Toddler shenanigans are in full swing around here. Picture a tiny tornado with fluffy, curly hair swirling and twirling through the house, leaving cheddar bunny crackers and the dog's hair brush and all of my shoes tangled with various cell phone and computer paraphernalia.
Shoes are a huge hit. Especially when they are my shoes, on her feet, and she triumphantly scuffs her way into the kitchen. This is a huge accomplishment- previously she would get as far as perhaps one shoe on one foot, and then it would all fall apart. She couldn't stand up, the shoe wouldn't stay with her as she walked, and it would all dissolve into screams, head banging, roaring terrible roars, gnashing terrible teeth, and showing terrible claws. Lather, rinse, repeat.
This is, after all, the life and times of a toddler: Wake up, nurse, inspect what Mommy's doing, see a task OH NO! FRUSTRATION FRUSTRATION FRUSTRATION hey, victory! Accomplishment! But then- FRUSTRATION FRUSTRATION FRUSTRATION oops, I'm distracted. Insert various eating and diaper changes and a nap if we're all lucky, and there it is.
The love/hate relationship with the dog has headed into smoother sailing. Lola has discovered that Gianna loves nothing more than to cram a tantalizing bite of toddler food (Yum, kale! I'm the best mommy...) into the dog's mouth, and then pull it out and give it a lick herself. Over and over. She also knows what the dog's treats are, and adores giving them to her. As soon as she spies the container and gives the yell, "Teeeeeeeet! WOWA TEEEET!" Lola comes galloping. Lola may act forlorn and put out at each dog anatomy lesson Gianna gives at the top of every hour ("Ear? Ear. Earearear. Butt? Butt. Buttbuttbutt. Eye?") but today acted genuinely happy to see Gianna when I brought her outside to play after a whopping two hour nap.
From the moment she wakes me up by cracking her skull into my nose, until she falls asleep while scratching contentedly at my side as if we're all just a pile of cats, she's on the go. I know I say this at every stage, but this is truly one of my favorite stages. Until she masters the doors leading to outside...
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Girl's Mama
Before Gianna was born, we had no idea if she would be a girl or a boy. We decided long ago that we wouldn't want to know the gender of our babies beforehand- there are so few surprises in life anymore.
This perplexed almost everyone around us. A coworker at the cult took it very personally, almost as if my choices were a judgement on hers: "I always found out the gender. I had to, I couldn't not find out." Hard glare. It's truly a strange society where people take the decisions and choices of others (particularly the ones that don't remotely affect them in any way) as a pointed judgement of their own.
We didn't want to live in a prenatal world of pink or blue. The sea of greens and yellows were quite consuming on their own. And then she was born- a little girl. The congratulations cards arrived in a wave of frothy pink.
Don't get me wrong- pink is wonderful, and my little girl looks very cute in pink. We don't even really worry too much about pigeonholing her into a specific gender role; as a little girl I was just as happy with my baby dolls as I was searching for crayfish, knee-deep in a creek bed. I'm fairly certain that she will continue to dig in the dirt for rocks and drive her cars all over my kitchen floor whether I dress her in pink or yellow or, in warmer weather, practically nothing at all.
I do wonder about myself, however. How am I parenting as a mother of a daughter? Am I the same person now as I would have been had Gianna been a boy? I'm certainly not the same person I was before I became pregnant, or had a child. My hair is a lot crazier, I have an eye twitch that won't go away, an ability to jump awake at the slightest cough, and I find myself saying things like, "We pet Lola's tail nicely; tails are not for tasting," and "Mommy does not need help going to the bathroom."
I wonder how differently I would have reacted to a little boy deciding to walk along the top of the couch. My first reaction was- absolutely not. Later, it was amended to- "With Mommy's help." Would I have been that quick to refuse access to what really is probably not that dangerous of an exploration?
Her hair is long enough for barrettes now. Yesterday I found myself thinking about polishing her toenails (how uncrunchy of me!) She wore patent leather Mary Jane style shoes to church on Sunday (and shattered my jaw into a million tiny shards each and every chance she had to kick me repeatedly in the face). Each of these events is shaping her bit by bit, like water on a rock. Not a bad thing. Neither is letting her hammer rocks with a wooden mallet in the yard, or dig in the dirt with her fingernails, or any of the other millions of events that go on during the day.
This perplexed almost everyone around us. A coworker at the cult took it very personally, almost as if my choices were a judgement on hers: "I always found out the gender. I had to, I couldn't not find out." Hard glare. It's truly a strange society where people take the decisions and choices of others (particularly the ones that don't remotely affect them in any way) as a pointed judgement of their own.
We didn't want to live in a prenatal world of pink or blue. The sea of greens and yellows were quite consuming on their own. And then she was born- a little girl. The congratulations cards arrived in a wave of frothy pink.
Don't get me wrong- pink is wonderful, and my little girl looks very cute in pink. We don't even really worry too much about pigeonholing her into a specific gender role; as a little girl I was just as happy with my baby dolls as I was searching for crayfish, knee-deep in a creek bed. I'm fairly certain that she will continue to dig in the dirt for rocks and drive her cars all over my kitchen floor whether I dress her in pink or yellow or, in warmer weather, practically nothing at all.
I do wonder about myself, however. How am I parenting as a mother of a daughter? Am I the same person now as I would have been had Gianna been a boy? I'm certainly not the same person I was before I became pregnant, or had a child. My hair is a lot crazier, I have an eye twitch that won't go away, an ability to jump awake at the slightest cough, and I find myself saying things like, "We pet Lola's tail nicely; tails are not for tasting," and "Mommy does not need help going to the bathroom."
I wonder how differently I would have reacted to a little boy deciding to walk along the top of the couch. My first reaction was- absolutely not. Later, it was amended to- "With Mommy's help." Would I have been that quick to refuse access to what really is probably not that dangerous of an exploration?
Her hair is long enough for barrettes now. Yesterday I found myself thinking about polishing her toenails (how uncrunchy of me!) She wore patent leather Mary Jane style shoes to church on Sunday (and shattered my jaw into a million tiny shards each and every chance she had to kick me repeatedly in the face). Each of these events is shaping her bit by bit, like water on a rock. Not a bad thing. Neither is letting her hammer rocks with a wooden mallet in the yard, or dig in the dirt with her fingernails, or any of the other millions of events that go on during the day.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Cricket... Cricket...
Ahem. Is this thing still on? I haven't posted in a while, mostly because my superpowers have been needed elsewhere. There is never a lack of things to accomplish.
I've also found myself in sort of a test pattern mode, thought-wise. Election dronings, economic "bovine feces," and other loud repetitive noises have killed my inspiration. I did have one thought that has been bouncing around for about the past 24 hours- what if people didn't vote for the candidates, but voted on the actual issues instead? Instead of flicking the switch for "Beavis" or "Butthead," in other words, there were the actual issues laid out in a simple, easy to understand, agreed upon by the candidates format. Perhaps the main twelve. Economics- do you lean towards a top-down, or a bottom-up method? Check here. Oil- do you want to drill, or don't you? Check here. The issues get tallied, and he/she that most matches the ideals of what people are looking for is voted in. Too difficult for someone to figure out? No voting for you, then. That method takes wayyyy too long! Huh. Well, crap. You mean it won't give us the results as fast as American Idol? Bummer, dude. Guess we can't do it that way. Besides, how will we know which ones are the good guys, and which are the bad ones?
But, what the hell do I know, anyway? I can't even figure out the daily mysteries I encounter. While sorting laundry to be cleaned, I found myself staring at a button-down shirt of Mr. Clarateaches this morning, wondering, "How on earth did he get out of this shirt? It's still buttoned! With a tee shirt still inside of the shirt!" I'd probably still be kneeling on the floor attempting to figure it out, but Gianna decided to scrub down the dog with some underwear and enlightenment was never achieved.
Instead, we ventured down to the freezing lower floor of our house, where I tried to distract my little overachiever from teething on the side of the garbage can by turning on Sesame Street. This show was definately written with the idea that parents will primarily be the ones watching this, while their progeny toddle about the living room while talking on the remote control and vigorously vacuuming the dog with the toy popcorn popper. One thing that does catch her attention is Elmo, the newer, cuter version of Grover. When I was small, Bert and Ernie and Grover ran the show, with Big Bird, Snuffy, and Oscar the Grouch supporting. Now, there are all sorts of speech-impaired little monsters running amok. A bear muppet substitutes "W" sounds for both "R" and "L" sounds (developmentally appropriate for the age range they're targeting, but bothersome to be modeling nonetheless) and Elmo consistently refers to him(?)self in the third person.
Enough dallying, I suppose. Time to go work on the ol' cottage industry. Or, some more haus-frauery.
I've also found myself in sort of a test pattern mode, thought-wise. Election dronings, economic "bovine feces," and other loud repetitive noises have killed my inspiration. I did have one thought that has been bouncing around for about the past 24 hours- what if people didn't vote for the candidates, but voted on the actual issues instead? Instead of flicking the switch for "Beavis" or "Butthead," in other words, there were the actual issues laid out in a simple, easy to understand, agreed upon by the candidates format. Perhaps the main twelve. Economics- do you lean towards a top-down, or a bottom-up method? Check here. Oil- do you want to drill, or don't you? Check here. The issues get tallied, and he/she that most matches the ideals of what people are looking for is voted in. Too difficult for someone to figure out? No voting for you, then. That method takes wayyyy too long! Huh. Well, crap. You mean it won't give us the results as fast as American Idol? Bummer, dude. Guess we can't do it that way. Besides, how will we know which ones are the good guys, and which are the bad ones?
