babywhumpus

Dinner!

2012-01-27T19:16:00.001-06:00

What if?

2012-01-21T14:32:00.000-06:00

What if I woke up every morning and just wrote? What would I say; what would I write about? If I were clear of the detritus of a job that only cluttered my brain with worries, could sleep without my brain spinning with to-do lists and external demands? If I answered only to my family and friends and to entities of my choosing?

In two weeks, I intend to find out.

Bribery

2012-01-05T21:08:00.001-06:00

It's come to this: I am bribing my child with the prospect of watching videos of himself in order to get him to eat more scrambled eggs, on which he has slathered strawberry jam.

Many things are wrong with this scenario.

An evening with friends

2012-01-05T21:05:00.001-06:00

Nothing like wearing goggles while watching Rudolph and chewing on a plastic chicken.

The road taken

2012-01-03T22:16:00.001-06:00

I am both tired of traveling and unwilling to return to normal life.

On the road again

2012-01-02T21:22:00.001-06:00

This morning, it was 40 in Massachusetts. Now, we are in the middle of a lake effect snowstorm in Ohio (safe in a hotel). This photo is from New York state.

New Year, New ... ?

2012-01-01T14:58:00.001-06:00

I'm expecting big things from 2012.

Wall of Terror

2011-12-05T09:52:00.001-06:00

Wall of Terror, a photo by kittywhumpus on Flickr.

I WAS GOING TO PUT THAT THING ON THAT OTHER THING! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

2011-12-01T12:47:00.000-06:00

I probably don't need to write anything more.

But maybe you don't have a child in the 3's.

Did you realize that you were not supposed to come out on the porch to greet your returning family because your offspring wanted to knock on the door?

Let the puddle of wailing child tell you just how wrong you were.

Was it not clear to you that you were not supposed to come down the escalator until your adorable scrumpy muffinhead, who was in a location unknown to you, was able to view said descent?

Witness Exhibit B: Crumply Tears.

So sorry that you did not receive the memo that from now on, all movements of Thing A to Spot B must be cleared, previous to movement, by the Apple of Your Eye; any process involving more than two steps must be explained, before execution, to the Fruit of Your Loins in case he or she wishes to have input or personally execute any of the steps him- or herself.

Failure to do either of the above will result in one of the following:

a) an immediate contraction of all core and facial muscles, accompanied by piercing cries, resulting in a ball of blinding, white-hot despair that threatens to consume all joy in the universe

b) an immediate expansion of the spine accompanied by rigid extremities, thrown-back head*, and pitch to floor or ground, perhaps involving a last minute face-down flip with hands covering weeping ocular area**

On some rare occasions, the result could instead be throwing of whatever item can be reached or thumps on the face or chest from the small, angry homo sapien you so thoughtlessly created. Usually, however, the emotion is disappointment/lossofallfaithintheworld and does not involve violence.

Reading this blog post constitues your consent to the above.

You have been warned.

*(and, of course, piercing cries)
**(also threatening to obliterate joy)

Adult Conversation

2011-11-30T17:45:00.000-06:00

At a certain point, your little being will achieve a level of sentience that is completely self-centered, and it will realize that you are not always talking about him or her. At that point, you will not only find yourself with a to-do list of chores that reaches from the pile of dirty clothes in the bedroom to the faint memory you had of yourself as an organized, sane being, but you will no longer be able to discuss who is going to do what or how.

You will look at your partner and realize that you have no idea what s/he is doing at work or how s/he is feeling, and it's only because of Facebook that you know anything at all about him or her.

"So, I saw on your wall that you are really pissed off about randompoliticalsituationinAmerica and really love garlic cheese curds only slightly less than you love me and the kid."

You will realize that you only talk to have short complaint sessions or cursory exchanges about who is picking up... the kid.

It really is all about the kid, but now the kid is actually pointing this out to you whenever you happen to veer off kid-course.

If that kid is like mine, it will interrupt your discussion about how much that one guy looked like Frank Zappa to say, "Hey, mama... uuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh what's that?" as he points off into the distance at what appears to be absolutely nothing, forcing you to suspend your pointless but still enjoyable exchange to say, "What, honey? I can't see what you are point at. I need more words."

(It's not looking at a goddamn thing. It just wants you to stop talking about anything that's not him or her. I suppose the honesty of that much blatant self absorption would be refreshing if it didn't remind you of randompoliticalsituationinAmerica and make you stabby.)

You will forget what you were talking about. You may forget middle names, birthdays, favorite colors, and entire conversations about truly important things as a wash of mittens, potty runs, Legos, snacks, and sporadic interruptions about nothing pours over you. You will become tiresome and uninteresting to any friends who have not or are not procreating. You will become tiresome and uninteresting to yourself.

You will find yourself writing blog posts about how tiresome and uninteresting you are, and you will grab a Guinness.

News Story on Childcare Union

2011-11-16T10:46:00.000-06:00

In which babywhumpus' nappy head, shoes, and bum make appearances.

Story here.

I have many, many thoughts on this issue, which you can probably guess, but I am too mad to write about it right now.

Sofie Ketelaar (Oma), 1921-2011

2011-11-14T23:30:00.001-06:00

Sofie Ketelaar (Oma), a set on Flickr.

Pete here... We lost an amazing person today, someone very dear to me. I know that my family and I will miss her very much.

Sofie was born and grew up in Germany, where she married Josef (Opa) 69 years ago! They had 3 kids (while surviving World War 2...!) and came to the US in 1952. Even though they spoke no English when they came here, they managed to build an honest and admirable life for themselves and raise 3 incredible children. They have also been an amazing part of the lives of their grandchildren and great grandchildren as well.

We are so honored to have been able to know Sofie, and I (Pete) feel so lucky to have been able to know her both as a child and as an adult. Her life and her words have always been an inspiration to me, and though I will miss her always, I will also always have great memories of her and remember the wise words she shared with me.

Goodbye, Oma! I love you! Thank you for all the love that you shared with me, and with all of us. We're all the better for it.

(I'll add more pictures to this set as we go...)

Car Talk

2011-11-14T12:26:00.000-06:00

spontaneous babywhumpus monologuing:

"I like aikido class."

"I like Marie."

"I like being with Grandma & Gran."

"I like privacy."

breakfast out, 2011

2011-11-06T12:56:00.001-06:00

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

This is not an ad

2011-11-04T08:28:00.000-05:00

DEFINITELY not.

I mean, I think it is the real poster for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, but frankly, I am too terrified to go to their webpage to check for sure, in fear of what other horror might pop out at me.

I want nothing to do with this.

As if the giant shark-eyed dough boy and clearly psychopathic Ronald were not enough, there are clowns ALL OVER that scroll-down, with absolutely no warning.

This does NOT look like fun to me.

It looks like precisely the opposite.

Musical Interlude

2011-10-23T12:43:00.000-05:00

Finn spent the last week with his grandparents, and we spent it sick.

I mean, we were sick.

With colds.

Here's a song...

NICU Follow-up Graduation

2011-10-11T17:10:00.000-05:00

babywhumpus had his last visit to the NICU Follow-up clinic today, and I feel strangely ambivalent. While Finn has no lingering complications from his prematurity, I like the attention. Plus, I like going back to Children's even though everything has changed. These people took such good care of him, and I like the chance to see them again.

In any case, he topped out the Bayley Skills test and would have done even better, but he was quiet for the first part of the test, acting shy, and definitely did not do some things that he does do. Which the nurse certainly understands.

In any case, he's a rock star in the preemie world, and we feel very fortunate.

A fine day up north

2011-10-10T14:01:00.001-05:00

Harvest for the Hungry, a set on Flickr.

daddywhumpus, babywhumpus, and I headed up to Brainerd, MN, for the "Harvest for the Hungry," co-sponsored by Finnegans Irish Amber, a nonprofit beer company (yes, you read that right), and a number of local vendors at the beautiful Farm on St. Mathias. The Hounds of Finn played three sets of acoustic music and there was general merriment to be had.

Maturity

2011-10-07T16:49:00.000-05:00

Last night, I left the livingroom briefly, and when I returned, Finn said, "Mama, I'm sorry I spilled your beer." It took me a second to process, as I looked at him, and then noticed the Guinness bottle on its side near the front door, its contents spilled in between the floor rug and the door mat. I then remembered that Finn and I had been sitting in the arm chair by the front door, and I had put my beer on the floor next to the chair, thinking, as I did it, "This is a stupid place to put this. I am going to knock it over."

Well.

The thing that astounds me is Finn's willingness to volunteer this information when he could have said nothing. I probably would have figured that I did it. I am going to take this a sign of maturity and intelligence.

Of course, he still craps in his underwear.

But all-in-all, I think I would rather have the honesty and apology.

Days of Whine and Roses

2011-10-04T09:41:00.000-05:00

It appears that some people think we get babywhumpus from day care, bring him home, slap a crown on his head, and let the little prince rule the show.

This is far from the case. He doesn't get his way through whining or demands, which are his two favorite modes of communication at the end of the day. I get it. All I wanted to do yesterday was whine. Or wine. (I beered.) But we don't foster that type of communication by capitulating. We ask him to try again, or we restate that he can whine and have nothing instead of the wonderful thing he wants or we have offered. It usually works, but we are not to the point where he starts out asking nicely more than 50% of the time. I'd be happy with 51% at this point.

I just read that one good tactic to use in response to whining is whispering. The article says that it will help you keep your cool and encourage your child to use the same type of voice. It's also remarkably creepy to whisper in a potentially volatile situation. It can create a strange aura of intensity that is often much more effective than anger or yelling. Yelling rarely helps, although I have found a quick, sharp bark of "FINN" to be useful to cut through the Wall of Whine.

Another suggestion is to designate a "Whine Room" where the tiny person has to go when it whines. I think I would rather be the one isolated, but this is an interesting idea, though probably impractical in a small house that already has a Naughty Chair.

Then there's the Whine Toll, where the kid has to pay every time it whines. This is, of course, money out of my pocket, and I don't think I can afford it, especially considering that he has no real concept of money, and we might have to resort to a Fee-for-Pee system in the Whumpus house.

We can't confuse the real value of money when we are trying to exit diaper land. I think I'd rather have whining than crappy underpants (last night, it was really, really similar to cat barf).

This is a Family Issue

2011-10-03T20:26:00.000-05:00

You know, I don't normally use this site for activism, but I know this man, and he has a family here.

This is important, so take a minute, follow the link, read the information, and if you agree, please sign.

The recent ICE raids may well have brought in some dangerous people-- Aracelio is not one of them.

Link to Petition on change.org

Minnesota State Fair 2011

2011-09-07T14:02:00.001-05:00

Minnesota State Fair 2011, a set on Flickr.

Two half-days at the Minnesota State Fair. September 1-2, 2011

Ride This.

2011-09-06T16:11:00.000-05:00

babywhumpus is not a fan of rides. babywhumpus does not even like bouncy houses.

I think this is fine. I didn't ride on my first roller-coaster until I was in my twenties. For me, it was a combination of fear of the unknown and not being in control that kept me bemused by amusement parks.

babywhumpus is three. I don't think he's going to have an explanation of why he does not like rides, but I suspect it's similar in its roots. He loves to jump on the couch and race around, but bouncy houses might simply be too bouncy and unpredictable.

