Birthday Part II

I read my post from yesterday again this morning and I realized it made me sound like one of those totally neurotic SAHMs that, when asked to bring a snack to the Cub Scout meeting, wind up bringing gourmet muffins in ten different flavors, made entirely from organic ingredients they harvested themselves in the miniature farm in their backyard.

I'm not really that crazy. Of course I love my son to pieces, and I want him to have a great time on his birthday. And it's true that I really can be a bit of an overachiever-mom. I think hyperactive housewifery kinda comes with the territory when a woman accustomed to working 60 hours a week at two fast-paced jobs suddenly finds herself working 24-7 in the home. But I do know my son is far too young to really care how we celebrate his birthday. I'm not even certain he knows what a birthday is yet. After all, he's only had one birthday party so far. (And he was just getting over a bad ear infection at the time, so the whole thing was probably sort of a blur to him anyway).

If it were up to him, I imagine what my son would like best to do for his birthday is pick up two or three other kids his age, take a day trip to the zoo, visit the giraffes and the bears and the turtles, take a trip on the zoo choo-choo train, and ride a tiger on the big wild animal carousel at least five times in a row while we were there.

For lunch, he'd want everyone to dine on french fries, bacon, and dried fruit. He certainly wouldn't want cake for dessert (too MESSY). He'd probably go for a big bowl of marshmallows, though (I mean, as long as they were minature marshmallows. The big kind have too much sticky inside). Maybe a little ice cream, as long as it was vanilla.

He wouldn't really want to blow out candles, anyway (he says the fire's "scary"). And I'm pretty sure he'd really rather not have to listen to a roomful of loud people singing "Happy Birthday." But he might go for two or three people singing "Head, Shoulders Knees and Toes."

He'd be absolutely thrilled to get even just one present, as long as it had something to do with trains or cars. He'd probably spend just as much time playing with the box and the paper as the present inside.

I'd love for this to be his birthday party.

But when you're one of the youngest grandchildren in a midwestern Catholic family roughly the size of the mafia, when you have not one, not two, but SIX living grandmothers (including the step- and great-grandmas), four of whom live within driving distance, well . . . let's just say you're kinda expected to put up with some serious family party time on your birthday, even if you have no clue what's going on.

But I'm sure all the hugs, kisses and loot he gets will more than make up for it. ;)

It's His Party, But I'll Cry If I Want To

In less than three weeks, my son will turn two years old.

I am so not ready for this!

I don't mean I'm not ready for the milestone.

(Although, okay, I'm not-- do I really have to stop calling him "the baby" already and start calling him "the kid"? Couldn't I just keep calling him "baby" until he's, oh, I don't know, 18? Oh, okay, okay. How about five? No?)

I mean: I'M NOT READY FOR THE PARTY.

For Isaac's first birthday, I started planning the party and buying supplies in FEBRUARY.

For weeks I tracked prices online and in circulars to figure out where I could get the absolute best deal for my money, and then I the bought napkins, cups, plates, balloons and paper decorations, all on clearance/sale, at four different stores over a period of about a month.

I designed the invitations myself, incorporating a carefully selected photo from each month of his life, starting with the day of his birth, on the cover of the card. I went through about six design drafts before picking one to have professionally printed on cardstock at Kinko's. (I actually had my husband and several friends do critical reviews of each design before choosing the final). I then hand-assembled the invitation cards, adding a baby blue liner and a translucent insert.

Ahead of the party, I purchased four new serving bowls and two new serving plates and several new serving spoons and two new pieces of furniture (Extra chairs for the living room-- we needed them anyway. Really). I arranged to borrow folding chairs and tables from three different relatives. I tried to make my husband let me buy or rent a folding gazebo tent thing to put on the apartment lawn outside in case of rain, because our apartment is roughly the size of two postage stamps, and my husband has an ENORMOUS family, and therefore a good third of our invited guests would basically have to sit outside or we'd be violating fire codes, but he wouldn't let me. Because, unlike me, he is sane.

In the days before the party, I drew up a menu and started cooking. I bought a few things pre-made at the store, but, being monetarily impaired, I cooked at least half of the food completely from scratch. The menu included:

-Dinner rolls
-Cheese-garlic breadsticks
-Fresh green salad
-Fruit salad
-German potato salad
-Three-bean salad
-Fresh chopped vegetables with three flavors of dip
-Pretzels with dip
-Chips and salsa
-Macaroni and cheese
-Pasta primavera with garlic-roasted vegetables
-Homemade hand-frosted sugar cookies cut in the shape of stars and the number one
-Homemade yellow birthday cake with homemade, from scratch butter-cream frosting, rainbow sprinkles, topped with homemade sugar cookies spelling out ISAAC.

(Did I mention that my son has Sensory Integration Disorder, and at that time wouldn't have touched a frosted cake with a ten foot pole?)

Crazy Uber-Mom syndrome, much?

Okay, so I went a little overboard last year. But the 50,000 family members (only one of whom was actually from my side of the family) who showed up to our overpriced Quonset hut-- oops I meant "luxury apartment"-- had enough to eat, and had a great time, and for the most part Isaac had a good time too (he was a little traumatized by the cake).

But this event took months of work and planning to execute on a single-full-time-income family budget. And was exhausting. And overwhelming. And probably not really what Isaac would have wanted for his birthday if I'd asked him, anyway.

So this year, I was thinking, I would have to do something different. Something fun. Something small and kid-oriented. Someplace where someone else would have to clean up afterward. Maybe have the party at the zoo? The Magic House? The Carousel in Faust Park? Maybe at the Museum of Transportation? Someplace where other kids would have a good time. Someplace with a laid-back atmosphere.

I've looked into it. All of these places cost like $150-$200! FOR ONE HOUR. You ever tried to keep a party to one hour? Sheesh. Not my kind of party. And that price is without food or decorations, in most cases.

So, what. Chuck-e-Cheese? Scratch that. You just try taking a kid with sensory integration issues to a crowded, noisy restaurant full of SIRENS and STROBE LIGHTS and making him stay there and behave for three hours. We made the mistake of taking Isaac to Dave and Buster's a few weeks ago for a bring-the-kids dinner party one of John's coworkers was having.

I'll give the kid mad props-- he made it for almost two whole hours while we waited and waited for a table before a major meltdown.

Then he screamed at the top of his lungs for two hours straight. Including on during the 45 minute ride home.

So, I've come to the conclusion that we'll just have to do it at home again. Which means that my husband's entire extended family, including Isaac's grandparents, great-grandparents, and possibly multiple great-aunts and uncles will expect to be invited again, since it's "just a little family get-together at home."

And this is BEFORE we invite any kids Isaac's age for him to play with-- there are no kids his age in the family who live nearby.

I have less than three weeks.

I have done next to no planning.

(What happened to Uber-Mom? What's that? You say she dropped dead about six months ago from sheer exhaustion one night? When she cooked yet another three-course dinner from scratch for her family after spending all day writing copy for a deadline WHILE watching a child and folding laundry, and then her kid screamed at her and threw the food back in her face? Tragic, truly! And you say Half-Assed-Slacker-Mom has kindly volunteered to move in to permanently take her place? Oh, ok.)




(Is there a stronger word for panic?)

(P.S. Did I mention it's my husband's birthday that week too?)

Hoppy Easter

Last night at our house the Easter Bunny stayed up past midnight making four-bean salad and perfectly swirled deviled eggs to take to the in-laws' Easter lunch. Then the Easter Bunny had to get up twice in the middle of the night to rock a little bunny who was having night terrors back to sleep.

Then the Easter Bunny got up at 6:00 in the morning, before anyone else, to arrange and display an easter basket, make special chocolate pancakes with whipped cream for the whole family for breakfast (a dish that the Easter Bunny of course knew the picky boy who lives here would not actually eat, but that the Easter Bunny made anyway because the Easter Bunny, like all mythical gift-giving beings, lives in hope). And then everyone else woke up. And then the Easter Bunny had to make ambrosia to take to the in-laws' also.

And then the Easter Bunny had to put on high heels and makeup and a floral dress and pearls and try to be chipper and sweet to people at all sorts of parties for the rest of the day.

And when the Easter Bunny finally got home and got to take off the damned heels and sit down, when the Easter Bunny reflected upon the day, the Easter Bunny was happy.

Because a little boy had a great time.

This is how I know the real Easter Bunny is a girl-bunny. And a mom.

(Well, that and the laying eggs bit. I mean, a bunny laying colored eggs is a stretch, sure, but a BOY bunny laying eggs? That's just impossible).

Boys

MOMMY: Do you want to try on this hat to see if it fits you, Isaac?

ISAAC: (shoves hat away violently) No!

MOMMY: Come on, sweetheart. We just need to make sure it will fit.

ISAAC: No hat! No!

MOMMY: What about this one? Look! It has a cool tiger on it! Grrrr!

ISAAC: NO HAT.

(Pause.)

DADDY: "Isaac, it's a baseball hat. For playing baseball."

Isaac grabs hat, tries to put it on his own head, fails, eagerly accepts help from mother in righting hat.

ISAAC: "BASEBALL!"

Back Posts

Scroll back to Tuesday if you want to see one of the unfinished posts I was talking about previously. I decided to leave the draft dated the day I'd started it, since the tone of the post reflected what I was feeling that day.

