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Vomit Tsunami

The beginning is always the same. Middle of the night, a child cries, I listen and hope. Perhaps sleep will return. A fool's hope, I know.

Then comes the sound. Every parent knows it. Like a cough but guttural, wet, productive. The sound that sends me bolt upright, out of bed, scrambling for the door with an even more futile hope: that the sound I heard was something innocuous like, say, the cat. Not what I know it was. Not that awful splash of stomach acid and bits of pizza, half-digested gummy bears, banana, raisins. 

I put my hand down, feel the telltale chunks in the dark. Sheets, magic blanket, pajamas all end up in a pile in the bathroom.

Every hour for the rest of night I'm up to replace pajamas and the towel. Dr. D, who has little experience with vomit, feeds the child in the morning. Mistake. By evening, Rowdy is keeping down pedialyte, but Mud Pie has a bellyache. By morning Pie and St. Nick both lay listless in the family room, bowls beside them. By noon Dr. D lays in bed with chills and stomach cramps. That night my own gut churns in a way I can't ignore. 1am, I'm hit. 5am, my head pounds and my breasts are hot from un-drunk milk. I'm suddenly awake and certain something is very wrong with the baby, so I crawl from the sofa in the family room, up the stairs, and find Baby sleeping soundly. I feed him, and he violently spits up enough to soak my pajamas. I'm too sick to care. I crawl back to the sofa. The next morning we were supposed to load the truck and drive to Milwaukee, but in crazy faith we decide to postpone. A day.

We sit in the living room all the next day. Baby continues to throw up every feeding. Rowdy and Pie and St. Nick move on to intestinal "vomiting." Fish joins them. We think he may miss the puking part of the illness and we're relieved. And since none of us has much capacity for rational thought remaining, we decide to load up the next morning and take our trip, dammit, because Dr. D can't cancel his meeting and I'm not going to be stuck home with five sick kids. Driving through Chicago with five sick kids sounds so much better somehow.

So the next morning Fish wakes with a stomach ache. St. Nick is still weak, Dr. D can barely stand. Pie and Rowdy seem perky, however, so I help them pack (and pack for everyone else) and by 9:30 we're on the road. Amazingly, Baby does not throw up again, and Fish and the rest quickly fall asleep. It's the shortest 6-hour drive in the history of our family. Plus the sleep does us well. Could it be we're free from this illness? We swim (rather halfheartedly), eat dinner (quite cautiously), and tuck in for the night.

Fish making use of the hotel floor.

3am. The sound. Again. Rowdy. Again. I thank whatever force of the universe compelled me to bring extra pajamas. The next day, a miracle! Rowdy is eating! Pie and Nick and Fish are eating! Everyone is well! We drive home giddy with relief. We watch a show, go to bed and rest blissfully.

Until St. Nick wakes me at 1am. "Mom, Mom. Fish just Superpuked."

How to overcome childhood disappointments through vicarious living, Or: building the Victoria's Farmhouse kit by Real Good Toys

Flashback to 1985-or-so. More than anything else in the universe a certain little girl wanted a dollhouse. A real dollhouse made of wood, with real wallpaper and tiny furnishings with drawers that opened and teeny tiny plates and cups and pillows. Imagine her delight when the gift she opened one Christmas (or maybe birthday - her memory is a little spotty sometimes) was a real, true dollhouse kit! Oh the joy and delight!

Flash forward several long weeks of, "when can we build my dollhouse? When when when?" Until her parents were so annoyed they finally cleared the dining table, put down newspaper, and opened the box. "Yay! My dollhouse!" quickly became, "What do you mean we have to paint the pieces first?" 

Flash forward more weeks of dust collecting on the yet-unpainted dollhouse pieces. "I can paint it myself, really really I can!" So she painted (some) pieces. She may have made a mess. She may have been told No More Painting! 

Flash forward again. Dinnner guests! Pack up the dollhouse pieces, let's set the table!

Flash forward an undetermined amount of time with much, "WHEN ARE WE GONNA MAKE MY DOLLHOUSE DAMMIT!" to finally unpacking the box of partially painted pieces. Add in the little girl deciding to build it her own damn self but giving up after reading one page of instructions, then changing to, "I CAN PAINT IT WHEN IT'S ASSEMBLED JUST BUILD IT ALREADY!!!" Soon the little girl's dollhouse had a foundation and three exterior walls. Yay! At last!

