't you be seeing what Pat Robertson has to say today?***

*** Ok, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reprimanded you. Some people have bad days. I have days I can't remember to open the garage door as I back out onto the driveway. It's ok. Hey, maybe you never read The Lorax. That's ok, too. We can't read all the great literature out there. But, seriously, you need to get out more.

42

2006-03-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

Hubby turns the magical age of 42 today.

I think this birthday is hitting him hardest of any of them. I think it's because he doesn't get to play with Pink Floyd today. I tried to book the band, but they regretfully declined, citing some problems with the pigs getting out and flying everywhere. Of course, it doesn't matter, really, since Hubby can't play the guitar.

Among the shared whacky sense of humor, there are many dissimilarities between Hubby and Douglas Adams: fame, fortune, height, close friendships with various Pythons, musical talent, being quoted all over the world or perhaps the galaxy. Hopefully, other dissimilarities will extend to not dieing at an all-too-young age.

This seems to bum him out. Because, you know, apparantly everyone else who turns 42 gets to share the stage with David Gilmour.

Ah well. I've learned to live with dissappointing those I love. No pony for the girls, no riff with Floyd for the Man in my life.

Happy Birthday, Hubby. Here, have a carrot.

Mommy (and Daddy) wars

2006-02-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

RebelDad sent me wandering over to The Imponderabilia of Actual Life discussing Happy Housewives written by Darla Shine.

I said my piece about the book, which I admittedly have not read, in RebelDad's comments. What I want to briefly discuss here is the polarity this book endorses. Maybe not by design (although the excerpts Imponderabilia posts suggest otherwise), but the end result is the same: Mommy Wars.

Way back when, five lifetimes ago before I ever got pregnant, I had no idea such a thing existed. Then I found out there were entire debate bulletin boards devoted to "SAHM/WOHM." What? What is there to debate - you work, or you don't. There's something to debate over this? Now, three kids, a SAHD, and a mental book of pointed comments I've heard over the years later, I'm wiser.

Not happier, just wiser.

I'm still perplexed, though. What is it about a working mom, or a stay-at-home mom, that causes such dichotomous reactions? I read about stay-at-home moms saying they feel they have to defend their choice. To whom? I could be the proverbial southern belle insisting she simply doesn't understand what all the darkies are complaining about, but I'm thinking the SAHMs feel they more have to defend their choice to stay at home with themselves, and not (many) other people. But, since I'm not a SAHM, I obviously don't have a leg to stand on that assumption, so I will accept that yes, SAHMs have reason to feel defensive about their lifestyle. It's a hard job that I do see not everyone appreciates.

Being a WOHM, of course, I can bring up all sorts of examples of WOHM-unfriendly comments and practices. Not only do I have to put up with various attacks against my worthiness as a mother, woman, and employee, I can't schedule swim classes or other fun child-enriching activities because they're all scheduled during the weekday.

And then there are the dads. Either they are accused of being hopeless parents and helpmates, or they are questioned about their masculinity and worthiness because they stay at home with the kids.

What is the point? All this bickering and martyrdom does is create a schism in what should be a united front of parents. People who need the support and comoraderie shared in a history of poopy diapers, sleepless baby nights, countless homework hours, pacing the porch during prom night, and worries about how we will possibly get along with our child's in-laws.

We all try to do our best for ourselves and our family, however that works for us. There is no room in our already overcrowded schedule to condemn others for doing things differently than us. We may give pause to consider someone with a different lifestyle, but in the end, it isn't our place to attack them or martyr ourselves.

We are parents. We know how much support and understanding goes towards raising our kids. We know how much support and understanding helps us get through the tough times. We know along with all the joys and wonder and exhileration of having kids, there are also worries, difficulties, and plain old exhaustion. What is there to gain by criticizing parents for staying at home or working? Why even suggest a parent is any less of a parent simply because of gender or employment status? Such generalities hurt us all. Why not put that energy towards making society more accepting and helpful for both the stay-at-home parents and the working parents, like advocating better family-friendly workplace policies so that both parents can help each other and their kids, or lets the single parent raise his or her children in a less-stressed environment.

In which I defend Dick Cheney (but not really)

2006-02-15T16:04:00.000-08:00

So, I was driving around Needles today, like I'm sure you all do, or secretly wish you do, listening to Talk of the Nation. It was particularly nice to be listening to Talk of the Nation, because my car's radio has been on vacation ever since the car was stolen way back when, so I've been out of the NPR loop for far too long. I was in a Company truck today, getting it as dusty as I could, and the sound was f-i-n-e.

Anyways, I was listening to Talk of the Nation, and the topic was, of course, Dick Cheney and his poor marksmanship, and how he didn't bother to tell the Nation about how he can't hit the side of a barn with a shotgun unless it's painted bright orange and makes significant campaign contributions to the 'right' people.

There was discussion over the Press' response to this. One caller commented on how she thought the Press was going ape over him not telling the Masses about his failing hunter safety school because they had finally had enough of getting nothing from the Press Secretary and couldn't take it anymore, they had to go for blood. They had finally hit their limit.

I disagree. Completely. The White House Press Corp (I specify this, in deference to my friends and family in the Press) is a group of pansy kissasses, and have been for quite some time. They are as much a "liberal media" as Pat Robertson is Chavez' love child. I think they are all over this not because they feel slighted, but because this is a safe topic to go ape over. It's the stuff of jokes. I mean, really, Dick Cheney, the guy who made us invade Iraq and made our soldiers use all of those guns on people, can't even keep from shooting his own friends. It's comical, lighthearted, really, something that will always be remembered with a little guffaw, like Dan Quayle and his potatoes.

It gives them something to claim affront to but not really ruffle any feathers. Something they can say, "See?! SEE?! We really DO care! We really DO want to know what is going on!"

We'll hear about Dick and his Gun (oh, yes, I'm surprised I haven't hear that pun yet) for decades. But, when was the last time you heard the press ask about the Downing Street Memos? The progress on finding Bin Laden? Haliburton's choice non-compete contracts? Hell, I had to search around in my memory, knowing there was something else big, really big, until I finally remembered Valerie Plame, and I even wrote a post about that!

No, the Press is all on this recent (in a long list of) affrontery because they don't have to do anything, they won't really ruffle any feathers, they get to whine without having to be taken to task for it. All they will succeed in doing is sticking in some redneck's mind that Cheney used a gun once, so he must be an all-right kinda guy.

Later, I did hear something about this that did make me pause a moment. I think it was All Things Considered where it was mentioned that President Bush (pardon me while I hack on that phrase) deferred to Vice President Cheney (cough! cough!) about informing the Press Corp about the shooting. Let me repeat that. PRESIDENT (hack, snort) Bush deferred to VICE-PRESIDENT Cheney about reporting the incident. The PRESIDENT let the VICE-President decide what the country should or should not hear.

There you go. Some proof of how Cheney really does run the show.

Letting go

2006-02-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

My kindergartner has a love-hate relationship with a girl in her class. I'll call her Troi, because she has the same hair as bean-head Counselor Troi in Star Trek: The Next Generation. It's one of those fickle, confusing "friendships," where Troi is terribly mean and nasty to N one day, then is best friends with her the next.

There are various reasons I don't like Troi, mostly centering around how she confuses and hurts MY little girl. She is also prostheletizing to N, filling her head with Heaven and Jesus and how N's parents are going to Hell because we don't believe in that. I try to be tolerant with Troi, I even took N to church last weekend (Unitarian Universalist; take THAT Troi!) because she asked to go, and I'm into letting my children explore their spirituality. Yesterday, she came home and told me how Troi said women can't marry women, and what does gay mean? Finally, I had a passionate, reasoned response to Troi, and told her in no uncertain terms I will NOT let anyone tell my daughter who she can and cannot marry (secretly thinking, "Except ME, of course!").

Anyways, as usual, I digress. In short, Troi is a fickle little girl who likes to manipulate others. You can't really tell that from the previous paragraph, because I didn't want to digress TOO much.

What brings me to talking about this is what happened this morning. Hubby dropped N off at school. For some reason, when I drop her off (which is the norm), I may exchange a few greetings and how-are-you's with a few moms and dads, but that's about it. When Hubby does the drop-off, he comes back with gossip. Maybe it's an at-home parent thing, I don't know. I kinda feel left out, but console myself with the thought that maybe they all think I'm too nice to sully with gossip talk. yah, that's it.

So, you see, back to the story, N asked Hubby if she could play with Troi before the bell rang. Hubby said sure, go for it. As they scampered off, the two moms (whom we've known for years) talking with Hubby looked aghast at Hubby and said, "You let her play with Troi?"

Ok, I guess I'm not the only one who isn't all that comfortable with her. That made me feel like I had more leverage to tell N, "You know, if she's going to be mean to you, don't play with her. Good friends don't tell you they won't invite you to their birthday party and then invite other people right in front of you." (yah, that's another thing she did). And I felt a bit elated at how Troi was not as popular as I thought she may be.

But then I thought a bit more about it. True, only skanks trash you in front of other people. But it's up to N to make these decisions, not someone else's mom. Gossip should not in any shape or form be a tool for deciding whether or not to like someone.

I was brought back to my schooldays, and the hurt gossip created. I thought back to ten years ago, last year, last week, hell, any time, and how even as adults gossip creates all sorts of problems.

I realized I had to let that comment go.

If I want my girl to make decisions based on fact and not innuendo, if I want her to refuse to spread gossip and hurt and be true to herself and her values, I cannot use gossip to validate my own feelings about her friends (or, in this case, tormenter).

My little girl is in the Big(gish) World now. I have to let her make her own decisions.

I have to be objective when she asks for my help.

I have to be there for her when she finds out she made the wrong choice.

And that's hard, letting go.

FYI: Amniotic fluid is neutral to mildly basic.

2006-01-26T20:38:00.000-08:00

(removed)

My baby is one year old today. A year ago last night, I was wandering around the bookstore looking for a baby name book, pretty certain I'd be needing it sooner than I had expected. The baby had been christened Tomato in utero by N many months earlier, and I just couldn't see that put on her application to college. Something else had to be chosen - NOW!

I'm going to post the birth story because I'm still excited over it a year later. I'll admit that *part* of the draw to having a third child was having the birth experience I had tried for two times earlier. N was sideways, A was, well, I was afraid I was going to go through the same thing with her, and I had the worst nurse in the world for an unmedicated birth. Fear is not a good partner in birth. Both labors were very long, and although I spent over twenty hours in hard labor with both before I had the epidural, and I got the ultimate reward of a healthy baby and mom, I didn't get the complete birth experience I wanted. Which was important to me - the complete experience of that primal, visceral, utterly feminine human event of birthing a baby. I'm not critical of anyone going straight for the drugs when in labor - that's what they want. I wanted something different, and it was purely for my own sapien reasons. Birthing a child is an experience Life, if you're so blessed, gives you only a few times, I needed to take advantage of it. I also wanted to know I could do it, that I could count myself among the billions of women who have done this for millions of years with no medicated pain management.