Apparently, it was OK for me to dislike rides and such when I was in junior high because I was a girl. Apparently, being a junior high boy who does not like rides is going to open FJ up to endless ridicule and scorn from other junior high boys. This is what I have heard from one source, at least.

Isn't ridicule and scorn what junior high is all about? After all, you could not pay me a million dollars to go back to seventh grade, even if you let me keep all the knowledge I have gained since then. Just dropping me back into those putty-colored halls, into that awkward body complete with home perm and glasses, wearing my pale yellow Izod shirt and tapered, mauve, faux suede pants with the pleats would be enough to erase all the self esteem and relative security I have gained since then. Between socially debilitating "Fun Nights" where I pined after the boy of my dreams and sometimes insufficient bladder control, junior high was a nightmare of bad fashion, appearance issues, and generally devastating social failures.

(Point learned: good grades don't make you popular.)

So far, FJ is an outgoing yet reasonably cautious, engaging child who does not seem at all tempered by a character that could be termed nervous or worried. (When I think about being a child, the terms "nervous" and "worried" are the first that come to mind.) I do not consider "does not like rides" to be a character flaw, nor do I think that this is necessarily a fixed state. Before he went to the state fair with his friends, I actually told him that he did not have to ride and rides if he did not want to. He rode two. When we went back with him, he went on none, except for the Sky Ride.

He pet a cow. He was unfazed by hordes of humans. If he did not want to get into the bumper boats again, that's just fine with me. The possibility of future humiliation is not going to alter my choices for him today. If that were the case, I would be busy trying to cover a whole lot of bases.

I would probably have to quit my job in order to cover dating, class pictures, piano recitals, choir solos, and musical theatre alone.

Dinner Conversation

2011-08-30T19:29:00.000-05:00

"Are you real?"

"Yes. What do you think that means."

"I'm real."

"What does that mean?"

"Chicken."

Suck on that, philosophy.

I'm on a Bus

2011-08-08T08:29:00.000-05:00

I'm on a bus

Right next to the bathroom, and I can hear someone talking. Are they on the phone because, really? What could be that important? Then I saw a small boy and his dad come down the aisle, and thought, even if Finn were here, I would not need to ever set foot in that terrifying little room because he is not potty trained.

We're on our own, and we are on a bus to Logan Airport. Finn is behind us at the beach house for more than a week of holiday fun with his grandparents and auntie.

Pulling away, I did not have a feeling of relief. Nothing to strike any chord of parental guilt. He sat on his auntie's hip waving, and I watched his blond curls and stripy shirt grow smaller through the tinted, rainy window until he was finally obscured by the trees. I simply felt sad to be away from him, knowing I would not see him for ten days. Those days are filled with work and plans, and they will fly by, and all will be well. We will sleep and eat and save time, and we will not have to worry about who is doing what as we go about what promises to be a very week and more.

And after I get past arriving home to a quiet house and his empty room, and waking up to the same, I will probably be ok.

For now, I'm on a bus

FWP

2011-07-19T11:10:00.000-05:00

It was 88 degrees at 10:00 in the morning, the dewpoint was 80, and I was driving around South Minneapolis trying to find swim diapers.* It appeared that the city had all its crews out on all the streets trying to do all the work at once, as I dodged asphalt and utility crews every other block. The uppity grocery store hardly carried any diapers, let alone swim diapers, probably because rich white kids don't crap, but the Walgreen's across the street offered up "Swimmies" at $9.99 for 11 diapers.

(This is one time I know that our cloth swim diapers beat out disposable economically, as one "keepie" cost $9.99, and he has been using it for two years.)

Whatever. I paid for the Nemo-encrusted things and headed back to day care. Once there, I was met with "M- doesn't think these could possibly be a boy's swim suit," as the orange and fishy bottoms were waved in my face. "And who is S-?"

"S is the little boy who used to own those, and what happened to Finn's trunks from yesterday?"

"His grandparents took them with them when they picked him up."

At this point, I thought I might cry.

Nothing was really wrong, but it had been a bad night of sleep followed by a morning of little glitches that added up to an 85% chance of tears. Our Internet doesn't work when it's hot, Finn doesn't listen because he's three, and I just could not get us out the door. Not without one very short time out, at least. Once we started out onto the porch, I was met with the car seat, sitting like a statue, not in the car at all. I led Finn back in and attached the car seat, already sweating by the time I was done with this three-minute-activity.

We drove through town and were tail-gated by a woman in a very big hurry. I set my cruise on the speed limit and took my usual route. She tried all sorts of little detours and short cuts only to wind up behind me again. Twice. Were that me, I might have drawn the conclusion that these tactics don't work in city traffic, but she was tail-gating, so she's already not me.

I should have left day care and headed straight to a coffee shop to work out my mood with some quiet time (because you really can't go to a bar until after 11:00 a.m.), but as it was, I would not arrive at my desk until 10:30.

How many do-overs do you get in a season?

*Obligatory liberal guilt disclaimer: These are all first world problems, but that doesn't mean it didn't suck this morning.

Undead

2011-07-15T23:29:00.000-05:00

It's happening again.

For the past two or three weeks, Finn has been sleeping in his bed. By himself. Most often through the night. We were trying not to make a big deal about it.

Because somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew the zombie would return.

Eat braaaaains...

I Want My 30 Dollars!

2011-07-07T16:37:00.000-05:00

I don't know what happened to me. I went into the store looking for a three dollar bargain, I came out with thirty dollar Nikes.
For a freaking kid.

We've been fortunate in the clothing department. Most of his clothes are hand-me-downs, so we have not had to buy much. If were a girl, this might be met with a certain amount of melancholy, but boy's clothes are boring. It's too bad for boys, really, in the long run, because unless they go into the theatre, they are stuck looking at a lifetime of beige.

It's also too bad for the style-minded parent who wants to pick out cute things for his or her kid. Cruise the aisles of any department store, and the boys' section is an eyesore of brown, navy blue, grey, and maybe some green. The tee shirts are encrusted with monster trucks or branded with transformers. If you want something stripey, which is practically the only fun thing left for boys, you have to go to the photo albums of your childhood or the thrift store.

It's not all that much better in the girls' section when it comes to gender stereotypes. It's dripping with ruffles and cutesy ribbons and the glitter left over from Newt's last press conference. You can't swing an equal rights amendment without hitting a Disney princess between her big, blue eyes.

In the past, when we needed shoes, we have either lucked out with brand-new second-hands or the three dollar clearance model. The only shoes we have spent real money on are his Keen sandals, which we buy to appease our upper-middle class REI gear-hog mania. We convince ourselves that they are somehow good for him and are worth the thirty dollars on sale per season price tag, but really, we are just brand whores who fitting into a certain crunchy with money niche. (Are we Munchies?)

I did not want to buy the full price Nikes. I don't care about that brand (there's a certain brand set we adhere to, and it's probably not hard to figure out), and they were red, white, and blue. (Mostly white, which has been the prevailing and entirely ridiculous trend in sneakers for the last two decades or so. Completely stupid for a shoe that is supposed to be getting some sort of workout.)

As I tried the ridiculous shoes on the boy, I was thinking ,"No way, this is stupid. I am not paying thirty dollars for shoes. I pay three or no dollars for shoes. Unless they are for me. But that's a different story. I managed to not buy delectable shoes today even though they are gorgeous and I have been eying them and they are on sale..."

Wait. I am getting off track.

As I was convincing myself that I was not buying the shoes, I could feel the rationalizing starting. "Well, most of his shoes have been free or almost free. And we don't have to buy many clothes." The other voice started back, "Yeah, but that's how you save money. By not filling up those gaps with other purchases."

"Screw you, rational voice of reason. I dont want to go to any more stores looking for shoes. I don't want to try to take them off his feet. I'm buying them."

"But if you just tried one more place, you could find something cheaper. Look at these, even these are nineteen dollars. That's better than thirty."

"Whatever. They are ugly, and they look cheap."

"He's three. And a boy. He doesn't care."

("Look at my shoes! These are my shoes! These are the right shoes for me!" Jump jump run.)

"Think what you could do with the money you could save on those stupid, overpriced shoes, you lazy git."

"Yes, and think what I could do with the time I spend trying to get a deal. Think how much gas I will use trying to get a deal. Think how much time I am wasting on this interior monologue."

We are at the playground, and I am watching the shoes run around with babywhumpus in them. I am still rationalizing, and clearly, the shoes are staying. The shoes are adorable, he likes them, and they are on his feet.

And there they will stay.

John Fluevog, take me away.

Baby on Board

2011-07-05T16:27:00.010-05:00

This afternoon, I found myself in 1987, driving behind a car with a "Baby on Board" sign in its rear window. Remember those? They were everywhere, on every minivan in sight. I never understood them. So what if you have a kid in there? Is it driving, and that is why you are letting the world know? Are you proud of your breeding and or reproductive skills? Congratulations and everything, but why do you have to declare that there is a kid in your car? Are we supposed to be super extra careful around you, so we don't wake the baby? Is that sign supposed to make us all better drivers because we will be thinking of the childrenz?

From what I could tell, a "Baby on Board" sign means "Caution, there is a kid in this car, so I am completely distracted and driving like an asshole. This is my left front wheel, over the center line. This is me, digging around behind the seat for something while I drift slowly and inexorably into your lane. This is me, sitting at a green light while you wait, contemplating my annoying car sign. This is me, pretty much convinced that I am the only driver on the road."

At least she didn't have those ridiculous "this is my family in stick figures including the dog" decals on the window too. I may have run her off the road.

Like Riding a Bike

2011-07-05T14:16:00.000-05:00

You know what's just like riding a bike? Riding a bike.

The first time I got back onto a bicycle in over ten years, it was completely bizarre, and it did NOT all come back to me, like they say. I was wobbly and uncomfortable, unsure of my balance.

This past weekend, I got back onto a bicycle for the first time since before I got pregnant. (I stopped riding while pregnant in order to be careful. With hindsight, I can safely say that I could have ridden all that spring, and barring cars, it would not have been a problem.)

It was just like riding a bike. A little weird at first, and I completely forgot how to use the gears, but I managed.

The only problem is that my little computer was eaten by squirrels, so I had absolutely no data on the ride.

How do I know it actually happened?

Those Women

2011-06-27T10:56:00.001-05:00

Those women make it look easy. They are put together, well-groomed. Perhaps they have even accessorized. They never say things like "Shit, I forgot the sandwiches," or "Brilliant, I left my cell phone at home."

They hand their child a water bottle just as it is saying it is thirsty as they laugh out a dazzlingly witty comment about mothering and its strictures. They never lose their tempers in public or look the least bit frazzled while parenting in a crowd.

They plan menus and cook meals. Their houses are clean and their gardens tidy. They have accomplished careers are and respected in their fields.

I hate those women.

No Mood (Or, the last of the queued and never-posted pre-vacation posts)

2011-06-27T09:10:00.006-05:00

Once you are a parent, you hope that you will no longer be on the receiving end of lectures. And unless you have meddlesome in-laws, this is a reasonable hope.

