Okay, This is Becoming Ridiculous

I feel like a heap of cold dung this week. Monday's class was great, and I was able to do some postures I hadn't done before in class.

Now ... still breaking out. Monday afternoon, I started getting swollen glands under my neck and a sore throat. I had a dizzy headache, so I skipped karate that night.

Tuesday, I went about all day with the swollen glands, fuzzy head, and sinus pressure. Since it was all above the neck, I went to karate anyway. It was fun but totally kicked my ass.

This morning I woke up around 2:45am with facial sinus pressure so bad I had to get up and take some ibuprofen. Then I lay in bed, waiting for it to work, feeling like my teeth wanted to break off. Just around 4am, when I was starting to feel dozy, I started sneezing. And sneezing. And that led to ...

"Mommy? Mommy?"

"Shhhhhh, go to sleep."

...

"MOMMY!"

So I went up to the kids' room to resettle Cel, who did not want to be resettled. She decided to tell me her tale of woe.

"I woke up and I heard a snooze, and I said 'Mommy? Mommy?' but I just heard a shush! I t'ought maybe you was on Annika's side so I yook and I don't see you so I say, 'MOMMY!' again and you come from big bed." Here she paused.

"And dat's my story. Now, 'nuggle me!"

She kept me up another half hour, then I fell asleep in there and missed my subtle 5:30am alarm. So I missed class this morning. Fortunately, there are two classes this evening so I'll try to make up there, thanks to my gracious husband. Now, oddly, especially feeling so crappy, I am craving the sauna-like heat of the yoga studio. It makes all my muscles go loose, like Jell-O.

Normally, I'd assume I have a cold, but everything I have going is a textbook list of detoxification symptoms.

April has been a wild month for me. Let's review:

- Gave up dairy and red meat.
- Gave up coffee. (Coffee, can you effing believe it? I mean, come on!)
- Started Bikram.

And this is the list I console myself with when I feel slightly bitter that most of my class buddies graduated to green belt last weekend, and I didn't, because I missed one single stripe testing week waaay back in November. Now they're not in my classes anymore, they're in the intermediate classes. Hopefully, May will be my month for green belt.

I have some potentially interesting -- and not totally health and self oriented -- posts in my queue, if my brain ever clears enough to write them.

Tired of Toxins

I did my sixth Bikram class today. Remember when I said that my face was clearing up? Yeah, it is. On the other hand, I've now broken out on my left shoulder, underarm, and down my side. As Dixon Bainbridge says, "What the hell is that?" I have never broken out on my torso before. Ever.

All of my breaking out has been predominantly on my left side. I think that's so odd. Also, kind of interesting.

I also have IBS, as I've mentioned before. I have a lot of trouble with pain in my lower left abdomen. If I press down and in on that side, it's quite painful to the touch, all the time. Well, it has been. I've been massaging it after class, while in savasana, and that's getting noticeably better. (For what it's worth, I've had that pain and tenderness for ages, and it even prompted me to have an exploratory laparoscopy in 2002 for possible endometriosis.)

So, as hokey as it sounds, maybe there is something to it all. I'm curious to see how it continues to evolve. I felt definitely more competent in class today. I find it all very interesting. Verra, verra innnteresting.

Aren't you glad I do all this crazy experimenting, so you don't have to?

Stream of Consciousness

This is the first I've been on the computer all day. I hung out laundry, I baked two loaves of bread. I reorganized the kitchen, and cooked lunch. (Really, I cooked it: spaghetti with zucchini and mushrooms.)  Both children refused to nap at the usual time.

Yet, the moment I sit down with the laptop, at least one kid swarms me like they haven't seen me in months. Annika is pretending to be a dog, but she's got to be The Most Annoying Dog in the Universe. When she plays animals, she manages to make animal noises so much worse than they ever occur in nature. Her "dog" is trilling endlessly like a cat stuck inside an outboard motor, and I'm feeling the urge to tie her to a stake in the backyard.  (Which I certainly won't; I hope that's obvious.)

I also found a dead mouse in the garage this morning. Like the coward I am, I left it, and left the garage door open, hoping it will just disappear somehow.

I have been mouse-fearful all week, because I cleaned out the garage on Monday. The last time I brought in a box from the garage, I discovered a mouse in the house that evening. I suspected a connection, but was unsure. Now, I moved all my boxes of books from the garage to the basement, and sure enough, a mouse appears. I am not sure what caused this mouse to expire dramatically, flat on his back, in the middle of the garage floor (maybe he was that upset that I moved the Tolstoy,) but obviously, mice are finding my garage a cool place to hang out. That really freaks me out. I really hope that none hitched a ride into the basement with my books.