Flash really far forward. The dollhouse with no paint, no siding, no trim, no interior walls or second floor sitting on the floor of the little girl's bedroom, atop the box of largely unpainted pieces. Can you see it? Imagine years going by, and the little girl's best friend accidentally sitting on the dollhouse, breaking the foundation. 

At some point it was fixed, some interior walls were added (or at least the second floor), and she painted the damn thing without any damn siding because she was so damn sick of looking at bare wood. She then donated it to her church because she was now a teenager and was too old to give a crap about dollhouses.

Would you believe me if I said that I was that little girl? What a sad, sad story, and ever-so sadly typical of my youth. Just like the fake Cabbage Patch Kid I received and cried my eyes out over because it was the uggliest doll ever made. 

Flash forward to today. My little girl (who received a Cabbage Patch that she didn't especially want several years ago) opened her much-longed-for Christmas package. The worktable is set up in the basement, and once we pick paint colors, we'll be ready to rock and roll. I will not let my daughter relive my childhood. In fact, this will be the Great Childhood Reclamation Project! Come back and check on our progress!

Coopdelicious: Construction of a Chicken Coop

As promised, a post about the building of our chicken coop. No lessons or measurements or blueprints because it's been a while now. Just lots of pictures and a few words. Or a bunch of words. I don't know yet! How exciting.

Step 1: Get chicks. I suppose it would be smarter to build the coop before getting chicks, but really, there's nothing quite like a tub full of ever-growing, increasingly-smelly little fowl to motivate one to build a coop. Especially in Michigan in March. Below is their second home, as they'd outgrown the box in the basement, and I'd outgrown my tolerance for stinky birds indoors. (Note: when given room, say, in a coop, chickens are NOT stinky, or at least not usually.)

Step 2: Decide where you want your footings. Decide on the size of your coop. Decide on basically everything because a coop is not something you can build-as-you-go, unless you want it to look like a third-world outhouse. Ours was 5'x5' on a slope near the compost bin. Dig your holes for your 4x4 posts, if that's how you're designing it. We dug ours about 1.5-2' deep, I think.

Be sure you have plenty of help. That dirt could have blown away in an instant, seriously. She held it down nicely.

Step 3: Put your posts in and cement in place with Quickcreat. Use a level to make sure they're straight! That quick setting concrete really does set up in minutes. Amazing!

Step 4: Now start building the platform. We opted for a raised coop for several reasons. 1. better protection from predators, 2. Better air circulation in the summer, 3. A built-in outdoor shelter beneath the coop so the girls can still be outside on rainy days, 4. It just sounded like more fun. I mean, if I were a chicken I'd want a cool tree-house coop, wouldn't you? Ok, lots of ways to frame the platform, but this was what worked for us. Metal thingies and screws and 2x4s.

 Again, lots of help. Have children if you have to, because they're great with power tools.

 Another reason for building a raised coop: the platform makes a great stage! Until the walls go up.

Which leads to Step 5: Frame in the walls! This is where a plan is quite helpful. Know where your windows will be, nesting box, door, door to the run, etc. A nesting box you can access from outside the coop is a big plus, as are windows that open from the outside. And a door that opens from the outside, since chickens can't open doors very well.

Step 6: Time to add walls! You *could* stick plywood over the whole thing, if you're going for that "Outhouse Chic" but we opted for bead board. Notice the nesting box base. It's removable for cleaning! Am I smart or what? This is the point where you'll start to think, "D@mn, this is awesome! And I'm putting chickens in here? I want to live in this!"

Step 7: Add those little details: windows, nesting boxes, the drop door the chickens will use to access the run. Unless your coop is tall enough to stand up in, do as much of this before putting the roof on as possible. Or, if it's snowing, the roof might be better put on now. Hmmm.

The drop door is on a pulley system with the cord coming out by the nesting boxes. Perfect for easy access, though we've found we usually just leave it open in the summer and closed in the winter. If they didn't have a fenced run, however, we'd close the door at night. Raccoons are nasty beasties with a taste for chicken.

Step 8 (I think): The birds will need a way to get up into the coop, so you'll need to build a ramp with something on to help their slippery chicken feet grip.

All done! Um. Not really.

Because don't you want to Paint it?!? See below the nesting box and the cord that operates the drop door. 

Step 9: Think through the interior. Is plywood water resistant? No. Will it be getting wet? Hello, do chickens pee? Yes, yes they do. Cover the floor with something that will be easy to clean. And cheap. We opted for self-stick tiles. Sadly this made the kids sort of jealous.