But, what the hell do I know, anyway? I can't even figure out the daily mysteries I encounter. While sorting laundry to be cleaned, I found myself staring at a button-down shirt of Mr. Clarateaches this morning, wondering, "How on earth did he get out of this shirt? It's still buttoned! With a tee shirt still inside of the shirt!" I'd probably still be kneeling on the floor attempting to figure it out, but Gianna decided to scrub down the dog with some underwear and enlightenment was never achieved.
Instead, we ventured down to the freezing lower floor of our house, where I tried to distract my little overachiever from teething on the side of the garbage can by turning on Sesame Street. This show was definately written with the idea that parents will primarily be the ones watching this, while their progeny toddle about the living room while talking on the remote control and vigorously vacuuming the dog with the toy popcorn popper. One thing that does catch her attention is Elmo, the newer, cuter version of Grover. When I was small, Bert and Ernie and Grover ran the show, with Big Bird, Snuffy, and Oscar the Grouch supporting. Now, there are all sorts of speech-impaired little monsters running amok. A bear muppet substitutes "W" sounds for both "R" and "L" sounds (developmentally appropriate for the age range they're targeting, but bothersome to be modeling nonetheless) and Elmo consistently refers to him(?)self in the third person.
Enough dallying, I suppose. Time to go work on the ol' cottage industry. Or, some more haus-frauery.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
When You Assume...
Gianna the Foreman needs to supervise me closely while I'm cleaning, and we've got a pattern down, where in the mornings, I clean somewhere and she plays close by. This morning was the bathroom, and so I gave her this little plastic shoebox full of random things we've chucked in there that we don't use- all the pacifiers people gave us, a huge thing of Vaseline that we've never opened (DH is adamant about avoiding petroleum products), and some odds and ends of a J&J baby travel pack that were all still packaged shut. I assumed without checking that the Vaseline was somehow sealed, and she wouldn't be able to get into it.
So I'm scrubbing away at the rust in the tub, and she's chattering away to herself while looking through the box. She takes out the pacifiers and asks, "Dis?" while putting it in her mouth. I confirm that "in the mouth" is okay for the pacifier. I get back to scrubbing, and a few minutes later smell an overpowering baby powder scent. I turn and look and see:
Gianna, with a newborn-sized pacifier in her mouth, with a seriously grim, set face, taking her finger and sticking it into the open Vaseline pot, and applying a heavy dose to her eyebrows!!! They were swept way up in points. The look on her face, combined with the too-tiny pacifier, plus the eyebrows, was hilarious. She was so mad when I wiped her eyebrows off. I'm just glad she didn't eat it! That'll teach me to assume that things are sealed without checking!
So I'm scrubbing away at the rust in the tub, and she's chattering away to herself while looking through the box. She takes out the pacifiers and asks, "Dis?" while putting it in her mouth. I confirm that "in the mouth" is okay for the pacifier. I get back to scrubbing, and a few minutes later smell an overpowering baby powder scent. I turn and look and see:
Gianna, with a newborn-sized pacifier in her mouth, with a seriously grim, set face, taking her finger and sticking it into the open Vaseline pot, and applying a heavy dose to her eyebrows!!! They were swept way up in points. The look on her face, combined with the too-tiny pacifier, plus the eyebrows, was hilarious. She was so mad when I wiped her eyebrows off. I'm just glad she didn't eat it! That'll teach me to assume that things are sealed without checking!
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Gray Day...
"...everything is gray. I watch, but nothing moves today." Dr Seuss, My Many Colored Days
Upon looking into the mirror, I noticed a glaringly silver hair right in the middle of my part, towards the front of my face. Now, gray hair is nothing new to me- a college housemate used to amuse herself by yanking out gray hair she'd find in the back of my head, when I'd have my hair in a pony tail. This is the first time I've seen one out in the open, though. I think I'm going to call this little friend, "Bailout."
My usual distractions from the irritating, heart-sinking world of politics ranges. In days past, I would hop in the car and zoom around, finding something new. Or, I would argue relentlessly in forums (fora? foraminifera? Gewurztraminer, as my spell checker recommends?) dedicated just for that purpose. Sometimes I would attack a project. Bambina is napping, or else we'd be at Lowe's right now, looking for something to make a raised garden. I just need to hammer.
So, sometimes I fall back upon Food TV. I fell in love with "good things" a long time ago, watching Martha Stewart's "From Martha's Kitchen" and later her Living show. This escalated to watching Food TV and learning how to do incredible things with a roux, or with brioche. This may just be the spine to all of the organic, whole, local rigamorale I put us through on a daily basis. At any rate, if I'm going to make a chocolate chip cookie, rest assured, it will not be from a tube with a little dough man on it.
And here is what I see:
Commercial: The scene opens on an idyllic backyard, as one mom (Mom 1) pours red liquid for another mom (Mom 2). A party is implied, with kids in the background, and typical party fare about.
Mom 2: (raised eyebrows) "Oohhh, that has high fructose corn syrup in it."
Mom 1: (glibly, perhaps a bit archly) "So?"
Mom 2: "Well, you know what they say..." (trails off, fumbles a bit, looks sheepish).
Mom 1: "What? That it's made with corn? That it has no artificial ingredients? That it's fine in moderation, just like sugar?" She laughs at Silly Mom 2, and hands her a glass. Mom 2 looks at first embarrassed, but shakes it off to laugh with Mom 1 and enjoy her mixture of hummingbird food.
Dear GOD. What? The ad ends with the logo for the Corn Refiners Association at the bottom. Well, of course. That makes sense. Ethynol is slinking back into the place where New Coke and Clear Pepsi retreated, as it dawned on people that it creates a heck of an environmental impact just to get corn to a place where it works not quite so efficiently on cars as petroleum still does. Okay, so that's Food TV. Since Scripps Network took it over, actual chefs have left, and entertainment has taken over. Along with Sandra Lee, who probably won Miss High Fructose Corn Syrup at one point in time.
Click. Let's try my old pal, Martha. She still strives for the best. I page through the latest installment of her Everyday Food magazine, when lo and behold, there on page 41- what the HELL? It's an ad, adroitly placed opposite the "Between the Lines" column where the Martha Stewart Everyday Food people go through all the typical weird ingredients in packaged food to describe their impact.
And there, in the new MS Living magazine. Another one. Interestingly enough, the line that is repeated is that High Fructose Corn Syrup (HFCS) is safe "in moderation." Does anyone even know what moderation even is anymore? Let's actually let our brains do the thinking, rather than TV.
Ketchup, bread (yes, even high end whole wheat), salad dressing, canned soup, peanut butter, cereal... it's in all of these. If you are not going out of your way to avoid buying these items that contain them, your "moderation" card is already filled by the time someone offers you a popsicle or Red Liquid Drink.
Let's read further. So, if it's made from corn, it's "natural," huh? The type of corn that HFCS is made from is the type of corn that even cows don't like to eat. It's very high in starch (important for the process that the corn syrup goes through to become HFCS) and is very likely to be genetically modified as well. Here is a really good, step-by-step description of how HFCS is refined. It turned Mr. Clarateaches and myself off of the stuff for good. Do we occasionally partake in some fake frosting at a party? Sure. But do we refuse to buy HFCS products? Pretty much all the time. We're still working out the kinks, and occasionally notice that something (Dannon yogurt? Hello!) contains it where it really isn't necessary.
People can put any crazy thing they wish into their bodies. But an AD? Trying to convince people that avoiding it means that you're a blithering, stammering idiot? And that eating it purposefully is just fine, A-OK, and just like sugar?
I need to go hammer something now. Okay?
Upon looking into the mirror, I noticed a glaringly silver hair right in the middle of my part, towards the front of my face. Now, gray hair is nothing new to me- a college housemate used to amuse herself by yanking out gray hair she'd find in the back of my head, when I'd have my hair in a pony tail. This is the first time I've seen one out in the open, though. I think I'm going to call this little friend, "Bailout."
My usual distractions from the irritating, heart-sinking world of politics ranges. In days past, I would hop in the car and zoom around, finding something new. Or, I would argue relentlessly in forums (fora? foraminifera? Gewurztraminer, as my spell checker recommends?) dedicated just for that purpose. Sometimes I would attack a project. Bambina is napping, or else we'd be at Lowe's right now, looking for something to make a raised garden. I just need to hammer.
So, sometimes I fall back upon Food TV. I fell in love with "good things" a long time ago, watching Martha Stewart's "From Martha's Kitchen" and later her Living show. This escalated to watching Food TV and learning how to do incredible things with a roux, or with brioche. This may just be the spine to all of the organic, whole, local rigamorale I put us through on a daily basis. At any rate, if I'm going to make a chocolate chip cookie, rest assured, it will not be from a tube with a little dough man on it.
And here is what I see:
Commercial: The scene opens on an idyllic backyard, as one mom (Mom 1) pours red liquid for another mom (Mom 2). A party is implied, with kids in the background, and typical party fare about.
Mom 2: (raised eyebrows) "Oohhh, that has high fructose corn syrup in it."
Mom 1: (glibly, perhaps a bit archly) "So?"
Mom 2: "Well, you know what they say..." (trails off, fumbles a bit, looks sheepish).