S's birth was amazing. I loved it, I fondly reminisce about it often, today most of all. I don't often read of wonderful, unmedicated hospital births, so to help mitigate the posting of a narcissistic novel of birth, I'll help justify it by saying it's for all those moms-to-be thinking of doing such a thing. Yah, that's it, help THEM out, not because I'm damned happy with it.

So, if you're so inclined, get some coffee or beverage of choice, sit back, and enjoy.

Short version: S born at 9:01 am PST, January 27th, 2005, weighing 8 pounds 15 ounces and 20 inches long. Completely unmedicated birth on my knees.

Long version: Wednesday morning (January 26th), I woke up feeling a gush, and wondered if my water had broken, or at least I had developed a small tear in the amniotic sac. There were no contractions, but I was really ancy. I called my friend J, who happens to work in a chemistry lab, to see if she had any litmus paper so I could test the fluid to see if it was amniotic fluid. She brought over some pH strips, and we found it to be too acidic, false alarm.

So, I went to work. The usual story, tough to concentrate on work, finding other things to think about, lots of surfing the net for baby names. A visit to the restroom revealed a very small portion of the mucous plug. Cool! But wait, this is January 26th, she’s due February 2nd, and she isn’t supposed to arrive until at least a week after that (N was a week "late," S was two weeks "late")!

I had an OB appointment that afternoon. Dr. C told me I’m at 2 cm and things look like they are progressing. That's the most I've ever been before labor. He did a fern test to see if the fluid was amniotic or not, and it wasn’t. As he walked out the door, thinking I may go soon, I asked if he was on call the rest of the week, and he was. I love this doctor, I've been through over 25 OBs and perinatologists finding him, I really wanted him there.

I had things to get for the baby shower (yah, we cut it close), so stopped by a party store, and then a bookstore for a baby name book. I knew we didn’t have much more time to decide on one! I was feeling rather uncomfortable at the bookstore, with some contractions, but nothing consistent or very intense. But I knew I didn’t have to wait for her due date for her to arrive.

I got home around 7:30, and by 8 pm I was having real contractions, uncomfortable (especially with two kids climbing over me excited to have me home), but manageable. By midnight, as Hubby and I discussed names, they were three to four minutes apart, and I told him I thought I was in labor - get some sleep while you can. The kids were already asleep, and I tried to sleep with them, but the contractions were more uncomfortable laying down than standing up. So, I took a hot shower and then a bath when the hot water ran out, which seemed to slow down the contractions a bit, but I don’t know how much. I read the first few chapters of “What’s the Matter With Kansas?”, which is now a bit water-sogged but still readable. Out of the shower, puttered around a bit, then went back in for another hot shower. I started to feel the effects of not having dinner, feeling really light-headed and shaky-weak. I got out of the shower, had a large glass of orange juice to try to give me some energy, and by 1:30 decided I needed to call my doula, Kim, to warn her I may need her later on. I took another shower after that. By 3:30, I had called Kim to come over, and then called chemist-friend J to ask if she would come mind the kids while we labored a bit more and then headed to the hospital. I “woke” Hubby up to tell him to get dressed, we’re having company and we’ll be leaving for the hospital at some point. No need to wake him up, all that showering and puttering had kept him awake. Kim and Friend J were both there by 4, maybe earlier. Big sis N woke up soon after they arrived. By now the contractions were pretty strong and I had the urge to throw up. Which I did. I moaned through some, leaned on Kim or Hubby through some, and eventually ended up on the futon, whose mattress was slanted enough to allow my belly to fall forward a bit and be somewhat comfortable. I had noticed earlier on in the evening that the pain was mitigated by me caressing my belly and thinking about how they were getting me closer to meeting Tomato. I managed to snooze through some breaks between the contractions. I was getting a lot of pressure on my rectum, and Kim suggested it may be time to head to the hospital. I was reluctant to go - I was uncomfortable enough, I didn’t want to be checked, and poked with an IV, and laid flat on my back while they did a strip to monitor the baby, like they always did. But, eventually, I knew I was going to have to do that, so I grabbed a few things to pack in a bag, asked Jon to get a few things as well, and out the door we went. Friend J stayed to watch Biggest Sis N and Next-Biggest Sis A, and would bring them to the hospital when it was time for me to push.

Traffic was awful! What were all these people doing on the road at 5:30 in the morning? There was also a lot of construction work going on at a major interchange we had to go through, so that made things even worse. I had maybe five or eight or something contractions while on the road. We were at the hospital’s maternity ward at 5:55, where I told them I was heavily into labor. I thought all was lost when the first thing out of the nurse’s mouth was, “What are your complaints?” Uhhhhh, I’m in LABOR? The triage unit proclaimed me at 6 cm, and I was crestfallen. Surely I was in transition by now???? But Kim kept me going, telling me how good 6 cm was, and Hubby was cheering me on telling me how much farther I had gotten with Tomato than I had with the other kids. Luckily, I was assigned an incredible nurse, Mary Beth, who had six kids, five of whom were natural births. She did not make me lie on my back for the strips, I sat up instead. They were going to put an iv in me, but listened when I said I’m just having a hep-lock, and at some point read the birth plan and followed it very well. I sat up for I think at least an hour. Changing positions was excruciating, so once I was in one spot I was reluctant to try another. At some point along the line, though, we realized my old nemesis was back - posterior baby. I was having two contractions close together, then a break, two contractions, a break, etc. - just like with A and N. So I got on my knees and leaned against the raised back of the bed, and I got some much-needed counter-pressure on my back from Kim and Hubby. That first contraction after the change in positions was awful, but Kim and Hubby helped me through it, insisting that it would get better, which it did. They took the strips off of me at some point, maybe when I got on my knees, and put the sensor on my belly when needed to check the baby. Can I tell you how much I loved my nurse??? A nursing student and her instructor asked if she could watch, and I said sure. Turns out I was her very first birth! I found that pushing during the really strong contractions helped a lot - for one thing, it was the opposite of fighting them with kegels like I did with N. I wondered about how smart that was to push when I wasn’t fully dilated, but I didn’t care at that point. Besides, they weren’t the bearing down pushes like when the baby is coming.

While on my knees, they checked me again, and I was at 8 cm. Another disappointment to me, thinking I had hours and hours left of this, and I still had to go through transition. I was surprised when they called the doctor, and told Hubby to call Friend J to bring the kids. No way, I thought, these people are crazy! Considering how long I waited to dilate from 6 to ten with N and A, and then the hours I had to wait for them to drop before I could start pushing (and Tomato was still very high at this point), I thought we still had hours to go. I think this was around 8 in the morning. I was on my knees facing the wall, not the clock, so I really don’t know, and my eyes were closed during most of the time at the hospital anyways. (I remember being a little disoriented at one point, opening my eyes and seeing the room from the perspective of being in the bed instead of being in the bathroom like when I first entered and disrobed. I must have had my eyes closed most of the time there). I had more of the contractions that required pushing to get through, and harder pushes at that, but still without the “I have to push” urge. The doctor called during this saying he was on his way. I still thought this was silly. They discussed having the doc break my water, which I agreed to because I thought I still had hours to go. By 8:30 he was there (I remember because I asked when his office hours started, and he told me at 9) . He checked me, I was at 10! No way! Transition was nothing like I thought it would be - it was much easier than my imagination led me to believe. I gave a high five to Kim and Hubby - the hard part was over! Tomato was still high, though. I got back to a sitting position so he could try to break my water, but during a contraction I told him that was way too uncomfortable, so he pulled out his hand and never bothered again. He totally surprised me and won my heart even more by saying he didn't think it was necessary to break the waters, I was doing just fine. I didn’t feel like I was making any progress, and I was very uncomfortable in a sitting position, so back to my knees I went. By now I knew the first contraction after a change in position was the worst, so I bore through that and soon started feeling the real urge to push.

Hubby later told me that three other nursing students came in while I was pushing, pulled in by their instructor. Apparently, unmedicated births on knees are uncommon nowadays in a hospital setting. Imagine that, LOL. The nurses later told me the doctor gave them a look like, “What are you letting her do?” when I got on my knees, but he still was incredibly supportive of it all. I do remember someone asking me if I could get on my back at one point, and I said something to the point of, “WHY?!” and that was the last I heard of that! I had a series of hard pushes for about five minutes During one of the bearing-down pushes, my water broke. I asked about meconium, and was told it looked clear. About three pushes later, S was born!

I never did get to see her born, as I was facing the wall, but Hubby did. Three minutes later, Friend J arrived with N and A. Although they missed the birth, they did get to see her get weighed and stuff. On entering the room and seeing me in all my post-birth glory, A asked me, “Mommy, are you ok?” and I told her the honest truth - I felt great! I did have a small tear, fixed with one suture. But I felt like I could do anything now. None of the soreness from laboring on my back with the other girls. And just the incredible feeling of having gone through something so primal, and prevailing, was inspiring to the point of near-insanity, I believe. I was ready to jump out of that bed, pick up my oldest kids in my arms, and twirl about the floor a bit. At some point I realized I had yet to hear her cry, but they assured me she was ok - they had to suction her out quite a bit. So, it was a few minutes before I got to hold her, not until after the placenta was delivered, I think.

A, at two, was interested in her at the hospital, although all the gadgets and people there were distracting, so in a few minutes she was off exploring the hospital room. N, at four, was enthralled from the minute she saw her, and told the nurses all about how mommy said there would be blood but that she would be ok, and instructed them on what the placenta does. One of the nurses showed us the placenta and did a little biology lesson for the girls, and N soaked it all up.

She had apgars of 8 and 9, as she was a bit blue when born. She was also bruised a bit. Because she was over 8.5 pounds, they checked her blood sugar levels, which were a bit low. So, we did have to feed her a bottle of formula to check on her sugar levels later. N did the honors, and S ate all two ounces very quickly.

Her birth day was beautiful. Bright and sunny when she was born, cloudier towards the evening. I so wanted to go outside with her and enjoy the day, the sun, the fresh air. This hospital won't let you outside until you check out, so that had to wait until I returned home the next day.

-------------
Happy birthday, S! May your life be long and happy, filled with wonder, joy, and love.

Will work for Gucci

2006-01-19T13:09:00.000-08:00

Hmmmm, what's up in the Yahoo news today....