Step 10: The fun stuff! Ok, it's all fun, but here you get to think of the little details. How will the chickens eat? What will they drink? After weeks of cleaning out poppy-bedding-filled waterers, we opted for 5 gal buckets with Poultry Nipples in them. Drill holes in a bucket and try not to think about Dear Liza and her issues with holes in buckets. Poor Henry. Below a nipple wrapped in a bit of plumber's tape:

 The drill bit used to drive the nipples.

 The nipple dripping water nicely.

And chickens need food. They tend to perch (and poop) on anything that's stationary, so hanging food from a chain does wonders. It keeps them from perching (and pooping) on their food bucket. Always a good thing.

Finally, rig up some roosts high enough to keep the birds happy, and make them sturdy! Because these Mother Cluckers get BIG! Here's our happy flock several months after moving in. Pine shavings on the floor, and yes, the nesting boxes have curtains. Girls need a little privacy, you know. Seriously though, curtains will help keep the birds from pecking at/eating the eggs or sleeping in the boxes. The sleeping-in thing is serious, as birds do an obscene amount of pooping while sleeping. We closed off the nests altogether until the girls were ready to lay.

Add a run (unless you plan to totally free range, though do remember that thing about perching and pooping - your deck may never be the same) and you have a healthy habitat for happy chickens!

Oh! I wanted to add: the total cost of this project was about $200-250, largely because we got many of our supplies free or cheap off Craigslist. After a year plus of use, the coop still looks bright and cheery. We ended up installing a heat lamp and running a cord out to keep it warmer in the winter, and put a birdbath deicer in the water pail. Happy chickens all winter long!

How to Make a Month of Lunches in an Hour

A while back I was complaining to someone about how much I hated making lunch for the kids every morning. Their suggestion: have the kids make their own lunches. My response: "I've tried that!" Because I had. I had a bin of snacks, one of "sides" and one of main meals and I let the kids pick from each. The result? The processed crap was snagged first, fights broke out over who got the last fruit snacks, Pop Tart, Sugary-Teeth-Rotting-Whatever, and I about went broke, even with coupons.

Then I made nifty menus for each kid, and spent an hour each morning making noodles and BLTs and muffins that the kids would end up complaining about and/or throwing in the trash. ARGH!

Then the amazing happened. I convinced Dr. D to buy a chest freezer, moved it into the Cat Room (a basement utility room that used to house the laundry facilities), and started reading up on Once A Month Cooking. Ham sandwiches can be frozen? Who knew!

So now once a month we have a Sandwich Party. Each kid makes a dozen or so of their own sandwiches, bags them up, labels the bags and they go in the freezer. Pie prefers peanut butter (though she put pepperoni on some), Fish and St. Nick like meat and mustard. Mostly mustard for Fish. Weirdo. We also make and freeze smores, bag up crackers or pretzels or other goodies, and I've even been known to make homemade ice cream or spaghetti-o's for the ole' thermos.

Can you believe we now have no complaints about lunch? No? Ok, we do still have complaints - like pizza-quinoa bites were not a favorite. But overall one-hundred-ten percent improvement. I spend almost no time getting lunches together, the kids can only blame themselves for disgusting sandwich combinations, and another new rule: If You Don't Like It, Don't Tell Me, all make my life so much better.

So Much For Resolutions

This is my lunch, if you can call it that. I used Instagram to make this chicken-flavored McNugget look as unappetizing as possible, which wasn't hard.

See, I had these high hopes of No Fast Food! in 2013. And although I do mean it, well, it was 12:45, I was out, it was easy. Plus I need to grocery shop in a bad way.

On the plus side, I took Rowdy in for her 1-year Well Child visit. She's healthy as can be, and 21 pounds of Love! No wonder she's always hUnGrY.

How to Start the New Year Right

Dr. D and I both have colds, we had all kiddos but one up to watch the ball drop (the whole event reminiscent of The Capitol in Hunger Games), and McDonald's decided not to serve breakfast At All today. But we made it to the Bargain Books half off sale nonetheless. In a feeding frenzy, a literary orgy, we gave each kid a limit and a basket, and we flew through the shop.

Midway through I scored a cart. All the better.

The Flavor of a Place: The Customer is Always Wright Rite Write?

I need to confess something: I don't dislike librarians. Really, I don't. I rather like some of them and outright adore others. I also love libraries, because I love books. But, see, in the past three years I've had a Problem. Only this week have I finally, finally realized what is at its root. And here it is! I know you can hardly wait! But first, a story.