Mom 1: "What? That it's made with corn? That it has no artificial ingredients? That it's fine in moderation, just like sugar?" She laughs at Silly Mom 2, and hands her a glass. Mom 2 looks at first embarrassed, but shakes it off to laugh with Mom 1 and enjoy her mixture of hummingbird food.
Dear GOD. What? The ad ends with the logo for the Corn Refiners Association at the bottom. Well, of course. That makes sense. Ethynol is slinking back into the place where New Coke and Clear Pepsi retreated, as it dawned on people that it creates a heck of an environmental impact just to get corn to a place where it works not quite so efficiently on cars as petroleum still does. Okay, so that's Food TV. Since Scripps Network took it over, actual chefs have left, and entertainment has taken over. Along with Sandra Lee, who probably won Miss High Fructose Corn Syrup at one point in time.
Click. Let's try my old pal, Martha. She still strives for the best. I page through the latest installment of her Everyday Food magazine, when lo and behold, there on page 41- what the HELL? It's an ad, adroitly placed opposite the "Between the Lines" column where the Martha Stewart Everyday Food people go through all the typical weird ingredients in packaged food to describe their impact.
And there, in the new MS Living magazine. Another one. Interestingly enough, the line that is repeated is that High Fructose Corn Syrup (HFCS) is safe "in moderation." Does anyone even know what moderation even is anymore? Let's actually let our brains do the thinking, rather than TV.
Ketchup, bread (yes, even high end whole wheat), salad dressing, canned soup, peanut butter, cereal... it's in all of these. If you are not going out of your way to avoid buying these items that contain them, your "moderation" card is already filled by the time someone offers you a popsicle or Red Liquid Drink.
Let's read further. So, if it's made from corn, it's "natural," huh? The type of corn that HFCS is made from is the type of corn that even cows don't like to eat. It's very high in starch (important for the process that the corn syrup goes through to become HFCS) and is very likely to be genetically modified as well. Here is a really good, step-by-step description of how HFCS is refined. It turned Mr. Clarateaches and myself off of the stuff for good. Do we occasionally partake in some fake frosting at a party? Sure. But do we refuse to buy HFCS products? Pretty much all the time. We're still working out the kinks, and occasionally notice that something (Dannon yogurt? Hello!) contains it where it really isn't necessary.
People can put any crazy thing they wish into their bodies. But an AD? Trying to convince people that avoiding it means that you're a blithering, stammering idiot? And that eating it purposefully is just fine, A-OK, and just like sugar?
I need to go hammer something now. Okay?
Friday, September 19, 2008
BonBons and Toenail Polish
When I was teaching, there were some hum-drum days that came and went with no remarkable events. There were others that just plain stank, and I repeated to myself and my minions ad nauseum, "Tomorrow is a whole, brand new day." Then, there were the days where I slammed it right outta the park. The lesson was spot on, I'd have a breakthrough with one of my more intense kids, a principal or two would be overheard singing my praises...
Mothering is exactly that, only the pluses and minuses (meandering thought- why not minusii? Hmmm...) happen to your own flesh and blood. There's no paycheck to work for, but there is the carriage of your genetic material onward to a surviving new generation, so it behooves Mommy not to screw up. So some days go on in one giant blur of diapers-food-naps-dog shenanegins-diapers-bedtime and before you know it, you're thinking, "It's Friday? Really?" Others, you're practically sprouting demure heels and buffed pearls from your feet and neck, respectively. You've had time to (get this) floss your teeth, and use the diffuser that came with the hair dryer. Developmentally appropriate activities are going well with the bambina, local and organic home-cooked four square meals grace the clean table, and the dog is behaving as though she's just stepped off the faux-turf of the Westminster Dog Show.
Rarer still, fortunately, are the days where everything comically goes "all circus" on you. Mommy has to morph into an X-Men-type creature known as "Umbrella" when the gadget-oriented bambina decides to crank the shower all the way hot, and sheild the baby from the resulting lava flow while cranking it back (with shampoo in her eyes, no less.) The day is perfect for a walk, but Mommy's hairdo ends up looking less Angelina Jolie and very much more like "Doll From The Bottom Of The Toy Bin," and two blocks (or what I suspect was two blocks... these are the rural 'burbs here) into the walk discovers that Post-Partum Butt is no longer holding up Grey Pants the way they used to (where'd it go? I'd like it back now!) so every few steps is an adjustment to either pants, or former ideals of modesty and class.
These days, of course, are also days where the bambina decides that a 15 minute power nap is all she needs all day, so that by the time the usual "witching hour*" rolls around, she's turning into a gremlin and alternately laughing hysterically as she plays "Give Mommy a black eye with my forehead" and whining, falling over her own feet. PMS leaves you teary-eyed over the fact that you missed "Signing Time" on PBS, and pissy that the washable brown crayon with which you let the bambina tag the kitchen walls is just not as washable as advertised. Dinner semi-scorches, and the well water leaves manganese stains on the sink. You wonder why you used a tablespoon to measure out the cookie dough, and not an ice cream scoop. You wonder how chamonile tea would taste with a healthy jigger of Southern Comfort.
As always, with time and patience, grace prevails and sustains, and before you know it, the day is over, and you've learned that yet again, tomorrow is a brand new day.
* The Witching Hour, in small children, refers to the time period approximately between 3-5 PM, where they can become quite irritable, whiny, hyper, or just plain annoying. It has much more to do with circadian rhythms and blood sugar, I believe, than parenting or disposition, and only has to be endured with the understanding that a little dinner and a soothing bedtime ritual away is peace and quiet.
Mothering is exactly that, only the pluses and minuses (meandering thought- why not minusii? Hmmm...) happen to your own flesh and blood. There's no paycheck to work for, but there is the carriage of your genetic material onward to a surviving new generation, so it behooves Mommy not to screw up. So some days go on in one giant blur of diapers-food-naps-dog shenanegins-diapers-bedtime and before you know it, you're thinking, "It's Friday? Really?" Others, you're practically sprouting demure heels and buffed pearls from your feet and neck, respectively. You've had time to (get this) floss your teeth, and use the diffuser that came with the hair dryer. Developmentally appropriate activities are going well with the bambina, local and organic home-cooked four square meals grace the clean table, and the dog is behaving as though she's just stepped off the faux-turf of the Westminster Dog Show.
Rarer still, fortunately, are the days where everything comically goes "all circus" on you. Mommy has to morph into an X-Men-type creature known as "Umbrella" when the gadget-oriented bambina decides to crank the shower all the way hot, and sheild the baby from the resulting lava flow while cranking it back (with shampoo in her eyes, no less.) The day is perfect for a walk, but Mommy's hairdo ends up looking less Angelina Jolie and very much more like "Doll From The Bottom Of The Toy Bin," and two blocks (or what I suspect was two blocks... these are the rural 'burbs here) into the walk discovers that Post-Partum Butt is no longer holding up Grey Pants the way they used to (where'd it go? I'd like it back now!) so every few steps is an adjustment to either pants, or former ideals of modesty and class.
These days, of course, are also days where the bambina decides that a 15 minute power nap is all she needs all day, so that by the time the usual "witching hour*" rolls around, she's turning into a gremlin and alternately laughing hysterically as she plays "Give Mommy a black eye with my forehead" and whining, falling over her own feet. PMS leaves you teary-eyed over the fact that you missed "Signing Time" on PBS, and pissy that the washable brown crayon with which you let the bambina tag the kitchen walls is just not as washable as advertised. Dinner semi-scorches, and the well water leaves manganese stains on the sink. You wonder why you used a tablespoon to measure out the cookie dough, and not an ice cream scoop. You wonder how chamonile tea would taste with a healthy jigger of Southern Comfort.
As always, with time and patience, grace prevails and sustains, and before you know it, the day is over, and you've learned that yet again, tomorrow is a brand new day.
* The Witching Hour, in small children, refers to the time period approximately between 3-5 PM, where they can become quite irritable, whiny, hyper, or just plain annoying. It has much more to do with circadian rhythms and blood sugar, I believe, than parenting or disposition, and only has to be endured with the understanding that a little dinner and a soothing bedtime ritual away is peace and quiet.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Babies, Babies, everywhere!
A beautiful baby boy was born to a friend of mine on Sunday. All of her prolonged, off-again, on-again labor helped make it a short delivery. I can't believe that someone who gave birth around the time Gianna was born is actually having her second baby already! Congrats, Colette!
Also, in YAY HOME BIRTH news: Stephanie at Adventures in Babywearing welcomed her little Ivy into the world, in her very own bedroom this morning. Happy babymoon, you strong, home birthing mama!
Each story of home birthed babies makes me stronger. Soon, I'll be able to rip tall trees out of the ground, fly over buildings, and stop evil-doers with one crazy stare.
And, to birth my next baby at home. Empowering for me, frighteningly amazing for Mr. Clarateaches, educational for Gianna, and "knock-me-over-with-a-feather," "what-is-all-this," and "TOO MANY PUPPIES!" for Lola.
Also, in YAY HOME BIRTH news: Stephanie at Adventures in Babywearing welcomed her little Ivy into the world, in her very own bedroom this morning. Happy babymoon, you strong, home birthing mama!
Each story of home birthed babies makes me stronger. Soon, I'll be able to rip tall trees out of the ground, fly over buildings, and stop evil-doers with one crazy stare.