More dead in Iraq. Something about Bin Laden on tape. Bickering between White House and Congress. Look, I don't have much time, give me something I can use...

What? Bonuses, Salaries for New MBAs Hit Record Damn! Get me some of that action! Too bad my MBA is close to eight years old. Signing bonuses? Starting salaries twice my current? Yah, I might consider wearing pantyhose for a $40,000 sign-on check. I could buy some reeeealllllly nice hose with that. Maybe even some stylin' shoes that are also comfortable.

The catch is threefold: First, mainly consulting and investment firms are hiring. So NOT family-friendly, although things are slowly changing from the top on that in some firms. Still, I bet financial consulting is better than biological consulting, though - less toxic waste to wade around in (thank you, Dames and Moore for sending me on THAT slice of Heaven... bastards), nicer places than on the roadside of Interstate 15 to work in, and, oh yeah, over five times the salary for the same 100 hours a week of work. Second, I'm old, a mom, and don't own a suit. No one would hire me. Third, where in the hell do you find these jobs? I can never find them.

If you're looking to hire an old, matronly, fashion-impaired, bitter, rabidly protective of her time MBA, I'm your woman. Drop me a line, and we'll do lunch.

Girls' Weekend

2006-01-15T19:46:00.000-08:00

What makes a girls' weekend? Friends of mine head to some city of ill-repute, drink it up, make up names perhaps, and maybe "enjoy" a night of ,Thunder Down Under.

In a past life, well over a decade ago, I saw Thunder Down Under once. That was one time too many. A bunch of buff, yeah, but sleazy men in speedos getting partial erections while dancing with each other. Then, they head out into the crowd to dance with the ladies, picking the least attractive and most desperate women out there as their partners, with a distinctive pointy way that only sweaty, scantily clad, aroused men are capable of. The rest of the evening is spent in a torturous silent entreaty to not attract the attention of anything fleshy and failing any test of flacidness.

But the promise of sexually confused erotica is not the only thing that may define a girls' night out. I remember chocolate was definately a part of any estrogenic gathering. A rousing conversation about custom-made Sherman traps was a sure-bet if I had enough Rum 151 in me. If we were out in public, there was always a good chance of a man attempting to woo us into his waiting limosine as he plied us with a doctored photo of a baby with a gorilla's head pasted above its shoulders (for the record, it didn't work, but did make him memorable).

Honestly, though, I haven't had many girls' nights out. It may have something to do with my inebriated affection for Sherman traps, I admit. So when Hubby left on Saturday morning for Elko to watch Stardust return to Earth, the four of us girls had to make up our own rituals for an all-ovarian weekend.

Thunder Down Under was definately not an option. Nor was alcohol, or lecherous species-confused men. That left chocolate.

Hubby can't eat chocolate, or a lot of protein, so we took advantage of his absence and ate a large Mexican bean-and-meat-filled lunch and baked a chocolate devils food cake, with chocolate fudge icing, and chocolate sprinkles. I let the little girls design the confection, which included a Valentine heart Peep on top. Of course, a cake that decadent needs candles to lick the icing off of, so we added four birthday candles to blow out while singing "Happy Girls' Weekend To Us."

It was a wonderful day, and is the custom when tucking in for the night, I asked the girls who can talk what they wanted to dream of. N said "this day." One of those rare perfect days worthy of dreams.

This morning, we had a small hike out in the desert, where I was able to talk for a brief moment about Sherman traps while checking out a kangaroo rat warren. Girls' night continued, without the need of rum.

Working Mom: Volume 1; Issue 2: Travel

2006-01-11T16:38:00.000-08:00

A year is nearly gone, my negotiated hiatus from travel for working purposes after the birth of my baby is nearly over, and I am faced with the prospect of going to Blythe, California.

If it were Paris, Caracas, heck, even St. Louis, I may be a bit less depressed by the idea of leaving my nursing baby behind. But Blythe? As I once mentioned,, Blythe is in the suburbs of Hell. Maybe closer to the inner city of Hades. The only thing going for it is, ummm, well, there’s.... howabout....... Oh!..... no, frankly, I can’t think of a single thing going for it. The river in that area has a foul odor, the smell of cow dung overpowers the stench of the river, the stink of pesticides overpowers the putrid cow paddies, and you can’t quite wash off all that malodorous essence of Blythe because the water coming out of the pipes is orange. I’ve spent nights in Blythe where it didn’t go below 112 F. There’s one passable restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican grotto that only has my exiguous adoration because it’s a shade better than the Popeye’s off the highway. It might help if I liked chile rellino, but I don’t.

My dislike of Blythe goes way back to the early ‘90's, where I spent a goodly portion of a summer there while doing tortoise work. Really, I have a resume FILLED with intimate work on desert tortoises. I can also flip my tongue upside down, and sex immature rodents (oh, goodness, I wonder what kind of Google searches THAT phrase will get me?). I am a woman of many talents. I lived in flophouse motels that aren’t there anymore. At least now my company puts me in rooms with towels. The telling thing about my experiences in Blythe is that I learned to love Needles in comparison, which has little more going for it other than simply not being Blythe.

Compared to Blythe, Yuma, my other destination, is Nirvana.

At least Yuma has Chretin’s for good Mexican gnosh. The river is hidden away, partly because there isn’t much water in it anymore by the time it reaches the Mexican border, so the smell isn’t as obvious. The crops are more interesting, too. Not as much alfalfa, and more lettuce and peaches. And, you’ve just gotta respect (or fear, or both) a town whose high school students are Criminals.

Crops, not tortoises, are what now bring me to the river, what pay the bills, and what take me away from the beginning of this post - my nursing baby. Sorry, sniff! Blythe just brings out the emotions in me, and I sniff! have to let them out.***hooonk*** But emotional rhapsodies aside, the two callings have a place in my Mommy travels ennui. Field biology, my past life, is a Man’s world. Forget about Dianne Fossey and Jane Goodall - rubes, I tell you. Most field biologists are men, and the ones I worked with won’t let you forget that. Any womanly trait from not having the upper body strength to buck hay, to pregnancy, won’t be left uncommented on with disdain if they perceived you unable to do twice a man’s workload. Again, maybe it was just all the men I worked with, all those damned mountain-man Quayle-lovin' Texans (what the hell were they doing in conservation biology?), there could be some biology-type Y’s out there who aren’t so fearful of consent decrees and affirmative action. But, my experience has made me essentially deny my feminine needs and desires when it comes to work. Sadly, even over seven years since I’ve hung up my field monkey gear and gone office rat, that means Motherhood gets the short shrift too often.

I’ve worked up to my due dates, worked over my short maternity leaves, flown all day in helicopters while pregnant, gone to Blythe and Mexico while nine months pregnant, express milk in office bathroom stalls, work weekends and long hours while somehow simultaneously caring for a sick household including me, and do this stuff because I expect there to be whining from my coworkers if I don’t. For this trip coming up, I’ve volunteered to do both weeks in fabulous Yuma and glorious Blythe , when in reality I could bow out of one, as many of the men do. I still feel the need to prove that I can be a productive and dependable worker even if I am a woman. Or, perhaps, I try to be a productive and dependable man, even if I am a woman. I secretly hope they let me stay home, but bite my nails worrying that they may, then how would I make up for that bit of weakness.

It’s not that I am ashamed of being a woman, or ashamed of being a mother. Frankly, I like being a woman and don’t see the appeal to being a man, especially since men can’t be Mommies, a title and experience I love. As my five year old daughter said, when asking about penises, “I don’t want a penis. That has to be uncomfortable hanging between your legs.” I just haven’t gotten over either my own perceived sexual inequalities in the workplace, or actual gender biases in the office and field.

So, I travel away from home, away from a baby who still doesn’t sleep through the night, who cries when I don’t come home when she expects me to, nurses throughout the day, and can get Mommy-hungry enough to sometimes drive Daddy batty so he calls me to come home early to calm her down and give him some relief.

I travel because I have to. But I wonder if I travel because I just think I have to. What would happen if I said no? Forget that my performance rating is based in part on my travelling - other men I work with don’t travel nearly as much as I did before this latest hiatus. No other woman in my office, Mommy or no, travels as much as I do. I doubt I’ll dare to find out, though.

Damned he-man Texans. It’s all their fault.

Brief administrative notes

2006-01-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

First, the search engine traffic I get the most is from folks looking for information on pregnancy losses. So, I added a sidebar of posts I've made on that subject for these visitors, and offer my empathy.

Second, the next-most popular search bringing people here is, oddly enough, this picture:

from my October Barbie vs Sleeping Beauty post. What's even more odd is they find me with a Google image search, and nearly all of the searches originate from Iran, Iraq and Italy, some from a few other countries, none from the US. I don't really know what to think about that bit of data. My heightened sense of yellow-level-security has me thinking there's an international trade in white slavery of dolls, but I'm probably just picking that up from Pat Robertson. I also don't know how they find that image, the Statcounter info looks something like this:

Referring Link http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://static.flickr.com/30/48729804_70af9eafeb_m.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.kzslittlefeat.blogspot.com/&h=180&w=
Host Name
IP Address 85.185.71.3
Country Iran, Islamic Republic Of
Region Tehran
City Tehran
ISP Telecommunication Company Of Iran (tci)

Are they finding it on a Google gallery, or is someone passing that url around? hmmmm. Any one care to enlighten me?

That is all.

Chasing sunsets

2006-01-05T11:35:00.000-08:00

There's a crepuscular game I play while driving west in the early evening. I can't help myself, it's become more than habit - it's an obsession - since I landed in the west in the late 1970's from mostly-flat Ohio. The basin-range geography 'round these parts allows me to chase sunsets.

The idea is you can see several sunsets over the hills as you pass from valley to valley if you time it right, and drive fast enough (or mentally urging on the parent driving, back when I was too young to drive, but too embarrassed to suggest such an idea to my mom or dad).

I did this over the last weekend while driving through the Mojave Desert while driving to coastal California, and succeeded!

I also got to the World's Largest Thermometer quicker than usual.

Yah, fine, I drove a tad over the speed limit (really - I didn't have to drive all that much faster), I'm a danger to myself and others. But it kept me thinking and alert on one of the most boring stretches of I-15 this side of Beaver,Utah.

Oh, I had all sorts of deep thoughts about the metaphor of chasing sunsets and what I was going to write about that here. That kept me awake through Barstow, and then I promptly forgot that wit and insight in the smog that hit me halfway through Cajon Pass. Just believe that it was deep. And insightful. And really really witty. It would have made nuns weep and the comatose laugh. Really. Blame ozone and carbon monoxide on why you're bored stiff with this commentary right now. I'd be reaching for the delete key right now, except that I've already committed some bandwidth in my Flicker account to this.