Many years ago Burger King had a sandwich called the Big King. It was basically a BK version of the Big Mac. One day I decided to try it, except I hate the "special sauce" so I said, "I'd like a Big King without the sauce."

"You can't do that," the girl said.

We went back and forth like this until she grew snotty and I said, "I don't like sauce on stuff. Why can't you leave it off?"

"Cause then it ain't a Big King."

Ummmmmm. I talked to the manager, who agreed with her that I could not order a Big King without the sauce. I was so dumbfounded I couldn't speak. I switched to a chicken sandwich. With no mayonnaise. Only later did it occur to me to request the sauce on the side, though I expect by that point they would have come up with some reason against it.

How does this relate to the library? A few years ago we moved, and likewise we switched libraries. I was rather glad. I'd had to drag screaming toddlers out of our old branch so often I dreaded walking through the doors. How nice to start over. New toys! New books!

Quite quickly this new branch surprised me. The patrons. Oh my word. I parked a little over the line once and had a woman try to "rip me a new one" for crowding her spot; a grumpy old man made it his duty to silence loud kids. He was equal opportunity about it: he'd harass whichever mom was there, even if the noisy kids weren't hers. If no mom was in the kid area, he'd grab whichever female was closest and lay into her. Then I overheard a woman say to a librarian, "I want you to Mark Down that there's crayon in the book so I don't get CHARGED for it!" She wasn't very polite. The librarian said, "Oh, we'd never do that!" The woman replied, "Yes you would, you have before." I made it a point to be super polite to the librarians. What happened?

Returning about 40 books at once is common for me. We check out A LOT of books. And I mean a lot. We've come close to reaching the max (100) on my card alone, and frequently have at least a few check-outs on each of four cards. Library day can be a little nutty, except I have a system to minimize error. (Of course I do!) I'd been using it for years and while I earn a good number of fines, they're far less than they could be, believe me. Most of them are "convenience fees" - $0.15 each for ten books vs. going to the library on a busy day. Let them be late! Anyhow, the final step in my system involves checking returns online once I get home because sometimes - with 30, 40, 60 returns, a book or two will slide through without getting checked in. Step 1 in that case: renew the book, just in case I actually *did* still have it (though I have a good visual memory for this sort of useless cr@p), and so no fines would accrue if it takes the librarians a few days to find the book. Then I follow to Step 2.

At my old library, I'd call and say, "I returned Book X but it's not showing as returned." "Oh, ok, we'll look for it." If the librarian found it on the shelf, he'd check it in. This new library? Not so easy.

First, the phone call. "What book is this?" "Book X" "When did you return it?" "Yesterday (or whenever)." "No, according to your account you didn't return that book." "Right. I DID return it but it must not have been checked in." "Well, we usually don't miss them. We have safeguards against that." Followed by, "Are you sure you don't have it at home?" By this point I'm frustrated. "I'm sure." "You will have to come in and check the shelf." "Um, why would I do that?" Eventually the librarian would check the @#$ shelf, find the book, and with a bit of guff say, "Well, I guess we let one slide after all."

Then they quit with phones - I can no longer reach the branch without being routed through several levels of customer disservice. So I've taken to doing step 1 (renew) and following up with step 2 in person the next time I'm at the library. The conversation goes something like:

"Um, hi, I returned a book a while ago and I think it didn't get checked in properly."

"It looks like you renewed it."

"I did, so I wouldn't be charged fines between returning it and coming back to tell you I'd returned it." This typically takes at least one repeat.

"But it has $2 in fines."

"Right, that's because it wasn't registered as being returned, and I haven't been able to come in to tell you--"

"You are responsible for your fines."

"Right, I know. What I'm saying is I returned the book before it was due, so it shouldn't have any fines."

"Do you have the book?"

"No, I--"

"So you can't find the book?"

By this point my resolution to be super polite is wavering. "Look, I returned the book several weeks ago and I haven't had a chance to tell you until now."

"Well, ok, if you say so. I'll look for it on the shelf." Librarian goes, returns with the book. "I'll cancel the fine this time, but I'm making a note of it on your account."

WTF? For someone who is just a wee bit conflict avoidant, this is enough to raise my blood pressure the instant I see the dreaded un-returned returned book. It also got me wondering about the culture of grumpiness at this particular library. Do grumpy patrons a grumpy librarian make? Or do patrons come to expect a certain level of courtesy, or perhaps discourtesy, so every time they approach the circulation desk their hackles are raised?