I had a kickass karate class last night. I feel like I made some sort of cardiovascular breakthrough this week, where working out hard no longer feels borderline scary. I have to attribute that to the Bikram. I can't wait to hit that class tomorrow morning. Annika is also testing for her green belt tomorrow. She just got her tiny, tiny sparring equipment and she is raring to start beating up on people. Srsly.

Now, I'm going to attempt to finish my kitchen job without attracting the attention of my pgymy marmosets children.  Wish me restraints and a tranquilizer gun luck.

Friday Flipback

This post still amuses me, and the fracas that preceded it does, as well. Unfortunately, my archives don't appear to have saved the comments that I so ruthlessly censored in my unabashed thirst for a totalitarian blog regime.

Originally published August 24, 2004:


zees eez not a democracy

Some of you are confused. Let me try to help you a little.

Other people's blogs are not for you. My blog, specifically, is here for one reason (particularly now that I've moved and revamped the site): it's here for me to record my life with Annika and share little tidbits that my real life friends and family might be interested in. I don't password protect out of a courtesy, because some other people -- total strangers -- might enjoy it. Lots do, and let me know.

Whether you've been reading for 2 years, 2 days, or since the dawn of time, you do not have any rights here. This is the digital equivalent of my living room. You can come in, if you play nice. If you piss on my carpet, I will escort you to the door. I have no obligation to waste my bandwidth on rude comments, intentional or otherwise.

Some of you also have serious confusion about how courtesy and social propriety work. I can't help you there; there are people who get paid to teach that stuff. I am also amazed that people can presume to argue on matters of which they know nothing, but I'm eager to try it -- it sounds like so much fun. Would anyone like to argue about chaos theory or Jungian psychology with me? Because I really know nothing about either, and I'm totally willing to go into it without doing any research whatsoever! It seems like a fun hobby. I will go on record as saying, "Jung sucks!" even though I have no idea why.

In short, if you don't like me, or the things I believe in, or just have some kind of funky mental problem, I cordially invite you to go away. If you do anything weird on my site, I will clean it up, just like I clean up the prescription drug ads and the occasional pr0n spam.

Thanks! :*

Actually, I don't think Jung sucks at all, but I'm still be willing to argue the position just for the fun of it.

Humiliating ADD Moments

A continuing series.

Last night, Quinn turns to me and says, "Where's your cell phone?"

I look blank.

"I ask because I thought I heard it beeping, earlier, down in the mud room."

"Oh, then it must be ... in my pullover ... which ... I just threw into the washing machine."

Yes, my cell phone is now toast.

Last week, I didn't have the heart to write up my Humiliating ADD Moment, which was really more like a Humiliating ADD Hour. I still don't have the heart to give it the write up it truly deserves, but I can tell you that I left my purse in the middle of the aisle at Target, and had no recollection of setting it down at all. When I found it again, I discovered my wallet was no longer in it.

However, after a series of thoroughly embarrassing revelations, it was discovered that the wallet was at home. In my yoga bag, where again, I had no recollection of putting it.

Let's see, and in March, I lost my keys for about three weeks. I found them in a box of tissues. Now, I hope that the kids put them in the tissue box, and the least I'm guilty of is leaving them down where they could be found by searching little hands.

But you know, I can't be entirely sure, and that's the scary part.

The Toxic Avenger!

Today wraps up my ten day introductory special over at the Bikram studio. I managed to do four classes within that timeframe. I had hoped for five, but I fell asleep putting the kids to bed on Sunday and forgot to set my alarm for the 6am Monday class.

I love it. Love love love. I could do more this morning than I could last week, or even just on Saturday. I love the 6am classes because they're not jam packed. Saturday was crowded. So crowded that I had to really be aware of the people around me to avoid brushing them when extending my arms. Blah.

I can't believe how many guys take this class! This morning, there were only three women to seven guys. They struggle just as much as anyone else. There are people of all shapes and sizes, although you can tell the long-timers by the depth of their poses, and they tend to be lean and lithe.

I really enjoyed today's class, because it felt more like effort and less like torture, and I was able to do more poses, and hold them better, and felt pretty accomplished. Hey, I did a tree pose without falling down. Go me.

I have noticed some changes since starting. Karate feels easier, cardiovascularly and in terms of balance. My midsection feels different. My posture feels better. I'm also breaking out, though. I asked the instructors about this on Saturday, and they said it was a good thing, it was "toxins escaping." Okay, I guess, but you know, I do plenty of other excreting. Can my stupid toxins find a more convenient escape route? Like hitching a short ride on the 2L of water I'm trying to choke down a day? Why try to force their way up and out through my friggin' chin?

She said to wash with witch hazel. I haven't gotten any yet. It does seem to be tapering off, thankfully.