Anyways, it was a good trip, the girls danced on the beach, friends were visited, family hugged, and sunsets caught.

Working Mom: Vol 1; Issue 1: Flying in the Face of Martha Stewart and Alpha Mom

2006-01-03T14:11:00.000-08:00

I got the idea for this while getting my car’s oil changed*. I almost wrote getting my oil changed, but realized that even though that may have given me the energy and power I need to keep at this Life as a Working Mom, alas, the lube and oil shop didn’t offer transfusions. Thus, it was just my car that got the needed pep that day.

As I was saying, I got the idea for this issue while getting my car’s oil changed. In the waiting room was an eclectic mix of magazines from Family Circle to Sports Illustrated. I don’t have time for scorecards. I don’t have time for Family Circle, either, but it was there, I was captive, and on the cover was billed an article promising to tell me how to de-stress the Holidays**.

I had just survived a particularly stressful Christmas Eve, replete with vomit, head wounds, and crying kids from a very over-stressed Mommy who resorted to yelling because she had no other outlet. “I should have gotten my oil changed earlier, just so I could have read this article!” I thought, with beads of sweaty excitement on my upper lip. I eagerly hoped they’d take their sweet time gooping out the car’s engine so I could savor the tips.

Oh, the heart was willing, the article was not.

Listed as tips to taking the stress out of the Time of Giving and Gnashing were suggestions that only served to stress me even more. Exactly like suggestions on how to economize by only going to the beauty parlor once a month instead of every two weeks, these holiday tips were just as unhelpful:

Bake only two kind of cookies instead of six. Ummmmm, yeah. Was I supposed to be trying to make six different kinds of cookies? Am I supposed to be trying to make TWO kinds of cookies? I managed to bake one kind of cookie this year, and most of them went undecorated. It was fun, the kids enjoyed it, that’s what counted. Last year, cookies were from a pre-made cookie dough from the refrigerated section at the grocery store, baked in haste on Christmas Eve so Santa could have a treat. But wait, according to Family Circle there is hope, I could ask friends to do the same, and then we could swap cookies at a festive cookie swap party. Yet, crumbs, that assumes I have friends who have the time I don’t, have the desire to bake, and we could actually find a time we could all meet and have this jolly get-together.

For Christmas dinner, pare down the fare by cooking fewer than five courses. Spend the saved time for a walk in the snow or a chat by the fire with friends. Ignore the fact that I have no snow, or fireplace, or friends with time to visit on a day already packed with their own stress bunnies. What got me was that I was to cut my five-course dinner to something smaller. Dinner at our house is one course, maybe two if I manage a dessert. I’d like to say the reason is I don’t have plates enough for anything more, which is true, but in reality I simply don’t have the time to prepare and then, very important point here, SERVE separate courses. If I get to sit down at dinner while everyone else is still eating, I’m winning the game. I was feeling pretty good that I managed a rib roast with some veggies this year. So the rolls were pre-made, I’ll live with it. So I forgot to put the (frozen) pies in the oven and we didn’t have dessert. Hey, no one seemed to miss them. Life was good, even if I did sit down to a half-cold meal by the time the kids’ meat was cut, drinks were poured, bowls found, spilled drinks cleaned up, drinks refilled, salt cellar filled, paper towels folded quickly for forgotten napkins, dropped forks picked up and dusted off, and more meat cut because two of the kids don’t want to eat their veggies but were still hungry.

Wrapping got you down? Try just wrapping with just two different types of paper and two different types of ribbon. It will be simple, yet elegant. Geesh, I’m supposed to be using RIBBON, too? There’s supposed to be some sort of decorative essence to the wrapping? For presents we send out to family, I wrap them in plain white paper, and have the kids color on them. For presents at home, it’s simple holiday wrapping paper. I have taken to putting simple curling ribbon on the presents, one color assigned for each person, so the non-readers of the family can tell who can open what present. Presents to me are easy to find and don’t need this complicated ribbon scheme, as there usually are none as I’m the only one who manages to shop or make presents. I was up until 4:30 one morning wrapping presents with whatever I could get my hands on. As long as it’s obscured in some way to hide the contents, isn’t that good enough? (The answer, by the way, is YES.)

Trim my to-do list. Write down all I do to prepare for the holidays, and cross off those tasks that weigh me down. This assumes I have fluff in what I do. Here’s my list of what I do:

Shop (on-line).
Help the kids make something for Daddy.
Get a tree. Decorate said tree if we get a chance.
Futilely ask friends if they want to come over either for Solstice, Christmas Eve, Christmas, or some other day for a bit of camaraderie.
Wrap presents.
Take the day off for Solstice for fun and relaxation and try to manage a nice dinner that day even if Life, as it always does, schedules must-attend things then.
Make a warm cozy breakfast Christmas morning.
Open presents.
Make dinner Christmas evening.
Let breakfast, dinner and present carnage sit for several days as I find time and energy to clean up.

That’s pretty much it. Remember, cookies and festive wrapping are optional. Carols? Only impromptu. Wreath making? Yah, right. Scrapbooking? You’ve got to be kidding. Christmas cards? Yah, they’re on their way out, along with the last two babies’ birth announcements. If I cut out anything from that list, well, it’s too bad I can’t count on Santa to help out.

So, dear Working Moms and Working Dads, here are my two suggestions to you for de-stressing the holidays.

First and foremost, ignore what everyone else is supposedly doing (really, how many of you working parents out there actually make six kinds of cookies and a cook a five course holiday dinner?). Do what you want, and need, to do to celebrate the Season. If that means no cookies, haphazard wrapping, and a simple dinner, then whoopie! That’s YOUR celebration.

Then, take a walk. A friend of mine suggested this after I told my Christmas Eve of Doom this year. When adults can’t behave like adults anymore, get out of the house, away from it all, and take a walk. So you get to bed at 5 am instead of 4:30 in the morning. You’ll feel better, and you won’t have an anxious pit in your stomach for the next year, where you’ll be hoping you don’t make the same mistakes because, hey, you took a walk instead and didn’t have a chance to yell at a toddler on the night Santa is to arrive.

Realize, of course, that I don’t do any of these, but I plan to next year.

___________________________
* Having someone else change my oil instead of myself or my husband caused me a certain amount of cringing. Really, now, I should be able to change my own oil, it’s not all that hard, and I have rebuilt carburetors after all. But, there comes a time in one’s life, while working full-time and raising three young daughters, when you realize you would rather be doing something else other than be under a car getting slick and grimy. I mediated my shirk by refusing to pay $20 for them to change my air filter and did it myself (and fill up the windshield wiper fluid reservoir to boot) for $11 in parts.

** Sorry, I was unable to find a link to the actual article, you’ll just have to go to your local library and look for the early December, 2005 Family Circle for further humility. Like you have the time to do something like that. Just another example of what The Woman says you should do, and what Reality says you can. Instead, just take my word for it.

Lost Vs Survivor

2005-12-23T10:55:00.000-08:00

There are many things, loyal readers, that you don't know about me. Someday we must sit down and discuss tortoises, and you'll begin to understand what makes me the woman I am today. But for now, may I discuss one of my other passions: Lost.

Yah, that television show, not what I was that one night in the San Jacinto Wilderness (see! I bet you didn't know about that, either! I'm an enigma, I tell you. An ENIGMA!). Lost has restored my faith in this freaky world of late that fiction can be stranger than truth. We didn't get into it until the very last episode last season, but those few minutes hooked us, and we're goners. Forever planning our schedule around Wednesday night. I've even been lustily looking at TiVo, considering how that could save us from missing the last few telling seconds of a Lost episode, as happened a few weeks ago, when we missed "Dad?" WHO saw THAT coming?! (Thanks, sj, and some readers of her blog, for filling me in on that hole in my life). Ok, that, and the kids would love to be able to see Diego save the whale twenty times a day.

For several years, we've also been addicted to Survivor. Ok, so sue me, I like some reality television, I've diminished in your eyes and I'm prepared to accept that. But, compared to Lost, well, Survivor is losing its appeal. I even missed a few episodes this last season. Heck, we didn't even know this last Survivor *started* until a few episodes into it.

Look at the two: they have certain similarities. I mean, both have groups of people trying to manage life after being marooned, cut off from friends, family, and creature comforts. Both are (usually) in beautiful tropical locations. Both have scantily-clad divas and toned buff man candy. But, Lost doesn't have Jeff Probst. And Survivor doesn't have a polar bear. I like Jeff well enough, I'd like his job, actually, but he's not a polar bear (nor, despite all evidence to the contrary, am I). I'd like to see a polar bear decide who gets voted off next season. "The maw has spoken!"

Lost has an honest-to-goodness HOBBIT! The bad-ass hobbit who takes on the Witch King, nonetheless! How can you top that? Maybe by adding the Minbari heroine of Babylon Five, who warns about The Others as she warned about the Shadows over a decade earlier (wow, my geek side is really showing in this entry). Star quality aside, there's an island Gaia, walking paraplegic, haunted survivors, whispers in the forest, a bizarre BF Skinner experiment (or IS it?), intriguing hidden pasts of all the castaways, and did I mention a polar bear?

Survivor has starvation, eating icky food, bickering, and the mysterious Medi'cs who come and cart you off if you happen to fall in the fire (Kooooochaaaaa!). Not a hint of a polar bear anywhere. I hear the producers have discussed a cold-winter clime Survivor, but canned it on the limited bare skin factor.

Oh, I'll still watch Survivor. It's like reading Frank Herbert - Dune was a fantastic book, so I started reading the rest in the series, and by Children of Dune I had to force myself to finish because I had put that much effort into it I couldn't just lose my investment. I have to say that Survivor is easier to stomach. But I think we need to snazz it up.

Perhaps abduct a few contestants at inopportune moments. Spread out some pit-fall traps to thin out the crowd. Add some contestants in the middle of the thing. Include a few people who don't speak English, and at least one knife-wielding madman. There was a hint of perhaps some doom to come when the last Survivors ate the freaking sacrificial chicken (Ugly American, thy name is Survivor. Ya' know, just don't eat the chicken. You have three measely days left, you don't need to eat the chicken. The Mayan gods haven't eaten in a looooooonnnnnng time, you think you have it bad?), but the thunderstorm didn't hold a candle to the deadly, screeching, black-smokey monster of Lost. Now, if the Mayans had come back to demand restitution for the loss of their sacrifice, there may have been some intrigue there.

You know where I'll be next Wednesday night.

Recess

2005-12-13T16:24:00.000-08:00

A hint of the past, that smell that always brings you back to recess, pulled pigtails, blunt scissors, and all That which is Grade School.