On a whim I visited my old library. I had a problem with the self-check-out and took the deep breath necessary to approach the librarian. To my absolute shock, I was greeted with a smile and helped happily. The librarian smiled at the kids, answered St. Nick's questions without annoyance and at normal speaking voice (i.e., not whispering), and was generally pleasant. I looked around. Yes, there were the requisite screaming toddlers, but everyone was nice. No one using a computer shot daggers at the moms, no librarians had whispered conversations about this or that horrible patron (another thing I'd overheard at the other library).

I had assumed that all libraries would be the same. A library is a library is a library, isn't it? Now I see each one is an organism. And like all organisms, it is only as healthy as the cells that make it up. Like that Burger King (now out of business), there was something seriously messed up from the manager down to the employee. I'm beginning to think the same is true of this nearest library. It seems to me the Culture is defined by those at the height. Miss Big King would have called back to the kitchen, "Yeah I need a Big King without sauce" had her manager instilled the company value of Your Way Right Away. Likewise, the culture of a library has more to do with the King of that branch than the paupers. And by King, I don't mean Elvis.

Librarians and Darwinian Natural Selection

I wrote a sonnet about my local library. Frustration does something interesting for me. I makes me creative. The quote, so ubiquitous now it's cliché, "Be careful or I'll put you in my book and kill you," has a delicious ring of truth.

The situation is nothing new. I've paid an insane number of fines this year. A book was stolen from my bedside when I was in the hospital with Rowdy. A DVD was put down the register. St. Nick squirreled a host of books in his bunk and insisted, no, he gave them to me. I just didn't feel like going to the library a few times.

And a bunch of movies were two days late because - who knows why - my computer bugged up, their server bugged up. That's the most recent, but was my hope for grace answered? My plea that technological issues aren't necessarily *my* fault. And even if they are, can't you just be Nice? No. I need to "learn my lesson." I suppose so. One thing I've learned, no more DVDs from the library.

I've been thinking quite a bit about why this sort of thing bothers me so much - because it's not just the library. Any time there is an injustice, where an All Powerful Authority exercises that authority capriciously, without concern for human dignity or grace or, in this case, rationality, I'm thrown. More important, when I'm facing an Authority against which I have no recourse, I'm doubly thrown. I feel helpless, violated. And mad as hell. Those who know me understand why.

So I wonder why those who excel in library services do so well? I would be a lousy librarian. Largely because I hate Capricious Authority. I am unable to survive beneath it and just as unable to be it, which I suppose is why my kids are so, uh, spirited. Dr. D might question whether I'm capable of being an Authority at all. Hmmm. Maybe a few whoopin's to "learn them kids their lessons" would work wonders.

Anyway, Dr. D suggested that if you give someone a modicum of power, baptize it with an advanced degree, that person - who knows their job could be done by anyone with a pulse (his words) - feels validated, entitled to their Pound of Flesh. Take away the degree and add the Baptism of Marriage or Parent or Teacher and you have precisely the mix of qualities that drives the abuser. Insecurity x Power x Entitlement. Which circles back to why this sort of expression so bothers me.

So I have no choice. The library is a bureaucracy where customer service is an unknown concept. If I want to use it, I have to take my whoopin', by golly. And if I don't come back? What they lose in fines (I am a regular contributor, you know) will be made up for in tax dollars. Plus, I would have to actually - gasp - buy books.

Which might just be less expensive. Regardless, at least I got a sonnet out of the thing. Whoever said "Words are cheap" obviously did not use the public library.

Oh, and I already had this:

Which has thus far earned me $9.60. Shhh. Don't tell the librarians! I'm sure they'll find a way to fine me for it.

All My Love to the Bravest Family on Earth: How They're Surviving Medical Error

The House of Gort from Steve Tatzmann on Vimeo.

I still remember Gina's call from the hospital, the grief choking off her voice. Her sorrow was so strong it had no name, but her strength grew to match it.

My five heroes, right here. Their story is one of survival, triumph. I'm praying it will also become one of justice.

UPDATE: here is an article in the Press about this family and their struggle after a medical error at DeVos Children's Hospital left little E permanently brain damaged. Finally, good reporting. Even if the comments on the story are moronic. And if that link no longer works, a News 8 story.

Lower Standards, Higher Prices

Sounds like the slogan for government bureaucracy, doesn't it? It isn't (at least not today), because today is a special day. A milestone. No, not a millstone. Goodness, don't get all Freudian on me.