Notably, last week, I did a total of 7.5 hours of exercise. Three 90 min Bikram classes, one 90 min karate class, and two 45 minute karate classes. One day, I did one of each. And I didn't die! Not only did I fail to expire, I wasn't even horribly tired or sore. I did take a few naps last week, but they felt well deserved. Getting up at 5:15am is not my strong suit.

Now that my intro special is up, I have to buy either a membership or a class card to continue. I can't believe I'm going to spend so much money on exercise (since I already pay monthly for karate), of all things, but I've discovered I don't work out well on my own. I can either keep bashing my head against that particular wall, or I can just pay the money to continue to exercise regularly AND enjoy it to boot. Taking exercise classes feels a little bit like cheating, because I don't have to organize the time myself, or figure out what to do. The times are non-negotiable. I show up, they tell me what to do, I do it.

If only I could find a similar way to manage housework.

The Pathos of Lawn Care

I'm sitting here, it's naptime, and I'm listening to a lawn mower, a weed whacker, and a leaf blower all going at once, all right next to my effing window. And I'm hoping beyond hope that they don't wake the damn baby, but I am sure they will.

I'm a little confused by obsessive lawn care. If you really need a green carpet in front of your house, install a green carpet. What is the point, exactly, of spending loads of money, time, and resources to force plants to grow in a precise and orderly fashion, particularly if you don't use your front yard? I'm sorry, perhaps I'm missing a few crucial neural pathways, but I don't understand it. I don't understand giving what is essentially a living floor more water than you drink, food, haircuts, and healthy doses of bug and weed killer that will end up collecting in our livers and giving our kids brain tumors. For what?

Okay, you want to be lawn obsessed? Fine. I disagree with your choices, and I do happen to think that they do contribute a negative impact to, okay, the whole fucking world, but don't you dare try to shame me into joining the lawn fascist regime. If my crabgrass or dandelions offend you, don't worry: I can rip the whole lawn out and replace it with ground cover. Doesn't bother me none. My hedges don't grow at right angles? Well, right, that's nature. I regard square hedges the same way I do poodles with crazy haircuts: offensive.

And no, I'm not lazy. I'm just not interested in wasting my time and money, polluting the environment, and throwing away water on a green carpet. If you have a problem with it, I cordially invite you to sit on my spiny thistle.

Mother's Helper, Redux

My new mother's helper, J., came over for two hours Friday morning. For two consecutive hours, no one was crying. No one was whining. No one asked me for anything. No one got hurt. No one was fighting. Two little girls had an enormous amount of fun in the sunshine, I got an enormous amount of work done (including the first use of the clothesline this year!), and everyone was happy. After she went home, I fed them lunch and tucked them in for naps. One kid slept for two hours, and the other actually, legitimately rested and didn't bother me for another hour.

That was the best $8 I ever spent in my entire life.

Since a few people asked, this was my Craigslist posting:

I'm looking for a mother's helper for 4-6 hours per week in my home in [Village], [Landmark] area. Duties would only include playing with my 4 and 2 year old. Looking for an energetic, responsible girl who likes kids. I would be present at all times. Red Cross Babysitter certification preferred but not necessary; own transportation preferred. Rate negotiable.

I posted it in the Childcare section. A mom emailed me less than 12 hours from my posting, but to be fair, she was my only response. I also had someone forward the same posting to the local homeschool list, which is where my second hit came from. I'm not sure that one is going to pan out, though.

After school is out for the year, I've got J. scheduled to come every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Until then, she'll be coming after school Mondays and Wednesdays.

Freakin' sweet, huh?

Friday Flipback

As I write this, I'm watching a guy outside wander around his front yard, eating a yogurt.

Interesting.

Originally published August 23, 2002:

Had another exciting patient encounter today. Whee.

We have a new patient who is, to put it mildly, a flake. She showed up a half hour late for the information session--at which time it was already ended--and was told to come to the next one. She was 20 minutes late for the next one, but stayed behind to ask the doctor to repeat all the information she missed.

She was fifteen minutes late for her first appointment, and spent another five rambling while I tried to get her to write her check. The doctor was thoroughly displeased. I can't say I blame her. She either had to cut Flake's appointment short the equal amount of time she was late, or make every other patient wait 20 minutes for their appointment.

I should add this is the same patient who asked me if I was a medical student, which did not make her a favorite in my book.

Today, she had her second appointment. She was over ten minutes late, and the doctor was pissed. "Tell her to reschedule!" she said. "I have patients who show up on time to see." With that, she shut her office door.

Flake saunters in a few minutes later. No rush, no explanations. "I'm here for my appointment."

