There's no need for me to re-invent the wheel; there's a lot of good information already out there. I've compiled a few sites below.
University of Minnesota information:
Bedbugs! All about bed bugs, from the University of Minnesota.
Bed bugs in residences: University of Minnesota Extension
Bed bugs and traveling: University of Minnesota Extension
What can I do about bed bugs? University of Minnesota Extension
Does cold kill bed bugs? University of Minnesota Extension
Bug bombs and bed bugs (Hint: they don't work)
Other Information:
The Mayo Clinic: Bed Bugs
The Bed Bug Registry: Look it up before you travel!
Pest World: Bed Bugs: Look up an exterminator in your area.
Bed bugs: Wikipedia
Detecting Bed Bugs using Bed Bug Monitors: Rutgers Extension
New do-it-yourself Bed Bug Monitor: University of Minnesota Extension
Results from Bed Bug Search on U of MN Extension Site
The company we used to get rid of our bed bugs:
Plunketts: The Dogs!
Plunketts: Heat Treatment
Plunketts: Bed Bug Profile
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Bed Bugs: A Photo Set
Photos from our bed bug infestation, including heat treatment and clean-up.
bed bugs, a set on Flickr.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
A Winter'stale
It's about this time of year when I start to hate my socks.
It's about this time of year when my fantasies turn from what I would do if I won the lottery to dreaming of going barefoot.
It's about this time of year when I start to resent the time that winter wastes, walking home from school is an exercise in rage repression, and taking off all the wet layers coating my snow-loving child, usually all the way down to the underwear, makes me want to scream, cry, or both.
Last night and this morning was an ultimate boner parent move. I got all of Finn's cold, sodden clothes off and deposited them near the back door, swearing I would deal with them in a moment. Then I got the kid set up with some Justice League and a blanket so I could work on dinner, and the soggy pile by the back door just slipped my mind. After dinner, Pete put it all into the washing machine and went to rehearsal. I put the boy to bed and watched "Grey Gardens (2009)" and forgot all about it because Edies.
This morning, Pete was crashing around in the basement, and I thought, "Is he cleaning the catbox? That usually takes him 30 minutes. They are going to be late for school." Then it dawned on me, "Fuuuuuuck... all Finn's stuff is still in the washing machine, and winter is outside the door, right where I left it.
Fortunately, we have a lighter winter jacket for him, and it's going to be in the high 30's today, which means that Minnesotans will be out in short sleeves. By the time they were leaving, the snow pants were dry, and we had him outfitted in other gear, but we had to get him over some tears at not having his everyday thing, and I was sitting in a pool of Mom Fail. It's a warm bath of soothing guilt and self recrimination I am all too used to, as no one can criticize me like I can. After all, I know my sore points best.
I'd love to chat about this more, but I have to head out to the grocery store before Winter Storm Abraxis or whoever descends upon the city this afternoon. Then, it's back to the freezer for us. Not the deep freezer, though, so we should be thankful, right?
Right?
It's about this time of year when my fantasies turn from what I would do if I won the lottery to dreaming of going barefoot.
It's about this time of year when I start to resent the time that winter wastes, walking home from school is an exercise in rage repression, and taking off all the wet layers coating my snow-loving child, usually all the way down to the underwear, makes me want to scream, cry, or both.
Last night and this morning was an ultimate boner parent move. I got all of Finn's cold, sodden clothes off and deposited them near the back door, swearing I would deal with them in a moment. Then I got the kid set up with some Justice League and a blanket so I could work on dinner, and the soggy pile by the back door just slipped my mind. After dinner, Pete put it all into the washing machine and went to rehearsal. I put the boy to bed and watched "Grey Gardens (2009)" and forgot all about it because Edies.
This morning, Pete was crashing around in the basement, and I thought, "Is he cleaning the catbox? That usually takes him 30 minutes. They are going to be late for school." Then it dawned on me, "Fuuuuuuck... all Finn's stuff is still in the washing machine, and winter is outside the door, right where I left it.
Fortunately, we have a lighter winter jacket for him, and it's going to be in the high 30's today, which means that Minnesotans will be out in short sleeves. By the time they were leaving, the snow pants were dry, and we had him outfitted in other gear, but we had to get him over some tears at not having his everyday thing, and I was sitting in a pool of Mom Fail. It's a warm bath of soothing guilt and self recrimination I am all too used to, as no one can criticize me like I can. After all, I know my sore points best.
I'd love to chat about this more, but I have to head out to the grocery store before Winter Storm Abraxis or whoever descends upon the city this afternoon. Then, it's back to the freezer for us. Not the deep freezer, though, so we should be thankful, right?