The reason for celebration? Fifteen years of marriage. Fifteen. Wow. Most days I don't feel old enough to be a decade-and-a-half wed. Other days, however, especially if Rowdy has been up several times ...

Years and years ago Dr. D and I would plan a nice dinner out, a special day trip, something fun and memorable. This morning Dr. D and I celebrated by going out for breakfast. To McDonald's. With four kids, summer vacay winding down, school supplies lists longer than our arms, our expectations are, um, how to say it. Nonexistent.

And wouldn't you know, our un-special breakfast was lovely. Pseudo food and a long-ish conversation (we had Rowdy with us) about how much has changed in fifteen years. We realized we are both different people.

While many go a lifetime without any noticeable change, we've adopted new patterns in almost every area. Something about losses: of parents, sibling, pregnancies, and about gains: friendships, careers, all these nutty kids has made us retrospect. Nothing can be taken for granted. Every moment is a gift. Not that I always remember this (who does?), but I know it better than I did fifteen years ago.

St. Nick doesn't fit in the rocking chair quite like Rowdy does ...

The chaos and pain, and, yes, the joy has also cemented our commitment to one another. So, Dr. D, I look forward to another, even better fifteen years to come. And more after that.

Chiro-Nonsense: Thoughts on Crazy Chiropractic: A Horror Story

Chiropractors get a bad rep, don't they? A while back my back was hurting (ha, did you catch that? Back, back? I'm so d@mn clever!). Leftover from childbirth, pregnancy, months of carrying Little Miss Rowdy. So I asked my primary for a referral, which he provided without any opinion on which of the zillion or so chiropractors in the area I should see.

Which left me with the, oh, three or so options my insurance company provided. First on the list: a husband and wife team in a nice building adjacent to a golf course. Perfect!

So I went.

And that's when things got ... weird.

First off, the office was eerie. Waiting room clean to the point of perfection, no stray reading material or chewed up toys, no lint or little bits of stuff people track in on their shoes. But I like clean. Clean is good, right?

Then there was the sign above the expansive doorway which led to the exam rooms: "We Respect the Design as Well as the Designer." Ugh, was I going to get adjusted or saved? Not that I have any real issue with business people carrying their faith into the office. One of the doctors in our family practice of our GP drops little quips about "design" and the "designer." He's a better doctor for it, I think. But to use big fake brass letters to literally spell it out above the door?

Moving on to the adjustment. I expected a little awkwardness for the X-rays. Hard to get a good X-ray with bra clasps and zippers and whatever else, but the adjustments likewise required a medical gown. Because ... (here's the best part) ... the guy used a thermometer to judge which vertebrae needed adjustment. The theory was that minuscule changes in temperature told him where there was inflammation, so when the thermometer registered a temp increase he'd MARK MY BACK WITH A PEN. Then he brought in an elephant and had it stomp on me. More or less. None of the gentle feeling around for the right spot, just a gigantic CRUNCH on the little blue X (or red, whatever, I never saw the pen).

What's worse, despite the creepy feeling and increase in pain after each visit, I went back three times. I don't trust my creep-o-meter like I should, likely because I worry it's overactive. But in this case, I should have run like the wind after the first visit. I'm hesitant to write it, because the whole experience was just so Strange, but I wonder now if the chiropractor just liked messing with the ties on the gown.

That's not me. Just saying.

One more thing: I could see the computer screen as the secretary was scheduling me for my fourth appointment (which I canceled). She flipped through a full week of appointment pages. Page after page, virtually empty. Explained the clean waiting room.

Seven Things Every Baby MUST Have

1 & 2 A really good highchair and Baby Mum Mums. Wow! How did I survive the first three kids when all we had were Biter Biscuits? Remember those? They dissolved in a messy mush, with choking-sized chunks often breaking off in baby's mouth. Mum Mums are fabulous - they dissolve safely and slowly with no mess (less mess - it's not possible to use "no mess" and "baby" in the same sentence). Plus, they taste pretty good. Even for Mom. Did I just write that? No, I did not. Forget I wrote that. Wrote what? Right.

3 & 4 Workhorse diapers and Thirsties covers. I fell in love with Thirsties economical, colorful, and durable covers when Mud Pie was a baby. Imagine my delight to find they're still being produced! And still as cute, durable, and economical. The old-fashioned prefold diaper is still around too, but a new addition: a "fitted" prefold. All the absorbency but without shoot-out-poo. Love.