Don't worry, y'all, I'm in a better mood now :)

Jaelithe and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

I have three half-finished posts sitting in my draft box today. Three posts I tried to start this week, and couldn't finish.

This song is stuck in my head:

Where is the moment when we need it the most
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
They tell me your blue sky's faded to grey
They tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carrying on

Stand in the line just ahead of the law
You're faking a smile with the coffee you go
You tell me your life's been way off line
You're falling to pieces every time
And I don't need no carrying on

Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
You had a bad day

Well you need a blue sky holiday
The point is they laugh at what you say
And I don't need no carrying on

And I don't even like Daniel Powter.

It's been one of those days all week. You know the kind. Where you wake up with an inexplicable cloud over your head, and you almost sort of expect all sorts of things to go wrong, but you try hard to shake the feeling and be optimistic, but then things go wrong anyway. Just like you felt they would.

Anyway, I will try to finish my posts today. I don't know if they will be funny, or clever. I fear one or more of them might be too personal. But, hey, art imitates life. And my week has been unfunny, unclever, and in some cases painfully personal. So I'm sorry if I wind up getting all angsty and incoherent. It's all I've got today.

Baby Steps

So much of the time, he seems so normal.

Well, maybe normal isn't really quite the right word. I've never really liked that word, normal, as applied to something so complex as people. Who is really completely "normal" anyway? What exactly is supposed to be the norm?

Let's say then . . . average? No, not quite. Every kid is above average in some things and below average in others. Developmentally appropriate? Bleh. I don't know. Let's just say:

So much of the time, he seems like a regular, healthy kid.

Look at him there, with that tousled red hair, those big brown eyes, that coy, toothy smile. Those fine elven features. That creamy skin. He could be a child model-- and I'm not just saying that because I am his mother-- we hear it from strangers every day-- he could almost be a kid out of a magazine, if it weren't for that little white scar there right between his right eye and the bridge of his nose. (The scar where they took out the tumor growing slowly on the outside of his skull, a "minor" surgery. The scar marking the day when his eating behavior suddenly, drastically changed).

If it weren't for the fact that his arms, when you look at them closely, sticking out of his sleeves, seem terribly thin. Bone-thin.

If it weren't that under his shirt you can see in crisp detail right under the skin his entire ribcage.

See him at the restaurant having dinner out with his family? Sitting so calmly in the highchair. How well-behaved. Almost never screeching like the other kids. He just read a word off the menu! How old is he? He's really not yet two? His parents must be doing a great job! And now he's ordering what he wants from the waitress with a flirtatious grin, and every waitress in the restaurant is pausing on her rounds now to look at him and ooh and ahh over his sweet smile and the color of his hair. He seems like such a happy kid!

But then watch what happens when his food comes. The kitchen accidentally gave him ranch dressing with his nuggets instead of ketchup. He begins to moan softly and rock back and forth. Suddenly he screeches "Hot! Hot!" although his food is mildly warm. He shoves his plate across the table, refusing to look at it, shaking in actual fear. "Mommy have it!" he insists. Then he won't even touch the french fries, his favorite, even when his mother takes them off the plate and cuts them into little pieces. He won't eat a bite of the food he ordered so eagerly, even though he seems very hungry. He won't even touch the cookies his mother packed in the diaper bag, just in case. He goes the whole meal, whining in hunger, without touching a single piece of food.

"Why don't they just MAKE that kid eat something?" the other patrons whisper. "Such a little brat. I bet they let him get away with murder at home."

Look at him running around there in the grass! Tossing a ball to his mother. Smiling winningly and shouting out "I got it! Thank you, Mommy!" clear as a bell when she tosses it back. Already talking so well for his age. Such a regular, healthy kid. ABOVE-average.

Until the ball rolls across the paved path curving up toward their apartment, and you see how he starts to run after it, but stops short in front of the concrete, confused by the sudden change in texture beneath his feet, afraid for a moment to take the next step, though he's crossed that path while holding his mother's hand hundreds and hundreds of times. Afraid to move forward, convinced he will fall.

Until a plane flies too low over head, or a big truck drives past on the street, and he drops everything and snaps to attention, shivering, suddenly anxious, whispering, "Loud."

Until the neighbor kids come out to play too, and you see how he suddenly shies away from them, even though he knows them, even though he likes them, even though a few months ago he chased them happily around the yard. You see him cling to his mother's leg mumbling, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Because he's already started to realize he's different from them. That he loves to throw a ball, but hesitates to kick it like the other kids. That he's afraid to climb up the stairs at a playground, even when holding hands.

Then another kid's mom brings out a box of popsicles for everyone. Sweet, colorful, slimy popsicles, dripping bright sticky juice. Another child offers him one and he screeches and RUNS full tilt into his mother's arms.

"Inside, Mommy. Inside, please, now," he says.

Look at his mother, there. Young, thin, smartly dressed. Looking pretty put-together for a stay-at-home mom. "I hear that even though she chose to stay home she has a college degree from a great school, and her apartment is stacked to the ceiling with books," someone says. "She must be smart as a whip. No wonder her son is already counting to ten by himself, and reading." "I hear she cleans her house every day, and cooks with herbs she grows in her own garden, and sometimes even bakes bread for her family from scratch," another voice says. "She's a really dedicated housewife." "I hear she works from home part-time as a writer and a photographer, too," another person says. "She must really have it together."

Now look at her, crying in the bathroom at night, after she finally gets her son, who has been a terrible sleeper since birth, to go to sleep for the evening an hour past his bedtime. Listen to her saying over and over again to her husband, "What kind of a mother can't even get her son to eat or sleep like a normal human being?!?"

(What's normal?)

"Eating and sleeping. The two most basic components of survival. And I can't even get him to do those right. What kind of a mother raises a child who's afraid to play with other kids at the playground? What kind of a mother am I?"

The mother of a child with Sensory Integration Disorder, is what kind.

With occupational therapy, love, and time, we've both been getting better. Slowly. A few steps forward, a few back. And we'll keep working on getting better, getting closer to "normal." One teetering little step at a time.

Dirty Hands

For some women, it's shoes. For others, it's designer bags. For still others, it's perfume, or professional-style kitchen gadgets, or high-end scrapbooking accessories, or collectible china.

For me, the weakness, the addiction, the unwholesome obsession which, if I give it a moment's free reign, sucks away my time and drains my bank account before I even realize what I've done has become:

MY GARDEN.

That's right—my postage-stamp, too-poor-for-a-real-yard patio container herb garden.

After last year's excesses, this year I promised myself (and my husband) that I would cut back. No experimenting this time with exotic finds from the county herb society sale like lovage or borage or wormwood. (Seriously. Wormwood? Was I planning on brewing bathtub absinthe?). Stick to simple, hardy culinary herbs. Maybe just some sweet basil, and oregano and sage. The old standbys. Easy to grow, frequently used. Just a few pots. No more plant explosion crowding my patio to the point that a person might have to climb over a small tree just to get out the patio door.

But then, last week, we went to the hardware store. Just to pick up some potting soil—organic potting soil—that was on sale at $2 for 40 pounds! And maybe, just maybe a small plant or two. And then—just what was that intriguing purple plant there, with the pretty semi-gloss fringed ovate leaves, arranged invitingly in flats outside the garden center next to the marigolds and pansies? A cabbage, you say? Sweet spring cabbage? Edible and ornamental. A very nutritious vegetable. And hardy! At just $1.79 for six plants. How lovely. I'd never grown cabbage before. Picture a fresh cole slaw at the end of the season, with bright purple cabbage slices plucked fresh from my own garden. Lovely fronds of purple cabbage floating in a golden vegetable soup.

Perhaps, just a single set of six?

And then, you see, once the cabbage was purchased, it suddenly occurred to me that surely it would be best to grow it in hanging pots. After all, one had to consider the previous season's terrorist garden attacks by roving gangs of thug squirrels. The squirrels, grown bold as rats and sleek as seals thanks to a hand-fed diet of fresh fruit and peanuts provided by my neighborhood's resident crazy squirrel-loving lady, would surely be tempted to take a fat bite or ten out of those lovely violet leaves.

But the shallow hanging pots we bought last year couldn't possibly be deep enough for a cabbage. And then, at Target—- what was this? A just-in shipment of elegant powder-coated cast steel hanging baskets with natural moss liners? For just $14.99? Really, a steal.

But then, once the baskets came home, it occurred to me—- won't my young cabbage plants seem so lost all alone in these big, deep, metal baskets, hanging so high? The baskets would need something else, too, at least until the cabbage matured. Some more color, perhaps. Some trailing vines down the side?

Well, how about some lavender pansies? Look! On sale at the K-Mart down the street! Such a nice compliment to the dark purple leaves of the cabbage. And while we were at the K-Mart, well, I thought, why not pick up a few pots of marigolds, too, to put on the garden wall? To keep the squirrels away, of course. (Though they didn't work last year). And these jersey gardening gloves sure do look smart! $2.99 a pair? Why not?

Hmm. That basket would still look a bit empty with nothing but cabbage and pansies, though. Still needed something trailing! "Let's take a quick trip to that nursery just down the street and see if they have creeping thyme. Just to see how much it costs. Maybe it's on sale."

Wouldn't it be lovely cascading down the sides of those baskets, growing into the moss liner? And with a shallow root system it's sure not to choke out the cabbage or pansies. What a perfect idea I'd had! Just a few sprouts of creeping thyme.