A light scent of a mixture of paste and heavily-fortified mystery meat, with a hint of warm milk. I caught it on my way through the school library to my daughter's kindergarten classroom, where I am lucky enough to volunteer twice a month (barring kidney stones, a teething baby, office meetings, and the Bends - or whatever I had, 'cuz you know, with Post-partum depression, those descents and ascents come up at you suddenly - which has kept me from the classroom for over two months).

My morning was filled with shoe-tieing, craft assembling, and helping the kids draw the correct number of ornaments on their number-comprehension worksheet Cristmas trees. But the highlight of the day as a 40-year-old Mom was the same highlight of the day when I was a five-year-old girl: Recess. Duck duck goose, shadow puppets, and tag. Cool, my co-workers refuse to play those with me. I don't know why, because darned if it isn't nice to go out on a beautiful day and be silly. Breaks here consist of coffee or cigarettes, neither of which I imbibe, so I pretty much work the day straight through. Now, if we had a rousing game of Princess and the Dragons twice a day, well, I just might enjoy work again.

There were the occassional startles, like when I heard my eldest pipe up about something Mommy said. That's always a heart-stopper, "Oh geeze, what is she going to let slip this time?" Luckily she didn't go off on a rant about the local animal control officers or Evil Lord Bush (she gave him that title, by the way), but went on about some Learning Tool I bought last night. Whew, that was close!

I missed our office "Holiday Party" for the morning fun and lunch at home with a nursing baby. I'm so glad I had a good excuse. The only thing worse than an office party with people I barely know is missing recess.

Events of the weekend

2005-12-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

We've been busy baking cookies and building decks this weekend. The deck has been in the works for, oh, two or so years. We're great at starting projects, but finishing? Bah! That's for wimps!

The cookies are the moral opposite of the deck - we're going to a friend's house NEXT weekend to bake cookies, but butter cookies are such an q (sorry, A insisted I press the q there) endeavor, I thought maybe we should bake a bunch so we could just decorate them next weekend, and save the frusteration of the darned dough slipping all over the place while trying to roll it out.

(N insisted on putting on the facial flour for effect)

And then, this morning, N asked if she could go outside. I agreed, as long as she got dressed.

It's maybe 55 degrees out there. Downright balmy to youse Noreasters out there, but kinda chilly for us.

She put on a sundress, and asked if that was ok. Sure, if she wears shoes. So on go the sandals.

She quickly comes back in from the cold and decides that a jacket is in order.

Several seconds out in the wilds, she returns deciding she needs something to keep her legs warm. So, the snow pants go on.

Here she is, in sundress, jacket, snow pants, and SANDALS. It's quite the ensemble.

No, it wasn't an "all N weekend," I just haven't taken any non-naked-time pictures of the other girls. You know how it is.

Things are getting a bit easier now

2005-12-09T07:41:00.000-08:00

S, the baby, at ten months will now actually play without having to be held all the time. It may have to do with being able to crawl very well now, or perhaps it's that that upper front tooth finally came in and she's not so miserable.

Oh, yah, so you'd think with the extra arms Hubby and I now have, the house would be cleaner, or maybe dinner would get cooked earlier than bedtime.

Are you kidding? Now she's too fun to play with! I'm not wasting my limited time at home doing chores.

Caving In or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Furby

2005-12-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

The two oldest girls have been asking for a Furby for months. Not just asking, but coming up and in stereo, in the most polite of voices, begging for a Furby on a weekly basis.

Hubby and I have been scared of these creatures since their debut in 1998. They're like Barney - FREAKY! Maybe it's the resemblence to Gremlins, or even worse, Hobgoblins . We were adamant that we would never have one in the house.

And then two little adorable moppets start asking for one. We told them in no uncertain terms that we would not let them have one because they were, well, FREAKY. They scared us. They were disturbing.

Then, the other day, it hit me. If the only reason we didn't want them to have a Furby was because we got the heebie-jeebies anytime we saw one, and not because they were dangerous, too expensive, a frivolous desire-of-the-minute, or honest-to-goodness Demons From Hell (although they come close... perhaps just a minor Demon from Hell's suburbs, like Blythe), then what kind of message are we sending our kids? Yah, ok, common sense, you've got me on that, and a curb on rampant consumerism, that too. But in the grander scheme of things, when they come home with purple hair, I'm still going to love them even if they are a bit different. Embrace diversity, all that stuff.

So, Furby will be under the tree this year. In all its gray and pink glory, talking like Oobie and asking if we're friends.

Is it immoral to tell a lie to a robot?

Why my daughter takes Karate

2005-11-29T14:25:00.000-08:00

and why the others will when they're old enough.

This disgusting piece of misogyny (the article referenced, not the commentary I linked to) is just too disturbing to really comment on (or link directly to - just... icky to link to it). Feministe did, and I’ll let her speak for me and the rest of the decent people around… I just can’t bear to ruminate on the fact that there are people out there that think like that.

I'll just say that rapists are beyond scum. This asshole and his "property rights" piss proves he's only interested in himself, fuck everyone else. Literally.

I hope he finds himself in prison one day for finally being caught fucking someone over, surrounded by big beefy men who want to lay claim to him.

Yah, I don't usually curse (on this blog), but his blather is dangerous, and by blaming the victims, makes life that much more dangerous for the rest of us.

Hattip to Echidne for exposing me to this nightmare.

**shiver**

Ok, just can the last entry

2005-11-29T14:19:00.000-08:00

Because hating Fox News has nothing to do with irrational fears and baseless pedagogy. No, hating Fox News has everything to do with crap like this that they insist on propagating to the masses. (I swear I saw "Why the Left Hates Sex" headlined on FoxNews.com while reviewing it for my previous entry. I now cannot find the link on FoxNews, but really, they DID have it on there earlier!)

The Chemist does a great job breaking down the inane diatribe of Jennifer Roback Morse. Visit him for a larger review of her entire article. What I'm going to blabber on about are these excerpts:

"This assault on sex first emerged with the subject of income equality. This mind-set has never been at peace with the fact that child-bearing places distinct demands on both women and men. Men tend to work more steadily in the paid labor force throughout their lives, while women tend to cut back on their labor force participation during their child-bearing years. As long as men and women can cooperate throughout their lives in marriage, both men and women can be made better off by combining these different economic strategies. Men may have a larger amount written on their paychecks, but their wives get the benefit of their earning power.

....

"But the Left’s war on sex differences transcends the merely political, and pops up in the most personal ways. For instance, most first-time parents slide into “stereo-typical gender roles.” Studies show that people who embrace gender equality are likely to be upset by the arrival of their first child. Because of their deep commitment to equality, they often become angry at their partners and ultimately at themselves. Unless they can surrender their rigid Leftist gender ideology, their marriage is headed for divorce and they are headed for misery."

So, unless we women get married and go back to being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen and obey our Lord and Master Husband in all things, and our men stop trying to be involved in raising the children, we are headed down a hedonistic path full of failed marriages and misery. Men can’t raise kids, and women can't ask to be treated fairly in the workplace. Because, you see, she shouldn't be in the workplace at all. She should get married straight out of school (high school, since Morse elsewhere in her article also shows a great disdain for anyone involved in collegiate studies, even though she has a PhD), or work and not complain about how she's getting paid less than her male counterparts. After all, men work harder and will stay with the company longer, and men have kids and a Little Woman at home to keep. How DARE we inconvenience The Corporation by having a womb... or a sense of self-worth.

The freaky thing about this woman's argument is that she is condemning her ideologue of "The Left" for championing gender equality, when she herself condemns women for being different than men. Can't women do ANYTHING right? We double-xers "tend" to cut back on our "labor force participation" when we have kids. Ok, maybe many of us do (although not me or the millions - actually billions if you use the entire human population - of other working moms). Yet, you see, the Eisenhower-era Stepford Wife Privileged Right paradigm in Morse's reality is not the reality in the grander, larger reality in this country. You know, the families who have kids being raised by either single dads, single moms, single grandparents, breadwinning moms with stay-at-home-dads, same-sex couples, and where both parents work at least one job. Add to that list of pariahs married couples who don't have kids at all either by choice or biology, and she's pretty much condemned the vast majority of American families to misery and divorce.

To insinuate that I am less of a woman for not marrying a man whom I can "get the benefit of (his) earning power" is fightin' words. Not to mention her assumptions that my husband is less of a man for not giving me that "benefit," and that he can't possibly raise the children in any reasonable fashion because he's not following the paradigm of the Privileged Right. Even if I had a trust-fund and a husband whom I could suck "benefit" off of (yes, go with the double entendre, please) so I wouldn't have to work, doesn't mean that he is any less capable of caring for the kids, or that I am any less worthy of earning what I am due. Yah, he's not going to squeeze any critters out of his dick, but he's still a Dad, a Parent, a person who knows which end the poop comes out of and how to kiss a boo-boo better than many Moms I know. And I may take my twelve weeks of (hard-earned, massive overtime worked to cover it and still working for The Office at home while on) maternity leave when I have a baby, but that doesn't mean my work is any less valuable than that of my male peers.

The Left doesn't hate sex. We, if I may speak for us all, like the diversity that the different sexes offer, and the multitude of solutions different sexes provide for getting through life. What we do hate is using sex to discriminate. Which is exactly what Dr. Morse is promoting.

Prejudice

2005-11-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

I really don't want to question the intelligence and moral value of people because of their choice of channel to program into the number one spot for their XM radio. But I do.

I've gotten into rows with people viscerally repulsed by the thought of interracial relationships. One claimed she wasn't a bigot because, hey, her daughter's best friend is black. There are times I wonder, and I admit I wonder with a smirk, how the mother would react if it evolved into an interracial lesbian relationship.

For me, my telling Flaming Brand of Bigotry is this admission: Some of my best friends listen to Fox News.

I really don't know how they do it. How they survive without their brains imploding is beyond me. Just like some can't fathom why a white woman would fall for a black man, I can't conceive how people listen to that drivel, much less believe it.

The KKK burns crosses on mixed-couple's front lawns. I fight back a sneer when someone tells me what they heard on Fox News on the way to work.

Them: Jim Crow laws, mob violence, lynchings. Me: Rolling eyes, heavy sighs, spit-takes.

"They can be good people. If they just had stronger family values, they'd get off welfare."

"I love my friends. Even though they're misguided, they have a good heart."

There's nothing wrong with people of a different race, it's just their skin color that's the issue.

There's nothing wrong with my friends, it's just Fox News that's the problem.

Just like racial bigots, I see no need to change my opinions about my chosen target.

The only difference between the racial bigot and me, of course, is that I'm right.