Recently, I was reminded that I am not afforded this luxury, when I heard one of our day care providers say, "Oh good, you're here. You can see what Finn did on the porch on Friday." Here I was, hoping he had accomplished some feat of pre-school engineering through the use of wooden blocks, and M- was astonished at his dexterity and ingenuity.

Alas, vain hope, you are a flighty and tempestuous harlot of day dreams. My child is not going to be a brilliant engineer who figures out how build sustainable urban centers that are both attractive and imaginative.

"Finn, come here. I want you to show your Mommy what you did on Friday. [to me] Finn and B- were playing so nicely on the porch that Other M- decided to leave them unsupervised, and here is what they did. Either B- or D- or Finn are responsible for doing this." And he showed me a series of wooden-framed blocks that all had cracked plexi-glass panes and the sad remnants of colored sand rattling around inside their shattered hulls.

I may have stopped listening at the word "unsupervised."

I wanted to say, "Well, they are a 3-year-old, a 4-year-old, and a 5-year-old, all boys, and you left them alone with something breakable and many breakers. Too bad, you lose, take responsibility for your inaction and deal with it."

Sure, they should not have done it, and one of the boys should have known better, and someone should have told M- or Other M-, but perhaps a grown-up should have been there. I held my tongue, though, knowing that a larger discussion would ensue, and I would never win.

Instead, I plodded and fumed to my office, thinking that it's not even nine-o'clock in the morning, and I want a do-over. Last week sucked, and I don't need a repeat, one that makes me want to quit it all, throw my own tantrum, and shirk all responsibility in favor of beer and comfy pants.

I don't have any blocks to break.

The View from Whine Country

2011-06-21T19:20:00.000-05:00

A paper published in the Journal of Social, Evolutionary, and Cultural Psychology has shown that listening to whining can make us bad at math.

Yes. Whining is more distracting than a randomly screeching power saw.

Parents already knew this, but it's nice to have data to support our observations.

Researchers set up an experiment in which both men and women, parents and non parents, were asked to solve simple subtractions while being subjected to different sound environments: whining, infant crying, motherese*, neutral speech, machines, and silence.

Whining won.

First off, in a grand exaggeration, the only thing I might find more annoying than whining is terms like "motherese", but I don't have to listen to sociologists and psychologists while I am chopping carrots in my kitchen. Secondly, what a pitch for participation this must have been: “We're going to make you listen to whining while doing math. Sound good? We'll give you an M&M for every problem you get right.”

Unless you are a parent. The parents were given tickets for a raffle of gift cards at a toy store. Brilliant. Parents should have been given drink tokens for a local bar and vouchers for undergraduate babysitters, not the possibility of a whine-filled trip to the toy store to get a whine-encouraging toy. Wrong whine.

Humans use sound to attract attention and get results: infants use crying and two to four-year-olds use whining (and crying, often in a delectable tonal mix). This article states that whining, crying, and motherese "are all part of an attachment vocalization system that exploit[s] an auditory sensitivity shared by humans."

Key word being “exploit.”

Supposedly, we are in the middle of peak whine production, which is between the ages of 2.5 to 4. I hope we are at the pinnacle, and it will be all downhill from here, but I am not going to count on it. This is whine country, and the grapes are sour.

Attachment vocalizations are supposed to "bring the attachment partner nearer." I am assuming this means nearer to the vocalizer and not nearer to insanity, crime, and alcoholism. It's interesting though, and I wonder if mothers get whined at more than fathers. Daddywhumpus has said that "he didn't whine at all while you were gone," when I have returned home to find my boys reading a story, and smaller boy looks up, immediately whining me. It doesn't make me feel better to think that I am the catalyst for the majority of the whining we get in the house, but after all, that is only anecdotal data subject to the interpretation and memory of one adult.

Aside from making me scribble 4 - 2 = “9” or “yellow”, whining brings out the Bad Mommy in me. It has made me want to flip him off more than once and has made me lose the power of intelligible speech numerous times, reducing me to prolonged, one-syllable shrieks of frustration.

Interestingly, they used an adult voice for the whine, instead of a child, because it is difficult to get children to act out extended whining in a controlled environment. It's that “controlled environment” bit that is most important to note, as most parents of a preschooler will tell you that their sonorous little demon is decidedly capable of sustained whining in the chaotic environment of the family home. Still, I think they could have gotten a solid minute out of a little whiner if they had persisted in ignoring its pleas. They will often continue for quite some time under such circumstances.

I have to admit that I stopped paying attention to the article when it began discussing results in terms of calculations and variables. I did not even need whining to distract me. I did notice that they used the term “acoustically designed” regarding attachment vocalizations, which I think is inappropriate, especially considering the journal in which the article appears. Certainly, “evolved” would be a better term.

And when it comes to results, do the results that children receive reinforce the effectiveness of whining and encourage the behavior? If any response is the correct one, which is often the case with children, then probably yes. It certainly gets responses; it’s very hard to ignore. Whether or not it brings the attachment object closer in proximity to the whiner is arguable.

It makes me want to leave the planet.

* “motherese is the child-directed speech parents use towards young children to sooth (sic), attract attention, encourage particular behaviors, and prohibit the child from dangerous acts.” It is also one of the most annoying terms I have heard in a long time, and something that probably warrants its own post. If this is what I think it is, it’s something we have actively tried to avoid doing to our child.

A good day, and other items

2011-06-17T16:49:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was our first box full of delicious, super-fresh vegetables from our local CSA, so here are a couple gratuitous food shots:

And while I am at it, purely for the heck of it, here are some other gratuitous images:

Breakfast and Hairdos:

A Boy and his Ho:

New sandbox, constructed by McCauley Men:

A completed train layout that lasted all of seven minutes before Finn decided he was "done" and took it apart. Merciless tyrant. I was just trying to play. Kids ruin everything:

Posing with birthday card from great-grandparents, Jim and Mary:

Sick of Myself

2011-06-16T16:23:00.000-05:00

It's a little late in the calendar for Spring Cleaning, but it's not quite too late in my life.

A few weeks ago, I was trying to get ready to go to a show at which my dear friend was performing. Getting ready to go out has become a chore because I don't fit into most of my fancy or interesting clothes. While I used to make the excuse that this was mostly boob-related, as this is where most of the trouble had arisen, my "can't wear because it's too small" pile is starting to seep into my every day clothes, and nothing about that is OK.

I thought I could go with wedding corset and jeans or slacks, but nope. I could not lace it up in any way that would have been remotely comfortable or look anything like good.

Here's some math.

Take one pregnancy (P), add one preemie (p). Multiply by three years (3), subtract time for meal planning , lunch packing, exercise (-t), add drinking at home (+C₂H₅OH), and you get 150.

or: (P+p)(3)-t+C₂H₅OH=150

I signed up for Weight Watchers for Introverts, also known as Weight Watchers Online, because I will never, ever go to a meeting. It's not that I would rather die, because that's a little extreme, and having a preschooler leaves only a few minutes a day for personal drama, unfortunately. I just know that going somewhere for weigh-ins and any sort of support would be entirely mortifying to me. Though, the extra stress it causes might be good for more weight loss, it won't be good for the stress-management side of things.

The first thing I did was look up beer. Specifically, Guinness. It's not in their database, so I must be the first one! Since that is certainly not the case, I went outside and Googled "guinness weight watchers' points" and found numerous links. On the Weight Watchers discussion page, it's quite a back and forth, with anything from 1-5 points for a Guinness. I'm going with four.

Now that this is cleared up, I can proceed.

At the same time, I signed up for a 10,000 steps program through my work health insurance and strapped on a pedometer. Which means I leave my desk and go for walks. On my first walk, by the river, I saw flowers and birds and trees and sky. I also learned about a wilderness trail practically right out my office door.*

The benefits of being sick of myself are so numerous, that I have lost six pounds, gotten outside every day, and am no longer sick of myself.

Well, not entirely.

*The Winchell Trail is a multi-segment hiking-only trail on the west bank between Franklin Avenue and 44th Street. Unpaved paths break away from the main trail along the bluffs and cut into the woods, allowing you to really experience the lower gorge. One section drops down to the sandy shore of the Mississippi River and another takes you through an oak savanna restoration area. Some sections are rugged and others are closed for vegetation restoration, so follow the signs and stay on the path. These unpaved trails can often be muddy after it rains and have a number of stairways--some dating back to the 1930s. Between 38th Street and 44th Street the Winchell trail doubles as the paved,pedestrian-only segment of the separated bike/pedestrian trail along the bluffs. Here pedestrians can slip away for West River Parkway and descend into the gorge.

The Fear

2011-06-16T15:27:00.000-05:00

How do you get The Fear? Our three-year-old, being three, certainly does not have it. So how do you get this small being to do what you want it to do? After all, he is just starting to figure out the will of his own, form opinions, remember events, and really process information.

How do you get that small being to listen?

Maybe it's not even about fear and consequences. After all, the fear of consequences doesn't work on adults all the time, either. People just do stuff and worry about what happens afterward. Cautious people might go through an if/then scenario in their heads before they embark on a task, but a lot of things happen without conscious thought, so can I expect my son to freaking listen to me?

Different things work for different people. Fear works for me. Consequences work for me. The possibility of looking foolish, doing something wrong, failing: all of those work to keep me in line. So far, I don't think my son resembles me as a child, so fear is probably not going to work in the least. In my case, I generated those things all on my own, I think. It's just part of my personality. Finn is relatively care free and energetic. He's definitely sweet and inquisitive. And he's three.

Rewards might work for some people.

Find the thing a person cares about, and use that. Money, TV, power.

In this case, I think our only weapon is Bunny Fruit Snacks.

Book Blurb

2011-06-16T11:48:00.000-05:00

Not only do I wish I had written this f@#ing book, but now, Samuel F@#ing Jackson is narrating it.

This goes right along with my earlier post including Tim Minchin's Lullabye.

Spring Cleaning

2011-06-15T14:08:00.000-05:00

I am thinking I am ready for a change. A new lay out for this space. Of course, that would involve time and commitment, neither of which I seem to be possessing in abundance these days... In any case. I might get around to it soon, and I might even include kittywhumpus, though that might be a stretch...

Parenting Skillz

2011-06-08T09:38:00.002-05:00

We haz dem.

Backyard Joust

2011-06-08T09:35:00.000-05:00

I don't work at the Renaissance Festival anymore (princess hats at home not included), and even when I did, I never saw a joust, not in 20 years. Fortunately, I have a son, a patio, a Mater and a ho.

Days Like This

2011-06-08T09:33:00.000-05:00

It's days like this that are perhaps best kept to ourselves. It's better that the outside world believe that it's either 102 degrees, like yesterday, or -20, like it sometimes is in the winter. They don't need to know about the 77 degree, sunny, lush days like today, which, when accompanied by a light, refreshing breeze, can make one quite affable, to the point of smiling at strangers.

Which is something that we don't generally do here in Minnesota.

But it's the weather that keeps us together. Long winters, excessive heat, humidity that makes you almost gasp for air, bone-chilling cold: these things draw us into conversations, even if it's in grumbling commiseration. Days like today, even if they are not mentioned overtly, make us all feel a little better about ourselves and our fellow humans.