"[S], you're about 12 minutes late. We have a very busy schedule today so the doctor had to go ahead to her next patient. If you'd like to reschedule ..."

She instantly got hot. "I was waiting in traffic! There was a jam at the intersection! If I had cut through the parking lot, like I'm not supposed to do, I'd have been on time! But no, I followed the rules and so yeah, I'm a little bit late. I only show I'm seven minutes late." She put her hands on her hips, and huffed.

Interesting logic, but quite beside the point.

I raised my eyebrows in an "I'm quite sorry, but I can't do a thing about it," way. I wanted desperately to point out how late she was for her previous appointments, but couldn't let her know we'd been keeping score.

"Well, this is just not going to work! If she is so inflexible then I am just going to have to go elsewhere! Only six minutes late (I noticed her acknowledgement of culpability was diminishing) and she can't see me? I suppose she can't even talk to me now, can she? This is absurd. When I go to the doctor's I have to wait and wait and wait, but I'm not allowed to be late!"

"We don't make people wait here. We deliberately schedule that way. That is why we need you to be on time."

"Then I can't be a patient here anymore! That is so inflexible!" She hunches down and lowers her voice, casting a shiftly glance back and forth across the office. "She doesn't have any children, does she? Children tend to make one flexible!"

Like how flexible you're being? Or did you really mean "chronically late," or "irresponsible?"

"Well, give me the paperwork to change doctors!"

"We don't have any, you'll need to let us know in writing who you'd want the records sent to--oh, never mind. You were only here once." I took out the mounds of photocopied paper from her chart and pushed it across the desk to her. "Here. You can take them with you."

She was flushed, mouth hanging open with that "nouveau riche" shock of being held accountable for something. "You know, this wasn't my first choice anyway! [SW] referred me and I guess SHE's always on time for her appointments!"

"Well, yes, [S] is always early."

"Oh yes, [S] is soooo prompt. I bet she's just a model patient."

If we had been in an animated cartoon, the green venom would have been spurting out of her mouth in messy gloops and glops as she spoke, eyes slitted.

I shrugged. Welcome to the land of the grownups, where people have to be on time for appointments, MA'AM.

She stormed to the door. She turned before going out. "Tell the doctor a sweet little farewell from me. I'd so hate to ruin her schedule for the sake of 5 minutes. You know, I don't have any medical care now! I'm sick! *caff-caff*"

"[S], you can still make another appointment."

"No, I don't think I can conform to these rigid standards! Thanks very much for nothing!" So said, the incredibly tall and ugly infant storms out.

"What-ever!" Don't let the door knock you on your ass on the way out, babe.

Send Help!

A little over a month ago, I posted an ad on Craigslist. Mother's helper wanted. Ask and Ye Shall Receive, right?

Well, it took this long (which seemed like ages,) but I had two meet and greets with mother's helpers this week. I am cautiously excited.

The first girl came over yesterday with her mom. I thought Big Kid was going to totally scare her off. She kept saying she was too shy to meet or talk to the girl or her mom, but she wasn't acting shy.  She was acting psychopathic.  Hiding behind the couch, peeking and dodging, saying nonsensical things in an odd demonic voice.  (What, your kids don't do this?)

We had a long talk later about appropriate ways to express feeling shy.

Once we got everyone out in the yard, though, things got much better.  Soon, Ani was dragging her new friend all over the yard, showing her every little thing.  Cel took a few minutes to warm up, but once she did, she was enthusiastically accepting, asking her to pick her up, put her in the swing, color with her.  The girl (J) was gregarious and outgoing, and she really seemed to have a good time with them.  She taught Ani to play freeze tag, and they played an odd version of soccer.

Both girls talked about J all through dinner.  I'd expect that from Ani,  but for Cel, it was really out of character.  She went on a five minute spiel, saying everything she said and did, and even went so far as to demonstrate the faces she made when she lost J's attention.  Holy crow.

She is coming back solo on Friday for her first "assignment," to play with the girls for two hours in the morning, and I am beside myself with glee.  We might even get a two for one special with J, because her "little" sister might sometimes come with her.  She's 12, and her sister is 9, so it'll
likely be no additional trouble for me, and probably even more occupying for my daring duo.

Today I met with another mom and daughter.  It was orchestrated by mom, and I'm not sure her daughter is actually interested in doing a mother's helper gig, but we'll wait and see.  She is homeschooled, so will have an entirely different schedule than J., so it'd be really nice to have two different girls available.  Both have moms who are willing to transport them, and live nearby.