But there was no creeping thyme in yet at the nursery—- only the boring French upright kind. What a shame. Still, the nursery had ruffled purple basil! We had looked all over for that last year! And those rosemary plants—- so healthy and upright. What a heavenly scent. "One won't do, will it dear?" Why not two?

Aha! But we still needed to find that creeping thyme. Just to fill out the basket. So why not saunter on down to south city? Such a beautiful day, and the parks there are lovely. We could take the boy to a playground. And stop at this little ol' nursery down in the botanical garden district on the way.

Once there, why look! The red creeping thyme was almost gone! Only one flat left! Why not take the whole lot? Some lime thyme, too, just for a bit of variety. And really, that cilantro there—- already so full—- what a deal! Don't I cook with cilantro at least once a week? Hmm, marjoram, also somewhat tempting.

And oh yes—- I must pick up some sweet basil, oregano, and sage. After all, I promised myself and my husband I'd have those plants in my garden this year.

Awesome Willpower? Tooth Pain? Or Motherly Love?

I've made a single box of these last for two weeks:




I gave four of them to my husband, even though he kept an entire box of Samoas for himself.

And I just gave the last one in the box to my son.

Isaac's Rockin' Children's Music Countdown

And Isaac's Top Five Requested Songs of the Week are:

5.) "Pop Weasel-weasel-weasel"
4.) "Dumb Dumb Bidge Fall Down"
3.) "It's a Bigger Pider"
2.) "You Unda Sun-Sign"
1.) "Tinkle Tinkle Star"

In other news, the reason I didn't post the epic post I had in my head yesterday about the crushing anxiety, mother-guilt and self-doubt I drown in nearly every day because of my underweight child's continued refusal to eat like a normal human being is that given the brief bit of lovely weather, I spent several hours on my tiny patio attempting to refinish this:



The project is now about 80% finished, but completion is currently rain-delayed until at least Saturday.

(Did you look at that thing? For heaven's sake, wish me luck).

Lines that Will Definitely Get My Husband Laid

During one of several discussions I've had with my husband lately regarding blog posts like this and this and, of course, the infamous this, as I tried to express to him my own insecurity about the ways my body has changed since having a baby, and the ways it will most likely continue to change, despite my best efforts, throughout the rest of our lives together, he looked me in the eye and said, quite seriously:


"Oh, come on. You do know I'll still love you even if you get to be 500 pounds, right?"


Did I mention he also takes out the trash, folds laundry like a pro, and makes mighty fine pancakes on Saturday mornings?

Sorry ladies-- this one's taken. As long as we both shall live.

Springtime Resolution #2: Flip My Blog

I know I've said it before. It is happening. I'm working on it. I spent about six or eight hours over the weekend coming up with a design theme and messing around with some graphics for said theme in Photoshop. It's going to be fresh. It's going to be bold. It's going to reveal to the world what an ENORMOUS geek I am.

And it's going to go live . . .whenever I get around to getting it done.

You see, I'm a bit of a perfectionist. Which makes me somewhat of a slacker.

No, those are not contradictory statements. Think about it.

:)

Anyway, if I keep telling you all I'm doing it, it will HAVE to get done at some point, right?

Springtime Resolution #1: Write More Fiction

The other night I had a dream that I had finally written a wonderful novel, and it had been an amazing overnight world-wide success. I flew to Britain to kick off a whirlwind book tour, and at some fancy literary party full of fancy literary luminaries, I ran into Neil Gaiman. (Okay, I know-- though British by birth, Neil Gaiman actually lives in America. In Minnesota. Near Minneapolis. But this was a dream, all right? Maybe he was there promoting his new children's musical pandimonum Wolves in the Walls. What? No! I'm not obsessed with Neil Gaiman. Not in the slightest. What are you implying? Anyway).

In my dream, he said to me, "I read your new novel and I am absolutely in love with it. You have a beautiful mind. I do hope you're already writing another."

And, in my dream, I was preternaturally unruffled, and said something very coy and witty in response that set the whole room laughing. And then I woke up. Because I must have suddenly known at that moment I was dreaming. Because in real life, not only have I not yet written a best-selling novel-- In real life, I am a total dork, and there is no way on earth I would ever be able to come up with anything witty to say to Neil Gaiman, or for that matter any famous author I like, in person. I mean, seriously. I'd be lucky to be able to stammer out a "How-very-nice-to-m-m-meet you!"before flushing bright red and ducking into the next room to get a drink or something.

Then the next afternoon I casually happened to saunter by Neil Gaiman's blog (See? Happened. To saunter by. Casually. Not obsessed). And I saw that he'd put up a post about dreams (And about a guy who is EATING,* as in munching the pages, of Neil Gaiman's complete works. See? I am not obsessed with Neil Gaiman!).

And for a split second before reading on, I imagined, despite being a card-carrying skeptic of all-things-supernatural, that Neil Gaiman would say, "Last night I had a curious dream about meeting this young American woman, quite the sparkling wit, who had written the most fascinating book, and we had such a pleasant, entertaining conversation, and I told her that she had a beautiful mind, and that she she should really write another book. (And also, on a side note, I was thinking, in this dream I had, that she was strikingly attractive in a nerdy sort of way, and that that charming, handsome husband of hers who regularly reads her blog had to be a very lucky man). And I woke with the unmistakable sense that this woman really exists somewhere, and I really ought to tell her that she really ought to write something. Isn't that odd?"

And I further imagined that this shocking cosmic coincidence would be a blaring wake-up call from the universe telling me to GET ON IT ALREADY with the actual writing of one or more of the fifteen different unwritten stories I currently have knocking around in my big fat head, and that somehow I would be inspired to find time and energy, to MAKE time and energy, in my WAHM-of-a-toddler schedule to write something for myself already, something I wasn't expecting to immediately be paid for, (other than, of course, my blog).

But it turns out Neil Gaiman, being Neil Gaiman, actually had just a dream about escorting a zombie Queen Mother to some charity dinner whilst trying to evade the mafia.

I decided to make myself take it as a cosmic sign anyway.

*Okay, so it turns out this book-eating guy may have just been perpetrating an elaborate April Fool's hoax. But still, I imagine there are people out there who really would do this.

What Is Wrong with My Teeth?

I dragged myself back to the dentist yesterday. Not the dental surgeon with the scary ditzy assistant, but my regular dentist, one Dr. Hill, who has very nice competent not-scary assistants.

I was all afraid Dr. Hill and his nice assistants were going to tell me that my teeth/jaw/nerves had been irrevocably damaged during my wisdom tooth extraction, or that I had some sort of raging super-bug infection that was going to require ten weeks of industrial-strength antibiotics taken by injection, or something.

But instead, after taking an x-ray and poking my mouth with various things, they told me the actual situation was that my gums hadn't healed properly or quickly enough on the lower-left side, and that consequently a small gap had formed between my gums and one of my teeth that was leaving a small portion of the root of my tooth exposed. The root is unprotected by enamel, and is therefore very sensitive to pressure and temperature changes. Which would be why I've been getting occasional random throbbing pains in my jaw, why it hurts when I chew things, and also why I've been wanting to scream every time I eat or drink anything cold.

Now, if you've been reading my blog over the past three weeks, you may recall that the oral surgeon who removed my wisdom teeth previously told me the reason I was still having pain on the lower left side was that the gum tissue in that area had healed TOO WELL, closing over the wound too quickly and trapping fluid inside, which lead to an infection. And so he took it upon himself to CUT MY GUMS BACK OPEN a week after my original surgery.

Who's right here? Did my gums heal "too well," and create an infection that caused this gap to form? Did my gums heal incorrectly, and did the oral surgeon therefore make this whole situation worse by cutting them open again?

I don't know.

All I know is that Dr. Hill says there is basically nothing he can do for me right now that wouldn't be likely to make the situation worse, and I will just have to put up pain and cold sensitivity, possibly for several more weeks, until the gap closes on its own. And also that I should keep brushing and flossing my teeth at least three times a day, irrigating my gums, and washing my mouth out with warm salt water every time I eat or drink anything, indefinitely.

*Sigh*

On the upside, I am convinced I have the cleanest mouth in at least a 20-mile radius.

And I don't appear to need industrial-strength antibiotics, or a root canal.

The Bugs Are Reading My Mind

Or at least my blog.

After my midnight post last night as I stumbled off groggily toward the bedroom, what did I find waiting stealthily to ambush me in a dark hallway?

An enormous cockroach.

They're out to get me! They're all out to get me, I say!

Battle of the Bugs

First I must apologize for my slackness in posting the past few days. I still have a bit of lingering infection from my recent dental surgery (yes, still, even after two rounds of antibiotics), and two-and-a-half weeks of constant pain in my jaw (pain when I talk, pain when I eat, PAIN when my son affectionally slams his head into my face as toddlers are so wont to do) has really been dragging me down. And no, I haven't been back to the dentist yet, because I keep hoping if I ignore the problem hard enough it will just go away. And yes, I am being irrational and sort of a wuss, but read my recent wisdom-tooth-removal-related posts and see if YOU feel like going to the dentist. See? And you didn't even live it. You just read it. So there :P

Now, on to my post.

THE BUGS ARE COMING.

A few days ago, I saw one. A big fat slick black waterbug, lying legs-up on my carpeted hallway floor, twisted, twitching. Death spasming.