My son is still too young to know that the reason he was a miserable wreck yesterday while outside and then turned into a rambunctious, uncontrollable demon once inside our air conditioned home was because it was stinking hot outside and refreshingly pleasant inside. I asked him if he was hot, and he whined out "Yeaaaaaah," but he is not a reliable source of information about himself and will often answer yes or no to a question based merely on his capricious moods.

Today is a good day to get outside and walk, work in the garden, sit on the porch and watch the neighborhood go by. It's not the best day to sit in a windowless, air conditioned office, but I'll make it work.

3

2011-05-29T09:48:00.000-05:00

It's been three years since this happened.

Everyone says it goes by so fast, and everyone is right. Granted, we have been awake for most of it.

Happy birthday to our babywhumpus. It was a terrifying day, and there is still a tinge of that terror attached to the 29th of May, though tempered with the knowledge that he is blooming, lovely, difficult, and three.

The rest of the story is here, here, and here.

3(Three)

2011-05-26T20:44:00.000-05:00

It's time for shameless solicitation. Finn is turning three in a few days, and we have signed up to be in a 3K that benefits the NICUs in the hospital where Finn was nurtured. We would not have our boy if it were not for them. Since we don't need any more crap in our house, of any kind (still not potty trained), we signed up to raise money for our team, babywhumpus. Original name, I know. It's all about branding, people. Pete and I, Finn, and two of Finn's grandparents (Hi, Grandpa and Oma) are participating in this arduous race to the finish, and instead of birthday presents, we're asking for donations.

Baby Steps 3K Team babywhumpus

We will post embarrassing video of the race as a reward, if necessary.

Safe for work, of course.

Spring

2011-05-26T20:35:00.000-05:00

park, at the

2011-05-17T20:18:00.001-05:00

Quarter past eight, and time for bath. Gathering data for a Park Blog.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

May 1, 2011. Snow.

2011-05-02T12:17:00.000-05:00

Yes, these photos are from yesterday.
There were snowflakes.
Today, too.

I have no more words.

Ten Questions

2011-04-27T11:18:00.000-05:00

Because my blogging brain is broken, apparently. This came from KatieOhKatie, who got it from someone else, who got it from someone else, and so on, and so on, and so on.*

{one} how often do you do laundry? Clean clothes are for pampered princesses and persons of limited imagination.

{two} what is your favorite type of cookie? Soft, large gingerbread. Or cream cheese iced pumpkin. Or milk chocolate HobNobs. Or roasted garlic chocolate chip. Or iced molasses. Or peanut butter. Or soft sugar. I hate cookies. Cookies are the devil's lure. My oven is still broken.

{three} what would you do with an extra $2000 per month? Pay extra on the mortgage, extra on the car, extra on the line of credit. Put the rest in savings. Finish becoming Ross Gellar.

{four} what was/is your favorite subject in school? British Literature of the Victorian Period, Making Oneself Very Smart but Unemployable, If I went back today it would be American Political History and Public Affairs.

{five} have you ever ridden in a hot air balloon? No, but I can respond to queries with a tangential answer like "helicopter."

{six} what was your high school mascot? Herky, the WinHawk. Because LoseHawk is not a rallying cry.

The fu*#? Apparently, there has been a makeover:

{seven} if you had the chance to go into space, would you? I fear change and new experiences.
That said, it would be foolish to refuse, so with the right medication. What I most want right now is to see the last shuttle launch. Space geek.

{eight} how often do you go dancing? Never. There's no dancing in The Motherhood.

{nine} would you rather drive or fly? Drive, bitches. All. The. Way. Flying with a child is a pain in the ass. Flying freaks me out just a bit. I am not in control when I am flying. Our last long trip, we weighed the options and chose to drive 21 hours rather than fly because it was less expensive and we could pack what we wanted without having to pay for our bags and carry a car seat and pay for our seat assignments. Screw the airlines.

But I have no opinion on the above question.

{ten} have you ever been caught re-gifting? Nope. That stuff goes to Goodwill, or I give it to someone who needs it, not as a gift.
*name that commercial.

This is Why I Make Lists

2011-04-06T15:24:00.004-05:00

We got it all together. Everyone had clothes on, which were weather appropriate. There were freshly laundered diapers in the bag, ready to go. Snow boots for muddy days in the day care backyard. Bags, electronic devices, all of it, and out the door in time to get to work for a meeting.

It wasn't until the first time I went the restroom that I noticed I had no makeup on. I was innocently washing my hands, when I looked up and saw my Sunday afternoon at home face staring at me, not work face.

Now, it's not like I am an extraordinarily well-groomed individual. I look with envy at those put-together women who are always flawless, but I just don't have the will to put all that much effort into it. This is not to say that I come to work looking like a hobo (can we still say "hobo"?). I match, my clothes are clean, I am clean. But the perfect hair and make up just don't happen on my head.

Still.

At the end of the day, a coworker came by my desk and said I looked tired. I said, "well, sure, but the real issue is I forgot to put on mascara."

Croup d'état

2011-04-03T15:17:00.009-05:00

It was Terms of Endearment around here last night. Not in the "Give my daughter the shot!" sense, but the scene when the baby comes down with the croup and they are sitting in a steamy bathroom with a barking child.

At around one a.m. I was wakened very suddenly by Finn who was himself wakened very suddenly by wheezing and a cough that could only be described as a bark. He sounded like a seal. As this is not the circus (yet), I was alarmed. A number of things ran through my mind:

1. I am alone, and Pete has the car
2. He has his pertussis shots, but what if they did not work? Has herd immunity gone down enough that he could have caught whooping cough? This sounds like the cough they describe in the symptoms and in the anecdotes that parents have told.
3. What if his breathing gets labored to the point where it seems he is really having trouble getting oxygen? Do I call an ambulance? Would that be covered?
4. The Internet is down, and I can't consult mayoclinic.com

In the end, after the whole forty five seconds the above steps took, I called my mom. She's a nurse. I put us on speaker phone and let her listen. She told us to go into the bathroom and run the hot water. I called Pete and told him not to dawdle after his gig; he was almost home anyway. Finn and I went into the bathroom. Babywhumpus was upset because he thought he was getting a bath, and he was not completely awake, but we got the bathroom all steamy in minutes. Small spaces have their benefits.

He settled down, and we watched some Winnie the Pooh while we waited for the Tylenol to take hold, and we all went to bed and slept until (later that) morning. It was a scary moment with a fortunately unexciting ending.

This Sounds Familiar

2011-03-31T12:33:00.000-05:00

This is Your Cat. This is Your Cat, On Drugs

2011-03-30T13:57:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned that our cat is on Prozac?

It's the last step toward becoming a truly privileged family (aside from oodles of cash and the ability to ignore governmental politics because we are rich enough to not be affected). We are medicating one of our animals with a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. None of the h.sapiens in the family are on prescription medication for moods or chemical imbalance, no. It's our cat.

We have a lot to be proud of.

We Caved

2011-03-27T09:58:00.000-05:00

And found ourselves in The Family Bed.

Our lives are infinitely better, for the moment, now that we have accepted that our boy wants to be with us, and that's OK. It's all about perspective. He called the shots that led to the decision, but it was OUR DECISION, DAMMIT.

We will keep telling ourselves that.

For now, Finn is happy to go to bed, and he sleeps and sleeps. He's a bit thrashy at about three a.m., but he settles down pretty quickly. Even right now, we are all in the bed, baby- and daddywhumpus playing Angry Birds on the iPod (my new iPad is in Memphis, awaiting dispatch to my greedy little mitts).

Here we go, go, go, go...

2011-03-25T15:37:00.000-05:00

Today at work, the question was posed:

What do you do to bring peace into your life?

Everyone had to answer.

This is the second time this week I have been awake since 2:00 a.m. I am tired all over, especially in my brain. I am going every which way, and unable to stay focused or organized.

Peace is not something I have in abundance.

Everything has been "go, go, go", but nothing ever seems to be done, and I can't see any progress.

Peace.

There were many answers from the diverse group in the circle, including everything from jogging to beer to god. I had nothing to give, aside from the observation that I need to find a way to incorporate the idea of peace or stillness into my life.

What was it in the past? Nature, poetry, reading, writing, yoga. Now, Time is in such short supply, and so much remains undone or half done, that it's hard to see a space for peace.

At least I still have beer.

Book Review Thursday: If You Give A Cat A Cupcake

2011-03-24T08:00:00.001-05:00

If you give a cat a cupcake, he will look at you with unconcealed disdain.

Unless it has bacon sprinkles.

The child-free (you lucky bastards, if that is indeed your choice) may not recognize this as being part of a series of "If You Give A..." books, charming little tales of unintended consequences, which hold lessons about the chain reaction that a single, seemingly innocuous event can detonate. (Current members of certain majority parties in certain Houses of government could perhaps learn a few things from these books.)

The first one I read was "If You Give a Moose a Muffin," though I believe "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" was the first in the series. It doesn't really matter; you get the gist.

Before I dive in, let me just say: do NOT; I repeat, do NOT give that cat a cupcake or any other item containing sugar. Check his pupils! Dude seriously needs to chill out on some nip. But, unfortunately, adults are in short supply in these stories, so I will continue.

All of these books start with an animal, a child, and a conditional clause: "If you give a..." The meat of the story is in the "then" part of the sentence. In the four books we own, only two are plausible in their food offering to a particular animal: I think a pig would eat a pancake, and a mouse would eat a cookie. In three of the books, I can follow the chain of events without much stretching; once you accept the initial condition (you have, indeed, given a moose a muffin, and he has accepted said muffin), I can see how we could plausibly go through the chain of events.

This book? Not so much. It's not just because I live with cats, and no cat in my house would perceive a muffin as acceptable food. Even if I could accept that, the rest of the events are just a bit far-fetched. A cat would never clean up a mess he made, and if he did clean up, he would definitely not want to cool down at the beach, in or near water, wearing tropical bathing trunks. Any such cat would be banned from all future feline meetings, should they ever be scheduled, as napping in sunbeams and scoffing at puny humans leaves little time for administrative duties. And no cat I know would ever feel the need to work out at a gym or go near any exercise equipment, as most exercise equipment is made of materials that are decidedly un-shreddable, and exercise that may be witnessed by any other living being is strictly frowned upon.

If one can accept that a cat would want to go anywhere near a row boat (one can't), the only sentence that makes sense in this book is: "He'll be the captain, and you'll have to row."

Bedtime, is it?

2011-03-23T21:05:00.000-05:00

It's 8:59. Do you know where your parenting skills are?

Daddy is playing music. Finn and I are in the big bed. He asked to go to sleep because he knew he was coming in here with me. He's playing Monkey Lunch Box on my iPod, and I am doing this.

I'll be collecting my Mother of the Year Award on an as-yet-to-be-determined later date.

Illegal Sleep Strike

2011-03-17T10:01:00.000-05:00

The whumpus house is a Union Shop. We believe in workers' rights to organize and collectively bargain for better conditions. We support the right to strike. We are huge fans of worker happiness and safety.

But the sleep strike occurring right now in the whumpus house is entirely illegal. See, for any action to have legitimacy, you have to follow the accepted rules. There was no bargaining period preceding this strike. There was no exchange of understandable demands. No offers and counter-offers were proposed. There was no mediator; the president did not have to step in. The strike was instituted without warning, and the terms of the strike are harsh.