And, to birth my next baby at home. Empowering for me, frighteningly amazing for Mr. Clarateaches, educational for Gianna, and "knock-me-over-with-a-feather," "what-is-all-this," and "TOO MANY PUPPIES!" for Lola.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Americana
The sign of the times:
Today I drove down a tree-lined street. It was garbage day, so the garbage truck was stopping, and a garbage man (or what used to be called garbage men- what is it now? Environmental Elf? Waste Management Intern?) was hopping out, grabbing cans, and loading them into the lift that dumped it into the big container.
As I got closer, I saw that he was lifting the cans with one hand, and emptying them, and then tossing them very skillfully back to where they belonged. For a moment, I thought- "Is he showing off? Is he exercising his "garbage can" arm?
Finally I passed him. He was on a cell phone, talking while holding it up to his ear. There are just no words for that kind of skill.
Today I drove down a tree-lined street. It was garbage day, so the garbage truck was stopping, and a garbage man (or what used to be called garbage men- what is it now? Environmental Elf? Waste Management Intern?) was hopping out, grabbing cans, and loading them into the lift that dumped it into the big container.
As I got closer, I saw that he was lifting the cans with one hand, and emptying them, and then tossing them very skillfully back to where they belonged. For a moment, I thought- "Is he showing off? Is he exercising his "garbage can" arm?
Finally I passed him. He was on a cell phone, talking while holding it up to his ear. There are just no words for that kind of skill.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Rident Stolidi Latina
So says my chocolate chip cookie recipe. My nine year old niece was giving me a reminder of what exactly to tell the naysayers when it comes up that Mr. Clarateaches and I are planning on using a Latin-Based Curriculum when we homeschool Gianna and subsequent bambinos. Now when I pull out my crusty, trusty notebook of recipes and see this (unintentionally) partial phrase, I can feel very smug and self-satisfied, until the occasion actually arises that someone does question our choice, and I completely forget what I was planning on saying, and I accidentally tell them, " Nauta precor procul mare." I need to pull out the Prima Latina and actually learn the mother tongue myself, one of these days.
She meant, "Rident stolidi verba latina," of course. "Only fools laugh at Latin." While this has so far only happened to us once, it does seem that as "terrible" and "failing" as public schools are perceived to be in the minds of many of the general public, the act of schooling one's child at home is seen as slightly insane by some ("What! You do realize you'll have your children underfoot all day long, right?") and as practically criminal by others ("By keeping your child out of public schools, the schools receive less money and therefore are not working as well for the other children, you selfish prig.")
I was sent an article by the eagle-eyed and bitingly witty Michael at Open All Night that both moves and troubles my soul. The article opens by saying:
More and more and more money. And then what? More money still. Mitchell, in The Graves of Academe, argues that the perception of public schools failing is misleading. He argues that any institution that persistently does a shoddy job and continues to have money tossed at it is thriving well. I tend to agree- from the inside, a school is always searching, seeking, and finding (and going back to searching) for more money. When austerity budgets were instilled, the first things to go were usually the so-called "fluff" of the programs- art supplies, music, and finally sports. Yet administrators typically (and this is only my experience, which so far, including student teaching and substitute teaching as well as working as a certified teacher, is composed of six different public districts) do not initially option for pay cuts for themselves. These are people who are making six figures a year. The bulk of the "filling in" lands on the parents of students and then teachers themselves, pooling together for supplies.
Back to these students in Chicago, who are symbolically signing themselves up for enrollment in a "better" district (more highly taxed, wealthier, that probably without looking has a higher retention and graduation rate than the Chicago Public School District). Back also to the adults who are with them picketing and working hard to do what they think is the very best for their children or grandchildren. I have to wonder- if the adults with them so strongly want better, and are able to hold days-long protests, what is stopping them from schooling their children at home? Are they on leave from jobs that are waiting for them to come back from demonstrating? Are they under the impression that homeschooling is expensive and only to be done by those who are "certified?" Do they feel that the omission of their children will leave the remaining children in even worse shape?
These students, as the article points out, already realize that what they are doing is largely symbolic. They can't reasonably expect to commute 30+ miles to a better district, while also paying out-of-district tuition. Michigan schools actually have a halfway decent idea, with parents having the option to bring their children to the best available school within their county as a part of the "School of Choice" initiative, which makes districts competitive.
We are choosing, as many others are doing in droves, to go one step further and go back to the way some of the most brilliant minds of the onset of this country were schooled. Gianna will have slightly more than a slate and a Bible with which to learn how to read, write, and "cipher," but it will be without the several useless administrative positions and without the state-stamped "approved material" and without the general mindless dance of the drones that accompanies the typical public school experience of all but the very best districts. Don't misunderstand- this is not without a great deal of thinking and guilt and consternation on my part. What about the others? What about the single moms working long hours who cannot homeschool and are not near a decent alternative? What about the hard-working teachers who do their level best, under the worst of circumstances (and I know from personal experience and deep personal expense what goes into this)? What about the special needs children who need the services that are only offered in a public school setting? Change, I tell myself, is never easy. Transitions are difficult for adults, too. If there is to be an actual "change" in the current public school system, the agents of change need to be those who remove themselves from the cycle completely. The rest will have to fall into place, or fall away.
She meant, "Rident stolidi verba latina," of course. "Only fools laugh at Latin." While this has so far only happened to us once, it does seem that as "terrible" and "failing" as public schools are perceived to be in the minds of many of the general public, the act of schooling one's child at home is seen as slightly insane by some ("What! You do realize you'll have your children underfoot all day long, right?") and as practically criminal by others ("By keeping your child out of public schools, the schools receive less money and therefore are not working as well for the other children, you selfish prig.")
I was sent an article by the eagle-eyed and bitingly witty Michael at Open All Night that both moves and troubles my soul. The article opens by saying:
NORTHFIELD, Ill. - More than 1,000 Chicago public school students skipped the first day of classes Tuesday to protest unequal education funding, a boycott organizers said would continue through the week with help from retired teachers who will turn office lobbies into impromptu classrooms.I'm moved because the masses are actually coagulating and working as one, from the bottom up. This is always necessary, especially in a school system, as the changes are excruciatingly difficult to do from within. If the parents of my students ever had an issue with the school that they took up with me, I would heavily encourage them (in other words, I would carry them in a fireman's hold all the way to the office and inject them with sodium pentathol) to tell the office, and the school district administrators, as parents can get more fires started than teachers. I'm troubled, because as usual, the solution (as always) seems to be to toss more and more money at the problems, rather than to take a good hard look at where the money is all currently headed.
More and more and more money. And then what? More money still. Mitchell, in The Graves of Academe, argues that the perception of public schools failing is misleading. He argues that any institution that persistently does a shoddy job and continues to have money tossed at it is thriving well. I tend to agree- from the inside, a school is always searching, seeking, and finding (and going back to searching) for more money. When austerity budgets were instilled, the first things to go were usually the so-called "fluff" of the programs- art supplies, music, and finally sports. Yet administrators typically (and this is only my experience, which so far, including student teaching and substitute teaching as well as working as a certified teacher, is composed of six different public districts) do not initially option for pay cuts for themselves. These are people who are making six figures a year. The bulk of the "filling in" lands on the parents of students and then teachers themselves, pooling together for supplies.
Back to these students in Chicago, who are symbolically signing themselves up for enrollment in a "better" district (more highly taxed, wealthier, that probably without looking has a higher retention and graduation rate than the Chicago Public School District). Back also to the adults who are with them picketing and working hard to do what they think is the very best for their children or grandchildren. I have to wonder- if the adults with them so strongly want better, and are able to hold days-long protests, what is stopping them from schooling their children at home? Are they on leave from jobs that are waiting for them to come back from demonstrating? Are they under the impression that homeschooling is expensive and only to be done by those who are "certified?" Do they feel that the omission of their children will leave the remaining children in even worse shape?
These students, as the article points out, already realize that what they are doing is largely symbolic. They can't reasonably expect to commute 30+ miles to a better district, while also paying out-of-district tuition. Michigan schools actually have a halfway decent idea, with parents having the option to bring their children to the best available school within their county as a part of the "School of Choice" initiative, which makes districts competitive.
We are choosing, as many others are doing in droves, to go one step further and go back to the way some of the most brilliant minds of the onset of this country were schooled. Gianna will have slightly more than a slate and a Bible with which to learn how to read, write, and "cipher," but it will be without the several useless administrative positions and without the state-stamped "approved material" and without the general mindless dance of the drones that accompanies the typical public school experience of all but the very best districts. Don't misunderstand- this is not without a great deal of thinking and guilt and consternation on my part. What about the others? What about the single moms working long hours who cannot homeschool and are not near a decent alternative? What about the hard-working teachers who do their level best, under the worst of circumstances (and I know from personal experience and deep personal expense what goes into this)? What about the special needs children who need the services that are only offered in a public school setting? Change, I tell myself, is never easy. Transitions are difficult for adults, too. If there is to be an actual "change" in the current public school system, the agents of change need to be those who remove themselves from the cycle completely. The rest will have to fall into place, or fall away.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Customer Service
In accordance to Clarateaches Law, "Everything Dealing With The Car Has To Be The Hard Way." Aside from various and motley other little snafus with our new car, the dealership accidentally gave us the wrong interest rate, and had to find us a new car loan. They kindly did just this (and now I'm waiting for them to tell us that they accidentally sold us a car that was already sold) and so now we're dealing with a new bank. I called the bank to inquire about our new car's account. Ages passed, of voice-activated choices, repeatedly hitting "0" only to discover that the maze of options did not include the typical instant access to a human being, and lots of errors in the choices due to trying to get a sleek and shiny Dogasus out of my hair (Me: "Lola, NO! Sit!" Voice Activated Service: " 4...0...6... Is this correct? Press or say 1 if correct...")