I hopped over it with a shudder of my own, and grabbed a wastefully thick wad of papertowels from the kitchen. I scooped it up gently in the towels, and bundled them tightly around it, and then made myself smash the little bundle as hard as I could. Quicker that way, I thought. Put the poor damn thing out of its misery.

MAKE SURE IT'S DEAD.

You see, I have a problem with bugs. Bugs in my house.

Oh, they're all right outside, keeping to themselves, living their little buggy lives. Part of the ecosystem. Circle of life, and that. Pollinating and nourishing my garden. Tiny, intricate creatures, so delicately made, so alien to my comparatively massive mammalian self. Outside, sometimes, I think they're facinating. Sometimes even beautiful. In fact, there is a tattoo of a dragonfly on my back. Dragonflies seem so lithe and graceful, and have such lovely iridescent glassy wings; yet, there is a fierceness in their movements that is startling. Quite engaging creatures, certain bugs.

When I find them in my house, I want to smash them.

(I usually make my husband smash them for me).

There is something about these little creatures invading my domain that seems to activate a primal warding instinct. That line of little ants that seems so quaint and prim to me upon the sidewalk looks like an invading army of ugly, filthy marauding thieves crossing the threshhold of my patio door. The spider that seemed so friendly and useful spinning her delicate web above my basil plant seems full of malevolent intelligence on the rim of my bathroom sink.

Last summer I discovered much to my horror that the thin, shoddily constructed walls and poorly sealed window frames of my apartment building here in the wooded suburbs admitted many more unwelcome arthropod guests than I'd been accustomed to living closer to the city. In the space of one season, we suffered no less than three ant invasions, from three different species of ant-- black ants in the bathrooms (coming through my mildewed water-damaged wall), pharoah ants in the baby's room (coming through a poorly spackled fist-sized hole in the wall adjacent to the windows, and then around the unsealed window frame itself), crazy ants in the living room (sneaking under my patio door). Every time it rained, we played host to at least three quarter-sized refugee spiders. Waterbugs and spindly crickets abounded in the utility closet. And in one week, I caught no less than three GIANT FLYING COCKROACHES. I didn't even know Missouri had flying cockroaches. They sure showed me.

After I filed several complaints, the apartment office finally sent over a bumbling exterminator who looked amazingly like a stereotypical TV caricature of an exterminator-- right down to the poor posture, stained clothes, creepy stare, and amazingly bad teeth-- who tended to spill things in places he shouldn't, and once asked if he could pour some sort of toxic pesticide from one container to another in my kitchen sink. After two visits, he and his noxious chemicals scared me more than the bugs did, so I stopped asking the apartment office for help (which I strongly suspect may have been their plan all along).

My second line of response to this mass invasion was to invest heavily in boric acid traps, seal every crack in the poorly made, water-damaged walls I could reach with spackle, insulating foam, and caulk, and put all the food in my pantry in air-tight plastic or glass containers.






I had already been keeping my house quite clean (not always neat, mind you, but clean). I consider superior cleanliness necessary when you live with someone who spends a good deal of his time on the floor looking for odd things that aren't food to put in his mouth.

The Battle of the Bugs raged on into the fall. I lost most of my patio herb garden to the crazy ant invasion, but I did manage to keep my kitchen and pantry bug-free. (Except for that unfortunate flour weevil incident, but I blame that entirely on my Schnucks grocery. After all, who on earth expects a swarm of mature flour weevils to eat their way out of a sealed bag of chickpeas purchased at the store only two weeks prior? Well, I do. Now.)

Then winter came, with its blissful killing frosts. And away went the bugs.

But the winter was unseasonably mild.

And spring has once again sprung.

As they say in the movies:

This time, I'm ready.

Caulk gun? Check. Non-carcinogenic bug killers? Check. Enough air-tight plastic in my pantry to make a entire Tupperware party swoon? Check.

I don't care if I have to lay down a perimeter of diatomaceous earth and boric acid around this whole apartment building, my pretties. I don't care if I have to pot three different species of insect-repellant shrub. I don't care if I have to hire a team of trained bug-eating bats.

You're not taking my house, bug army. Go build yourselves a buggy civilization outside.

Nothing Much

Just wanted to mention if you like my new manga-style profile portrait you can make your own at this site. Their English needs work, and the interface is a bit tricky, but it's still fun.

In other news, I am considering actually designing a new look for my blog instead of just using this cheap-but-cute-cookie-cutter template from the Blogger template collection.

You wanna know a secret? I've designed websites a few times before. And site graphics. From scratch. And sometimes people even paid me for it.

So why, you ask, have I allowed my words to languish here so unadorned for months on end?

Well, there are three main reasons.

1.) See blog subtitle.
2.) I've been busy doing paid work and chasing a small red-haired whirlwind.
3.) I know HTML. I use Dreamweaver. But I don't know CSS, which is what I would need to employ to create a really spiffy layout for this blog.

But I saw Mrs. Fortune's snazzy flipped blog the other day, and I got jealous.

Lucky for me, it does just so happen that I'm sleeping with a professional web developer who might be persuaded to help me out with my CSS deficiency.

So . . .

Give me another week or so to get over this crazy debilitating post-dental-surgery infection, and we'll see what happens . . .

Round Two: Fight!

In Which I Go Back to the Dental Surgeon, Get Stuck with More Pointy Things, and Am Sentenced to at Least Another Week of Dieting upon Pain Meds, Antibiotics and Mush

(Okay, so, I meant to post about this a few days ago, but as many of my fellow Blogger-users may well know, Blogger has been having a lot of technical issues over the past several days, and my blog seems to have been one of the ones that was particularly hard-hit, and I have therefore had extreme difficulty posting of late. I apologize if any of my regular readers have come upon a "forbidden access" error message or a whacked-out, barely-readable layout here lately. It was, unfortunately, a situation entirely out of my hands).

So, this past Thursday I went back to the dental surgeon who had removed my wisdom teeth the week prior to have my sutures removed. That's right-- instead of those nifty Space-Age disappearing sutures most dentists use on extraction patients now, I had positively archaic non-absorbable wire stitches stuck in my mouth for a week because my dental insurance is just that cheap.

Anyway, I was glad to have an appointment already scheduled, because while three of the four areas where my teeth had been removed seemed to be healing nicely, the removal site in my lower left jaw was still hurting. A lot. I had sort of expected it to hurt more than the others, because that tooth had been tilted at an odd angle, and was difficult to remove-- it took twice the time to take out that one as it took to take out any of the others (I know this because, as I've previously mentioned, I was fully awake and aware with no drugs besides a local anesthetic during the surgery. See above description of cheapness of dental insurance company). But I hadn't exactly expected my whole left jaw, my left cheek, and every tooth on the lower left side of my mouth to be throbbing in serious pain that I could still more-than-vaguely feel through the three Advil and two Extra Strength Tylenol I'd been popping along with my prescription penicillin every four hours.

I was afraid that maybe despite, being the amazingly good girl that I am, having followed the written instructions the dental surgeon had sent me home with to the letter (including not eating anything hot or drinking anything through a straw the first day, brushing and rinsing my gaping wounds according to a tight schedule, etc.), I had wound up with this thing called a dry socket. Or, worse, that the dental surgeon had accidentally cracked my jaw without realizing it, or left a piece of my tooth in my gums, or something. So I was glad to have the opportunity to ask the dental surgeon if anything bad was going on.

However, when I arrived, the dental surgeon was nowhere in sight. Instead, a dentist's assitant, whom I remembered had been present during my surgery, apparently mostly to hand tools to the surgeon and occasionally yank on my jaw, came into the exam room. She started rooting around in a couple of drawers and pulling out various tools, and I began to get a little nervous. This woman could not have been more than 20 years old. At the ripe old age of 25, I am still getting used to the idea of medical professionals being younger than me, and I have to admit it always makes me a bit uneasy. But even putting my unfortunate ageism aside, the chick seemed to me to be, well, a little ditzy. The day of my surgery she had spent at least 15 minutes searching the entire room for a set of clips that happened to be dangling from my chair. Then while we'd waited for the surgeon to come in, she had related a story to me about how just the last week she had gotten lost trying to avoid traffic in a construction zone and wound up being so late that she'd decided not to come in for work at all.

Was this woman going to CUT WIRE STITCHES out of my mouth?

"Okay, let's take a look at those stitches!" She sang out cheerfully, approaching me with large tweezers and an enormous pair of wicked-looking curved scissors.

"Um . . . look! I need to see the surgeon! I'm still in pain, you see, a lot of pain, on this one side, from the surgery, and I sort of expected to be in more pain on that side, you know, because you all had to work so much harder on that tooth than the other ones, but I'm in more pain than I should be after a week, you know, so, um . . . well, you see, I was hoping he could look at me and . . . I thought I might have that dry socket thing or something, you know?"

The other workers in the office overheard me through the open exam room door, and started laughing. "She had her wisdom teeth out and she wants to know why she's in pain?" someone called. "Hello! Tell her to take her pain meds!"

The assistant, though, looked concerned. "Hmm, what kind of pain is it? Is it a throbbing pain?"

"Yes, it throbs sometimes."

"How bad is it?"

"Well, I've been taking a lot of pain medications . . ."

"Is it like the last time you had a toothache? Like getting a filling?" She asked, standing in front of a huge glowing X-ray film of my completely cavity-free teeth.

"Umm, I wouldn't--"

"Is it a screaming pain? Like, the kind of pain that makes you want to scream at your husband?"