Right?
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
If you have a child who sleeps, take a moment right now to thank your lucky stars or your vengeful father-god or dancing goat deity or light a bit of incense to gaia or just revel in well-rested, over-accomplishing sanctimony as you sip a glass of wine that is not tinged with the bitter taste of resentment and rage while your cherubic angel dreams away in its bed of heavenly flowers and glittery faerie poo.
Chronicles of a Folk Family
A Reminiscence
June, 2013
Sometimes life is so deliciously weird. You find yourself standing at the hostess stand in a Ground Round at an Oshkosh convention center waiting for them to bring you a milk, to-go. Because you're a mom in a folk family.
We're here for the Irish Festival, where daddywhumpus's Celtic folk-rock band is playing two sets over the weekend. It's the first of the festival season and the first where we are attempting to be a family. I am deeply uncertain of our success and my happiness, and when I say "deeply uncertain," I mean "pretty sure this is going to be a fucking disaster that ends with me feeling like Folk Nanny."
It's Friday night, and since we did not haul our own alcohol (I did not think there would be room in the car with four humans, luggage, merch, and gear). And I figured, it's Wisconsin, where you can bring your kids to the bar and civil servants can't unionize, so clearly their blue laws will be at the very least a lighter shade of blue than Minnesota's. After all, having lived relatively close to the Wisconsin border for most of my time in the Great North, I know how common it is for us to make our own run for the border to get beer after hours in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.
But no. They stop selling "in the city" at 9:00 in the gas stations and laundromats where they sell alcohol, so it was looking like a long dry night in the hotel room for me.
I am adding "check out local liquor laws" to my festival spreadsheet. I can put it right where "check out local breastfeeding restrictions" used to be on the "travels with baby" spreadsheet.
Now, babywhumpus is watching "Despicable Me" on the laptop, munching on peanut butter crackers, sipping his to-go milk, and I am enjoying a lovely Wisconsin pale ale that daddywhumpus procured in an adjacent town.
Unfortunately, we have not had a chance to discuss norms and expectations for a family festival trip, and I am unsure of how strict and demanding I should be. He is here for music and the band, and it is a business, but I do feel that attention must be paid to the fact that our child is here and respect must be paid to the fact that the main responsibility for his welfare, entertainment, care, and feeding will fall to me while daddywhumpus plays music, glad-hands, and schmoozes.
It's kind of like an extended work week for me, really, but it's my mobile office. Do I just let this play out and then we discuss afterwards for the next one? Do I try to find a moment when we can talk about it before the melee starts tomorrow?
After all, a simple visit to our local Irish Festival ended once with me storming dramatically out during one of their sets, as I was so furious with the situation. It's not one of my prouder moments but really, considering the white hot rage I was feeling at the time, it was the least crazy thing I could do.
I don't want to be in that position again.
June, 2013
Sometimes life is so deliciously weird. You find yourself standing at the hostess stand in a Ground Round at an Oshkosh convention center waiting for them to bring you a milk, to-go. Because you're a mom in a folk family.
We're here for the Irish Festival, where daddywhumpus's Celtic folk-rock band is playing two sets over the weekend. It's the first of the festival season and the first where we are attempting to be a family. I am deeply uncertain of our success and my happiness, and when I say "deeply uncertain," I mean "pretty sure this is going to be a fucking disaster that ends with me feeling like Folk Nanny."
It's Friday night, and since we did not haul our own alcohol (I did not think there would be room in the car with four humans, luggage, merch, and gear). And I figured, it's Wisconsin, where you can bring your kids to the bar and civil servants can't unionize, so clearly their blue laws will be at the very least a lighter shade of blue than Minnesota's. After all, having lived relatively close to the Wisconsin border for most of my time in the Great North, I know how common it is for us to make our own run for the border to get beer after hours in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.
But no. They stop selling "in the city" at 9:00 in the gas stations and laundromats where they sell alcohol, so it was looking like a long dry night in the hotel room for me.
I am adding "check out local liquor laws" to my festival spreadsheet. I can put it right where "check out local breastfeeding restrictions" used to be on the "travels with baby" spreadsheet.
Now, babywhumpus is watching "Despicable Me" on the laptop, munching on peanut butter crackers, sipping his to-go milk, and I am enjoying a lovely Wisconsin pale ale that daddywhumpus procured in an adjacent town.
