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Archive for September, 2007

Monday’s Militant Mom Rants

Why is it exactly that the militant breastfeeders can’t just say “I’m going to feed the baby.”  Why do they always have to say “I’m going to breastfeed the baby” or as it is known online sometimes, BF or BFing.  You know the ones.  They’re the ones who blow a gasket at the hospital if the nursery dares to even put a pacifier NEAR the baby since that will confuse the baby and the baby won’t want to BF, thus plunging the mom into lifelong depression because she was a failure at the BFing.  I mean, seriously,  some of these gals are probably working on the blueprints for some sort of doohicky so that they can also make apple juice come out of the right one and white grape juice out of the other so the kid won’t EVER want to leave the tit.  Oh, and they like to call it “Boob Juice,” which also irritates the hell out of me for some reason.

And please don’t misunderstand.  Every one of my kids had benefit of the boob.  I just wasn’t obsessed with it.  My world wouldn’t have ended had one of them…say…contacted a severe case of nipple confusion and refused the boob altogether.  I’d go so far to say that by The Boy’s turn, the decision to BF was more directly related to my pocketbook and laziness than because “BREAST IS BEST” or because if I BFed then I could have a super cool animated LiveJournal icon that flashed “I Make MILK, what’s YOUR super power?”  It’s great trick our bodies do and it is good for babies, I’m just saying the militant types sorta grate on my nerves just a little bit.

The cloth diapering militia are another bunch that make my head hurt.  Like the BFers, they can’t ever say “I have to stop reading blogs now to go change the baby.”  Nope.  It’s gotta be “I have to stop reading blogs now to go change my baby’s tie-dyed, prefolded, cloth diaper.”  I don’t recall ever in all of my 4 babies’ infancies a one of them ever having any sort of “reaction” to disposable diaper of any brand.  And believe me, I tried every kind and the kind I bought a lot of times had only to do with the bottom line…

Money.

And yes, I know that my using Huggies probably shaved 15 years of mother Earth’s life and all…

but if I had another kid tomorrow, you can bet your ass that his ass would be nice and dry in a nice disposable diaper.

Lots of the folks in the cloth diapering communities are also into making homemade sanitary napkins and sponge tampons and what not, but talking about it makes me throw up a little in my mouth, so…I won’t.

But back to babies, on my Mondays off, I quite often zone out to TLC or Discovery Health.

I’m way past having babies, but for some reason, I’ll still watch A Baby Story (or any other show that involves lots of pushing and breathing and squishy babies being born) anytime it is on.  So, this morning it was this doula mother kavetching because she was 42 weeks and 2 days pregnant and her midwife wanted to do an induction and she didn’t want to do an induction, she wanted her baby to decide on her own birthday and she needed a “healing birth” to make up for the terrible, horrible first birth when -due to medical complications-they decided to go ahead and do a cesarean to SAVE THE BABY’S LIFE.  God this woman just went on and on about how she had to have a “natural birth.” 

Now, I’ve had 4 pregnancies and 4 different deliveries.  The first one, I was 20 and in labor for about 2 days.  I was scared shitless, but thanks to the mandatory enema, being scared didn’t have a thing to do with that. 

RCG had to be “assisted” by these huge salad tongs they call forceps.  Her head resembed a squishy tomato.  But the cord was wrapped around her neck and her heart rate was dropping so of course I was all like GET THE KID OUT ALREADY DAMMIT.  Oh, and with that one, all I had in the way of anesthesia was a shot of something that made me feel like sleeping and puking at the same time. No fun.

My favorite Longhorn also liked how she looked with the cord draped around her neck.  So much so she decided 2 loops would be good.  She didn’t require any implements to get out, though, and was my only completely drug-free, implement-free birth.  No one came to award me the Best Birther award, though.

With the Junior, well, we found out the week she was due, when my darling doctor Jerry, who I was in “pregnant woman love” with, reached on up there and made this declaration:

“Uh oh.”

Seems she’d decided at some point between A and B to sit up for a while and what he was feeling wasn’t a head but a foot.   At any rate, Dr. Who Always Smelled like Dial Soap sent me home to do what I could to encourage the wee babe to flip around, which consisted mainly of me laying with my face on the floor with my ass in the air, belly hanging all askimbo.

I know, what a visual.

Anyway, that didn’t work, they had to turn her from the outside and do an immediate induction…then before the Pitocin even kicked in:

CORD PROLAPSE AND EMERGENCY C-SECTION.

here drink this shit- we’re just going to put this catheter in – breathe in – injection  – sleep sleep sleep. 