You wanna know why I'm at work?

2005-11-25T11:39:00.000-08:00

Because I hate shopping. Thank the Goddess for the internet - I found some really cool toys for the girls in just a few minute's time (every kid gets a jack-in-the-box!), with only needing to use my middle finger for the letters E and I.

Because, you see, the real pisser for the season isn't dysfunctional in-laws or toy advertisements on Nick Jr., no, it's Mall Traffic.

Even when I'm not TRYING to get to the mall, everyone else is, so I get jammed behind me-first-and-f-the-reindeer-you-flew-in-on mall shoppers flipping each other off while I'm driving to Wild Oats for some bulger. Wish they had on-line ordering.

Nope, today, Black Friday, I'm enjoying a nearly-empty office and no malls between me and my drive home.

Dinner, sadly, will have no bulger.

Et tut?

2005-11-22T08:42:00.000-08:00

(cue Steve Martin's song)

Let me state that ancient Egypt is big in our house. If I hear Hubby up late watching television, it's not porn I'm sharing my husband with. Instead, it's various Egyptologists and their theories behind everything from how the pyramids were built to what really happened to Queen Hatshepsut. I can't complain, after all, N's conception blessing was at a temple of Sekhmet. The girls have shown enthusiasm for such studies, too, so we don't hear complaints when Jimmy Neutron is switched over to Bob Brier.

So, when the Boy King was within driving distance, it wasn't a matter of if, but rather when. Which was last weekend. Seven hours on the road, rhumba lessons at 3 am in the room above us at the hotel, over an hour in line waiting to get in, and we were THERE, Man.

Old stuff. REALLY old stuff. Really old broken stuff but it was so old and so cool it didn't matter. Most everything was from someone else's tomb, not Tutenkhamen's, but it was still goose-pimply exciting.

But what we really wanted to see was the Big Wow, as Hubby called it. You know, what you see in your mind when you think of King Tut. The funerial mask, in all its gilded glory, with the reds and the blues, the snakes and that flail thing. And the eyes - had to see those eyes. I was getting shivers just thinking about it. Soon it was nearing 8 pm, and the girls were either a) too tired b) too overwhelmed with so much to see or c) too interested in going to the kids fun section instead of being with all these stodgey adults oohing over a viscera vessel that they were ready to move on. We had to briefly look at the really cool things to get to the Big Wow before we lost them.

And then, suddenly, we were at the gift shop. Wait! Where's the Big Wow? Did we miss it? Crap!

Nope, turns out Egypt refused to let The Big Wow out of the country. All those advertisements and posters and websites and three-story-high commandments to SEE TUT HERE! with the funerial mask demanding your attention were misleading. What a letdown.

But it was still cool, and we don't regret it, or the eight hours it took us to get home.

I just love Jimmy Carter

2005-11-15T18:36:00.000-08:00

He wrote a piece for the LA Times yesterday:

This Isn't The Real America
by Jimmy Carter

In recent years, I have become increasingly concerned by a host of radical government policies that now threaten many basic principles espoused by all previous administrations, Democratic and Republican.

These include the rudimentary American commitment to peace, economic and social justice, civil liberties, our environment and human rights.

Also endangered are our historic commitments to providing citizens with truthful information, treating dissenting voices and beliefs with respect, state and local autonomy and fiscal responsibility.

At the same time, our political leaders have declared independence from the restraints of international organizations and have disavowed long-standing global agreements — including agreements on nuclear arms, control of biological weapons and the international system of justice.

Instead of our tradition of espousing peace as a national priority unless our security is directly threatened, we have proclaimed a policy of "preemptive war," an unabridged right to attack other nations unilaterally to change an unsavory regime or for other purposes. When there are serious differences with other nations, we brand them as international pariahs and refuse to permit direct discussions to resolve disputes.

Regardless of the costs, there are determined efforts by top U.S. leaders to exert American imperial dominance throughout the world.

These revolutionary policies have been orchestrated by those who believe that our nation's tremendous power and influence should not be internationally constrained. Even with our troops involved in combat and America facing the threat of additional terrorist attacks, our declaration of "You are either with us or against us!" has replaced the forming of alliances based on a clear comprehension of mutual interests, including the threat of terrorism.

Another disturbing realization is that, unlike during other times of national crisis, the burden of conflict is now concentrated exclusively on the few heroic men and women sent back repeatedly to fight in the quagmire of Iraq. The rest of our nation has not been asked to make any sacrifice, and every effort has been made to conceal or minimize public awareness of casualties.

Instead of cherishing our role as the great champion of human rights, we now find civil liberties and personal privacy grossly violated under some extreme provisions of the Patriot Act.

Of even greater concern is that the U.S. has repudiated the Geneva accords and espoused the use of torture in Iraq, Afghanistan and Guantanamo Bay, and secretly through proxy regimes elsewhere with the so-called extraordinary rendition program. It is embarrassing to see the president and vice president insisting that the CIA should be free to perpetrate "cruel, inhumane or degrading treatment or punishment" on people in U.S. custody.

Instead of reducing America's reliance on nuclear weapons and their further proliferation, we have insisted on our right (and that of others) to retain our arsenals, expand them, and therefore abrogate or derogate almost all nuclear arms control agreements negotiated during the last 50 years. We have now become a prime culprit in global nuclear proliferation. America also has abandoned the prohibition of "first use" of nuclear weapons against nonnuclear nations, and is contemplating the previously condemned deployment of weapons in space.

Protection of the environment has fallen by the wayside because of government subservience to political pressure from the oil industry and other powerful lobbying groups. The last five years have brought continued lowering of pollution standards at home and almost universal condemnation of our nation's global environmental policies.

Our government has abandoned fiscal responsibility by unprecedented favors to the rich, while neglecting America's working families. Members of Congress have increased their own pay by $30,000 per year since freezing the minimum wage at $5.15 per hour (the lowest among industrialized nations).

I am extremely concerned by a fundamentalist shift in many houses of worship and in government, as church and state have become increasingly intertwined in ways previously thought unimaginable.

As the world's only superpower, America should be seen as the unswerving champion of peace, freedom and human rights. Our country should be the focal point around which other nations can gather to combat threats to international security and to enhance the quality of our common environment. We should be in the forefront of providing human assistance to people in need. It is time for the deep and disturbing political divisions within our country to be substantially healed, with Americans united in a common commitment to revive and nourish the historic political and moral values that we have espoused during the last 230 years.

Hat tip to editormom for pointing it out.

Nice guy, honest about things most folks would blanch at, intelligent, and has lots of integrity. I won't lie, our family was hard-hit with the economy under his administration. Of course, OPEC and a slimey congress didn't exactly help. And I was worse hit with the economy under Bush The First. But I still admire the man above any other public figure alive today. He has certainly done more for his country and his professed values after leaving his office than any former president in over a century, if not ever. He was preaching to the choir in my case with this letter, but I still found it all that more compelling as it was Jimmy Carter writing it.

Thanks, Jimmy.

[Jimmy Carter]
[Iraq]

Why y?

2005-11-14T14:24:00.000-08:00

N and I have been going over vowels. AEIOU, sometimes Y. My evil plan is to get her to start putting an "e" at the end of long-vowel-sounding words, not so much like "permeate" at the moment, but a tad simpler, like "lame," as in, this post. "See, f-a-d is pronounced fad, while if you put an e after the consonant after the a you pronounce it fade."

Forget that the kid just learned what "vowel" means, and the only reason I think she remembers that is because I told her Sarah Vowel plays Violet in "The Incredibles." Consonant? Isn't that the name of that new girl in class? Well, at least she seems to understand that a consonant is any letter other than A, E, I, O or U, and I find that promising.

Yet, what about sometimes Y? I must have missed that bit about why "sometimes" in first grade, or whenever they teach you about vowels. Now that I am teaching someone about them, I need to get to the elusive bottom of this Y thing. Is there ever an instance where Y is not a vowel? Is there some exclusivity rule about vowels, where Y can't be treated like a vowel, as if it's some dissed junior high school girl who didn't read the memo about only wearing green tights on Tuesdays instead of on Thursdays? My memory fads in my old ag, I remember nothing of this Y rule. I remember the vowels by repeating the old adage "A E I O U, and sometimes Y" just like how I blither on in that poem to remember how many days are in the month of November.

Dammit, Jim, I'm a scientist, not an editor.

So, since I'm inclined to include Y in all my parties, I've made the bold decision to simply include Y in my list of vowels for my kindergartner. She can learn to banish it to the loser consonant clique on her own time.

Better than best?

2005-11-13T09:14:00.000-08:00

We made cookies the other day. I've become lax in my old age, or perhaps my harried life as working mom to three kids and wife to a kidney-stoned invalid, so we went the cookie-mix route. Just add one egg, one-third cup oil, mix, bake, enjoy the extra inches on your thighs. I've taken to checking out the baking aisle whenever I go grocery shopping, just to see if the brownie and cookie mixes are on sale so I can stock up. You really should check them out, easy bonding time with the kids, minimal mess. Fabulous. The sweets usually go to waste, we can't eat them all, but it's fun making them.

A and N helped make these peanut butter cookies. A, newly-ish three, has only recently developed her attention span enough to be interested from start to finish when helping out in the kitchen.

While enjoying the first batch of warm, soft cookies, A proclaimed, "Mommy, these are the best cookies ever, plus friends!"

Definately. How better to improve perfection than add a bit of love, eh?

November 5th has come and gone

2005-11-10T14:40:00.000-08:00

Every year I find a muse to write something. As Mommy, it's my job to Remember, that's all I have left, and that's all she has.

But I failed this year. Life, you know, it gets in the way of death. Funny, that. I'd like to think that that's the way it should be, live - because you can, dammit. But when you're Mommy, and you are all that keeps something of her here, well.... I failed.

So, I'll pass along what I wrote the day she was supposed to come, my first loss, my first babylove, written while pregnant with my oldest, N. Reading it today it sounds utterly corny and hackneyed. If I were less tired, and less morose, I'd find comfort in it because, well, because I am Mommy, and She is a part of me.

The Colors of the Rain

I had a dream
Once... long ago
Now buried ‘neath cold drifts of snow
Of pain and grief and agony.
That freeze mere thoughts of you and me.

We laughed and played
Under the sun
On hills of green and sand of dun.
Where I discovered through your eyes
Forgotten wonders, joy and pride.
I dried your tears, and hugged you tight
And kissed you sweetly every night.

I loved you more
Than life is dear,
But you left and now I fear
That I will never love again
And see the sky above the rain.

My heart is cold,
The snow is deep.
Dark shadows find their way and creep
Into my dreams and waking hours
Lost, I cry and cringe and cower.
I cannot find my way out
of this frozen land of doubt.