I finally reached a human being around the time that Gianna found her indoor rock. Gianna has switched majors from dental hygienist certification to geology, and has to have a rock near her at all times. When we recently went to the zoo, she carefully pointed out "Ock! Ock!" at each exhibit. "Look, Gianna, there's a tiger!" I would say, pointing to a tiger lying on the ground, suffering extreme heat stroke. Gianna would be fixated on the false granite cave instead. "Up, up, UP!" she would demand, trying to climb into the tiger exhibit. "Ock!"
At any rate, Mr. Clarateaches found a rock that was large enough that it wasn't a choking hazard, and small enough so that it wasn't a broken toe hazard, and Gianna honed in on it right away.
She waddled over to me just as I was giving my account information to the Real Live Human on the other end. "Ock!" she said proudly, and banged it on my knee to drive the point home. I directed her towards the dog, who looked nervous as usual (but as yet can still outrun the baby, so I'm not terribly concerned) and the Real Live Human gaily asked, "How old is your baby?" I responded, "Thirteen months," and Real Live Human said, "Oh, I have one of those at home. Only, he's nine."
Okay... thirteen months is kind of like nine, I guess. At any rate, I was interested in getting information and getting off the phone. I don't call banks to chat. In the interest of classification, Gianna performed a vigorous Moh's Hardness Test on the rock using the glass kitchen door. I herded my little genius away from the glass and gave her a plastic bowl to repeatedly play "place and empty the rock," and Real Live Human asked, "What toy is THAT?!?"
I told her that Gianna was practicing her .22 with some clay pigeons and I just really needed to understand a few points about the car loan. She was able to give me this information in less than 30 seconds, and just as I was about to sigh a big old sigh of relief and check this task off my list, she started pestering me about signing up for a credit card. Fortunately, Gianna had started to try to force-feed Lola a spatula, so I was able to flee. Real Live Human huffed her way through a good-bye that I'm sure was not a part of her script.
Check. Ahhh.
I finally reached a human being around the time that Gianna found her indoor rock. Gianna has switched majors from dental hygienist certification to geology, and has to have a rock near her at all times. When we recently went to the zoo, she carefully pointed out "Ock! Ock!" at each exhibit. "Look, Gianna, there's a tiger!" I would say, pointing to a tiger lying on the ground, suffering extreme heat stroke. Gianna would be fixated on the false granite cave instead. "Up, up, UP!" she would demand, trying to climb into the tiger exhibit. "Ock!"
At any rate, Mr. Clarateaches found a rock that was large enough that it wasn't a choking hazard, and small enough so that it wasn't a broken toe hazard, and Gianna honed in on it right away.
She waddled over to me just as I was giving my account information to the Real Live Human on the other end. "Ock!" she said proudly, and banged it on my knee to drive the point home. I directed her towards the dog, who looked nervous as usual (but as yet can still outrun the baby, so I'm not terribly concerned) and the Real Live Human gaily asked, "How old is your baby?" I responded, "Thirteen months," and Real Live Human said, "Oh, I have one of those at home. Only, he's nine."
Okay... thirteen months is kind of like nine, I guess. At any rate, I was interested in getting information and getting off the phone. I don't call banks to chat. In the interest of classification, Gianna performed a vigorous Moh's Hardness Test on the rock using the glass kitchen door. I herded my little genius away from the glass and gave her a plastic bowl to repeatedly play "place and empty the rock," and Real Live Human asked, "What toy is THAT?!?"
I told her that Gianna was practicing her .22 with some clay pigeons and I just really needed to understand a few points about the car loan. She was able to give me this information in less than 30 seconds, and just as I was about to sigh a big old sigh of relief and check this task off my list, she started pestering me about signing up for a credit card. Fortunately, Gianna had started to try to force-feed Lola a spatula, so I was able to flee. Real Live Human huffed her way through a good-bye that I'm sure was not a part of her script.
Check. Ahhh.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Journey Begins With One Small Tush
Cloth diapering seemed fairly normal. I had the privilege of being the daughter of a mother who cloth diapered my youngest brother towards his potty-training years, and so I remember the eighties version- pins, prefolds, and plastic pants.
Trying to decide what I would use was a bit more daunting. Every cloth diapering mama, it seems, has come up with her own design and tricks and is marketing it to ecologically and economically friendly mothers everywhere. All have cutie-pie names that sometimes start to blur together: Bum Genius, Bummis, Fuzzi Bunz, Motherease, and Kissaluvs are just a handful of the more popular ones. On most mothering boards where cloth diaper use is prevalent, the alphabet soup of acronyms is just flying, as discussions of "BG's vs FB's" and "ME's with or without covers" go on and on and on.
I knew I would use pre-folds, whatever else I landed on. Prefolds are the typical cotton rectangle that most people think of when visualizing cloth diapers. Plastic pants are a crinkly, scratchy thing of the past, with the advent of wool covers (stay tuned for a mid-fall intro to my Etsy line of "Shorties;" a flashback to the good old days when Pa knew a new bun was in the oven when Ma started click-clacking away on the knitting needles, chugging out tiny wool shorts. That, or the massive morning sickness over the daily mucking of the cow stalls. Ahhh, the good old days...) or PUL covers (PUL stands for polyurethane laminate, a waterproof but soft fabric). Pins are even a thing of the past, as many (but not all) prefold users now snag the diaper into place with Snappis.
Aside from the "PFs," I was on the prowl. What marvelous, washable, soft and cozy item would catch my baby's excretions? The posh, but way too expensive Blueberry Minkies? Perhaps someday, when I find the buried treasure I've been searching for since third grade. As cute as they are, $42 is just too much for one single diaper.
Motherease was next on my list. Organic cotton, lovingly hand-picked by pixies by the light of the full moon*, woven into a comfy, yet moderately priced diaper that works from newborn on up to toddlerhood, thanks to a series of snaps that changes the size completely. Their Air Flow covers were also my main cover choice, as I wanted a breathable, "bubble cover" that would fit a range of thigh to waist ratios.
Bum Genius 2.0's were out when Gianna was born, and they upgraded to 3.0 by the time she was 6 months old. These also were "one size," and worked without a cover, as they were an "all in one" diaper. The only downside is that the fabric that contacts the baby's skin is synthetic, and for the summer, I've noticed that Gianna just does not tolerate the microsuede on hot and humid days.
After a full year of trying out different diapers, and stepping into the Wacky, Wild and Wonderful World of Wool, I've decided that, as in many things, simplicity is perfection. My typical set-up is a prefold, Snappi'ed shut, with a wool cover or a Motherease Air Flow. She's happy, comfortable, and rash-free, and I am only washing diapers every other day (or sometimes every third day, unless it's humid). The Motherease One Size with an insert snapped in, is what gets her through the night.
Any of my readers doing cloth? Any thoughts to share?
*Okay, I exaggerated a bit. I think the pixies machine-pick the cotton, and it's probably during the day. Every day.
Trying to decide what I would use was a bit more daunting. Every cloth diapering mama, it seems, has come up with her own design and tricks and is marketing it to ecologically and economically friendly mothers everywhere. All have cutie-pie names that sometimes start to blur together: Bum Genius, Bummis, Fuzzi Bunz, Motherease, and Kissaluvs are just a handful of the more popular ones. On most mothering boards where cloth diaper use is prevalent, the alphabet soup of acronyms is just flying, as discussions of "BG's vs FB's" and "ME's with or without covers" go on and on and on.
I knew I would use pre-folds, whatever else I landed on. Prefolds are the typical cotton rectangle that most people think of when visualizing cloth diapers. Plastic pants are a crinkly, scratchy thing of the past, with the advent of wool covers (stay tuned for a mid-fall intro to my Etsy line of "Shorties;" a flashback to the good old days when Pa knew a new bun was in the oven when Ma started click-clacking away on the knitting needles, chugging out tiny wool shorts. That, or the massive morning sickness over the daily mucking of the cow stalls. Ahhh, the good old days...) or PUL covers (PUL stands for polyurethane laminate, a waterproof but soft fabric). Pins are even a thing of the past, as many (but not all) prefold users now snag the diaper into place with Snappis.
Aside from the "PFs," I was on the prowl. What marvelous, washable, soft and cozy item would catch my baby's excretions? The posh, but way too expensive Blueberry Minkies? Perhaps someday, when I find the buried treasure I've been searching for since third grade. As cute as they are, $42 is just too much for one single diaper.
Motherease was next on my list. Organic cotton, lovingly hand-picked by pixies by the light of the full moon*, woven into a comfy, yet moderately priced diaper that works from newborn on up to toddlerhood, thanks to a series of snaps that changes the size completely. Their Air Flow covers were also my main cover choice, as I wanted a breathable, "bubble cover" that would fit a range of thigh to waist ratios.
Bum Genius 2.0's were out when Gianna was born, and they upgraded to 3.0 by the time she was 6 months old. These also were "one size," and worked without a cover, as they were an "all in one" diaper. The only downside is that the fabric that contacts the baby's skin is synthetic, and for the summer, I've noticed that Gianna just does not tolerate the microsuede on hot and humid days.