I have not had a chance to discuss this with the worker in question, as he has been unavailable for comment, at least of the rational kind. When asked "Why don't you want to sleep?" He goes quiet and does not answer. Or, if he does answer, it's with a tautology: "I don't want to sleep because I don't want to sleep."

This is not helpful, nor does it advance the issue for anyone.

While we recover from an extraordinarily busy time and from various upper respiratory infections, we have completely ceded any ground we may have gained and have given in to all demands. The strike will resume in all its screaming, flailing glory this weekend or next week, when all are healthy, and no one is looking forward to it.

Book Review Thursday: Oliver Finds His Way

2011-03-17T09:00:00.003-05:00

I don't know why I am bothering with this one. It won't be funny. I can't snark about it. I have nothing witty to say. I love this book, and I want to live in it.

If I could instantly move there and not be eaten by bears, I would.

I don't even mind the bears-in-clothes, starkly traditional gender roles, clearly utopian agrarian setting rife with stereotypes, and possible lapses in bearly parenting. The drawings are lush, evocative, dreamy, and charming. The illustrator's senses of movement and gesture are refined and real. You can feel these drawings. You know them.

Sure, baby bears rarely wear hunter plaid and drink milk from glasses, and papa bear would have long wandered off into the woods, with no interest in his progeny, and as it's fall, they should probably be eating something more than apples and quit raking the leaves because it's almost time to hibernate, but look at this:

And this:

Yes, please.

Oliver Finds His Way
by Phyllis Root
Illustrated by Christopher Denise

Ride on the Sleep Train

2011-03-16T14:30:00.000-05:00

I'm going to mix metaphors and sprinkle competing analogies liberally here. I'm tired.

That's not new; I have a pre-schooler, a full-time job, and a husband in a band (who is also tired), but the pre-schooler, who has never been the best sleeper on the planet, has developed a new habit of bedtime torture.

To the pain.

You may recall that "To the pain" means that one will be left in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.

I may be behaving a bit dramatically, but hyperbole is the last refuge of the truly privileged, so I am going to stomp and whine like my ridiculous demon child because this is my space, so NYAH!

Awhile back, we instituted some progressive waiting, in the hopes that it would help babywhumpus learn to fall asleep on his own, without persistent lullabye-ing or boob. It worked pretty well. We could tell him we would check on him in 5 or 10 minutes, and in general, he would fall asleep before the time was up. We had incidents, sure, but nothing to write here about.

Then last Friday rolled around.* daddywhumpus had a gig, and I was coming down with something.** I decided that I was going to be Low-impact Mom (code for: Lazy Mom) and let him eat at his little table in the living room while he watched his movie or show of choice. I needed to sit and stare.

At 9:07, after minutes of talking, water, wipes, fixing the music, asking for the planets spinning, I gave him the five minute warning. At 11:25, I decided that if he wasn't asleep, I was going to cry again.

In between, there was crying, screaming, calling "I'm poopy," saying his tummy hurt, asking for medicine, I have a poop, My diaper is wet, I have a wet diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper. It's poopy. My diaper is poopy. It's poo poo. Change my diaper. Change my poopy diaper. Mama! Daddy! No! I don't want to! (screaming, waiting for a response, screaming, kicking on the bed.) I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to take a nap. I have snotties. Mama, I have snotties. Hey, Mama, I have snotties. MAMA! MAAAMA!!! MAAMAA! Mama, where are you? Mama, oh Mama. Come back! Come back! Hey Mama! I don't want you to go. I want more drinks! Mama! Come back!

I broke down at 6 minutes, like an idiot. He was standing right by his bed, and he handed me a wipe so I could wipe his nose. I was loosing my temper, not calm like I want to be in these instances. I told him I would have to close the door if he got out of bed again, so he ordered me to come back and close the door.

Commence: No, mama, no mama, no mama no no don't do that. don't do that. hey mama don't do that. (Now it's just bad song lyrics.) Hey mama I told you don't do that no don't come back don't get your computer open. Don't, I told you not to. I don't want mama. I want mama to close the door. Mama Mama Mama Mama. Mama don't. I don't want you to open the computer. I'm wet. I'm WET. No. I'm wet. I have a wet diaper. Mama come back right now. Mama I told you. Mama. I want daddy. I want daddy, mama. Mama I don't want you. I want to wake up. AAAAAAH! I scream! Mama! Mama! NOOOOOOO! NOOOOOO! Mama I wanna wake up!

At 9:42, I went in, in silence, put him back in bed under the covers, closed the door, and latched it.

Commence: Knock knock who's there? It's mama. Is it mama? Yes. Come back! Owie Owie Owie Owie. Daddy! Owie, you closed the door. You closed the door. Open the door. Knock Knock. Knock Knock. Knock Knock who's there? Is it Mama? Yes? Mama where are you come back now. Come in. Come in. I told you not to close the door. I want my daddy. Mama come in. Mama right now. Mama come in. Mama come in.

From 9:48 to 9:59, I completely broke down and tears and lost it while he sat on my lap, dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. I used one of his flannel wipes on my mascara-stained face, and I put him back into bed, and he began screaming again. I sat on the couch, trying to suppress my own scream, which I could feel building in my throat

He kept it up until 11:25

Saturday, it was the same show, different night, with the added attraction of him pummeling his wooden seal push toy handle into the closed wooden door of his bedroom. We sat in the living room in silence, he on the couch, me in the rocker until he lay down and fell asleep at 11:30. I put him into his bed at midnight.

Sunday and Monday have been similar--though admittedly not as bad--with the difference that daddywhumpus has been home, which really hasn't been helpful. Not that it's been hurtful, but any hope I had that he was just acting out for me or because daddy was out has been totally dashed. I am going into tonight, assuming it, too, will suck.

(To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears.)

*we are now almost two weeks into the sleep strike. I have been sitting on this for awhile.
**still sick.

Seen It

2011-03-06T22:15:00.000-06:00

This is the Lady Gaga of winters.

Epic. Relentless. Record-breaking. Tedious in the extreme. When it first started, it was kind of interesting--even pretty. Beautiful at times. And then, it became the same show, different day. Snow; thaw. Snow; thaw. Snow, snow, snow. Any day, I expect Winter to show up, drunk on the streets of Paris, wearing only a bra and panties.

It's clearly an attention whore, and I have had enough of its headlines and emergencies, cancellations and posturing. Sure, we are known for our winters here in Minnesota, and we like to conbrag about them, but this has reached the point of becoming a mental health issue, not a season.

When we walked out of my brother's house to head home, there were new inches on the ground, and it was still coming down. I made some standard grumbling remarks about how over winter I am, and then when I stopped at the car, I heard something strange. A mellow hooting, coming through the air.

Two owls sat near the top of a tall tree, calling to each other, silhouetted against the peachy cast of streetlights on snow, car and city sounds softened by the white mantle on the ground.

And there, in the winter theatre, a family stood, looking up to the sky, snow falling on our shoulders, watching and hearing a rare scene. Were it not for the snow, we may have missed it.

So thanks for that pearl. It helps make it worth the slogging and shoveling.

And top that, pop star.

Great.

2011-03-04T16:07:00.000-06:00

Measles was once nearly eradicated in the United States and Europe, but the disease resurfaced abroad after vaccination rates dropped, health officials said.

Thankful that I came to my senses on this one.

Wine with Dinner

2011-03-03T13:33:00.000-06:00

I want cereal!

We're having spicy noodles.

NOOO! I want cereal!

We're not having cereal for dinner. You can have cereal for dinner when you are a 26-year-old bachelor.

NOOOOO!

We're having spicy noodles.

This is how we wound up playing Legos for dinner.

I think that I should try some of these preschool tactics in a future meeting or work situation in which I am presented with a situation I do. not. like. There is whining, of course, but the most effective display is the flop and drop, with the back arch.

Karen, we would like you to make 2600 cold calls as part of this research project.

Karen throws head back, screaming NO. Arches back and flops to floor on face, whimpering.

Pasta, broccoli, and raspberries

2011-02-28T19:16:00.001-06:00

Finn is home.

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2011-02-21T17:49:00.000-06:00

It's all gone quiet.

After a week, or maybe a month, of what seemed like nonstop activity. Work, and work, gigs and visits, more than 14 inches of snow has fallen, the boy is on his way to his grandparents' house, and it has all stopped.

It's only a lull, but the absence of the boy is the most silent of the gaps. Since I came home from, rushing unsuccessfully to get one last kiss and hug, I have been sitting on one corner of the couch, reading. My pile of library books had grown, and I was nearing the end of two; so I finished them. I riffled through two picture-type books for anything interesting and, finding nothing, put them into the return pile with the novel I marginally liked and the scientific-social analysis I thoroughly enjoyed.

There's nothing to do.

There's everything to do.

We don't have to cross the city to get him at day care; no one is going to drop him off. We are not waiting for anything and trying to cram chores into the cracks of time we have left before the whirlwind of whine and questions and demands descends.

We are just us, with a gap. A gap of quiet where the boy usually lives, filling our time with noise, love, Dragon Movie, and mess.

He's left behind some dirty diapers, stickers, a puzzle, his little chairs, and other miscellaneous errata we will no doubt stumble upon as the days pass by. And parents who will periodically get misty and also revel in a few days of relative freedom.

Maybe we will watch a movie we have never seen before. Maybe we will sleep through the night.

Maybe it will never stop snowing.

Book Discussion: Origins: How the Nine Months Before Birth Shape the Rest of Our Lives

2011-02-08T11:40:00.000-06:00

"How the nine months before birth shape the rest of our lives" is not the most promising title for the mother of a preemie. But it's probably because of my circumstance that I was curious in the first place. For me and my son, five and a half of those nine were in-utero, and the rest were ex-utero.

It was the New York Times that sold me on this book, so I decided to read it, even though the quote on the cover is from "Dr. Oz," and I have heard some not terribly credible medical advice come out of his gob not to mention some completely un-credible, but his name probably sells books.

It's interesting to think how relatively little research has been put into pregnancy, presumably because its a woman's subject, but even men have to gestate and be born sometime, so you think there would have been some interest along those lines. It's also easy to come into a book like this thinking, oh great, more advice for pregnant women; more things to worry about, like: everything I do could turn my fetus into a freak or a genius.

The book is divided into "Months", 1-9, not necessarily corresponding to fetal developments during that time, but isolated to discussion of one issue, like how what you eat affects the fetus. It also corresponds with the author's pregnancy, which progresses along with the book. This kept reminding me of things like, "Hmmm, I am in 'Month Five,' in this book, and my pregnancy is almost over." She gets to waddle on through month nine and her scheduled Caesarean section AND be a paid, free-lance writer.

I was hoping for some discussion of prematurity in this book, but aside from many, many examples of how low birth weight can correspond with heart disease or other issues later in life, it does not get into any detail about it. Fine, OK. I get it, this is about fetal development. But considering that 12.5% of births are premature and that number is rising, it may have deserved at least a dedicated paragraph, even if that paragraph is only to say: there has not been much research into prematurity, its causes, and its long-term effects.