I blame myself
For this frost.
You, my strength, my courage lost
Hope is gone, and faith as well
I am in the deepest pits of Hell.

I look out now
and learn that I
Have not seen the world go by
With people just as sad or more
Whom I had chosen to ignore.
Too deaf to hear their cries of sorrow,
Too blind to see me there tomorrow.

I wonder why
You chose to leave?
To make me cry and whine and grieve?
Or did you give me this lesson
To grow my strength and show compassion?

You took away
my belief
in myself and left me grief.
But now I start to understand
that you gave me a strong hand
to help me find unmeasured wealth:
compassion, courage, my own true self.

I recall
how glad I was
to find that you would be with us
I smiled, laughed, and reveled in
my growing child deep within.

I learned too
of love so deep
That I would do all things to keep.
I learned that I could be a Mom
and yearn to praise and hug and calm
my own sweet babe I did not know
emerging now from melting snow.

Time has passed,
And I now see
That you were here to teach me
Of love and life and loss and pain
To find the colors in the rain
That shine and dance and play with tears
of joy and grief and conquer fears.

I have a dream
You share with me
Of love and hope and destiny.
This one I carry is sweet and dear,
And I hold her with some fear.
But you have taught me to have faith
In myself and in her fate.

Mommy, November 1999

For our little lost one,
expected November 5, 1999, but never arrived.
Mommy and Daddy love and miss you very much.

[miscarriage]

Yes, it's three fourty-three in the morning

2005-11-09T03:43:00.000-08:00

and I can't remember how to spell "fourty." It must be rooted in French.... I can never get the hang of French at a quarter to four in the morning. It's the pre-dawn hours that I lay awake desperately trying to remember how to spell onui...enoui, onwee.... where's that dictionary.

This is why I took German in High School. I never lay supine and delerious, trying to remember how to spell versmechen. I mean, why?

I wonder, is versmechen even German? There I did it... ruined a perfectly good non-obsessive trait. sigh.

Anwyays, it's nearing my lifetime-ago wake-up time when I commuted five hours a day, and I'm in the office.

Let it be known to All Mankind that the Coachella Valley is a heap of dog scat. Specifically, my database of the Coachella Valley, so by association, all within depicted by my bits and bytes is tarnished with the foul smell of chaos. I've been wrestling with this agricultural mecca for dates, grapes, and canine offal for several months, and it's come down to having to finish it today or, well, hell, I work for the Feds, I was told after I've worked for them for three years I could kill someone and still not get fired. So, it's not like I'll get fired if I'm not done, I'll just cause panic. And, Friends, Panic in a cloistered office environment is worth avoiding at all costs.

Which means I'm running on about six hours of sleep over the past five days.

If versmechen isn't a real word, it is now.

Disney Princesses gone wild

2005-10-26T13:29:00.000-07:00

I've been home for the most part these past two weeks nursing a husband with a whopper of a kidney stone. In addition to being way more productive with work stuff while working at home than I have been at work since I can't remember when, I've been exposed to lots of daytime television. Specifically, daytime commercials. The shows are secondary, as we all know.

So, just a few minutes ago, while Diego was saving a beached humpbacked whale, we saw a commercial for a new Disney princess Christmas movie. At the end, the announcer mentioned "This film not yet rated."

Ok. Ummmmm, does anyone think it will be rated anything other than G? I know there's a Sleeping Beauty book out there that could easily rate an R, maybe even X, but that story doesn't quite fit the Tchaikovsky/Disney model, so I don't think that particular Aurora is being animated. Will there be parents out there who will stave off girlish squeals and tantrums to get this movie simply because they're afraid it may be too risque? Frenching at the wedding? Cleavage pushed up too high? Maybe Belle heavily gravid with kittens (or cubs... or whatever the Beast was)? What would the princesses have to do to garner a PG rating?

Well, since Hubby has introduced the girls to Austin Powers, Monty Python, and Glen or Glenda at very early ages, I don't think a particular phallic-looking Christmas tree will keep us from expanding our already voluminous Disney DVD library.

Priorities

2005-10-21T14:49:00.000-07:00

You may wonder why this man is smiling.

You've got to believe that there were numerous staff meetings about this mugshot of (former-for-now) House Majority leader Tom DeLay (R-Texas) before it was taken. Topics covered must have included what's his best side, should he smile or look serious, how big should the smile be, and how much whitener he should use on his teeth. There must have been several covert agents used to determine which hairstylist and make-up artist could be trusted to put him in his best light. Makes him look just like the smiling, handshaking, backroom politician he is. Must have overlooked that part.

"Hmmmm, Carl, do you think a five-o-clock shadow would give me a more rugged look, or should I look really smarmy and cocky to piss the Democrats off?"

"No, I'm a Texan, I won't wear lipstick. Too metrosexual for me. Well, ok, maybe"

"Too much gum? Gawd, is that spinach?"

Similar discussion must have commenced prior to John Gotti's mugshot*

Notice the similar "I can own your ass" smirks.

All the (assumed) backroom preparation for DeLay's mugshot proves that those of us without teams of handlers should start thinking about how we want our mugshot to look. I mean, if "they" ever find out that I checked out that book on Pagan rituals at the local library, I'm sure to be 'mugged' too.

Since I'm not on familiar terms with any hairstylists willing to visit me in the pokey at three in the morning after the brownshirts bust in my door, I'd best always carry a brush with me, and perhaps a perky little "do" thingy to put up my hair nicely. Practice my best smile, or smirk. Do you think a frown would be best? You know, to show that I really don't think I should have been arrested and I'm angry? It's not like I have the DeLay or Gotti connections to believe I'd actually get OFF for checking out a hedonistic publication, so a smarmy smile is probably not in my best interest to win a jury's heart.

'Cuz, you know, I really don't want to look like Charles Manson*

For sure I'd want to avoid the beard. He did seem to have controlled his usual manic look with his trademark wide eyes. Poor Larry King* didn't spend enough time in front of the camera for that

He really should have practiced more. At least put on a different shirt. Maybe it was the glasses. Now, Billy Gates* had the idea right. Use tinted shades with a boyish smile

Never would have guessed he'd smash independant free-thinking business under his thumb with that shot, eh? I wonder if DeLay asked him for pointers?

Better go pack some floss in my purse....

* mugshots from mugshots.org

"What did you do this weekend, N?"

2005-10-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

"Well, Thursday night I asked Mommy and Daddy if I could sleep in the garage in my sleeping bag, but they wouldn't let me. So instead, this weekend I went camping!"

"Oh, how fun. Where did you go?"

"Valley of Fire. But we didn't get to camp there because the sites were all full."

"Oh, that's too bad. So you came home?"

"No, I convinced my parents to camp near the lake."

"Oh, good. Did you have a fun time?"

"Well, yah, I guess so. But it took a few campsites to find anywhere to put up our tent. That took so long Daddy had to set up the tent in the dark. And the wind didn't help with that, particularly when the stakes wouldn't go through the caliche layer without a lot of words Mommy and Daddy tell me not to use."

"Oh, dear."

"Mommy got a fire going right away, but half the hot dogs rolled off the grate into the dirt. And while Daddy sat down to scarf down his one hotdog for dinner, the battery in the car died from having to light up the tent so Daddy could put it up."

"Oh, my. I bet you all slept really well after a day like that, didn't you?"

"I did. I did find myself perpindicular [yes, she does know that word, LOL - or, at least, can pronounce it.] to how I went to sleep. We stayed up late telling silly ghost stories, and just as I nodded off, the people across from us drank a lot of beer, and Daddy says probably a bottle of Vodka each, and they stayed up really really late talking really really loudly about things that Mommy and Daddy were glad I was asleep for so I didn't hear."

"hmmmmm"

"But it rained on them, and most of them didn't have a tent to sleep in, so Daddy was kinda smug in the morning, and didn't complain when A and I got up at the crack of dawn and started talking really loudly about how much we like camping, or how much we had to pee."

"Did you have a good time after that?"

"Oh, yes. S crawled all over the tent - she's just started crawling, and really likes it. After we packed up, we headed to Valley of Fire and we got to climb a lot of rocks and look at petroglyphs, and have ice cream, too. Next time, though, Daddy says we have to camp somewhere with softer ground."

"I bet you're glad to be home."

"No, I wanted to stay and climb a bunch more rocks. I think A did, too, but she was getting really cranky. She's asleep on the living room floor now. She collapsed there right after she walked into the house. S is playing with A's legs, seeing if she can wake her up (even though Mommy put her across the room from her big sister), but she's not budging."

The things we do for our kids

2005-10-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

Salad tonight has stale pearl onions, sharp cheddar cheese, raw potato, and honey nut toasty-os (for croutons), ala N.

Antacids for dessert.

Star Gazing

2005-10-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

Hubby is an avid amateur astronomer. He bought his first real telescope with some proceeds from the sale of our first house - a 12.5" Meade dobsonian. Yah, that was pretty much Greek to me, too. Actually, his list of equipment might as well be Betelgeusian now. On a forum he visits, he lists his equipment as:

Meade 12.5" Starfinder w/Telrad, modified w/ hinged dust cover/stop-down mask/white light filter holder/light shield, electric ducted mirror scrubbing cooling system, tube cooling fan, Orion focuser, curved 3-vane spider, flocking paper and baffles, locking wheel dolly. My best all-around telescope from Moon to DSO. 110 Messier objects, Lunar Club | KonusMotor500 modified w/flocking paper and Orion tube rings, refigured OTA end ring, 90mm white light filter holder. Good rich-field views and my best white light solar telescope. Lunar Club | Coronado PST sits on top of Konus or on binocular mount system. Very nice when used with Konus-1000 Oaks system. | Orion 30x80 MegaView Binoculars w/Paragon Plus mount & red-dot sight. Simply outstanding observing equipment from Moon to DSO. Star Watch, 110 Messier objects, Lunar Club | Meade ETX90 EC w/90 & 45 prisms, Autostar controller & Galileo CIR Finder | Starry Night Pro 4.5.2 w/upgrade packs | 1988 Toyota 4x4 Pickup Truck "Meade Mule" w/ODS bumper sticker | Light Wedge | Orion Green Laser Pointer | Meade S. 4000 UWA 2"/1.25" EPs 14mm, 8.8mm. Top grade EPs, outstanding viewing. | Celestron Power Tank 17 | Meade S. 4000 Filters #12, #58, #23A, #80A, Nebular-Broadband | Parks ND 25 Filter | Lumicon OIII Filter | Lumicon Hat to hold my Astronomy League pins | 1000 Oaks 90mm White Light Filter Used on Starfinder & Konus | Lumicon Universal Digi-Cam Adapter

He even includes his hat on there. I suppose he could have worse hobbies. Listening to him talk to his star-gazing buddies, I might as well be at a car show. I expect the latest scope to have dual overhead cams or something.