I've been daydreaming about having a mother's helper since Ani was little, but never really bothered to seek one out.  I figured I didn't really need one.  I realized recently that just because I don't need one doesn't mean it'd be a mark of failure if I got one.  I think it'll be good for the girls, will certainly help me get more accomplished and get more downtime*, and in a few years, they may be thoroughly vetted babysitters.  (And in a few years' time, maybe my husband will be less nervous about using a babysitter.)

(*By downtime, I don't mean I expect to be painting my toenails in the bubble bath.  Downtime can purely mean doing chores without someone clinging to my leg or chattering incessantly at me.  Yes, my standards have fallen.  Drastically.)

One thing that really triggered me to make an effort to find a mother's helper was reading A Midwife's Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812.  I didn't know that, in colonial times, it was common and expected for mothers to have young unmarried cousins or nieces actually join their household to help with the kids and learn different homemaking skills.  More prosperous families hired servants.  This "ideal" of the American Mother juggling a household and a gaggle of children all by herself, while looking good and gleaming with healthy optimism, is a crock.  That's not to say women can't do it -- of course they can -- but why?

I read an article recently; the author said that she thought the whole SAHM vs WOHM thing was really a distraction from the fact that there is very little support for mothers and families in general in society and in our working culture.  If there was more maternity leave, more flexible working arrangements, onsite childcare, etc., we wouldn't have to make such distinctions.

I thought she had a great point.

the best diet with the worst name

I ordered this book about three weeks ago, while coiled up on the couch in pain. I've had IBS since I was a teenager, got an official seal of approval diagnosis in 2003, and continued to have frequent and random difficulties ever since.

Seemingly random.

I found this book while surfing around for information on IBS, because I was getting desperate enough to make a doctor's appointment, and I knew that there was a high probability that it would be a useless waste of time. I thought I'd give the book and the eating plan a try before I went that route again.

The gist of the plan is as follows: avoidance of red meat, egg yolks, dairy, high-fat foods, caffeine, carbonation, and alcohol.

I know what you're thinking. But wait! I have more things to say!

The good -- nay, fabulous -- part is the list of things that are good, happy foods for your fussy digestive system. After years of indoctrination to the contrary, I was a little bit scared to start eating white bread, white rice, pasta (not whole wheat) and all these other delightful foods you're told are completely useless nutritionally and will make you fat. You are also told to eat lean proteins, like (white meat) chicken, fish, shellfish, and egg whites.

I immediately changed my diet. I dumped the coffee for teas, mostly herbal. I started baking bread several times a week: white, Italian, and sweet breads. I lowered the fat in all recipes as much as possible by using nonstick cookware and the oil sprays. I got a rice cooker and we've been having white rice with almost every meal, unless we're having pasta.

I switched to soy milk for drinking and recipes, and since my oldest is allergic to egg whites, all my baking is now vegan. I've been making banana bread, orange cranberry bread, chocolate applesauce bread, and this unbelievable lemon sticky bread -- all recipes from the book.

Almost immediately, I improved. Every day I stuck to the diet, I had no problems. Every time I weaseled in a bit of dairy, I felt it. I'm amazed at how much better behaved my system has been these past three weeks. I haven't had to make any unexpected changes in my day or schedule because of GI issues, and that's been a real problem lately.

And frankly, I'm in total bliss over being given the green light to eat white foods again. I haven't gained any weight yet on all these carby carbs (I'm crossing my fingers, though), and my next focus is to start carefully working in more insoluble fiber foods (raw veggies, pithy fruits, etc.) to see how much I can tolerate. I'll happily continue to eat within the diet's structure if it means I don't have to deal with pain and bloating and other unmentionables.

If you have IBS, I highly recommend the book. She's researched the hell out of IBS, and to this layman, the science behind her diet plan seems sound. Anyway, the proof is in the pudding.

The luscious, dreamy rice pudding.

hot yoga

I took the plunge and went to a 6am Bikram Yoga class at the new studio down the street.  I hydrated all weekend like a ... crazy water swilling person.  I chronically have issues with water drinking, and therefore I suspect I'm always flirting with dehydration.  It's a really long standing bad habit.

I fretted over my attire.  Everything I'd read, including the studio brochure, said to wear a sports bra or tank top and form fitting shorts.  Now, my wardrobe is woeful in every department, but those are things I don't own.  Well, I mean, I have several sports bras, but I'd never wear them as tops.  I ended up wearing some loose cotton shorts and a nursing tank I had from Target.  It wasn't an ideal outfit, but it was the best I could do.

I really will need to buy something more suitable if I keep doing this, though.

We were to bring a sticky mat, a bath towel, and a bottle of water.  The studio room was heated to 105°F.  I walked in and instantly began sweating.