After a full year of trying out different diapers, and stepping into the Wacky, Wild and Wonderful World of Wool, I've decided that, as in many things, simplicity is perfection. My typical set-up is a prefold, Snappi'ed shut, with a wool cover or a Motherease Air Flow. She's happy, comfortable, and rash-free, and I am only washing diapers every other day (or sometimes every third day, unless it's humid). The Motherease One Size with an insert snapped in, is what gets her through the night.
Any of my readers doing cloth? Any thoughts to share?
*Okay, I exaggerated a bit. I think the pixies machine-pick the cotton, and it's probably during the day. Every day.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Feeding Frenzy, Revisited
It was in this post where I originally described the fun of nursing an infant.
Nursing a "waddler" (not quite a toddler, but certainly a walking infant) is just as hilarious, if not more so. Let's walk through it.
10 AM: Gianna walks over to where I am picking up blocks for the 11 billionth time that morning, and smacks me on the chest. "Nurse?" I ask her, signing as well.
She responds by doing the "nursing chuckle," "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh..." She flings herself into my arms, and we proceed.
10:01 AM: Gianna's eyes squint, and suddenly her pointer finger looms into my peripheral vision. In an instant, my nose is being picked. I remove her hand. She casually zooms in again, and I remove her hand again. Repeat.
10:03 AM: She's disinterested in the nostrils now. Right now, she wants to rest her foot on my cheek. "Rest" is actually the wrong word. She wants to kick my cheek repeatedly while asking, "Dis? Dis? Dis?" Only, she's nursing, so it's more like, "Mish? Mish? Mish?" All of the above is dissuaded, as talking while nursing involves way more teeth than are comfortable.
10:05 AM: What to do... what to do... Ah yes! Gianna grabs my hair and pulls gently. Then, she lets go and pulls her own hair gently. Her eyebrows furrow. She has an idea. She grabs my hair, this time not so gently, and gives it a yank. Then, repeats on her own hair. Back and forth, she tests the tensile strength of each of our tresses until I actually reach my own breaking point before my hair. I encourage her to pull on my nursing necklace, a gift from my mother when I described the black and blue marks I was getting from my interactive nursling.
10:06 AM: I am strangled by my own nursing necklace. Examination of the nostrils resumes.
10:07 AM: Gianna leaps away, ready to play. I grab some tea, and cherish all the fuzzy hormones that nursing releases. Oxytocin, where would we be without you? Probably not nursing, that's for sure.
Nursing a "waddler" (not quite a toddler, but certainly a walking infant) is just as hilarious, if not more so. Let's walk through it.
10 AM: Gianna walks over to where I am picking up blocks for the 11 billionth time that morning, and smacks me on the chest. "Nurse?" I ask her, signing as well.
She responds by doing the "nursing chuckle," "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh..." She flings herself into my arms, and we proceed.
10:01 AM: Gianna's eyes squint, and suddenly her pointer finger looms into my peripheral vision. In an instant, my nose is being picked. I remove her hand. She casually zooms in again, and I remove her hand again. Repeat.
10:03 AM: She's disinterested in the nostrils now. Right now, she wants to rest her foot on my cheek. "Rest" is actually the wrong word. She wants to kick my cheek repeatedly while asking, "Dis? Dis? Dis?" Only, she's nursing, so it's more like, "Mish? Mish? Mish?" All of the above is dissuaded, as talking while nursing involves way more teeth than are comfortable.
10:05 AM: What to do... what to do... Ah yes! Gianna grabs my hair and pulls gently. Then, she lets go and pulls her own hair gently. Her eyebrows furrow. She has an idea. She grabs my hair, this time not so gently, and gives it a yank. Then, repeats on her own hair. Back and forth, she tests the tensile strength of each of our tresses until I actually reach my own breaking point before my hair. I encourage her to pull on my nursing necklace, a gift from my mother when I described the black and blue marks I was getting from my interactive nursling.
10:06 AM: I am strangled by my own nursing necklace. Examination of the nostrils resumes.
10:07 AM: Gianna leaps away, ready to play. I grab some tea, and cherish all the fuzzy hormones that nursing releases. Oxytocin, where would we be without you? Probably not nursing, that's for sure.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Return of Saturn
Epilogue (of sorts) to the car crash and subsequent mirth and merriment of living in a "No Fault State." Apparently, if you detest someone badly enough, you can ram some junker of a car right into their family-mobile, and give them three weeks of headaches and phone calls.
No matter. After hemming and hawing, and waxing and waning, and switching frequently from cat pose to cow pose, our insurance company decided to total the car after all. We then had a whirlwind week and a half of looking at used and new cars, weighing our options, deciding if a lease was a good idea or a bad idea (we voted, "BAD") and finally landed on a Saturn. A fairly nice, new Vue that will get the whole family too and fro, Doula-Dog and all.
When we bought the car, we did it at the last hour of the last day of the month, and as a result, didn't get the whole washing and detailing process, as the service center had gone home for the day. I went back the next day with one-year old in tow, and crossed all my fingers and toes that they could get me in and out of there.
At 9:00 AM in the morning, many very extremely elderly people converge upon Saturn dealerships for coffee and TV. I had no idea. Fortunately, they seemed delighted that a baby was in the vicinity, and cackled and encouraged her in her raucousness. "What a handsome little guy!" bellowed one man, as my pink-ruffled-with-flowers-frocked child swept all magazines from the coffee table to the ground. Two women, who had initially sat down next to each other and started to talk about various maladies, cheered on the bambina's attempts at walking. Gianna mistook this friendliness as an invitation to peel brightly painted, but seemingly necrotic toenails off one of the women's toes.
In between treating one and all to some good old fashioned lactation-phobia exposure therapy and the mayhem and madness of letting a near-walker loose around some caffeinated seniors, I frequently popped Gianna into our pouch sling and wandered over to the door that led to the service center. There, service personnel would cheerfully wave and continue to not detail and wash my car. In fact, I suspect that as soon as I'd leave their sight, they were taking turns changing all the pre-programmed stations on my radio and mooning one another from the back windshield.
Around and around we circled. Checked out the autos on the showroom floor. Peeked at the tiny, spoiled pooch that someone was wearing in a dog-baby-carrier (Gianna shouts, "no No NOT!" or sometimes, "Woof!" at strange dogs). Took a break at the waiting area, in order to completely dismantle the daily newspaper all over the floor (which delighted the caffeinated seniors). Peeked at car, wondered at the service people who were now playing a good old fashioned game of "Cram as many workers as possible into the car."
Finally, after hovering close to a salesperson trying to make his sale at a table, and allowing Gianna to add her two cents as necessary, they were able to get us out of there.
Without our free tank of gas.
We would... have to...
GO BACK ANOTHER DAY.
No matter. After hemming and hawing, and waxing and waning, and switching frequently from cat pose to cow pose, our insurance company decided to total the car after all. We then had a whirlwind week and a half of looking at used and new cars, weighing our options, deciding if a lease was a good idea or a bad idea (we voted, "BAD") and finally landed on a Saturn. A fairly nice, new Vue that will get the whole family too and fro, Doula-Dog and all.
When we bought the car, we did it at the last hour of the last day of the month, and as a result, didn't get the whole washing and detailing process, as the service center had gone home for the day. I went back the next day with one-year old in tow, and crossed all my fingers and toes that they could get me in and out of there.
At 9:00 AM in the morning, many very extremely elderly people converge upon Saturn dealerships for coffee and TV. I had no idea. Fortunately, they seemed delighted that a baby was in the vicinity, and cackled and encouraged her in her raucousness. "What a handsome little guy!" bellowed one man, as my pink-ruffled-with-flowers-frocked child swept all magazines from the coffee table to the ground. Two women, who had initially sat down next to each other and started to talk about various maladies, cheered on the bambina's attempts at walking. Gianna mistook this friendliness as an invitation to peel brightly painted, but seemingly necrotic toenails off one of the women's toes.
In between treating one and all to some good old fashioned lactation-phobia exposure therapy and the mayhem and madness of letting a near-walker loose around some caffeinated seniors, I frequently popped Gianna into our pouch sling and wandered over to the door that led to the service center. There, service personnel would cheerfully wave and continue to not detail and wash my car. In fact, I suspect that as soon as I'd leave their sight, they were taking turns changing all the pre-programmed stations on my radio and mooning one another from the back windshield.
Around and around we circled. Checked out the autos on the showroom floor. Peeked at the tiny, spoiled pooch that someone was wearing in a dog-baby-carrier (Gianna shouts, "no No NOT!" or sometimes, "Woof!" at strange dogs). Took a break at the waiting area, in order to completely dismantle the daily newspaper all over the floor (which delighted the caffeinated seniors). Peeked at car, wondered at the service people who were now playing a good old fashioned game of "Cram as many workers as possible into the car."
Finally, after hovering close to a salesperson trying to make his sale at a table, and allowing Gianna to add her two cents as necessary, they were able to get us out of there.
Without our free tank of gas.
We would... have to...
GO BACK ANOTHER DAY.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Hot Topic is NOT Punk Rock
No matter how "anti-establishment" or against the grain, back to nature, outside of the box, or any way you term "different" you think you are as a parent, you always can fit into some sub-group. I happen to belong to the group of anti-consumer, anti-commercial, baby-wearing, breastfeeding, non-vax'ing, CSA-belonging mamas who heft around Robeez-wearing, organically fed children with amber necklaces around their triple-chinned necks. There are actually enough of us that we probably almost equal in numbers the Disney-and-Kraft-Mac-n-Cheese crowd, at this point.