Unfortunately, we have not had a chance to discuss norms and expectations for a family festival trip, and I am unsure of how strict and demanding I should be. He is here for music and the band, and it is a business, but I do feel that attention must be paid to the fact that our child is here and respect must be paid to the fact that the main responsibility for his welfare, entertainment, care, and feeding will fall to me while daddywhumpus plays music, glad-hands, and schmoozes.
It's kind of like an extended work week for me, really, but it's my mobile office. Do I just let this play out and then we discuss afterwards for the next one? Do I try to find a moment when we can talk about it before the melee starts tomorrow?
After all, a simple visit to our local Irish Festival ended once with me storming dramatically out during one of their sets, as I was so furious with the situation. It's not one of my prouder moments but really, considering the white hot rage I was feeling at the time, it was the least crazy thing I could do.
I don't want to be in that position again.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Pants on Fire
A Reminiscence
(Note: This is from sometime last year before FJ started Kindergarten. In an effort to create more, or anything, I am wading through a sea of drafts and notes, hoping to spark something.)
When people say, “Children are so innocent” or “Kids never lie,” first of all, they clearly have no children, and secondly, they mean, “Kids will say out loud whatever shit comes into their heads, like ‘Mama, that man is really fat!’ causing shame and embarrassment for all within earshot."
There’s a difference.
Sure, exclaiming that someone is fat may be the truth as that kid perceives it, but kids are not innocent. Kids are all about self-protection and ass-covering from an early age.
Furthermore, I have observed that far from the threat of punishment altering a child’s behavior for the better, it just causes them make shit up or try to cover their tracks. Just like grown-ups.
I don't know why we expect anything different.
Just this morning, Finn came racing into the kitchen, cheek bulging with a hard candy mint. “Do you have a mint in your mouth?”
Silence.
Wheels turning visibly.
Head shakes “no.”
“Why are you lying? I can see it. Tell the truth: do you have a mint in your mouth?”
Head nods “yes.”
“Honey, no running with a mint in your mouth. You could choke. Now, what did you need to tell me?”
“Can I have some hot cocoa with whipped cream?”
“You have to wait until you finish your mint. Go back and sit on the couch.”
Liar.
And his counterpart: Idiot.
The last one being me. I rewarded his lie with hot chocolate that he didn't even drink until it was cold, thus negating the "hot" and rendering useless the work units put into the beverage.
Earlier this morning, he went to have his first bathroom visit (he holds it all night long and sometimes even longer), and by the time I came around the corner, he was crouching above a small pond of pee with a teeny wad of toilet paper in his hand. “Don’t worry, mama. I’ll clean it up.”
I flashed through the cat barf and cat poop and cat pee I clean up weekly, remembered all the diapers we scrubbed and washed, and thought, “Still? Really?”
Simultaneously, I realized that he knows how crazy this makes me, and he does not want to get into trouble nor does he want to upset me (few people do). In order to protect himself, he was going to try to clean it up before I saw it. Knowing that this would only make for more mess, I did not make him clean it up. He’s 4, almost 5, and sure, he has to learn to go right when he has to go instead of 30 minutes later, and it does, indeed, make me nuts when half the pee goes on the floor, but it’s not like he’s a Supreme Court Justice or retail cashier. He's a kid.
Though he is just as full of equivocating, subterfuge, and blame-shifting.
(Note: This is from sometime last year before FJ started Kindergarten. In an effort to create more, or anything, I am wading through a sea of drafts and notes, hoping to spark something.)
When people say, “Children are so innocent” or “Kids never lie,” first of all, they clearly have no children, and secondly, they mean, “Kids will say out loud whatever shit comes into their heads, like ‘Mama, that man is really fat!’ causing shame and embarrassment for all within earshot."
There’s a difference.
Sure, exclaiming that someone is fat may be the truth as that kid perceives it, but kids are not innocent. Kids are all about self-protection and ass-covering from an early age.
Furthermore, I have observed that far from the threat of punishment altering a child’s behavior for the better, it just causes them make shit up or try to cover their tracks. Just like grown-ups.
I don't know why we expect anything different.
Just this morning, Finn came racing into the kitchen, cheek bulging with a hard candy mint. “Do you have a mint in your mouth?”
Silence.
Wheels turning visibly.
Head shakes “no.”
“Why are you lying? I can see it. Tell the truth: do you have a mint in your mouth?”
Head nods “yes.”
“Honey, no running with a mint in your mouth. You could choke. Now, what did you need to tell me?”
“Can I have some hot cocoa with whipped cream?”
“You have to wait until you finish your mint. Go back and sit on the couch.”
Liar.