As it turns out, she didn’t have a cord around her neck, but she did have a knotted one.  No one there had ever seen one, so folks were called in to see the Amazing Knotted Umbilical Cord and my innards, apparently.

With the boy, I went the epidural route and practically had him unassisted.  No biggie.

My point is this.  Bottom line…I got 4 healthy babies out of it.  Had I chosen to not listen to the health care providers I CHOSE, the end result would have been very different for 2 of my girls. 

To me, it just seems like some of these gals are more concerned about HOW their babies arrive than the actual arrival part.

Anyway, I ramble and have largely forgotten exactly what my point was going to be when I started this (not unlike when I find myself standing in the kitchen and I get a cup of coffee, only to come back to the office to sit down and remember I’d gone into the kitchen for a glass of water).

And yes, I know I could have just changed the damn channel, but then how could I lie on my couch and feel superior 😉

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This One is for Olene

In the summer of 1971, I became a Texan.  That was the year that my little ‘Kraut mother had to choose where in this great country she wanted to raise her daughter alone. 

It was that summer that I wqas adopted a scond time.  Mother chose me the first time before I was even born, but Olene adopted me the second time when I was a little girl of 6 – when a taxi dropped us in her gravel driveway that summer day when it had to be 125 in the shade. this adoption took place sans lawyers and legalities.   No papers were signed.  Our adoption “broker” was a woman I only remember as Eve.  I remember that Eve had a daughter named “Kakhi.”  Why she had a daughter named after a color of pants, I do not remember.  I do remember she was a vile little blonde thing that constantly got me in trouble…but I digress.

Anyway, I don’t remember why she was there or why she and mother were friends in Japan.  All I know is that I will be forever grateful that mom had a friend named Eve who had a friend in Glen Rose, Texas, who offered to take in a stranger named Elsie and her little girl she called Lynni into her home, sight unseen and without question, who welcomed them with the biggest, coldest watermelon they’d ever seen that hot, not afternoon in August 1971.

The arrangements weren’t complicated for our stay with Olene.  They were, simply, that we could stay as long as we needed.  There was no rent.  There was nothing required of us. 

To say Olene Stout was a walking, talking angel would be an understatement.  I don’nt recall how long we stayed with her in her little concrete house with the little concrete shower and the screened-in back porch with the table stacked high with old True Detectives and Inside Detectives magazines.  It was funny…on any given evening, you would find Olene sitting in her doorway, on the floor, reading either her humungous old family Bible or a True Detective…and she’d be quick to tell you that she’d read through that big old Bible more times than she could remember…and you knew it was the truth.

You see, Olene wass, as we say ’round here, a God-fearin’ woman.  She was the custodian of First Baptist Church and she was a formidable woman.  She stood about 6′ 1 in her canvas sneakers, of which she had a pair in every color available in the 70’s.  Heck, maybe just white.  But all she wore was sneakers.  She wore a sleeveless cotton shift dress every day…summer, spring, fall or winter.  The woman didn’t own a coat.  I think sometimes she is where I got my fashion sense… that is so heavy on the sensible.  She was tall and strong and independent and single in a time where that didn’t happen often.  Everywhere she went, she went a walkin’.  And everywhere she went walkin, she was whistling.  You could hear her coming blocks away. 

And there is not a single time I stand in church and sing “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweetest name I know” that I don’t close my eyes and see her walking toward the house whistling the tune.  And I always smile.

See, when I was a kid, mom often worked on Sundays, either at the cafe or babysitting, so Olene always made sure this little gal was in church.  We’d walk downtown, down the big hill, past the community center, and go to church.  Weather didn’t decide if we went or not.  If we couldn’t walk, we’d ride the church bus.  It wasn’t a question as to ‘if’ we’d be there when the doors opened. 

My fondest memories are of those Sundays when, on the walk home, we would devise a plan for a picnic.  Olene always had three things in her tiny refrigerator:  Coke in a bottle, cheddar cheese, and a bag of Tootsie Pops.  For the life of me, I don’t know what she actually ATE other than that. Oh, wait.  She always had saltines to go with the cheese. 

Anyway, on those magical Sundays we’d come home from the church house and pack us a brown paper bag filled with crackers and cheese and Tootsie Pops and Coke and we’d set off on our adventure down Shotgun Road.  We’d stop at the creek and kick off our shoes and wade a little before we found a perfect picnic spot.  Then we’d sit and eat cheese and crackers and drink Coke and think there wasn’t a better Sunday dinner to be had while she’d tell me stories of when she was a child in old Glen Rose and the bootleggers had stills in the woods. 