Thinking of how I'd come out of my Vicodin-pain-and-lack-of-food-induced fog on the Monday morning after the surgery to discover that my son's hair had not been brushed in three days, there was a new abstract artwork in green crayon covering the lower third of my dining room wall (and another in permanent black pen scrawled across the newly-crumpled pages of my son's favorite book), and my laundry basket had overflowed into giant piles on the bedroom floor*, I said, "Well . . . "

"Hmm, let me have a look," she said. She shifted the tweezers and scissors to one hand, and picked up a mirror to look in my mouth with the other. As she manuevered the mirror, she leaned forward, and suddenly,

WHACK.

She hit me in the lower lip with the scissors.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she gasped, giggling. "I swear, I'm really not that clumsy. I'm not that clumsy!" she continued as I felt my lip to see if it was bleeding. "I just forgot those scissors were in my hand!" Not quite bleeding-- the sharp tip had only grazed me; she'd mostly hit me with the flat end.

"Anyway, let me go ahead and take your stitches out," she said matter-of-factly once she'd recovered from her giggle fit, "and then the doctor can have a look at you and see what's wrong."

Before I could scream for the doctor in terror, she shoved her hands in my mouth and started cutting. I was afraid to breathe. At last she pulled the last stitch out. As far as I could tell, there was no new damage. The assistant left to get the surgeon, and I felt like I had narrowly escaped having my tongue cut out by a madwoman. Which may have been true.

After shining various lights in my mouth, turning my head this way and that, and making several grandfatherly "Hmmm," and "Ahh," noises, the surgeon determined that the top of part my gum had healed before the bottom part had a chance to finish healing, and that this situation had lead, despite a week of prophylactic antibiotics, to an infection.

"You just heal too well, that's your problem! We'll have to cut you back open," he said cheerfully.

"What?"

"I said you heal too well! Great healer. Now open your mouth. Got a little bitty bit of novocaine." Before I knew what was happening, he shoved a needle into my gums. The left side of my tongue immediately went numb. My jaw itself and the area around the original incision, however, kept throbbing. Seconds later, he grabbed some sort of sharp silver implement and jabbed a new hole in my gum.

"OWWWWW!" I said, as well as I could with a half-numb tongue.

"Well, it was just a little bit of novocaine."


Anyway, now I am on another, stronger round of antibiotics. The enormous red pills look EXACTLY like the Red Pill from the movie The Matrix. The package says side effects may include nausea, tiredness, headache, vomiting, or mild diarrhea. (I'll let you guess which four of those five I've been getting with every dose).

Four days later, my jaw still hurts.

And I STILL CAN'T EAT NORMAL FOOD. At least, not if I don't have an hour and a half on my hands to sit there and chew every very small bite of normal food extremely carefully only on the right side of my mouth.

This totally sucks.

*My man does deserve some props, though: he did go out in the middle of the night to get me a mango smoothie once during all this.

Blogger, You Are Pissing Me Off.

That is all.

Extreme Makeover, Amish Home Edition

We had some seriously severe weather here in Missouri last weekend. Thunderstorms, tornadoes, golf-ball-sized hail-- you name it, it came to visit. Luckily for me, there was no damage to my family's home or property (though in a previous storm a couple of weeks ago our car got some pretty serious hail damage). However, lots of unfortunate people in rural areas on the outskirts of town had their homes completely destroyed.

Although (knock on wood) such a terrible disaster has never happened to me, I have witnessed this kind of devastation up close, because my sister lost her home to the weather last year. The roof came off of her rented townhouse during a storm. She and her boyfriend escaped alive with most of their pets, but they lost almost everything they owned. Clothes, appliances, furniture, food, tolietries, school paperwork, important financial and legal records. Paychecks. Souvenirs from trips they had taken outside the country. Artifacts they had collected on archeological digs. Family photos.

It took my sister months and months to get everything sorted out. Fighting with the state housing authority (they did not want to allow her back on the site to salvage her few remaining things), fighting with her landlord (who had neglected the property in a way that might have contributed to the disaster-- she had complained to him repeatedly that her roof had been leaking for months), fighting for her renter's insurance settlement (the policy, of course, was inside her ruined townhouse). She stayed with friends for weeks, then finally moved into an apartment on the same property that was only partially finished.

This month she and her boyfriend were finally able to buy a new home. But it has taken months of struggle and heartache for them to get there.

So, when I saw these poor people on TV (the lucky ones, who could still stand), standing shell-shocked in the ruins of their homes, I really felt for them, I mean physically, viscerally felt pain on their behalf. The hurricanes down south several months ago have taught us all how little our government is willing or able to do for its citizens who have lost everything to a storm, and how quickly charitable organizations that do try to help become overstretched. And my sister's experience has shown me how instantaneously and unexpectedly this sort of disaster can happen to any of us, and how difficult it can be trying to get life back together when it does, even when you have family and friends around who want to help you.

That's why I'm absolutely in love with this story.

After this Amish family's home was destroyed by the recent storms, their tiny community came together and built them a new house in 15 HOURS.

Sure, they're Amish-- they didn't have to put in electical wiring or fancy plumbing. That might have required and extra day or two. But nonetheless. What's important here in my mind is the sense that building a house for a neighbor who'd lost one was an absolute priority for these people. It needed to get done, so they did it. Just like that. Nobody sat around and argued about who should be in charge of designing the rebuilt house, or whether or not the new house should be built in the same place as the old one, or whether this family really deserved a new house, or whether building the family a new house might make them feel somehow entitled to community house-rebuilding in the future, and whether such a sense of entitlement on the part of citizens to receiving public services in exchange for their contribuitions to society is good or bad for the community, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam.

Nope. They saw a house needed to be built, and built it.

Our greater society could learn from this example, dontchya think?.

Historical Figures I'd Most Like to Have Over for Dinner

Not sure why I was thinking about this today, but I'm sure you've all heard this question before: What historical figure would you most like to have over for dinner, and why?

Here are my current top ten:

10.) Jesus*: You know, to ask him what he would do. I'm not a Christian**, but I have the feeling he wouldn't hold it against me. Might have to pick up an Aramaic phrase book beforehand, though.

9.) Sacagewea: The escaped tribal war refugee and teenage mom who helped lead an expedition halfway across a continent through unexplored foreign lands, acting as tour guide, herbalist, medic, translator and diplomat, with a nursing baby strapped to her the whole way. I think she could give me some excellent advice regarding how best to balance a fulfilling career life with motherhood.

8.) Edith Wharton: I am mostly just hoping she might give me advice on writing bitingly sarcastic, razor-sharp social commentary offering timeless insights into human relationships and human nature that will resonate with audiences for centuries to come, in the guise of popular chick lit.

7.) Jane Austen: See Edith Wharton.

6.) Albert Einstein: Well, duh.

5.) Mary Wollstonecraft: Survived an abusive, dysfunctional home to become a self-made independent woman and successful political essayist. Authored this little bombshell called A Vindication of the Rights of Woman in 1792. Hung out with a fascinating crowd of revolutionaries and Romantics. What's not to love?

4.) Jorge Luis Borges: If you don't know why I'd want to have Jorge Luis Borges over for dinner, then you'd better go out and buy his Collected Fictions RIGHT. NOW. Hop to it. THE LIBRARIAN IS WATCHING YOU!

3.) Joan of Arc: Okay, so I'd have to learn medieval French for this one, but still. How could the dinner conversation possibly bore when the guest of honor is a cross-dressing, sword-wielding teenage visionary who claims to have a direct line to celestial management?

2.) Ben Franklin: I am hoping that maybe he could give me some tips on money management, fire prevention, and international diplomacy. Also heard he's quite the expert on the proper enjoyment of beer.

And the number one historical figure I would like to invite over for dinner is:

Thomas Jefferson: The same man who wrote the words, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," also kept his own secret illegitimate biracial children as slaves. Fascinating. What a puzzle. I'd really like to know him better. I get the feeling if I understood Jefferson, I'd truly understand American politics.

So what's your list?

*This guy would rank higher on the list, except that I find the prospect of discussing the things people like the Spanish Inquisitors, the Crusaders, and Fred Phelps have done in his name since his death kind of depressing. I don't think he would like the subject at all, but at the same time something tells me he's just the sort of matryr to insist upon bringing it up.

**I should probably add, anymore. I was raised Christian, sorta. In that my father was a self-idenitfied Baptist, my paternal grandparents were German Catholics, my maternal grandparents were nondemoninational pretenders, and my mom was in a sort of New Age explore-all-religions phase during most of my childhood, and therefore did not offer much in the way of specific religious guidance. So, I've read the Bible, more than once, cover to cover, and been to Sunday school, church services, etc. But I don't ever recall being without scepticism on the subject.

Weird Bad Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

So, I FINALLY got my (impacted) wisdom teeth out yesterday. I had the surgeon do it with local anaesthetic instead of getting put under, because 1.) I'm thrifty! Or two paychecks shy of broke and stuck with crappy dental insurance, whichever way you wanna put it, and 2.) I'm just that hardcore (as in, I pushed a 7 lb 3 oz person out of my vagina with no pain medication, people! I can sit perfectly still and let a dentist cut my gums open, bash my teeth to bits inside my jaw with a hammer and drill and then rip out broken the pieces with pincers while I am still fully conscious without totally wigging out. Really. Seriously. I know I can. I hope. Can you hold my hand now?).