And his counterpart: Idiot.
The last one being me. I rewarded his lie with hot chocolate that he didn't even drink until it was cold, thus negating the "hot" and rendering useless the work units put into the beverage.
Earlier this morning, he went to have his first bathroom visit (he holds it all night long and sometimes even longer), and by the time I came around the corner, he was crouching above a small pond of pee with a teeny wad of toilet paper in his hand. “Don’t worry, mama. I’ll clean it up.”
I flashed through the cat barf and cat poop and cat pee I clean up weekly, remembered all the diapers we scrubbed and washed, and thought, “Still? Really?”
Simultaneously, I realized that he knows how crazy this makes me, and he does not want to get into trouble nor does he want to upset me (few people do). In order to protect himself, he was going to try to clean it up before I saw it. Knowing that this would only make for more mess, I did not make him clean it up. He’s 4, almost 5, and sure, he has to learn to go right when he has to go instead of 30 minutes later, and it does, indeed, make me nuts when half the pee goes on the floor, but it’s not like he’s a Supreme Court Justice or retail cashier. He's a kid.
Though he is just as full of equivocating, subterfuge, and blame-shifting.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Weep, if the tears will come
After hitting my head for the third time today on the exposed cabinet in our gutted kitchen corner (I drew blood the second time), I screamed and collapsed to the floor (like a boss). When Finn came in to see what was up, I told him. And then I started weeping.
As most parents can attest, crying in front of your child is not an awesome super power. You feel exposed and weak, and it puts your child in the awkward position of having to be a care giver.
Finn sat down in the floor and hugged me. Then he said, "I'll be right back," and left. He came back with his stuffed duck and handed it to me. Again he sat and hugged me. I continued to weep. He left again and came back with a blanket, preparing to emergency cuddle right there on the kitchen floor. At that point I said we could go to the couch, where he proceeded to carefully place a throw pillow behind my back.
Another night, after the above embarrassing scene, Finn and I were sitting on the couch, and I started crying. Pete had been especially exasperated with parenting, and I had sent him away and took over. Something about the stress or hormones and stress and hormones led me to start with the water works again. Finn patted me and asked, “Mama, are you crying?” “Yes,” I said. “Because of daddy?” “Well, sort of.”
The next morning, he informed Pete, “You made mama cry.”
I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but I should have known better than to answer his question truthfully.
A few days later, I had to run to my brother’s and pick up a camera. It was -8 degrees outside, and after driving half a block, the car alerted me with “Tire pressures low.” I pulled over to do a visual check in case the car was just frozen stupid, and yup, they were low. I went to air compressor after air compressor only to discover that they were frozen stupid and not working. I had to get the camera in time to get ready and make a photo shoot, and I was now stressing out, frozen, and the front left tire was almost flat from trying to get air into it. I came home, walked in the door, panicked, and started crying.
Pete came to give me a hug, and Finn got in between us. “Daddy, I got this,” he said as he hugged and patted me and went to get the stuffed duck.
As most parents can attest, crying in front of your child is not an awesome super power. You feel exposed and weak, and it puts your child in the awkward position of having to be a care giver.
Finn sat down in the floor and hugged me. Then he said, "I'll be right back," and left. He came back with his stuffed duck and handed it to me. Again he sat and hugged me. I continued to weep. He left again and came back with a blanket, preparing to emergency cuddle right there on the kitchen floor. At that point I said we could go to the couch, where he proceeded to carefully place a throw pillow behind my back.
Another night, after the above embarrassing scene, Finn and I were sitting on the couch, and I started crying. Pete had been especially exasperated with parenting, and I had sent him away and took over. Something about the stress or hormones and stress and hormones led me to start with the water works again. Finn patted me and asked, “Mama, are you crying?” “Yes,” I said. “Because of daddy?” “Well, sort of.”
The next morning, he informed Pete, “You made mama cry.”
I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but I should have known better than to answer his question truthfully.
A few days later, I had to run to my brother’s and pick up a camera. It was -8 degrees outside, and after driving half a block, the car alerted me with “Tire pressures low.” I pulled over to do a visual check in case the car was just frozen stupid, and yup, they were low. I went to air compressor after air compressor only to discover that they were frozen stupid and not working. I had to get the camera in time to get ready and make a photo shoot, and I was now stressing out, frozen, and the front left tire was almost flat from trying to get air into it. I came home, walked in the door, panicked, and started crying.
Pete came to give me a hug, and Finn got in between us. “Daddy, I got this,” he said as he hugged and patted me and went to get the stuffed duck.
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