I knew it would be tough; I was amazed at how tough it was.  Even the opening breathing exercise got my heart rate going and the sweat pouring.  The class was 90 minutes, and I had to stop four or five times to just sit and catch my breath.  At some points, I thought, "This is kind of awful; why I am doing this?"  One pose had us lean over our extended leg and touch our forehead to our knee.  Okay, let's be honest: with my forehead on my knee, I had about a fifty percent chance of smothering to death.  From what I can see, most practitioners of yoga do not have this problem: the self-smothering killer boobs of doom.  So they can be forgiven for not anticipating the potential lethality of the Standing Separate Leg Head to Knee Pose.

The pace felt fast to me, but I appreciated that the instructor kept tabs on people and corrected our posture when necessary.  She told me later I was flexible, but maybe she was being kind.

I got through it, and as soon as I started to cool down, I felt the afterglow hit.  I felt bathed in a giddy, silly state of bliss.  The bliss lasted a good couple of hours.  It might have lasted longer, were it not simultaneously a Monday (read: weekend chaos recovery efforts) and another damn day off from the regular preschool schedule (read: fiesty and bored four year old.)

I have a ten day introductory special, and she advised going as often as I could during those first ten days to really see the effects, but I can't sneak in much more than maybe three in the week.  Four would be pushing it.  Only two classes per week are at 6am, which is the most ideal time because it doesn't really interfere with the family or karate.  I have karate tonight, in fact, and stripe testing to boot, but I feel great.  The only thing that might interfere with my performance tonight is that I dropped a bedrail on my big toe this afternoon, moving furniture around.  *eyeroll*

I can't wait for the next class.  Whee!  I'm obviously insane!

Edited to fix numerous mistakes that are the result of SO MUCH EFFING NOISE AND BICKERING.

Dude, wait ... what?

"Chennai, April 08 Coimbatore-based GEM Hospital Director Dr C Palanivelu, who has been instrumental in introducing the "Key hole surgery" or Minimum invasive surgery, has embarked on a research to use the "key hole concept" for cesarean surgery."

Um, what?  How do you deliver a baby via "key hole surgery?"  No matter how you go in, a baby still has to come out, and there MUST be more to this because I can't see how you get a baby out of a laparoscopic incision.

Especially since the reason for most c-sections is, "the baby is too big."

Unless they are planning to use the scopes to make tiny abdominal incisions, but do really big slices and dices to open the womb and transfer the baby into the vagina.  There is really an easier way to accomplish this.  It's known as a cervix.

If you can understand how this would possibly work, please enlighten me.

It's quite absurd, anyway.  The next wave of technologically assisted deliveries will be via teleportation.  That will, however, only be used for those mothers selfish enough to wish to carry a pregnancy.  The responsible mother will not meddle in such matters, and allow the doctors to grow the baby in an artificial womb, in a controlled laboratory setting.

Friday Flipback

In lieu of doing something time consuming (and potentially embarrassing) like importing in all my old entries from days gone by, I thought once in a while I'd post an oldie at random, just for fun.  My own fun, that is; you better not have any fun, or I'll have to rethink this whole enterprise.

Originally posted March 20, 2003:

Just got back from my first Hypnobirthing class. No link, just too tired and lazy.

It wasn't bad, it was us and two other couples. One couple seemed reasonably normal, and the other talked way too much. They were the only couple there who already had children, and after the rest of us gave 5-10 second introductions, they talked for 10 minutes about how horrible their first birth was, how much better the second birth was with self-taught hypnosis, what they needed out of this class, etc. I was good for a while and then my short attention span quickly drove me into full blown annoyance mode. They out-talked the instructors, for criminy's sake.

Near the end of the class, they gave us a script to follow, separated the couples into our own rooms, and we were to have the husband (excuse me, birth companion) read from the script to try our first hypnotic trance. The beginning of said script called for him to wave his hand in front of my face and tell me to stare at it in a "dreamy" way.

Well, let's be honest: that sent me into two consecutive, uncontrolled fits of hysterical laughter. Eventually, I asked him to skip that part and move ahead to where my eyes were closed, because that Svengali stuff was just slaying me. He'd just lift his hand and I'd start snorting helplessly. From then on, it was fine. Even in the middle of the trance state, though, thoughts kept sneaking in about having to explain all the noise I had been making, and that alone would make my chest heave slightly before I could reassert control over myself.

We did end up paying the astonishing class fee, so we will be attending the four remaining classes. Heck, it costs less than an epidural -- maybe my insurance company will reimburse me.

Ha!

It was pouring rain, so the drive home in the dark was a bit of a white knuckler. As we pulled off the expressway and came to the light at the exit, I lowered my window to spit my gum out the window. (I know, I know!)