And I would sit in the sun on a hot rock, feet dangling in the creek, an orange Tootsie Pop jutting out of my mouth, and soak in every word that came out of her mouth.

Oh, how I wish my children would have had the gift, no…the blessing, of knowing someone like Olene.  A Godly woman with a gift of love and the patience to let little girls paw through their costume jewelry until they found just the right ‘ear screws’ (Olene didn’t have pierced ears, so she had the kind of earbobs that you literally screwed onto your ears) until said little girl was just the right amount of glamorous. 

As I got older, we were lucky enough to still live next door to Olene.  I grew out of the after church picnics, but I never got tired of taking her over a big bowl of chicken and dumplings that we had for supper and sitting in her dark little living room, lit only by her 12-inch black and white TV, and watch The Beverly Hillbillies and Gunsmoke and that 20-mule team Borax something or other show. 

Those are memories that are golden to me.

In a lifetime, how often are you blessed to know…to be adopted by…an angel? 

I know that I was not once, but twice.

The first by a hard-working little German and the second by…

Olene Stout.

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Sept. 18, 2007

Do y’all remember the days and weeks following September 11, 2001?  We all drove around with our lights on and every car and house was sporting an American flag.   We all seemed more patient with one another, more tolerant, more forgiving.  Our world was so rocked, it seemed stupid fighting over a parking spot.  

Well, let me tell ya, we here in C-Town are well past that tolerant, let’s all love one another through this horrible time crap.  This afternoon I saw 3 cases of bonafide ROAD RAGE, complete with rolled down windows and profanity and fists flying.  I find that sort of crap entertaining in a ‘wow look at that idiot’ sort of way.  

Besides, what else do we have to entertain us as we sit in traffic that is moving at a snail’s pace because our city leaders, in their infinite wisdom, thought it a good idea to make the 5th and 6th grade campus next door to the high school into a junior high school, consisting of 6th, 7th and 8th grade…RIGHT next door to the high school, where their are no lights, just 4-way stops, and a bajillion numnutt teenagers in their SUVs and Mustangs hell bent on being the first one out of the parking lot.  

And then you have the morons who are above actually going into the parking lot to get Junior.  Them bitches just pull over to the side of this congested, hate-filled avenue, causing everyone behind them to have to pass them in the turning lane, which means that the cars that need to turn into the high school don’t have a turning lane

ack

our commute to school?  1 mile.

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Random Bullet Tuesday

I can’t for the life of me put a cohesive post together, so we’re going the random bullet direction:

  • My gosh, how good does it feel outside this morning???  This is the kind of day that I remember that the good Lord Baby Jesus does really love the people of the world and summer is nearly over…until next week when it is 100 again.

  • Yesterday, my RCG went and did a wonderful thing that will, no doubt, increase the quality of life at the Casa for countless people.  You see, for years we’ve only had the internets on one computer…mine…the one I work on.  This meant that every time anyone other than me needed to:  check their bank account/myspace/livejournal/email, they would circle around me like buzzards over roadkill possum.  So, yesterday being my Supine Monday, RCG decided to take advantage of the fact I wasn’t on this machine and she found one of the routers we’ve bought in years past to network this machine with the Boy’s but could never get it to work, and SHE GOT IT TO WORK.  So now, not only is the Boy able to gamezone.com his heart out while I pound out the keystrokes over here, but we gots the WIFI, which means RCG can check her bank balance/myspace/AIM/Ebay/YahooMessenger/  look for a J-O-B from the comfort of her dorm room the living room.  This made yesterday RCG Day here at the Casa.  That squeal of delight you heard yesterday around 4 p.m. was the Boy when he saw these words on his computer monitor:  youtube.  This is monumental.  We fed her amazing food and served it to her while she updated her iTunes and I think the Boy might have brought her a burnt offering of some kind later…or a brownie.  Dang.  Lengthy bullet.

  • Okay, so Sunday afternoon the Mr. drops the Junior off at church for choir.  When I go back to pick her up an hour later, she comes out with Shifty-Looking Girl.  “Uh. Whatcha doing, Junior?”  I said.  “Oh nothing, Shifty-Looking Girl is going to come to our house and then go over to Dad’s later.”  uh. ok.  Of course, I immediately think…well, I hope SLG doesn’t need to use the litter box restroom while she is here because I don’t care if I don’t know her from Adam, I’m embarassed for her to go in there.  But, I smile graciously and drive because I can tell something is fishy.  Long story shorter, she is 17, pissed off at her old, disabled parents, and has decided since the first of the summer that crashing at various friends’ places is better than staying home.  She also uses for effect that she “lives behind the Walmart.”  The Juniors dad has let her stay there, but when the Junior is here, I hate to say it, but we just don’t have any room at the Inn.  Also, according to her, she has “sexuality issues, has been in the insane asylum twice, and has met Pete Wentz.”  I’m calling bullshit on this one.  The Junior realizes she may have bit off more than she can chew with this and we are all hoping that her Dad takes care of it.  I just don’t have the time or patience to deal with that kind of drama when I’m trying to keep my own ship afloat.