As a woman who has been pregnant, if only for a brief period of time, the book makes you think about things like "Your fetus is what you eat." Well geez, what did I eat while he was in there? What was I eating when he was in the hospital? Was I eating? What was I eating when he came home? The only thing I remember from pregnancy is the necessity of fresh-squeezed orange juice. It mentions that arugula is rich in Vitamin K and Omega 3's. These are good for normal clotting of the blood and reducing the risk of heart disease, respectivelty. Omega 3's may alos improve learning ability in children. Did I get enough Vitamin K and Omega 3's? Is consumption of this elitist leafy green one of the reasons President Obama is so smart?

All-in-all, I enjoyed this book. The science is accessible, and the research references are extensive. I think she is clear on what issues are speculative and which warrant more study, and it does seem like an area where many scientific discoveries can be made that could have a positive effect on society as a whole if we are able to translate the knowledge into rational public policy.

Still, toward the end, she makes the comment: "Each of us spent nine months inside the womb..."

Except for 12.5 percent of us didn't.

P.S. Third trimester "urge to nest." Is that a real thing?

Make under.

2011-01-21T22:10:00.000-06:00

This will never do.

Ah, much better.

jig-jig

2011-01-15T09:17:00.001-06:00

Gratuitous baby video. Still trying out the phone. Eggs, Bacon, and pancakes for breakfast. Looney Tunes next.

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Test 2

2011-01-14T19:47:00.001-06:00

We are having a mellow, break the rules kind of Friday night. Eating pizza in the livingroom, watching a,movie. Hazel cat is Snoopy-vulturing babywhumpus' pizza, and I am testing the Blogger function of my new phone. daddywhumpus is gigging, the snow is falling, and I don't think I am going to do bath tonight. babywhumpus has been in his new big boy bed since Sunday night, and he has only fallen out once. Last night. Changes are afoot at chez whumpus, including sleep training, painting, and potty training. He's growing up, and though we were here all the time, I sometimes feel like we are missing it.

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testing

2011-01-14T19:36:00.001-06:00

New Android phone, dragon movie, pizza, and weekend parenting.

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Happiest Toddler... Quick Review

2011-01-11T11:11:00.000-06:00

Some books that were on my list have to go back to the library yesterday, so I am going through them today. I already wrote a bit about this first one, but here's my final word.

The Happiest Toddler on the Block
by Dr. Harvey Karp

No! NO NO NO! Dr. Karp, I hear that you are trying to write an accessible book about children for overworked parents, but I am not a toddler myself! Too many exclamation points and twee little pictures! Too many fallacies (homo erectus does not equal neanderthal)! Too obvious that you are writing mainly, if not only, to mothers, and those mothers are probably pretty well-off!

I read the first half and skimmed the second before I took it back to the library. In my case, the only possibly helpful bits were about sleep training, which basically spoke to some advice I got from my son's NICU team, and the bit about making praise specific (compliment the action, not the child). Granted, there may be other gems in the text, but I could not get beyond the writing style and simplistic design.

Bookshelf

2011-01-05T13:18:00.000-06:00

Now that we are not traveling or planning travel, it's time to hook up my request list for my local library. I can only have ten, and here they are:

The Panic Virus: A True Story of Medicine, Science, and Fear by Seth Mnookin

Origins: How the Nine Months Before Birth Shape the Rest of our Lives by Annie Murphy Paul

The Corrections by Johathan Franzen
Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
(Everyone keeps telling me I should read them, so I put them on my request list a long time ago. They both came in when I was traveling and very busy around Thanksgiving, so I added them again. I am number 182 out of 182 for "Freedom.")

Room: A Novel by Emma Donoghue

The Revolutionary Yardscape: Ideas for Repurposing Local Materials to Create Containers, Pathways, Lighting, and More by Matthew Levesque
Handmade Home: Simple Ways to Repurpose Old Materials into New Family Treasures by Amanda Blake Soul
(We just finished a bunch of work on the house, and pending finances, more is in the works for Spring. With organizing and interior work involving minimal financial input over the winter.)

Solar: A Novel by Ian McEwan

Super Sad True Love Story: A Novel by Gary Shyeyngart

The Kids' Campfire Book by Jane Drake & Ann Love

Still at home and not yet cracked (from the library):

Touchpoints: Birth to Three by T. Berry Brazelton
(I can just catch the tail end of babywhumpus' development until he turns three.)

The Happiest Toddler on the Block by Dr. Harvey Karp
(This is the one with all the exclamation points, which I was finding annoying and useless. A coworker and mother of a similarly-aged child said the second part might be more worthwhile, so I'll give it a go).

Others on the to-read-this-year list:

Operation Mincemeat: How a Dead Man and a Bizarre Plan Fooled the Nazis and Assured and Allied Victory by Ben MacIntyre
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
Common as Air: Revolution, Art, and Ownership by Lewis Hyde
Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids, and the Long Con that is Breaking America by Matt Taibbi
All the Devils Are Here: The Hidden History of the Financial Crisis by Bethany McLean
A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
Shadow Tag: A Novel by Louise Erdrich
The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love
One of Our Thursdays is Missing by Jasper Fforde
The Civil War of 1812: American Citizens, British Subjects, Irish Rebels, and Indian Allies by Alan Taylor
Ratification: The People Debate the Constitution, 1787-1788 by Pauline Maier
Madison & Jefferson by Andrew Burstein
First Family: Abigail and John Adams by Joseph J. Ellis
Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism by Susan Jacoby
Deadly Choices: How the Ant-Vaccine Movement Threatens Us ALl
Evolution: The Story of Life on Earth by Jay Hosler
Newton & the Counterfeiter: The Unknown Detective Career of the World's Greatest Scientist
The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of Elements by Sam Kean
McKay's Bees: A Novel by Thomas A. McMahon

No, my year is not longer than the normal person's, and there is almost no way I will get through all of those books... I still have to finish Revolutionaries by Jack Rakove and I forgot to list Washington by Ron Chernow up there.

Sheesh.

I should stop re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, huh?

Struggling to Relax

2011-01-03T18:04:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting on the couch, "Definite Article" streaming to the television, Guinness open near my knee, and I am antsy. I should be doing something. There are dishes in the sink; there is food on the table that should be put away; Finn's toys from last night and this morning are all over the floor; dinner needs to be made; there are countless other projects I could start. I am forcing myself to sit on the couch and drink and write, but it's not relaxing. There are things to be done. People will tell me that I should just sit and take it easy, but they don't understand. It's not possible to take it easy when there are things to be done. People will say that there are always things to be done, and they are right, but not doing the obvious things that need to be done does not make the things that need to be done any easier to do once you decide to do them.

So I sit here fighting with myself, resisting the muscular impulses that are twitching to take me to the kitchen to get stuff done.

It's not going to work. I can feel the things pulling me. The dishes calling, "There are only a few of us; it won't take you long." The frozen, homemade ravioli begging to leave its freezerly cage. The chicken, likewise wanting to be defrosted and thrown into a skillet with chopped onions, ready for soup.

I guess I could compromise. I have 21 rows left on my mom's Christmas present (it's OK, she knows about it), and that's like a cross between work and play.

I gambled with the bus stop...

2011-01-03T17:55:00.000-06:00

and the bus stop won.

Our commute to and from our metropolitan campus workplace involves our metropolitan transit system, as yet consisting of mostly buses. To get there and back again, we can walk six blocks or take a bus that runs once every half an hour and then catch a bus that goes straight to campus, and then it's the reverse on the way home. You can time the morning to catch the first bus, but the afternoon is harder. In the winter, it's almost impossible, plus, this particular route is hardly ever on time, anyway.

This evening, it's snowing. Again.( I should probably start noting when it is not snowing, instead.) When I arrived at Second Bus Stop, I called the bus line and found that a bus was due in 3 minutes.

I weighed the evidence. It takes anywhere from 9-12 minutes to walk, so usually if the wait is under seven minutes, I go for it. 3 is a no-brainer. But it's snowing, and the buses are often behind when it snows, especially during rush hour in the evening. I was cold and wearing work shoes, so I opted for the wait.

5:18 passed with no bus. At 5:30, with no bus in sight, I started walking. Usually, this is cue for the bus to pass me when I am hopelessly in between stops. This time, the bus passed me going the wrong way, clearly extraordinarily late, and I made it home before the bus was anywhere in sight.

So in a way, in the end, I sort of won.

And right now, that's what I need.

Things I did right today: Made it to work by 8:30. Did the money and the bills. Drank a lot of water. Took myself to lunch.

Things not so much: Had to buy lunch.

2011-01-02T19:24:00.000-06:00

2788 miles, ten states, 14 days, and we are home.

I need a vacation.

Tripped Out

2011-01-02T08:39:00.000-06:00

It's the morning of the last day of the most exhausting holiday trip there ever was. It starts in South Bend, Indiana, and should end in St. Paul, Minnesota. Tomorrow, we are back to routine and work and day care, and though I need a week off with nothing to do, it might be a break just to be done.

2011

2011-01-01T20:46:00.001-06:00

I resolve...

to write something, some day.

2010-12-29T07:57:00.000-06:00

It has not been a time for writing, so here's a baby in antlers.

Rudolph

2010-12-08T19:53:00.000-06:00

One would think that someone as innovative as Santa could recognize that different talents are necessary to keep a business moving forward. In this day and age, you can't stay competitive with such a backward attitude. While it is clear that Rudolph's nearest associates learn their lesson by the end of this cautionary tale, the revelation comes mainly from guilt and necessity and not true acceptance. One has to wonder if the next reindeer born with a third eye or blue hooves will meet a similar fate if they cannot prove their economic worth.

While societal cohesion and sameness has arguably played its evolutionary role in advancing the species, even primitive societies often venerated those who were different as shaman or priests. And while Rudolph's "red nose," so shiny that one "could even say it glows" could possibly been seen as a birth defect worthy of ostracism from the gene pool, in the cultural environment of Christmas Town, where survival clearly does not depend solely upon passing on desirable genetic traits, is it necessary that he be turned out from the herd?

In the end, it's Rudolph's contribution to the productivity of the enterprise that gains him acceptance and a place in the community.

It's a fun if often infuriating story, much enlivened by the secondary characters of Yukon Cornelius and the oddball population of the Island of Misfit Toys. It should be noted that the happy ending, which awaits the viewer, also includes the symbolic castration of wilderness through the literal de-fanging of a menacing species, giving the most annoying character, the aspiring dentist, his place in society.

Things we need to believe...

2010-12-02T20:14:00.000-06:00

I need to believe that daddywhumpus had no idea or hint of the glorious mess he was leaving me with when he went to play music.

That was hands-down, the worst poopsplosion we have ever had in this house, all homo sapiens included. I suppose the only thanks is that it was confined to the smallest human, but it is small compensation for the corny, slimy mess that extended from diaper to neck, necessitating a hose down in the tub, and red-faced screaming and crying which ended in a snotty sneeze on my shoulder and arm.

The smell will linger long after the poop is hosed down the loo.

The memory will linger even longer.

Post-pie Administration

2010-11-25T19:12:00.000-06:00

2010-11-25T18:28:00.000-06:00

I want snacks
I don't want snacks
I want my snacks
no snaaaacks!!!
my snacks...

I want cheese
I don't want cheese
no no NO cheese

I want milk
I want white milk
I want chocolate milk
I don't want chocolate milk
NOOOOOOO milk!