What I'm going to do is causing me no small amount of cognitive dissonance, therefore. I'm about to do something that goes against my typical self, and I think I've come to terms with it. I think I'm going to go ahead and click the "Google AdSense" button, and add some commercialism to my blog. I've questioned myself and my motives long and hard, and what it boils down to is- if you want to click on an ad, click away. Click many times a day, if it makes you happy. If not, some servers will cut out ads, and you don't have to click on them at all. It will be a trial run, at the very least. It may mean more blogging, if Gianna will just sleep long enough for me to crank one out without saving it to draft, and then losing my vibe when I try to rev it back up!
A commercially driven blog, by an anti-consumerism mama. Wrap your heads around that one!
What I'm going to do is causing me no small amount of cognitive dissonance, therefore. I'm about to do something that goes against my typical self, and I think I've come to terms with it. I think I'm going to go ahead and click the "Google AdSense" button, and add some commercialism to my blog. I've questioned myself and my motives long and hard, and what it boils down to is- if you want to click on an ad, click away. Click many times a day, if it makes you happy. If not, some servers will cut out ads, and you don't have to click on them at all. It will be a trial run, at the very least. It may mean more blogging, if Gianna will just sleep long enough for me to crank one out without saving it to draft, and then losing my vibe when I try to rev it back up!
A commercially driven blog, by an anti-consumerism mama. Wrap your heads around that one!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
How Do You Measure A Year?
It's amazing to think that a whole life can be lived a certain way, and suddenly, a new beginning can transform that life completely. Everything is high definition now. That doesn't necessarily mean that everything is one giant Candy Land, for sure, and some things are outside of how I ever could have imagined it to be. For example, I bought an organic, cotton baby doll that I imagined Gianna would snuggle to sleep. Right at this moment, my child has chosen a small canister of brightly colored sprinkles as her nap-time buddy. This is how I know she wasn't switched at birth.
I've spent the last couple of weeks, leading up to her birthday and beyond, pondering and meditating on Gianna's birth and first year. I can't remember life before her, although I think I faintly remember some nights where all we ate for dinner was a warm, crunchy baguette, some triple creme Brie, and all the Lambrusco we could drink.
I've posted multiple times about her birth, and the crushing disappointment in the "FAILURE" that is tattooed onto my heart. No matter how medical a term, the "failure to progress" still feels like a judgement of character to me. It still takes my breath away some days.
Those are the days where I must be determined to let myself be swept away by greater things: the wild golden/caramel cowlicks that are forming curls on Gianna's head; her asymmetrical dimple that lives only on her right cheek, next to her nose; and those eyes, which are a strange color that I can barely describe. It's like someone took Army fatigues and made it into an eye color. The centers are brown, and they radiate out to an olive green, that further lightens to a khaki, and then has a deep blue-brown rim.
She refuses to walk- I think she's going to follow in her Uncle Craig's footsteps, and be determined to crawl until about 14 months old. She cruises everywhere, and at top speed, laughing hysterically. She's even taken a few steps on her own, but crawling must be faster. More imposing, especially to Lola, who skitters nervously when she hears the approaching "slap-slap-slap" of baby paws on the floor.
She is, very simply, my Pearl; my wild child who personifies my own "scarlet letter." I am her mama, so I'm terribly biased, but I'm pretty sure my child is destined for something pretty amazing. As for me, I'm going to continue to enjoy the ride!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Little Signs Everywhere
How do you know that you have a pre-toddler in the house? Besides, you know, the actual sighting of a mobile baby? Here are some signs:
- Even though you have a dog that spends a lot of time indoors, the floor is pretty clean. This can be the result of the pre-toddler playing the "Yuck*" game with Mom, Mom vacuuming and Swiffering many times a day, or the crawling, pre-toddler wearing static-y clothing that attracts absolutely every last follicle of dog hair and deposits it all into the dryer.
*Yuck Game- First, the pre-toddler locates a "yucky" object, usually a tuft of dog fur (AKA, a "Lola Tumbleweed.") Next, she gets Mom's attention, usually by chanting, "Mom-mee, Mom-mee, dis. Dis. Mom-mee, dis." When Mom looks at her, she grins a villainous grin, and pops the treasure into her mouth while saying, "Guck," and Mom leaps into the air saying, "Oh, YUCK!" as well.
- You have books and a spoon on your bathroom floor.
- You have a pile of shoes in the kitchen. Dinner will never be accomplished, otherwise.
- The stairs are usually barricaded, and the dog now leaps high into the air to ascend them, even when the pre-toddler is in bed and the barricades are taken down.
- The dog has a homestead under the high chair.
- Toys are ignored, and the vacuum attachments are the star of the day. So is the Swiffer.
- You find yourself saying, "Feet stay out of Mommy's dinner." "Only pat Lola where her fur grows."
- You narrate your entire day to the pre-toddler, and then later automatically narrate everything you are doing while on the phone with the recalcitrant auto insurance people.
("Now Mommy is taking her pen and writing the words, 'find new auto insurance when this is all over,' onto her 'To Do' list.")
- Even though you have a dog that spends a lot of time indoors, the floor is pretty clean. This can be the result of the pre-toddler playing the "Yuck*" game with Mom, Mom vacuuming and Swiffering many times a day, or the crawling, pre-toddler wearing static-y clothing that attracts absolutely every last follicle of dog hair and deposits it all into the dryer.
*Yuck Game- First, the pre-toddler locates a "yucky" object, usually a tuft of dog fur (AKA, a "Lola Tumbleweed.") Next, she gets Mom's attention, usually by chanting, "Mom-mee, Mom-mee, dis. Dis. Mom-mee, dis." When Mom looks at her, she grins a villainous grin, and pops the treasure into her mouth while saying, "Guck," and Mom leaps into the air saying, "Oh, YUCK!" as well.
- You have books and a spoon on your bathroom floor.
- You have a pile of shoes in the kitchen. Dinner will never be accomplished, otherwise.
- The stairs are usually barricaded, and the dog now leaps high into the air to ascend them, even when the pre-toddler is in bed and the barricades are taken down.
- The dog has a homestead under the high chair.
- Toys are ignored, and the vacuum attachments are the star of the day. So is the Swiffer.
- You find yourself saying, "Feet stay out of Mommy's dinner." "Only pat Lola where her fur grows."
- You narrate your entire day to the pre-toddler, and then later automatically narrate everything you are doing while on the phone with the recalcitrant auto insurance people.
("Now Mommy is taking her pen and writing the words, 'find new auto insurance when this is all over,' onto her 'To Do' list.")
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Irony, Absolutely Everywhere
Well, they did it. They finally got me.
The driving while texting teenagers, that is.
We're the smushed gray car on the left. Which shockingly, is actually NOT totaled, as I once thought. It is under repairs.
The tri-colored teen-mobile on the right belongs to a 16 year old who thought he'd cultivate his multi-tasking skills by texting a message on his cell phone while veering directly over the yellow line and into our lane.
Whiplash and scrapes and bruises aside, we are all okay. Gianna was rear-facing in her Britax Diplomat, and her only after effect so far is a loud, screaming cry when she's startled. Whiplash really hurts, readers. Planning a funeral would have hurt a whole lot worse, though.
The car seat has already been replaced, and I'm planning on rear-facing her until she's old enough to complain about it using full, properly tensed Latin sentences.
So, now I begin to collect info on other states that have better NO CELL PHONE laws. As if I needed another cause!
Where on earth did I put that arnica? And why does this spell checker try to helpfully suggest that arnica is better spelled, "fornicate?"
The driving while texting teenagers, that is.
We're the smushed gray car on the left. Which shockingly, is actually NOT totaled, as I once thought. It is under repairs.
The tri-colored teen-mobile on the right belongs to a 16 year old who thought he'd cultivate his multi-tasking skills by texting a message on his cell phone while veering directly over the yellow line and into our lane.
Whiplash and scrapes and bruises aside, we are all okay. Gianna was rear-facing in her Britax Diplomat, and her only after effect so far is a loud, screaming cry when she's startled. Whiplash really hurts, readers. Planning a funeral would have hurt a whole lot worse, though.
The car seat has already been replaced, and I'm planning on rear-facing her until she's old enough to complain about it using full, properly tensed Latin sentences.
So, now I begin to collect info on other states that have better NO CELL PHONE laws. As if I needed another cause!
Where on earth did I put that arnica? And why does this spell checker try to helpfully suggest that arnica is better spelled, "fornicate?"
Monday, June 23, 2008
Attention Michigan Drivers
Dear Michigan drivers,
On the left side of your steering wheel is a protruding object. You may think that the manufacturer placed it there to get in the way of your boss tiger fur steering wheel cover, but in fact, it does one of my favorite things- by merely pushing it forward or pulling it toward you, you can signal a turn. Can you believe it? Give it a try sometime. By the way- you do not save (noticeable) gasoline if you coast towards a red light, going slower and slower, without hitting your brakes. If the light is on a sensor, you may be delaying the progression towards a green light. A better idea to save gasoline would be to stay home. Especially if you eat a bowl of ice cream while driving (as seen two days ago) or feel the urge to engage in "relations" with your passenger (as seen a few weeks ago).
Ever so lovingly yours,
Clarateaches
Driving with a baby is something like driving a Brinks security truck, but without the safety in size (and bulletproof glass). You never really notice how fast things are hurling towards you until you strap a little munchkin into her $200 state of the art, five point harness car seat. Then, you go from being a defensive, cool-headed driver to being the inventor of Clarateaches Car Machine Guns ("What to use the next time you see someone texting at the wheel!")