This all took place so quickly, it was a bit of a blur. As I spit my gum, Quinn said, "I'll do mine, too!" Thinking he meant to spit his gum out his own damn window, I just started to roll mine up. It was raining, after all. But no! With a mighty blow of air, he spat his gum across the car, across me, just in time to hit the window as it closed, the hard little white gumwad bouncing back into the car, at my feet.

Some hysterical laughing, swearing and punching followed, which I can't really accept blame for. I am pregnant, after all.

moro reflex, babinski reflex ... whining reflex

My two year old is in this sudden and painful whining phase. It seems as though almost everything she says is now pitched up two octaves higher than her natural voice. It's like nails on a chalkboard ... inside your skull.

I need to understand the whine. I'm sure it's possible for kids to pick up whining from other kids, but I don't think it's the case. Whining seems too universal, especially at this age. I'm willing to bet if you have a single child and raise it entirely in the company of adults, it will still, one terrible day, begin to whine. I'm pretty sure it's part of innate human programming.

Whining is almost impossible to ignore. You can grit your teeth and la-la-la and it will still weasel its way into your ears and reverberate in your fillings. I'm pretty sure if you were, for some reason, rendered immobile in a room with a whining child, after a while you'd begin to bleed from every orifice in your head.

Whining almost always gets an immediate reaction. An overall negative reaction, certainly, but a reaction all the same. Feed it, clothe it, pick it up, just make it stop for the love of God.

My theory is that when a child hits this awkward in-between stage, not quite a baby anymore, not quite a rough and tumble kid, they are programmed to use this hideous caterwauling to keep from being neglected. Once a kid is walking, talking, has lots of independent skills and most of their teeth, it's tempting to let them fend for themselves a little. Whining is an evolutionary adaptation, to keep precious parental resources focused on them.

Because for as much as you'd like to toss the little whiner out of the family cave, the noise is so awful, the quickest and easiest means of relief is to find out what they want and give it to them. I mean, how often does a parent choke out in desperation, "Fine, just TAKE the entire box of tissues, if it'll keep you quiet!"

And you know that most kids don't whine like this for other people, especially unrelated people. Because if you're not carrying my genes into the future ... well, do you really need to get there at all? Especially if you whine like that?

So, I'm thinking primitive Cave Toddler whined along behind Cave Mommy as she picked fruits and nuts and berries, who would feed him and carry him just to Shut Him Up. This got Cave Toddler extra calories in, fewer calories out, and a lot less chance of falling in a hole or eating the wrong berries or getting trampled by a warthog. If Cave Mommy managed to ignore or get out of earshot, I bet you'd see other Cave Folk running out to find her, waving a whining toddler over their head like a primitive police siren.

Whiners are survivors, baby.

Really, really, really annoying survivors.

big plans

My biggest kid is going to Kindergarten in the fall. She is ecstatic, whilst demanding that there better be more kids with different names [than in her preschool.] I'm excited that she'll get to meet more kids in our area, since she's such a relentless social butterfly.

That's not what I came to blog about, though. I came to blog about my vast excitement over this idea of Having Some Time to Myself.

It won't be much time, because Baby C will still be with me most of the time.  However, she is signed up for preschool two days a week in the fall, so there may actually be about six hours a week that I will be on my own.  Oh, my god!  Baby C is also far less, uh, intensively interactive than 'Ka (as C calls her), and lets me get far more done around the house.

(Right now, for instance, she is dancing around happily with a tube of my lip balm.)

Characteristically, I have grand and probably delusional plans for the next three years, before Baby C is old enough for kindergarten.

1) Yoga classes.  I haven't taken a real class since 1997.  I've dabbled with a sporadic home practice, but I'm looking forward to taking a real studio class again.  A new Bikram Yoga studio opened last month less than a mile from my house, and I'm very intrigued.  I'm planning to try a class or two as soon as possible, but probably will not be able to do it regularly until school starts.  (Because this would be in addition to, not instead of, the martial arts I'm already doing.)

2) Writing more!  I used to blog really regularly.  Now, I generally don't have the attention span required to do much writing, particularly of any quality.  This is because it's difficult to write when someone is saying, "Mommy?" or the more penetrating, "Moooo-hooooooo-mmmmmmaaa-haaaaaaay?" every thirty seconds.

(This is not an exaggeration.  One day, I conducted an experiment where I counted the seconds between "Mommy?" while on a 20 minute drive, and the longest interval I counted was 47 seconds.  This experiment helped keep me from driving the car into the side of an overpass from the aural version of Chinese Water Torture.)