I want pie.

Color me...

2010-11-25T17:19:00.000-06:00

They are all there in the green and grey metal lunchbox, jumbled and broken, blunt and peeled. Their existence, dating back decades, makes you wonder why anyone ever has to buy new ones. This lunchbox is here at Gramma and Gran's house, and at home we have two other, similar containers in the same kind of disarray.

Crayons.

The names bring back floods of memories...

lemon yellow
cornflower
magenta
brick red
carnation pink
thistle

The dreaded burnt sienna and, for me, blue violet (I always preferred plum and magenta). The names printed on the pale papers, and the waxy smell, even the dull sound as they rub together in the box. These things are evocative of childhood, bringing up both the good memories of how excellently cool the new fluorescent colors were and the envy I felt over those who were lucky enough to have the box of 64 with the built-in sharpener.

We dragged out the lunchbox of crayons and some scratch paper, trying to entice babywhumpus to color. daddywhumpus and I made some lovely pictures. Finn moved crayons from one place to another, bunched them up, scattered them with a flat, flailing hand, and stuffed them down my pants.

Eventually I felt a need to sort. So. Many. Crayons. All over the place. Too much chaos. I could not find colors I needed to finish the barn or the mountain or the bear. Stupidly, I began to sift through them, making piles of greens, reds, purples, oranges, yellows, browns, blues, and greys. I knew it was futile. I worked quickly, as time and toddler would be working against me. I got half way through.

It doesn't matter what it is. Legos. Blocks. Crayons. Dinner. Just give it up. Divorce yourself from any sort of plan. It's not going to happen. You are a parent. Your life, your vision, your dream of the perfect split-level plastic block house with shutters ain't gonna happen. Your child wants the yellow Legos. All of them. He needs to use the crayons to draw on your back and stack on the fireplace ledge. He had one bite of turkey, he's done with Thanksgiving, and so are you.

Story for Ann

2010-11-20T15:46:00.000-06:00

I wrote this story years ago... it could be twenty by now. Six years ago today, my aunt Ann died unexpectedly, and this is one of my best memories of her. And one of my best memories ever. I wish she were here today. She'd get a kick out of my little family.

My aunt Ann was coming out to visit. She had always been my favorite aunt. Her imagination was vivid, and she really knew how to play, even though she was fifteen years older than I. As if summer wasn’t already enough of a pre-school overload for me, there would now be an overabundance of girl things to do. This was going to be an extra special treat.

Summer for me was a wild romp through the mountains of south-western Montana. Almost every year contained those six weeks of passionate playtime, surrounded by endless cow pastures and college students who thought I was a cute kid. It was also six weeks without T.V., but I never noticed. The reason for this unadulterated and often unsupervised experiment in childhood was that my dad taught at a field station in the Tobacco Root mountains, and the family came along. I really didn’t know what he did exactly. I just knew that he was a teacher, the students called him the Limestone Cowboy, he tromped around outside all day, and sometimes graded papers. Us kids could, in turn, sell rocks we found on the hill behind the lab, and peddle Kool-Aid to the students after a hard day in the field.

The nearest town was listed as having 32 people, but these citizens didn’t actually live in the town proper. They were ranchers who were scattered about the out-laying areas and up into the mountains themselves. The town was called Cardwell, and the post office, general store, and gas station were conveniently close - in the same building. Maxine the postmaster sat on her stool behind the counter, and gave my brother the stamp collector illegal postmarks from the town.

I usually passed my time running around in those endless cow pastures, out behind our trailers, negotiating sage brush and cow pies, or playing with my extensive collection of Barbie dolls. My brother went around making the sort of trouble that boys make, such as pushing little sisters into creeks and general teasing and badgering. Mom spent her time doing crafts and relaxing. She also had the fun job of keeping Jim and I from severely hurting each other. Ann’s visit was a very exciting addition to an already pleasant routine.

I loved Ann. I was five years old, and she seemed to be perfect. She drew pictures that really looked like what they were supposed to be, loved horses and pretty things, and liked to do my hair with colorful yarn ribbons. She would pick flowers with me, and admire my Barbies. She was almost a better kid than I was.

The morning she was supposed to get in, we drove the one and one half hours to Bozeman, and picked her up at the two-terminal airport. One and a half hours is an eternity in the life of an antsy five year old, and I’m sure that my excitement and anticipation contributed to making me one of the most charming little chatterboxes around. I would imagine that I annoyed my parents with all sorts of trivia, perhaps adding in a song or two as I gazed out the window at the scenery speeding by, wondering if we would ever get there.

The plane landed, Ann walked into the airport, and everyone had their chance to say “hi.” The whole ride home consisted of boring grown-up questions such as “How was your flight?,” and “How is college?” By the time another agonizing ninety minute ride was over, and we were back at the camp.

I wanted Ann to dive immediately into playland. But it wasn’t to be. She had to rest Maybe she was an adult after all; they sleep all the time.

The next morning, I woke earlier as usual, as kids often do when they are overly excited about something. It was better than Christmas. Well, almost better than Christmas. I went out into the small living room as quietly as possible, because that was where Ann was sleeping, and made as much noise as possible. I ate the cookies that dad always left for me, dragged the chairs over the cheap linoleum floor, and banged the cabinet doors. Ann, to my horror, woke up. Mom woke up also, and I found out that Dad was actually in camp grading. Wonderful. Everyone would be home to show me a good time. All I had to do was sit back, be cute, and let them do their best to make me happy.

The day was mine. My father arrived and he, Ann, my brother and I planned to trek all the way across the river to Rattlesnake Butte. A hike! Off we went, I in my embroidered Toughskins, striped knit shirt, and blue children’s hiking boots, was ready to go. We left the trailer and headed down the newly-tarred dirt road, over the South Boulder River, and back up the other side to the mountain, a distance of about a quarter of a mile. Rattlesnake Butte was really not a mountain, it was only a small foothill of a foothill in the Tobacco Roots, covered with brush and outcrops of jagged rock. It was tiny.

It was surrounded by the beginnings of the actual mountain range, which made it look even smaller. The only thing which made it remarkable and lent it its exotic movie-western name was that one of the teacher’s dogs was bitten by a rattlesnake on top of it.

But I was five. Almost everything was bigger than me. A whole hill was huge. And the distance traveled was practically an odyssey, complete with obstacles meant to trip up the unsuspecting wanderer. A system of metal bars two inches wide and four inches apart familiar to anyone in the west blocked our passage to the promised land of adventure: a cattle guard. My father’s Super 8 movie camera caught, in visual proof, my brother actually being nice to me. We were attempting to cross this cattle guard when I hesitated. A better name for these contraptions would be “childrenguards.” Jim went ahead and showed me how easy it was, and returned to take my hand to guide me over the treacherous thing. Once I was safely on the other side, he went across and back just one more time to prove to me that he needed no help. Rattlesnake Butte now loomed over us. We went through the gate into the empty cow pasture over to the slope and began our hike.

It was all easy at first. We went slowly, Ann and I picking flowers as we went, Dad following with the camera, and Jim, once again, running ahead to show us how easy it all was. Then Dad dropped a bombshell. He had to go back to the camp to grade more papers. I suddenly had the choice to stay and go on with Ann and Jim, or to go back with my Dad. It might seem like this would have been an easy choice to make, but I loved my daddy, and if he was leaving, I felt I should, too. After standing on the hill with my dad below me and Ann above me, looking back and forth at both of them, and jumping up and down while shaking my hands, I decided to stay and continue the trip.

We reached the top of Rattlesnake Butte and began to explore. I had been up there many times before, but Ann made it seem like a completely different place. The small pine trees, large rocks, and sagebrush became a hideout for the good guys.

We were being chased by a group of nasty robbers. They were after us because we knew too much. We had witnessed their last heist, and were determined to turn them in. We perched ourselves behind some rocks near the edge of the hill, and looked down upon the dirt road. We were worried-it seemed like we couldn’t be missed, and these guys were ruthless. They would show no mercy, so what if we were kids.

A lone car appeared. It came around the corner on our left, around the hill, a cloud of dust following it. They were driving fast. Was it the robbers? I felt my heart speed up, and a lump grew in my throat. The car passed without incident. Ann held her breath through it all, trying to be brave. I couldn’t handle it. I could never handle fear. I had to go to the bathroom. I retired to the bushes for a short amount of time while Jim and Ann held down the fort. As I returned, another car approached. I was advised to duck, which I did. The car went by. Ann was sure it was the bad guys, she remembered the car. It passed out of sight up the valley.

“Listen,” she said, “They didn’t see us.” She was whispering, even though the only thing there was to hear in this wilderness was a bird, maybe a cow. Her ponytails were almost quivering with fear, “It will be a while before they realize that we aren’t up there. The road ends five miles up. If we make a run for it now, we should be able to make it home before they come back.” Admiration almost poured out of my eyes. She was fearless. She was pretty. She was smart. She didn’t condescend. Ann knew everything. We took one last peek at the road, looked at each other for reassurance - Jim informing us that there was really nothing to worry about, , and made a break for it. We tore down the side of the hill, through a herd of wandering cattle who didn’t even realize what peril we were in, and took off down the road.

We didn’t stop until we reaches our trailer.

“I think we made it,” Ann said, “Let’s eat lunch.”

We went inside. The robbers never found us. Ann was so smart, and she had her priorities straight. Food before fear.

Flu Facts from the CDC

2010-11-19T10:32:00.000-06:00

The whumpuses have all had their flu shots. Finn and I had them at the same time, which I hoped he would find fascinating and would lessen the pain for him. It did. He had his then watched me have mine. We were in shot solidarity, and it gave him a story to tell. Pete had his at work, where we have free flu clinics.

Go here for some facts about the seasonal flu and children, like:

Each year an average of 20,000 children under the age of 5 are hospitalized because of influenza complications.

I'm Reading A Book!

2010-11-18T17:01:00.000-06:00

It's about raising a well-behaved toddler! Yes, once again, I have succumbed to the lure of a quick fix by checking a parenting book out of the library. Previously, they were about sleep, and it ended in a blind rage about the "Sleep Lady" and a vow to never again read a child sleep book, no matter who recommends it. So far, this vow has stuck, even when babywhumpus has a few bad nights in a row (he's in one right now).

Recently, babywhumpus' whiny, petulant moods led me to seek solace in written advice, as I feared that my brain would eventually explode from all the "No I Don't Want To-s" and general high-pitched, incomprehensible wheedling, whinging demands coming from the mouth of my small human.

I should know better. It won't matter. They will offer plans, which we have neither the time nor the fortitude to implement. What I really want, truth be told, is a quick fix, akin to a spell or charm that will end the whining and turn the boy into an engaging, reasonable individual. In reality, there is a spell, but it's not quick. It's time. With patience on top. And even then, as the recent mid-term elections have proven, there's no guarantee that I will get a reasonable individual out of the bargain.

The current book is by a celebrity pediatrician, the same one who wrote "The Happiest Baby on the Block," which I read regarding sleep issues. I was probably so sleep deprived at that point, that much of it flew past me. Like the exclamation points! And the cutesy language! And the mistakes in terminology! Or the assumption that your child is not in day care because you are a wealthy parent in southern California! Or the further assumption that only women are reading this book!