The procedure wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I have a terrible, irrational fear of needles, but for some reason they don't scare me nearly as much if I can't see them going in, so I just closed my eyes while they injected my gums, cheeks, throat, etc. like 20 times. And the local anaesthetic really did do it's job. I felt an incredible amount of pressure while they were removing my teeth, and weird cracking sensations that might have sent pre-natural-childbirth-kind-of-hardcore me into a bit of a tizzy, but I didn't freak out and start flailing around and trying to hit people like I was secretly scared I would.

Anyway, now I'm on Vicodin, or rather, generic hydrocodone actually, because my insurance company is too cheap to pay for brand name pharmaceuticals (though that's one kind of cheapness on their end I'm actually cool with). In case you don't know what Vicodin* is, it's a narcotic-plus-Tylenol combo that is known to kill pain quite efficiently while also making you loopy and sorta high. It's one of those addictive-over-time prescription pain killers that people bribe and cheat their doctors into getting them extra refills for.

I guess now I know I'll never be an successful smack fiend, because just like its narcotic cousin codeine, which I had quite a rocky first date with a couple of years ago after minor abdominal surgery that left me worshipping the porcelain gods for hours and then dry heaving for three days straight, this Vicodin is making me almost constantly nauseous (though this is a much milder reaction than I had to the codeine-- i.e., I still can eat stuff. Soft, cold stuff that doesn't have to be chewed, anyway).

It is also TOTALLY not getting me high. Loopy, yes. Frequently I can't remember what I've said ten minutes ago, and I have lost all sense of the passage of time. My brain doesn't seem to want to hold focus on anything. Which I suppose is a good thing when you have gaping holes in your mouth. If I were focusing on that fact all day long it would probably disturb me, come to think of it.

But all in all, I have to say this Vicodin is not all the street dealers hype it up to be. I can't imagine using this stuff on a daily basis without also consuming at least 15 cups of black coffee just to keep my mind focused enough to have coherent conversations with people. I think tomorrow I will be switching back to my trusty old Advil bottle, thank you very much.

And no, you can't buy my leftover Vicodin from me :P

*In case any nursing mamas are wondering, Vicodin is rated "probably safe for nursing" on Kellymom.com

Cowboy Diplomacy

So, I'm watching the Oscars last night, even though being the parent of a toddler I am completely out of touch with the mainstream movie scene. I'm watching because Jon Stewart is hosting, and I love Jon Stewart. I would watch a televised log rolling competition if it were hosted by Jon Stewart.

Seriously.

So, I'm watching the Oscars, and I'm feeling more and more sorry for my main man Jon Stewart, because he looks nervous from the moment he steps on the stage, and the uptight Oscar audience can't seem to to find its sense of humor with two hands and a flashlight, and their consequent awkward inability to laugh sincerely at jokes about themselves is clearly freaking him out, and the show seems to be drowning even a little more than usual in its own pretentiousness, and he just can't seem to pull it out. But I'm not sure what I was expecting. Sure, the man is funny, but he's no superhero. The Oscars always suck.

Anyway, as I continue watching, I realize that I really, truly haven't seen any of the movies that have gotten non-techinical nominations. I mean, I really, truly, seriously haven't seen a SINGLE ONE. I saw the Harry Potter movie, back in November-- that got nominated for Art Direction,--and I saw part of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which got nominated for costumes, on DVD at a friend's house during a party, but Isaac started screaming uncontrollably once he caught a glimpse of the Squirrel Attack scene, and after that I spent most of the rest of the party in another room trying to keep him from breaking stuff.

But I hadn't seen anything that got nominated for Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Director . . .

You get the picture. Or lack thereof.

So I start complaining to my husband about how we never see any movies anymore since the baby was born, and saying how a lot of these Oscar-nominated films are already out or are coming out soon on DVD, and proposing that we rent or buy a few, and he says to me, "I don't want to see that Brokeback Mountain."

Before I can respond, he continues, "It has cowboys in it. I don't want to watch a movie about cowboys . . . you know I can't stand anything that makes me think of country music."

That's right, fair readers. I'll come right out and say it. I just found out my husband suffers from COWBOYPHOBIA.

Guess I'll have to watch that one by myself.

I'm Not Quite Dead Yet!

I swear . . . I've just been very busy . . .

The Incredible One-Armed Woman

I would have posted this a couple of weeks ago when it actually happened, but I've been so busy working on the sort of writing I actually get paid for over the past month that I haven't felt like I should have time to blog. Of course, this somehow hasn't stopped me from leaving my typical post-length comments on other people's sites . . . LOL.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I decided I would convert Isaac's crib into a toddler bed. It's not that he had been trying to climb out of the crib-- STAIRS freak this kid out-- I fear he has inherited my acrophobia (Get it?I fear he has a fear of heights! Haha. How clever. This is what happens when I spend several hours writing advertising copy. Watch out!).

Instead, for several weeks, he had been expressing a desire to play in the crib when not sleeping. He kept dragging me into his bedroom and asking me to lift him up over the crib rail so he could play "Night Night," a game he'd invented which proceeded as follows:

1.) I put him in the crib.
2.) He says "Night Night, Mommy. Bye bye!" and motions for me to leave.
3.) He pretends to be asleep.
4.) I leave the room and shut the door.
5.) The moment the door shuts, he cries.
6.) I come back.
7.) Return to Step #2, and repeat, until Mommy loses her patience, takes Isaac out of the crib, and insists that instead of playing Night Night we are going to go watch Finding Nemo/Clifford/Baby Einstein again for the 500 billionth time right now.
8.) Play again from Step#1 every two hours.

I figured he had invented this little role-playing exercise as a way of working out some nighttime separation anxiety issues. Since Isaac has been a terrible sleeper since even before he was born (this kid seriously kicked or somersaulted violently every ten minutes 24 hours a day in the womb, and slept less than 10 hours for every 24 as a newborn), I am pretty receptive to almost any activity I think might just possibly help him sleep better. So, I had been gamely playing along for days and days, in the hopes that this self-guided theraputic activity might eventually help him make it through more nights without waking.

The problem with this game (other than the mind-numbing repetition, of course, but that's par for the course with any activity invented by a 21-month-old) was, I have a bad back. And a bum shoulder that likes to pop out of the socket. And a I've been suffering on and off for months from this funny little thing called costochondritis, an inflammation of the sternum and ribcage, a repetitive motion injury, which, if you aggravate it, basically feels like an elephant sitting on your chest all day long-- i.e., like a 24-7 HEART ATTACK.

So, as you might guess, even if my numbed mind was willing, my creaky body was beginning to tire a bit of this in-and-out of the crib all day situation. Somewhere around the about 45th or 50th game of Night Night, as I felt my whole ribcage start to groan in protest, I experienced a brilliant epiphany:

My child is now, in fact, a toddler. This crib converts to a toddler bed. If this kid wants to climb into his crib to play ONE MORE TIME, by the stars in the heavens, he can damn well DO IT HIMSELF!

Of course, I was hit by this bolt of inspiration in the middle of the morning on a weekday. My husband was at work, and probably would be for several more hours. Still, I thought, this was surely something a handy woman like me could handle on her own. After all, I'd put this crib together with my husband while I was eight-and-a-half-months pregnant and IN LABOR (true story). I'd read the instructions for converting the crib before, and as I recalled, they'd seemed very simple. It was a couple of hours before Isaac's usual nap time; I had the basic tools I needed (a hex key, a screwdriver, pliers) close at hand. Why not just do this thing and get it over with before my husband could come home and insist on helping me so we could argue with each other the whole time over which one of us was doing it wrong?

Isaac was busy drawing pictures, anyway. This was a twenty-minute project, tops. How much trouble could he be?

My fellow mommies see where this is going.

Maybe it was the writing-project-deadline-induced sleep deprivation. I don't know. But some momentary lapse of judgement, some freakish state of mind made me, mother of 21 months, experienced older sister, and former nanny, FORGET a fundamental truth of child psychology:

The MOMENT you start trying to do something you don't want a child who is in the same house with you to interfere with, no matter how happily distracted the child just appeared-- no matter how perfectly content that child felt minding his own business a tenth of a second ago-- at that very moment the child will sense your determination to do something without his involvement, and he will ATTACK.

Of course I had to finish this project once I had started it-- couldn't wait until my husband came home, because if I did, there would have been crib pieces all over the floor in Isaac's room for hours, not to mention the fact that there would be no good place for Isaac to sleep come nap time other than my bed, which happened to have its clothes in the wash.

I wound up doing almost all of the crib conversion with a tool in one hand and a thrashing child who kept screaming "I want screwdriver!" in the other.

It took me almost two and a half hours. MORE THAN TWO HOURS. To take one side and some wheels off the crib.

I would not recommend this method of furniture assembly to 130 lb women with bad backs and a history of costochondritis.

But . . .

Almost immediately after I tightened the last bolt, Isaac leapt into his "new" bed and proceeded to bounce and roll there happily, holding elaborate conversations with his stuffed animals, for the next half hour. His newfound bed-access freedom put him in a fantastic mood. He beamed wildly at me and slapped me repeatedly with fierce baby kisses for the rest of the day.

It's amazing how the same person who drives you absolutely *chain of extravagant expletives deleted* insane one moment can in the very next moment make every instant of insanity seem worthwhile.