3) To paraphrase a dear friend, to be the castellan* I originally intended to be when I started this whole staying home gig.  The bed making, candle lighting, linen spritzing, garden mucking, tool wielding, window dressing, rug beating, 
jam canning, car waxing, clothes hanging, bread baking, flower fluffing, barbeque hosting, wine appreciating, herb growing, good smelling, apron wearing punk rock feminist domestic dictatress (dictatrix?) I wanted to be. And I'd have succeeded, too, if it weren't for these meddling kids! (That's a joke. Don't get judgy with me.)

Fortunately, I don't think I have to do any of those things, so I'm not tortured by not doing it. I just think it would be fun, if I ever get uninterrupted stretches of time to do it, without having to sacrifice either time with the kids or my husband or, you know, time to laze around and dream about lipstick. I have my priorities, you know.



*Yes, I did deliberately use the masculine form of the word. I am an equal opportunity home overlord.

cinnamon and honey

I dye my hair with plants.  I started with henna, alone, last year.  The amazing, tonal red hue is unbelievably lovely.  After a while, though, I decided the red wasn't ideal for my complexion, so I switched to a blend of henna and indigo together.  This makes a rich, warm brown.  It's a few shades darker than my natural light brown, and my grays become golden coppery highlighting strands.

But hey, now it's spring!  Soon, it'll be summer!  Dark brown is so autumnal.  I want to lighten it up a bit.

Many plants and plant byproducts contain varying levels of peroxide.  Honey is one.  Cinnamon is another.  Coconut products, like cream of coconut and coconut milk, also contain peroxide.

Last night, I smeared up a bowlful of 1 part honey, 1 part V05 Kiwi Lime Conditioner, 2 heaping T of cinnamon, and 1 T warmed coconut oil.  I spread this concoction on my head, wrapped the mess up in plastic wrap and a headscarf, and 
slept on it all night.

I'm pretty sure I dreamed about Cinnabons, but I digress.

I rinsed it out thoroughly in the shower, washed with shampoo to pull out any last remnants, and put a very dilute apple cider vinegar rinse over the lot.  Although I don't usually blow dry, I did this morning to see how much of a change there was.

There's a subtle but obvious lightening.  The best part is that, like the other plant-based treatments I've tried, it retains the tonality of natural haircolor.  That is, natural hair has a whole variety of shades in any one head of hair.  This gives it luster and depth.  Chemical dyes often change every hair the same color, unless you do additional processing to give highlights or lowlights.

My scheme is to do a few more honey and cinnamon treatments over the next few weeks, then try a treatment with cassia obovata to see if it gives grays in the new growth enough of a golden tint to disguise them as highlights.  If not, I'll fiddle with my henna/indigo ratio and add some amla.

I didn't have the good sense to get a before picture in the same light, but here's a rough idea:

After honey:


Before honey:

Why I Hate Clifford

The Big Red Bore.

I don't even like the kids to watch much TV.  Most of it is shite.  However, it's sometimes nice to let them watch something when they first wake up to keep them from bouncing on my head.

Unfortunately, it is always Clifford on PBS at that time of the morning.

I hate Clifford.  Every single episode (and there are only like, ten of them, shown OVER and OVER and OVER) goes like this:

[One of their Lame, One Dimensional Characters] does something stupid.
[LODC] stubbornly clings to their stupid behavior, hiding it if necessary.
[LODC] gets their comeuppance.
[LODC] claims, "From NOW ON, I will [always/never] do blah blah blah AGAIN!"
Everyone claps LODC on the back.  Hurray for [always/never] doing blah blah blah AGAIN!

Like some treacle with your heavy handled morality lesson this morning, kids?

Kids shows fall into two categories.  Fun learning stuff, and heavy handed morality.  Some shows blend the two in a particularly sly and obnoxious way.  God, where would we all be if Clifford didn't teach our kids to NEVER lie and NEVER be afraid to ask for help and ALWAYS be nice?!

I find them insulting, and vaguely shaming.

And Clifford's hideous theme song includes the following lyrics:

"Clifford's the best friend anyone could know,
he's the greatest dog ever!
I really think so!"

Wow.  Couldn't you gag on all the superlatives?  You might think you have a good friend or a good dog, but this anonymous singer is here to tell you: No, you're WRONG.  This cartoon dog with the voice of John Ritter is the Best and Greatest Dog and Friend Ever.  Period.  He also has a degree in Philosophy and Ethics from Harvard University.

And then there's Jetta.  I'm not sure what Jetta's purpose in life is, except perhaps to show kids that even rude and obnoxious people should be welcomed with open arms into your life.  If Jetta has a deep dark mysterious past that accounts for her being a little shit, we're not privy to it.

Why Clifford?  Why don't they bring back Zoboomafoo?  At least that includes some genuine information and eye candy, usually showing a little leg.  

Now that's educational.

And excuse me, I need to go brush the treacle off my teeth.