"Yah, my Orion has a sweet double-headed octogentric pseudofiber spotting scope with dual overhead spelunkdinks and a quooble for extra storfing. Froody."

Anyways, as I was saying before I typically tangented, he bought his first real telescope with some house proceeds, under the excuse that he's buying it for the kids. N was maybe four months old at the time.

Well, he's living up to his excuse. To get an idea how big a 12.5" dobsonian telescope is, take a peek at S, 8 months, hanging out in the base:

Just like kids like the boxes better than the toys, she's really digging the base, forget the "oh my gawd Mars is so big it has to be hurtling towards us" scope that goes on it.

N appreciates a good peek, though. Of course, she can STAND, so that helps. Can't fault S for that, right?

That's her looking through the solar scope. It's like looking at the sun with peril-sensing sunglasses. It doesn't have to be big because, well, who in their right mind wants to magnify the sun?

A appreciates stargazing too, although she appreciates the rocks and lizards more than the celestial objects when we head out, but hey, someone has to watch out for rattlers, right? Alas, I don't have a picture of her with a scope, but I'll close with a classic result after I asked "A, go get a pillow and meet me in bed so I can read you a story" pose:

October: A month to remember

2005-10-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

Since 1988, October has been National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month here in the USA. On or about October 15th is when most organizations associated with these losses commemorate the month, those gone beyond the veil, and those left behind with empty arms.

Despite there having been seventeen previous PILA months, both resources available to grieving family and friends, and commemoration ceremonies during PILA month, are not widely advertised. I only found out about the support group in my area, run through Resolve Through Sharing, by dumb luck - most docs and hospitals around here don't tell their patients about it, despite RTS constantly trying to get the meds to do so.

So, if you are one of those affected by the loss of a pregnancy or an infant, search around in your area to see if there is something going on where you can attend. Call your doc's office, local hospitals, maybe the library or funeral home. My past experiences with PILA events has been warm, cathartic, and very teary. There's something about being around people who get it, you know? No stupid comments, no averted gazes, a place to talk about your children like they're still here. Because they are, if only in our hearts.

RTS doesn't have a website that I can find, but SHARE, another organization that provides support for these losses (but not in my area), does. Visit
SHARE locations for locations hopefully near you.

When will I learn?

2005-10-03T20:04:00.000-07:00

Never start a home improvement project on a weekday night. Even one that should take, tops, 45 minutes.

I thought when we moved from our house built in 1942 - with its aluminum wiring and lead paint, studs 8" apart, swamp cooler, and washer and dryer in the kitchen - we'd be in hog heaven with standard everything. Need to replace a light fixture? No problem. Replace the garbage disposal? Piece of cake.

Wrong.

Crackerbox tract housing SUCKS!

Right now, Hubby has the Sawsall out to cut out the nasty-grubby-moldy-leaking lavatory fixtures in the front bathroom. No other way to take the m-fers out.

How are we going to put the new ones in?

Barbie vs. Sleeping Beauty

2005-10-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

Barbie and Sleeping Beauty shared my bath today, along with N. As is the custom, whether in a bath or not, they were disrobed. I was able to look at them with an analytical eye and compare two toy designers' ideas of Ultimate Female Form (the UFF factor).

Now, I know this is like asking who would you rather have for President: Bush Jr. or Cheney. Neither UFF is realistic, and neither should be used as a goal for anyone's body type. But I'll tell you this, Sleeping Beauty can kick Barbie's ass.

Look at that chest! My god, she's got a set of lungs on her. And I mean lungs, not those large glands over them. Sleeping beauty, along with inhumanly sized doe-like eyes, has a linebacker's chest. And hips, for that matter. Aside from stick arms and legs sure to snap in the first scrum, she could start for any NFL team. Ok, maybe just the Bengals, but she'd have a decent shot.

Barbie, in comparison, looks positively human. Hips, waist, median breast-height diameter of more normal proportions. Her UFF in comparison to the Princess' made me almost think Matell had listened to outraged moms trying to convince their anorexic daughters with poor body-image that they, indeed, were more UFF than any doll.

Maybe the Disney designers have the idea - make the look too unsapienesque to be taken remotely seriously.

Either way, don't mess with Sleeping Beauty. She'll whoop your ass.

Missing you

2005-09-23T15:20:00.000-07:00

The table was cold. The words were colder.

“Are you sure you’re pregnant?”

Nothing on the ultrasound. Blood in the urine sample. Five minutes before even a faint line showed up on the pregnancy test.

I recite my HCG test results again. And again.

Running through my mind were the words that made me leave another doctor, who said over a month earlier, “Don’t worry, Honey. Everything will be just fine.” Bitch.

I’m left alone. White walls. Steel sink. Blank HPT. Bloody thighs.

I couldn’t believe this was happening again.

What followed were psychotic moments at the lab, screaming “My baby is dead! My baby is dead!” at the inept counter people refusing to let me drop off my samples and go cry in peace. Shock while listening to the doctor say, “When it’s three in the morning and you call me, doubled over in pain because you refused the D&C, and you want my help, you’ll have to wait.” Tests, ultrasounds, ER visits, perinatologists, more doctors, constant pain, and always the blood. Always the HCG levels staying the same. Always an empty uterus. Always the question, “Are you sure you’re pregnant?”

I had a gross jealousy of other ectopic pregnancy moms. They got to see their baby. They had answers. People took them seriously. And they never, in my mind, were asked if they were sure they were pregnant, never reduced to a puddle of insanity wondering if I really was making this all up.

Little Kiddo, it’s been four years this month. I’ve never really had a chance to say goodbye. I was always trying to say hello. I miss you.

Love,

Mom

What does it mean to be poor?

2005-09-23T08:07:00.000-07:00

This post deserves reading. angry old broad

It brought to mind a quote I read from a guy boarding up his store in Houston in preparation for hurricane Rita. He said (paraphrased), "Of course there are going to be looters. There are only two kinds of people in the world: Those who work,and those who steal from those who work." Asshole.

Thanks to a lie a day for pointing me there.

Seeking Tulipmania

2005-09-21T21:05:00.000-07:00

Hope you're ok. Miss your blog.

Elite Meet Teat

2005-09-20T14:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, that’s a bit of a crass headline, but when I thought of it while trying to make up a silly headline, I couldn’t keep from posting it.

The New York Times (free registration required) published an article (thanks to my friend Karen for pointing it out to me) on Ivy League women students considering a career as Mommy over a career as Lawyer, and their plans to either cut back on work or quit altogether once they have kids.

Bear in mind that this is all about Ivy League females, most of whom, according to the article, "are likely to marry men who will make enough money to give them a real choice about whether to be full-time mothers, unlike those women who must work out of economic necessity." So, in other words, this is all theory for people like you and me.

The article cites several surveys of female students at Ivy League schools about their plans for family and career, and a few interviews with students and faculty. Speaking as a working mom who knows other working moms, the results of the surveys aren’t shocking - a significant number of female students find the idea of staying home with their kids more enticing than working.

Not surprisingly, there appears to be a diastema between some interviewed faculty and students in theories of mixing family with career. Laura Wexler, a professor of American studies and women’s and gender studies at Yale, said,

“Women have been given full-time working career opportunities and encouragement, with no social changes to support it.”

That, right there, is the crux of my own ennui about this whole working mommy thing. I work for my family’s benefit. I even get a bit of self-satisfaction out of it. But then AlphaMom comes along, or 19 year-old Yale student Cynthia Liu and her mom. She said,

“My mother’s always told me you can’t be the best career woman and the best mother at the same time. You always have to choose one over the other.”

I’ve talked to enough working moms out there to know it’s not just me - working moms are being pulled in different directions, each one arguably the “best.” I get along ok, with a few tearful moments when the kids are crying for me and I’m at the office, or worse, on travel. But then I read something like what Uzezi Abugo from the University of Pennsylvania said, and anger, if not disgust, sets in:

“I’ve seen the difference between kids who did have their mother stay at home and kids who didn’t, and it’s kind of like an obvious difference when you look at it.”

I have to take to heart that at least my kids will probably be obviously different from Uzezi. After all, it’s Dad who stays home, not Mom. And, they will hopefully be even more obviously different from Harvard student Sarah Currie, who appears to *like* (you’ll see why I used that word) the fact that men in her class *approve* of women’s plans to stay at home with children.

“A lot of guys were, like, ‘I think that’s really great.’ One of the guys was, like, ‘I think that’s sexy.’”

Yes, dear girls, male sexual approval is what life is, like, all about.

Still, I see nothing wrong with, as the article puts it, a woman expecting her career to take second place to child rearing. Certainly, my family takes precedence over anything, work or play. It’s the standard raised by Marlyn McGrath Lewis, the director of undergraduate admissions at Harvard that worries me. She said,

“[women leaving careers for motherhood] really does raise this question for all of us and for the country: when we work so hard to open academics and other opportunities for women, what kind of return do we expect to get for that?”

Ummmmm, educated women? Educated mothers? Educated voters? Is that a problem?

The only saving grace from this article for Yale is the Dean of Yale College, Peter Salovey. He said,

“What does concern me is that so few students seem to be able to think outside the box; so few students seem to be able to imagine a life for themselves that isn’t constructed along traditional gender roles.”

I have a BSc in Zoology and an MBA. That combination of sheepskin by itself makes me three standard deviations from the norm. Maybe even four. Add to that I have a husband who’s a stay-at-home-dad (SAHD), and I’m an outlier sure to be thrown from any sample. I’m so far out of the box FedEx won’t ship me. Only three percent of 138 respondents to one survey, all women students at Yale, even mentioned the possibility of Dad staying home with the kids. So, yes, it does concern me, too, Dean Salovey, that a SAHD option is not often considered, and I appreciate you bringing it up. Not in any sociologic or economic sense, just in that these people aren’t considering a viable option that meets their stay-at-home parent desire, like poor Uzezi. This myopic view isn’t helped by Dean Salovey’s colleague, professor Cynthia E. Russett of Yale who said,

“At the height of the women’s movement and shortly thereafter, women were much more firm in their expectation that they could somehow combine full-time work with child rearing. The women today are, in effect, turning realistic.”

Pinch me. I must be dreaming. ‘Cuz apparently, I’m not in, like, reality.

P.S. For a SAHD viewpoint on this article, check out RebelDad’s comments.

UPDATE: Echidne has some interesting discussion on this topic, too.