I'm not sure why I am doing this to myself!

Homo Habilus was not Neanderthal!

I am not a stay at home mom!

Dads should start reading these damn books too!

Green With It

2010-11-17T16:09:00.000-06:00

Do you ever feel like someone else's life is just better than yours?

It's unfortunate that the subject of my envy lives with me. It would be easy if I could say it was my cats or even my son, but it's not, and that leaves just one person.

Before the baby, I'd say we were about equal. I had friends, he had friends, we had friends. I went out, he played gigs, I usually came along, sometimes with the friends that I had. I could read, write, knit, sew, or draw at my leisure. I still did more of the housework and almost all of the cooking, but there was more time. Oodles of luxurious, lavendar-scented, foamy bubbles of time. We were busy. I, especially, am a busy person--can't sit still to save my life.*

Now, daddywhumpus still rehearses and plays gigs, but it costs $100 to pay a babysitter to join him, plus it sucks extra hard if neither of us gets any sleep. I have one girls' night a week when a friend comes over for a couple of hours and we watch America's Next Top Model, but I still have to help with the baby.

I'm still doing most of the housework and almost all of the cooking.

daddywhumpus tells me to make time, to just do it. But if I do, the housework is still there. daddywhumpus says we should get a studio; I say we can't afford it, and the last thing I need is money worries. It seems like there isn't time for both of us to have a life outside of work and family and get everything done. And when are we a couple? When are we a family?

It's not new and we whumpuses are not unique. I have other friends who are band widows, and we have the same problems. I knew about the music, it's not like he surprised me with it. I don't resent the music. I resent the loss of me, and I don't know how to get it back, how to make time for it. If I am not the one doing the housework, I feel like I am slacking. If I am the one doing the housework, I feel like I am doing all the housework, and I get frustrated. When I am home with the boy, I also do chores. If I am out doing something with friends or for myself, and there are chores left behind, I feel like I am slacking, and I can't relax.

daddywhumpus says that I should just make plans; the chores will still be there.

Yeah, that's the problem.**

*Clearly, if my life truly counted on sitting still, I could make a shift to do so.

**Last weekend was work and chore-filled, and so was the weekend before that. Can't tell by my sunny disposition and positive attitude, can you?

Before and After

2010-11-13T13:29:00.000-06:00

Both for the weather and the house.

It was almost 70 degrees earlier in the week, but today, there is much snow.

This is the whumpus residence.

In between those two pictures, we had the garage door replaced and a beautiful patio put in, a fresh coat of paint, a motion detector light, and new storm windows. Inside, we have a new toilet, new plumbing, and a portable dishwasher. Plus a new attitude. Right?

It's like we are almost grown-ups.

A Time to Ponder

2010-11-12T13:45:00.000-06:00

When you are sitting in a windowless room, in a thin cotton robe that is open at the front, you have time to think. As I waited for the gynecologist, I thought about how I should have done my toes. Pedicures are pretty low on the priority list, behind eating, cleaning, working, and breathing. Should I have carved out time to make my toes look nice for my new doctor? She's not really going to be focusing on my feet. The area of concern is more northerly, and that area looks as nice as it ever does.

For the past two-and-a-half years, I have been to the doctor numerous times, with Finn. For the five-and-a-half months before that, I was at the doctor a lot, for pregnancy. I have not been in for a non-pregnancy visit for over four years. When my old (though young, cute, with excellent taste in shoes) doctor left for a position at the University, I was bereft and did not take the time to find a new one. Finally, I read the bios on my HMO's website, and chose another young, cute doctor. I didn't try to, it's just what happened.

I found myself saying, "Since I became pregnant/since I had the baby" a lot. Since I had the baby, I have had lower back pain. Since I became pregnant, I have had facial redness that resembles rosacea. Since I had the baby, I have not slept well. Since I became pregnant, I am much dumber. Since I had the baby, I have a sex drive of negative 1.

My blood pressure is good. Everything looks good. I weigh 12 pounds more than I wish I did, but it may well be something that I have to accept. In a month, I'll go back for blood work that will check my cholesterol, glucose, and thyroid as well as get an IUD. I also have to schedule my very first mammogram, now that I am over 40.

I'm such a grown-up.

Family Portraits

2010-11-10T11:52:00.000-06:00

Yeah, that picture yesterday? I mainly posted that as a little balm to my bitchy Friday post. Really, things are pretty OK, but sometimes it's better to spew a little venom into the ether instead of at your husband, son, or animals. Even when they barf on your rug. (Cat, not husband)

I had a photographer come to the house on Monday evening because we have no family portraits since this one, really:

And it's a little out of date.

Plus, I am rarely in photos of Finn because I am taking the photos of Finn. From the looks of our album, I never spend time with him. Which is totally true, but no one needs to KNOW that.

I found our photographer through a newsletter from a women's shelter. She had come by to offer her services for free, so the families there could have some portraits done. How excellent is that? I checked out her website and wrote to her. For a very reasonable fee, she came to our house with her equipment and followed us around. It was simple and fun. Pete still had time to get to rehearsal, and Finn got to show off for a new person as well as flex his "Smile for the camera" muscles. He's a ham.

She put up a few photos on her blog, so I'll send you there to look at them if you want to. Her name is Crystal Leipa, and she's going into this business full-time starting soon, which is brave and exciting.

(We hope to have Mattress come by sometime and do some different family photos... we just have to decide a theme... Plus, I hear his fee is astronomical.)

Family

2010-11-09T16:17:00.000-06:00

Crystal Liepa Photography

2010-11-05T19:42:00.000-05:00

It's always nice to be behind at work, behind at home, have people pissed at you, find the cat in the closet (having ruined a brand-new towel and possibly numerous other items INCLUDING YARN), be by yourself with your candy-demanding child, unable to find the pumpkin that is full of the candy being demanded, and have to clean up cat barf once the closet cat is done re-eating the other cat's barf.

It must be great to be in a band.

Give Me the Chickenpox, or Give me Death

2010-11-03T16:39:00.000-05:00

Until it was time to vaccinate my baby before he left the NICU, and I had my subsequent fear-based freak out about vaccine danger, I had no idea that there was such a thing as a chicken pox vaccine. And when I heard, I thought, well, "Meh, why do we need that? Chicken pox is not so bad. He doesn't need that one."

It was part and parcel to my weird reluctance to vaccinate. The fear had gotten to me in my highly emotional state. babywhumpus was extremely premature and in the NICU. Even though we knew relatively early that he would survive, it was still a state of heightened existence. I tried above all to hold it together and not be too emotional. Consequently, I think I may have put all my fear regarding his very real condition into other areas: vaccines, bottle-feeding, toxins in the products they used at the hospital. Though I still have my issues with the bottle feeding and the products, I was hysterical at the time. Not hair-tearing and raving, but overly panicked and fearful about these small things, having denied the emotional reaction to the very large one. And in a situation where you feel you have very little control, you cling to what you can control.

I look back, and it's embarrassing. Let the damn nurses give your baby a bottle when you are away and get him home earlier (I did, eventually). There are more important things right now than the possibility that he might not adjust to the breast. Calm down about the diaper cream and the petroleum jelly. The dose makes the poison, and, again, there are more important things on which to focus.

And then the vaccines. I had this still very tiny baby, who had survived so much, so early, and I wanted him to stay exactly how he was. Those stories about babies regressing or becoming damaged after vaccination had wheedled their way into my subconscious. After all we had done, I was not going to lose a part of him.

Never mind the other side of that coin: pertussis, hepatitis, and other vaccine-preventable diseases that could take all or most of him away.

People can say a disease is not that bad, or that "only a few people die of it every year, anyway," but if it's preventable, then isn't that statement just a little unethical? What if you or your child is one of the few? It's all OK when it's happening to someone else, I guess.

I didn't think about those things back them.

By the time babywhumpus came due for his chickenpox vaccination, he was all caught up and got his shot. Because even though "only" 50-100 people die every year from varicella, I'd rather it be none.

Side by Side

2010-11-01T20:33:00.000-05:00

One year in between, walking and talking, truly a little demon.

Hallowe'en pictures

2010-11-01T20:28:00.000-05:00

Submitted for your approval...

This was Finn's first Hallowe'en trick-or-treat experience, and the candy monster has been created. This is last year's costume because I did not have time to make a new one, but the adorable-ness translated well.

The candy rationing and bursts of tears begin...

Vaccine Awareness Week (The Evidence-based Version)

2010-11-01T19:09:00.000-05:00

This week has been declared an unofficial Vaccine Awareness Week by anti-vaccination advocates, so a bunch of evidence-based bloggers are writing about vaccines. I guess it's taking them at their word, and working to make the public more aware of the facts about vaccination. Many of these individuals were very helpful to me, getting me out of my fog of irrational fear and putting me back on track.

"It's also important to realize that most parents who buy into anti-vaccine views do so out of ignorance, because they have been misled, rather than due to stupidity." - Orac, Respectful Insolence

"Vaccines stimulate and increase the function of the immune system – that’s how they work. They provoke an immune response. Stimulating the immune system is healthy for the system, which needs exposure to antigens to remain active." - Steven Novella, Neurologica Blog

Vaccine Central, vaccine information by parents, for parents.

A post from last year, by Mark Crislip, on the flu vaccine.

Photographic Interlude

2010-10-29T15:28:00.000-05:00

Raisin Recall

2010-10-29T10:20:00.000-05:00

Nestle is recalling Raisinets.

It's interesting because I would have assumed they were being recalled because they are candied evil, but apparently there might be "undeclared peanuts" in there.

Not a cross-post

2010-10-25T15:26:00.000-05:00

Entry about a rally with the president here.

Voting over

2010-10-21T12:44:00.002-05:00

It was just for one day, that being yesterday, Wednesday October 20.

Today is another day, and I think I am going to dress him like a devil every single day because we are beginning to be convinced he is possessed.

We Just Got New Plumbing. Vote for my Kid.

2010-10-20T13:30:00.000-05:00

Halloween Costume Contest.

Miracles DO happen

2010-10-15T11:21:00.000-05:00

They are just not what we think they are.

They are tiny in comparison to the larger world.

They should be honored and marveled at, but not be expected to repeat... because they are miracles.

You may remember my thoughts on miracles. Conception is not a miracle. Even my baby's survival is not a miracle. To reiterate, a miracle is:

1: an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs
2: an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

Again, I do not believe in number one in any way, shape, or form, and number two does not apply to conception, in general or in my specific case, nor does it apply to babywhumpus' survival, as the success rate for his gestational age is now 90%. We are always grateful (to science and his excellent care), and we are often astounded at our two-pound baby but... not a miracle.

But, by number two's standards, what we had last night was a miracle. babywhumpus slept for almost 11 hours straight. This is "an extremely outstanding and unusual event." For the past two weeks or perhaps more, there has not been a single night of even sleeping from 10-5, let alone from 8:30-7:15, and before that, the 10-5's were rare enough.

Tonight, I vow to get him into--actually INTO--the bath at 8, give him a fun 10-15 minute splash, get him out and p.j.-ed, and see if family story time will happen before pillow and bed. The goal being to get him into the crib around 8:30.

This, too, would be a miracle.