5 Barnyard Dance. Stomp your feet, Clap your hands, Everybody ready for a ... I have the whole thing memorized. And I still have the chewed-nearly-to-bits copy I read to St. Nick 11 years ago. I bet it's the only picture book that uses the word "Promenade." Seriously. I bet.

6 Floor Poy - our word for Floor Toy. What I find unbelievable, however, is the price of these things. $60+ for a mat with dangly toys?!? I found this uber-portable model for $24. It's Rowdy's fave.

7 Fave except for keys. EVERY BABY NEEDS KEYS. Not kidding. It's like as important as milk or something. Really truly not kidding. Keys.

So there you have it! These seven things and you'll be ready for baby.

On Working With Pepperplate

Last week I committed myself (noooo, let me finish) to using Pepperplate for meal planning, shopping, recipes. And oh my word, how my life has changed.

I think this will be more meaningful if I show what my meal planning process used to be ...

Imagine it: Every Saturday (ideally, usually Sunday or Monday) I sit with my favorite cookbooks, recipe books, a notepad and paper. I write up what's on sale or what I have a coupon for. Then I plan out the week. I make the list on a sheet of scrap paper with three columns drawn. I add items from recipes, leaving off things I already have, and I organize the items - sort of - according to the layout of the grocery store. So long as I don't forget to add something, I'm good. But look at those cookbooks! One is a beautiful out-of-print thing from the 90s. The others? Yes, they are photo albums with index cards as dividers. Useful for keeping my favorite recipes close at hand, but a pain in the !#$#& when I'm looking for something a little out of the ordinary. And a real pain when I forget to replace the recipe after I've used it.

Add to that, lately when I've wanted to use up the frozen blueberries, or a can of tomatoes, I'll just look online. Allrecipes, food.com, and others have become my favorite places to type in "zucchini bread" and surf until I find a recipe that uses coconut, chocolate chips, zucchini, and apple sauce. My old homemade recipe books? They've collected a layer of dust.

So using Pepperplate is natural, right? Indeed, it is! I've added 96 recipes so far. My favorites from Taste of Home, plus a heap of new ones that look so delicious I can't wait to try them. Cornmeal pancakes? Mexican quinoa? Can you say YUM?

Planning meals for the week is as easy as a click. I can search for what I have on hand, then I add it to the weekly plan. Another click adds all the ingredients to the shopping list. I thought I would be annoyed having to go through and delete the items I don't need to buy, but it's a good way to double check. I may think I have enough flour, but if I need flour for bread, pancakes, and three other meals, I may just have to buy more. Plus! (wait for it) I personalized the grocery list so items automatically fall into categories that are then organized according to my store's layout! Woot!

The final bonus? The grocery list automatically syncs with my little tablet and with Dr. D's phone. So he can stop at the store on the way home, and I don't have to worry that he'll forget something. I've resisted the whole paperless movement - I love the feel of a book in my hand - but first my e-reader, now Pepperplate. What will be next? An iPhone?

Every Day New

Ah, Thursday. A hint of Friday, the faintest fragrance of Saturday. Not that Friday or Saturday will be different, mind you, not with Dr. D at his conference. But we can pretend.

Unlike the pretending I usually do when giving the kids popsicles. I always avoid reading ingredient lists on sugary treats, or cling to the bright, "Made with REAL Juice!" on the box. Not this time.

This time we made our own popsicles, just like I did as a kid. (See, Mom, I DO remember the good things.) Only I didn't whip up pudding or break out the Kool-Aid. We juiced pineapple, strawberries, a beet, some chard, some cherries, a little fennel, and I think a plum ... maybe a few other things too. All for truly delightful, wonderfully healthy Juicesicles!

That smile says Yum.

Portrait of a Grumpy Pregnant Lady

I'm deep in the third trimester, I can tell. I spend much of my day feeling annoyed for no particular reason. Oh, I find reasons - the mail being late, clothes left on the floor, no healthy snacks in the house (because I ate them already), rain on the carpet of leaves outside, the dog breathing too loudly. Truth is, I'd be annoyed even if I didn't have to stand sideways to empty the dryer (for example). It's just that point in pregnancy - one I've reached three times before.

The difficulty now is that, when I'm grumpy (which is always), I feel pretty d@rn justified. So if the lady in a hurry in the parking lot speeds through the crosswalk because she doesn't want to wait for the Waddling Wonder and her three kids, well, I might do something a bit rash - say something unpleasant to her closed window. You know, something effective and mature.