Like Mother, Like Daughter, Like (Grand)Son

Isaac read the word "milk" on Saturday while we were at the grocery store.

He is 21 months old.

He is not involved in any experimental early-reading programs.*

Yes, I know you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me if I were you either, but it's true.

We were in the baking aisle, with the condensed and powdered milk. We don't use powdered milk. There's a box of it waaaay in the back of my pantry in case of some milk shortage disaster, but as no such disaster has yet occurred, Isaac has not had occasion to be introduced to the concept of milk-as-powder.

Isaac was toddling along in the isle, holding his father's hand. He stopped, and pointed to a box of generic brand powdered milk that had no pictures of anything related to milk on it. He pointed at the letters on the box, that, in a very ordinary sort of typeface, spelled MILK, and said "Milk!"

His dad was there, I was there. WE BOTH SAW IT!

Much to my anti-consumerist chagrin, the boy has already been recognizing certain corporate logos and signs for a couple of months now. It started with Burger King (also known as the only restaurant he is willing to eat things at). One day he pointed to the Burger King logo on a toy he had gotten with a kids meal there, and said "Fries!" I told him that indeed, that was the logo of the place we often went to get fries, but that in fact, it said "Burger King," which was the name of the restaurant, not what they served there.

Now when we go there, he points to the logos on the cups and the bags and says, "Burger King," and smiles at everyone in earshot very proudly. He also recognizes the logos for Sesame Street, Disney, PBS, NBC, and Charter Cable, even though I swear I don't let him watch that much television. He recognizes the Scholastic logo from some of his books (though sometimes he gets confused and calls it "Clifford"). He recognizes the Kraft logo, too, but he calls it "Bag of cheese!" (I have tried to use this confusion to my advantage to get him to try foods made by Kraft that are not, in fact, shredded cheese, but so far I have had no luck in that endeavor).

But recognizing logos, of course, is not quite the same as reading.

He also recognizes and can easily name every letter of the alphabet, as well as numerals from 0-9. He got really good with these a couple of months back when we bought some alphabet and numeral refrigerator magnets.

But knowing the names of letters and numbers is not the same as reading.

And he pretends to read his favorite books himself now, and sometimes remembers to say a fair number of words from the stories.

But repeating words he's heard me read a thousand times because he knows they're supposed to be there is not the same as reading.

This is the first time we have ever seen him actually, seriously, definitively read a word.

I know you probably STILL don't believe me, but I'm recording it here anyway so I can prove to Isaac when he's older that he really DID start reading before he was two, and it's not just that my memories of his early childhood have been clouded in the years since by motherly love.

(By the way-- Sorry I went behind your back and told all those people you talked to about how I started reading before I was two that your memories were just clouded by motherly love, Mom. Touche).

Looks like we might have a third-generation literature major on our hands.

Maybe this one will get lucky and actually have enough discipline to write famous novels!

Of course, I'm pretty sure his dad is still rooting for him to either be a world class hockey player or a computer engineer . . . **

* Unless you count his father's obsession with Wheel of Fortune.
** Edit: Upon reading this, John insists that he only likes watching strangers on skates beat each other up. He claims he does not want acually to see his own son getting beaten by people on skates. But you wouldn't guess this from the way he's taught Isaac to jump up and down screaming "GOAL!" Or from the hockey-themed clothing he has encouraged Isaac to pick out at the store . . .

Ode to an OT

Oh, Michelle! Michelle who comes to our house instead of making us drive 45 minutes and then wait 20 minutes to see her in a sterile, un-childproofed office. Michelle with her bag of bright, squishy, irresistable toys. Michelle who sits on the floor all the time when she's here so as to be at child-eye-level. Michelle who brings tests, equipment, and treatments designed for a toddler instead of an eight-year-old.

Michelle, who has been the first healthcare professional besides our family doctor to treat Isaac like a child with an eating problem instead of a problem child.

Isaac tried BARBEQUE SAUCE today, thanks to Michelle.

Now if only we could get Great West to actually cover her services before our healthcare FSA runs out.

*sigh*

Husband Material*

*Note: not available for serious dating until 2022

Today, as I was gathering dirty clothes for laundry, Isaac came up to me and said, "Dryer?"

"No sweetheart," I responded as I piled together some whites for a light-colored load, "I am putting these in the washer to get clean. Then we will put them in the dryer."

Before I could stop him, he ran to his own laundry basket, grabbed two baby-sized handfuls of clothes, and ran to the utility closet. I heard a thump as he threw his body against something. I came out of the bedroom to see what he'd done.

Despite being about a foot shorter than our top-loading washer, apparently by jumping, he'd managed to throw them all in. And, looking inside the washer, I discovered the clothes were all light-colored! Unless it was just an amazing coincidence, he'd apparently noticed I was sorting my own clothes and not grabbing anything dark, and decided to follow suit.

Then, when I had the load together, he insisted on helping me pour in the soap and set the dial.

Did I mention that he's already been helping me load the dryer for months, and he also likes to dust, use the lint roller, put his toys back in his toy box, and wipe off the dining room table?

Maybe I don't need a maid.

Now, if I could just get him to learn how to scrub applesauce and playdough out of the carpet, and to stop unfolding clothes as I fold them . . .

Domestic Spying

Or, Why I Love this Family of Mine

Just like the President of the United States, lately I've been eavesdropping on my neighbors without a warrant.

However, unlike our Dear Leader, I haven't been doing it on purpose. For the past couple of weeks, our baby monitor has been on the fritz. I'm not sure what happened; we've had it for over a year and a half, and it's never seriously malfunctioned until recently. But about a month and a half ago, one of the recievers started randomly picking up all sorts of feedback and static, and more recently it's begun almost exclusively picking up actual audio signals from other baby monitors in our apartment building (instead of the signal from the transmitter in Isaac's room TWENTY FEET AWAY, which it apparently has lost the ability to hear) .

More than half the residents in our complex seem to be families with small children, so there are LOTS of baby monitor signals flying around. Ever since we moved in here a year ago, I've always kind of assumed that some of our neighbors were probably picking up signal from our monitor now and again and listening to us. Frankly, I've never thought much of it, because despite the fancy tennis courts and clubhouse and the high rent, this complex is cheaply built, and my next-door and upstairs neighbors could probably hear half of what goes on in my home each day through the paper-thin walls of our building with their own ears if they gave half a try.

So, it doesn't much bother me that someone might be eavesdropping on me. But hearing other people's conversations over the transmitter freaks me out. I feel like a sleazy voyeur, despite the accidental nature of these encounters.

The truth is, despite having spoken with most of my neighbors in person, I can't actually usually tell who I'm hearing on the monitor. The sound is always distorted, kind of like it is with those voice disguisers they use on TV news shows when they're interviewing corporate whistleblowers and people in the witness protection program, and though I can usually guess the gender of the speaker, and make out a few of the words, I can't recognize the owner of the voice, which is a relief. But it still creeps me out on some fundamental moral level to be secretly eavesdropping on someone else's home life, even if I don't have a clue who I'm listening to. And besides, I'm trying to hear what's going on in MY baby's room, not someone else's apartment.

So, whenever I start picking up sound from someone else's place, I immediately try moving the reciever, or turning off the radio or the tv, or changing the wireless channel.

But sometimes it seems no matter what I do, the voices just keep coming through, and I wind up hearing a whole five minutes of snatches of someone else's conversation before I get totally exasperated and turn the monitor off.

We've tried moving our other electronic equipment. We've tried messing with the settings on the monitor. There doesn't seem to be any way to fix this situation short of getting ourselves a new baby monitor and HOPING that that one will pick up its own signal without picking up everyone else's. So, I'm researching them online right now, and I hope to have a new one sometime in the next few days, and my spying days will be over.

However, I have learned something important from this secret surveilance adventure. It's something I probably shouldn't know, since I shouldn't really be spying on my neighbors, even if I've been doing it accidentally. But despite my guilt over how I've come by this knowledge, I can't help but be glad and a little proud now that I have it.

MY FAMILY LIFE IS TOTALLY AWESOME.

How have I come to this conclusion, you may ask? Because I now know that all of my neighbors with small children argue, angrily and loudly with each other, ALL OF THE TIME. I'm not exactly sure who's starting these arguments, or what they are arguing about, since as I said the voices I hear aren't that clear and anyway I try not to listen too hard, and I'm glad I don't know, because that would be awkward. But sheesh. Here I thought I had it bad because I cry to John one or two nights a week about how I can't get the boy to eat or sleep like a normal person and I don't have any friends anymore now that I'm a SAHM and he just doesn't understand what I'm going through* and meanwhile, all my neighbors are having all-out shouting matches with each other EVERY DAY.

I guess things are abnormally calm and content around here, after all.

Score one for domestic surveilance.

You still shouldn't be doing it, though, George.

*(because he gets to shower and shave and put gel in his hair and leave the house every day, and then he talks to his friends and plays cards on his lunch hour and gets praise from his bosses all day at work, while I scrub floors and wash dishes and try to finish writing projects in ratty jeans and a t-shirt while someone still-mostly-non-verbal tries to draw on the furniture and throws applesauce at me )

An Open Letter to My Body from My Mind:

Dear Body,

Okay, I'll admit it straight out. I am a flawed mind. I may not always have the willpower to do everything that's best for you, even when I technically know what's best to do. Sure, I don't get enough sleep, or enough exercise, lately. I have a tendency to indulge in a bit too much chocolate from time to time. But it's almost always dark chocolate. And that has bioflavonoids, and antioxidants, and stuff! It's almost healthy for you! Remember? We read about it one time on the internet.