  • That verse in the Bible that says “a child shall lead them”…it’s so not lying.  The Mr. and I, Boy in tow have had our tails in a pew 3 of the 4 past Sundays.  This is stellar.  Trust me on this one.  Not stellar enough to take first bullet, but stellar nonetheless.

  • OHHHHH.  I got the coolest wind chimes for the backyard.  Just in time for the winds today.  If you’re thinking tinkly tinkly wind chimes, stop.  The longest of the “chimes” is probably 45 inches long.  These are windGONGS.  They sound beautiful.  We have a lovely spot all picked out to hang them over by the gate 😉

  • annnnnnnnnnnd…I think that brings Random Bullet Tuesday up to date.

  • No, wait.  since we chatted last, we’ve had three birthdays at the Casa…well, not AT the Casa really, but the Boy is now 9 and is loving 3rd grade and liking his first man teacher, the Longhorn turned 20 and the College Freshman is now 19, and we officially get to put an end to Birthday Season until January. 

  • ok. now that’s all.

  • Hearts and Flowers, folks 🙂

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Dear Hollywood Starlet,

For that matter, all girls in general…listen to Auntie C, k? 

Do not, under any circumstances, let your boyfriend take nekky pictures of you. 

Even if he promises he will never show anyone…

Because he will.

Even if you are quite sure he would never show anyone…

Stupid.

Because if you do, your girly bits will be all over the internet in a heartbeat for all the world to see and the fine folks at Disney probably won’t let you play with them anymore.

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I Like Dreamin’

But lately, not so much.  For the last weeks I have been visited at night by levitating cell phones possessed of demons, sick and dying babies that are not mine yet I desperately have to try to keep them alive but I forget to feed them and I’m always so concerned about them getting dehydrated (those really, really bother me), ghoulies in general, and all means of peril and unease.  I especially enjoyed the one where I was at some sort of baseball/football game and the stands were made of plastic and were huge and tall and I was at the very top and they were just weaving and about to topple over (and I am deathly afraid of heights). 

It hasn’t been very conducive for restful sleep.

But this past week, each and every night there is a distinct similarity in my dreams, in that they are always set in a house that is in disrepair.  In one, we are repairing the roof and all around me the decking is just caving in and I have no place to go.  In another, the only way to get in to the house is by stacking crates and chairs and boxes and climbing up to get to the door and when you do, everything tumbles down.  There was one where I was upstairs and the staircase collapsed and I had no way to get down.

It is annoying enough that I sit here in the morning trying to piece together my crazy nocturnal brain activity, so this morning I googled “dreams about houses” and found this:

Start interpreting the dream by deciding if the house in your dream is one in which you currently live or have lived in at some point or if the house is not one you know.

If the house is someplace you called home at some point in your life, think about what was occurring in your life when you lived there. I have a client who was unhappily married for many years. Anytime she finds herself in a bad state emotionally, she begins dreaming that she is living in the house where she lived before she was divorced. Analyzing the dream in this way can also help you discover whether the dream points to current issues or issues that are coming up from the past.

If the house seems to be a generic house, or isn’t one that you know, then the dream is probably serving as a symbol of your body, mind or spirit, rather than a symbol of some interpersonal issue.

Houses that are in need of repair may indicate feelings of exhaustion or may indicate health issues which need addressing. They most certainly point to a need to pay more attention to the physical body.

Houses that are falling apart may indicate emotional stress. Similarly, dilapidated houses may indicate old, outdated modes of being. In both cases, the dream is asking us to look at how we are relating to the world and to update our mode of being in it.

 Bingo, I thought.  You’re spot on, BellaOnline. 

Excited as I was to finally have some insight on why I am being devilled in my sleep, I share with my friend Teresa the breaking news.  The reason I am having these stupid house dreams is because I am: 

Exhausted…check…or I could have health issues (there is this weird node that is bothering me)…check…or maybe emotional stress…check.

Any of the above fit.

But in her infinite wisdom she replies:

MyFriendTeresa (10:33:27 AM): ok

MyFriendTeresa(10:34:10 AM): could it be that maybe your house just needs some work on it  LOL

 

What a smartass.

 

 

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