My task over the next 5 weeks and two-ish days is to avoid ruining all my relationships. My thoughts go something like: no, don't tell the librarian she's a soulless bureaucrat out to exercise her artificial power to mask her own sense of inadequacy, so what if that guy ahead in line walked faster, Dr. D has only one more trip scheduled before baby - no need to rub in (again) that he'll be missing St. Nick's first band concert.

And wouldn't you know, while writing this the dismal rain quit, the sun emerged, and a ferocious wind is picking up - perfect for drying those unraked leaves. See? Does it really matter that some little vermin is munching away in the wall beside my desk? Does it? Ok, put the sledge hammer down ....

Top Things NOT on My To-Do List Today

That I did anyway:

1. Learn how to export a Quicktime, 30 fps, 640x360, MP4 without sound from iMovie.
2. Figure out how to generate jpeg stills from aforementioned video clip.
3. Start writing a play set in ancient Japan.
4. Break out my dreamy Townsend to cut five billion (seriously) wool wormies.
5. Cook green and yellow wool.
6. Color plan the foreground of my rug.
7. Upload artistic nudes to iStockphoto.
8. Draw a suicidal snowman with Adobe Illustrator.

Fun on the Run!

It was raining when I got out of the shower (at noon! Ah, love these lazy mornings). I'd promised the kiddos I would show up for the Fund Racer. But I was tired, hadn't had lunch, and it was raining.

Did I mention it was raining?

To go, not to go. I was leaning toward Not. This Fund Racer - a healthy alternative to selling candy and other fundraisers - was an unknown. I'd not been to the track neighboring the field. Where would I park?

My agoraphobia has been up a bit lately. Maybe pregnancy hormones, or fatigue (also hormones?). Whatever the reason, I'd given in on Monday and skipped the rug hooking group. Too far away, I told myself. I'd squeaked by on a phone call, sending an email instead. And I've been avoiding thinking about my prenatal visit and the always-fun glucose test ...

I realized what was going on, and got my tushie in the car. So what if it was raining? I'd just plan on getting wet.

Well. Can I just say I'm glad I went? (Oh, and the rain stopped before I pulled into the parking lot.)

I stayed all afternoon. Until my memory card filled up and I realized I was about to faint from hunger.

The TMI Birthday Song

Happy birthday to me,

every hour I go pee,

my ankles are tree trunks,

and I can't see my feet!

I treated myself to a Birthday Morning walk in the woods: majestic oak, red maple, white pine, a shagbark hickory as big around as, well, me. Ahhh. The best gift ever.

Of course, I also plan to bake an orange layer cake with butter-cream frosting. I told Dr. D and the kiddos, "No matter how strange you think my cake is, you're not allowed to complain!" I'm craving orange these days, so what?

Theft and Motivation

So, we watched the second Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie over the weekend and found it even better than the first one. Side-splittingly funny, especially given the plot of brothers - Doug and Rodrick's constant fighting - and Fish/St. Nick's similar inability to get along. The movie got to the part where Mom starts bribing the boys with fake money to spend time together, and Fish/St. Nick got excited. 

"Mom Bucks! Can we do Mom Bucks?"

Huh, why not? Up until now we've been having Marble Races. Each kid has a jar, they do chores and put marbles in the jar. Whoever fills their jar first gets to pick where we go for dinner on Friday night, and the race starts over. Now picking a spot to eat ended up being not enough of a carrot, so we decided each marble would be worth ten cents. The jars took about 100 marbles to fill all the way, so that's $10. With the change, when the race "ended" each child got paid according to their marbles (and the one with the most still got to pick a restaurant).

But St. Nick always seemed ahead - maybe because mowing the lawn earned him, oh, eighty marbles. And Fish/Pie would lose steam with the slow, "one drop in the bucket" filling of their jars.

The solution? Mom Bucks! Stolen blatantly from Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules. The boys wanted me to use Monopoly money. Likely so they could sneak more bills out of the game box when I wasn't looking (or buy up old Monopoly games like Rodrick did to have Unlimited Mom Bucks). Hahah. I'm so much smarter than some fictional mom. I designed my own Mom Bucks.

Fun, huh?

Now the kiddos can earn "money" for the work they do around the house. And I get a good excuse to spend a day playing with PhotoShop.

I also bought some mark-down toys and trinkets to set up a Mom Buck store. They can spend their cash at the Mom Shop, or they can trade it in for real dollars. The catch? Each Mom Buck is worth *half* in cash (so 10 Mom Bucks equals 5 dollars). A little lighter on the Mom Wallet.