Blasting tunes at top volume disappears as well (although Gianna does seem to like the Beastie Boys) and enjoyable music from my college days (where music will always remain, and my children will someday call me a fogie, to which I will respond, "Turn that crap down!") is replaced by ten rounds of "Six Little Ducks." Mr Clarateaches does not like her music one little bit, except for the funkified version of "Hickory Dickory Dock." He irritatedly punches the "Skip" button, going from Track 5 all the way to Track 30 without stopping, some days.
Each month that passes adds a small increase in the dread I feel when we face a road trip back to our natural habitat, Western NY. As Gianna grows more mobile and less apt to fall asleep within moments of getting into the car, it becomes more difficult to entertain her. Last time I resorted to letting her play with the pens in my purse. This time, I think it's going to take some cold hard cash. Or, a promise of her very own alpaca. Then and only then do I rue the safety of a car seat, and hearken back to the good old days when you could just take a baby out and hold them*. The first person who makes a safety device that allows this, receives a free alpaca from yours truly.
*Do not ever do this, ever.
On the left side of your steering wheel is a protruding object. You may think that the manufacturer placed it there to get in the way of your boss tiger fur steering wheel cover, but in fact, it does one of my favorite things- by merely pushing it forward or pulling it toward you, you can signal a turn. Can you believe it? Give it a try sometime. By the way- you do not save (noticeable) gasoline if you coast towards a red light, going slower and slower, without hitting your brakes. If the light is on a sensor, you may be delaying the progression towards a green light. A better idea to save gasoline would be to stay home. Especially if you eat a bowl of ice cream while driving (as seen two days ago) or feel the urge to engage in "relations" with your passenger (as seen a few weeks ago).
Ever so lovingly yours,
Clarateaches
Driving with a baby is something like driving a Brinks security truck, but without the safety in size (and bulletproof glass). You never really notice how fast things are hurling towards you until you strap a little munchkin into her $200 state of the art, five point harness car seat. Then, you go from being a defensive, cool-headed driver to being the inventor of Clarateaches Car Machine Guns ("What to use the next time you see someone texting at the wheel!")
Blasting tunes at top volume disappears as well (although Gianna does seem to like the Beastie Boys) and enjoyable music from my college days (where music will always remain, and my children will someday call me a fogie, to which I will respond, "Turn that crap down!") is replaced by ten rounds of "Six Little Ducks." Mr Clarateaches does not like her music one little bit, except for the funkified version of "Hickory Dickory Dock." He irritatedly punches the "Skip" button, going from Track 5 all the way to Track 30 without stopping, some days.
Each month that passes adds a small increase in the dread I feel when we face a road trip back to our natural habitat, Western NY. As Gianna grows more mobile and less apt to fall asleep within moments of getting into the car, it becomes more difficult to entertain her. Last time I resorted to letting her play with the pens in my purse. This time, I think it's going to take some cold hard cash. Or, a promise of her very own alpaca. Then and only then do I rue the safety of a car seat, and hearken back to the good old days when you could just take a baby out and hold them*. The first person who makes a safety device that allows this, receives a free alpaca from yours truly.
*Do not ever do this, ever.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Come ON! Really?
Onward we march, towards women becoming passive breeders, and the government raising our children. My blood, if it is entirely possible, is reaching its boiling point.
This is older news, but I'll bellyache about it now, just because the past couple of days I've been up to my armpits in a baby that has discovered the joys of unrolling toilet paper. And a dog who stole and ate 16 oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. And also dug a hole the size of a horse. And then unrolled all of her fur all over the house in such a fashion that as soon as I finish vacuuming the entire thing, she's already made a huge mass of fur where I originally started, and the baby is making fur-angels in it. In other words, who the heck has time for the internet? I'm trying to evolve an exoskeleton so that Gianna will stop biting me out of boredom, and six extra arms so that I can continue to save the day. We won't even talk about the carpenter ants using the storms and rain to launch a resurgence, and the environmentally safe pest control company telling me to commune with them with a little more of the love vibes, and a little less of the anger aura before calling them to set up an appointment for a re-spray.
Prepare to sign petitions.
The AMA has declared that home-birth is unsafe, and that they will work hard to ban any birth outside of a hospital.
I'll wait while you read that again. And again. And think about it.
More than 95% of babies are currently born in hospitals in the United States. (American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology) YET, maternal death has steadily risen since 1977. (Gaskin) Infant mortality for the United States is higher than all industrial countries, and even higher than some developing countries. Recently released in the "news" (AKA, what people with common sense can already put together, albeit without the soundtrack and funky graphics and perky newsreader voice) is the alarming statistic that premature births are on the rise due to scheduled inductions and cesarean sections.
And the AMA wants less Home Births?!?
Don't get me wrong here. If a woman makes an evidence-based choice and values-based choice to birth in a hospital with an OB-GYN or CNM, that is her choice and it belongs to HER, just like her birth. Not everyone hates hospitals with my own passion, and a hospital stay is not necessarily a nightmare to everyone. Hospitals need to remain a choice. Home and Free Standing Birth Centers also need to remain a choice. The AMA is trying to tell us that, while I can choose to terminate the life inside of me for whatever reason I want, I should not have the choice to birth wherever I choose. People. Need. To. Pay. Attention. This is only going to get worse.
Action time: Who knows what this will actually do, but here's a petition to sign to keep home birth legal.
Better yet, if this is an issue that drives you, join Citizens for Midwifery, and make it clear to your state representatives (who vote and pass and push for laws based on whoever is the loudest voice... or whoever carries the most bucks) that this is not acceptable, and that Clarateaches will not only give birth on their front lawn if they pass anything resembling the AMA's resolution, but she will consume her placenta in front of them, too.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
This is older news, but I'll bellyache about it now, just because the past couple of days I've been up to my armpits in a baby that has discovered the joys of unrolling toilet paper. And a dog who stole and ate 16 oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. And also dug a hole the size of a horse. And then unrolled all of her fur all over the house in such a fashion that as soon as I finish vacuuming the entire thing, she's already made a huge mass of fur where I originally started, and the baby is making fur-angels in it. In other words, who the heck has time for the internet? I'm trying to evolve an exoskeleton so that Gianna will stop biting me out of boredom, and six extra arms so that I can continue to save the day. We won't even talk about the carpenter ants using the storms and rain to launch a resurgence, and the environmentally safe pest control company telling me to commune with them with a little more of the love vibes, and a little less of the anger aura before calling them to set up an appointment for a re-spray.
Prepare to sign petitions.
The AMA has declared that home-birth is unsafe, and that they will work hard to ban any birth outside of a hospital.
I'll wait while you read that again. And again. And think about it.
More than 95% of babies are currently born in hospitals in the United States. (American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology) YET, maternal death has steadily risen since 1977. (Gaskin) Infant mortality for the United States is higher than all industrial countries, and even higher than some developing countries. Recently released in the "news" (AKA, what people with common sense can already put together, albeit without the soundtrack and funky graphics and perky newsreader voice) is the alarming statistic that premature births are on the rise due to scheduled inductions and cesarean sections.
And the AMA wants less Home Births?!?
Don't get me wrong here. If a woman makes an evidence-based choice and values-based choice to birth in a hospital with an OB-GYN or CNM, that is her choice and it belongs to HER, just like her birth. Not everyone hates hospitals with my own passion, and a hospital stay is not necessarily a nightmare to everyone. Hospitals need to remain a choice. Home and Free Standing Birth Centers also need to remain a choice. The AMA is trying to tell us that, while I can choose to terminate the life inside of me for whatever reason I want, I should not have the choice to birth wherever I choose. People. Need. To. Pay. Attention. This is only going to get worse.
Action time: Who knows what this will actually do, but here's a petition to sign to keep home birth legal.
Better yet, if this is an issue that drives you, join Citizens for Midwifery, and make it clear to your state representatives (who vote and pass and push for laws based on whoever is the loudest voice... or whoever carries the most bucks) that this is not acceptable, and that Clarateaches will not only give birth on their front lawn if they pass anything resembling the AMA's resolution, but she will consume her placenta in front of them, too.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Mnemosyne
I keep forgetting the blogs I want to post! I did catch a quick peek at the analyst, and it looks like my readership is at an all time low of 3. Oopsies. But, hey over there, Sydney, Australia! And Italy, oh my. Tourniamo subito, I promise; keep reading!
Major child development going on over here. I have hilarious little tidbits that I think, "Oh, I need to blog that," and then poof- it's gone. Good old Mommy brain. Somehow I still can remember a list of adverbs that Mr. Thompson required us to memorize in fourth grade- "Am, is, are, was, were, being, been, have, has, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, would, may, might, must, can, could. Whew. I'll remember that on my death bed.
At any rate, I need sleep. Perhaps then the memory will return.
The computer's all yours, Mr. Clarateaches.
Major child development going on over here. I have hilarious little tidbits that I think, "Oh, I need to blog that," and then poof- it's gone. Good old Mommy brain. Somehow I still can remember a list of adverbs that Mr. Thompson required us to memorize in fourth grade- "Am, is, are, was, were, being, been, have, has, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, would, may, might, must, can, could. Whew. I'll remember that on my death bed.
At any rate, I need sleep. Perhaps then the memory will return.
The computer's all yours, Mr. Clarateaches.
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