(And maybe I had a few too many drinks on two or three isolated occasions while we were in college. But I think you were secretly encouraging me the whole time anyway, because you have this side that's into all manner of debauchery the sort of which I DO NOT APPROVE that you know it's easier to trick a mind into when you intoxicate it).

Anyway, despite these transgressions I must point out that for the most part, I've taken pretty decent care of you thus far in our life. In fact, if you'd care to pay attention to my processing of optical information about other people lately, you might realize you have it pretty good.

I've kept us vegetarian, after all, for over a decade! We eat whole grains, and fruits and vegetables, and take our vitamins, every single day. We don't smoke, we don't drink soda, and we rarely drink alcohol anymore. As a result of these efforts on my part to resist, ahem, your outdated evolutionarily-encouraged urges, you are within the ideal medical weight range for our age and height.

We may not be all that athletically inclined, but it's not like we spend all of our free time sitting at the computer or watching television-- we lift weights, sometimes. We walk places that are within walking distance instead of taking the car. And I asked for that exercise ball for Christmas, just for you, when I could have gotten myself a DVD, or language practice software to brush up on my Hindi with, or something.

I even let you REPRODUCE yourself not very long ago, with the genetic assistance of a very fine male specimen we both picked out for lifetime emotional companionship and reproductive collaboration. Which, I might point out, is at least half the reason we don't get enough sleep and exercise these days. Not to mention the fact that the whole human-making-and-birthing process was really a MAJOR PAIN IN THE ASS. Figuratively and literally. And I'm planning to do it again sometime!

So, Body, please take into careful consideration the fact that I, our Mind, have really been pretty good to you over the past two and a half decades.

With that in mind (no pun intended, Bod), do you think that perhaps you could STOP IT ALREADY with the pain?

The lower back pain, the knee pain, the ankle pain. The impacted wisdom teeth (I'll get them taken out, already, okay? As soon as I can get the dental insurance company to stop whining and balking and actually cover it. I've been trying for six months straight. So stop complaining). The migraines. The costochondritis (I have to pick the baby up at least fifteen times a day every day. It won't stop for at least another year. And he's only going to get heavier. So suck it up already).

And, oh yeah, one more thing I would like you to stop doing, while we're discussing it. Those recurring ovarian cysts on our left side. Especially that.

Because you see, body, I know you've been storing that genetic material up there in that left ovary for future use ever since we ourselves were still in the womb. And if you keep scaring the crap out of me and ruining my productivity with this terrible, risky, painful habit you have of developing a cyst or two on that left ovary at least once every six to twelve months, I, your Mind, am going to have to ask a professional to TAKE THE WHOLE THING OUT. Then we'll only have one ovary left, just one, to regulate hormones and make babies with. Half of that precious genetic bank deposit, gone, just like that. Snip.

Your move, Body.

Thank you,

Your Mind.

New Hope

We saw a new occupational therapist on Tuesday. The company she works for, called PS Kids, was recommended to me by a parent in Isaac's playgroup. They aren't in-network on our new insurance, of course, so we'll have to pay total cost until we exhaust our $1,000 out-of-network deductible, and even after that, we'll still be stuck with 50% of each bill.

But after weeks of searching, I haven't been able to find ANY pediatric occupational therapists who:

1.) Are willing to work with children under the age of five

2.) Are willing to work with severely underweight children with feeding disorders who are under the age of five

3.) Have any openings for new patients before next December

AND

4.) Actually take our insurance.


Aside from the Cardinal Glennon Feeding Team, of course (*grumble* *mutter* *curse*).

So I'm kinda at the end of my rope with this finding a specialist who takes our insurance thing.

Anyway, when I called PS Kids, I found out they give discounts and offer payment plans for people whose insurance won't cover the service, AND they make housecalls.

So I decided to make an evaluation appointment.

And guess what? Just as I have suspected for months, the therapist from PS Kids thinks that the cause of Isaac's eating problems is, in fact, most likely Sensory Integration Disorder.

The fact that, after months of testing and testing and researching, someone has finally given us a specific diagnosis that makes sense is remarkable enough to start me doing a happy dance in and of itself.

But I found myself even more impressed, and relieved, by what this woman didn't say.

She didn't say, for example, that Isaac, my sweet, mostly-well-behaved, polite little boy, has been starving himself since the age of eight months because he "lacks discipline" and has a "manipulative personality."

She didn't tell me it was all my fault that he didn't like solid food because I'd nursed him "too long" and made him too attached to breastfeeding.

She didn't tell us we could fix him through strict punishment by scolding him fiercely or locking him in his room if he threw a single piece of pasta off the dinner table (mind you, he's less than two), or by witholding all food for the rest of the day if he refused to eat what we wanted him to.

She didn't tell us to stop giving him nutritional supplements and vitamins, cut out all food he's currently willing to eat, offering only food he dislikes-- to, in effect, starve him for days at a time until he was so ravenously hungry he'd be willing to try something new.

Nope, she didn't say any of those things, because she's not Barb the Draconian Dietician from the Cardinal Glennon Feeding Team.

Instead, she recommended intensive occupational therapy to desensitize him to various textures and help his confused nervous system reorganize itself. She gave us a list of theraputic activities to try, involving, among other things-- get this-- just as I imagined in a previous entry--

APPLESAUCE AND PLAY-DOH.

(Maybe I should be an occupational therapist).

And Isaac seems to like her a lot, to boot.

My fingers are crossed . . .

Holiday Wrap-Up

So, the holidays mostly sucked for me, which is why I didn't post during them, because despite the title of my blog I am actually not the gloomiest of persons and I am getting tired of only seeming to be able to come up with complainy-sorts of things to say when I blog, and anyway I didn't want to get even more depressed during the holidays by complaining about them.

Even if I am brilliant at complaining.

But I feel the need to at least summarize.

So, I was sick (again), and I had a writing project due, because despite my best efforts to get it out of the way before Christmas, I couldn't start on it until the week before, because the client didn't get the data I needed to start it to me until then. And we had too many places we were obligated to go, with too little time, and Isaac was stressed out and angry and (*gasp*) wouldn't eat anything at anyone else's house, and everyone was constantly trying to give us loving and well-meaning and under-informed and, well, let's say, less-than-useful advice about his eating issues, such as "Strap him to a chair and don't let him out until he eats," or "Set a sixty-second timer and tell him he has to eat three peas before it buzzes or you'll force-feed him a whole pot," or, the old stand-by, my absolute favorite, "Ignore it-- he won't starve himself sick. No child would do that."

(Never mind that he already has).

ROLFMAO, my friends, ROLFMAO.

And I had a major blow-out with my sister over her not coming to see us on Christmas, or the Friday before or the Monday after Christmas, or even the weekend before or after Christmas, because her boyfriend wanted to visit his father and his foster sister and his cousins and his second cousins and his cousins once removed and his best friend and his ex-girlfriend's mother for Christmas instead. (That's right: my sister's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's mother ranks higher than me on my sister's Holiday Visit list. True story*).

And John had to work on New Year's Eve, so I spent it alone with a cranky kid who couldn't sleep because of fireworks outside, and the the consequently sleepy Isaac took a frightful spill on the sidewalk and nearly broke his skull on New Year's Day, so we had to cancel on the annual family dinner, but that was probably for the best as at that point I wasn't sure if I could take one more person giving me friendly cockamamie advice on how to get Isaac to eat something without telling them to eat their own words. Pun intended.

And as usual, I missed my mother and my kid brother, the two of whom I haven't been able to visit with on a holiday since the year 2000. Despite having new family now, I still find myself longing pretty frequently for the old one. Even if they did drive me nuts all the time when I did still see them regularly.

But Isaac got a mad haul of toys from The Grandmas, and he had tons of fun playing with his smallest uncles, and our $10 mostly-Isaac-proofed holiday tree looked TOTALLY AWESOME, even if no one but us saw it. So it wasn't all bad.

In fact, it probably would have felt better if I'd maintained a better attitude from the beginning. I think my childhood experiences in a divorced and dysfunctional, constantly arguing family conditioned me to expect to be unhappy and stressed out on the holidays, so I wouldn't be disappointed when it inevitably happened. Trouble is, expectations like that can become a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, where you get so stressed in anticipation of stress that you're stressed no matter what, even if things don't turn out nearly as badly as you anticipated.

That's a thing I need to work on, there.

So, here we go: a New Year's Resolution:

I will try to stop being such a freaking pessimist all the time ;)



*Edit: After I though about this, I felt the need to mention that the fact that my sister hangs out with her boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's mom is not actually quite as odd as it sounds. My sister's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend passed away suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of years ago, due to an accidental drug overdose, and although my sister's boyfriend and his ex had been broken up for a long time, the news of her death was still pretty hard on him, and of course it was devastating to the ex-girlfriend's mom. So I actually think it's rather honorable and kind of my sister to go with her boyfriend to visit his ex-girlfriend's mother on holidays. But I don't understand her using that obligation as a primary excuse for not being able to find even 30 minutes to spend with her own local family members over the holidays, especially considering that my sister lives less than 15 minutes away from us! Grrrr. Cue Lifetime docudrama music. My sister and I so have issues.